Storiesonline.net ------- Human: Phoenix by Refusenik Copyright© 2012 by Refusenik ------- Description: You can’t hide from your past forever, but it’s easier if you’re a foster kid in rural West Texas. Scott MacIntyre was different in more ways than even he knew. He had a plan, but life doesn’t always agree to go along with your plans. Codes: ScFi myst violent sch Mil ------- ------- Chapter 1 Author's note: This is fiction. Both real and fake place names are used. Details of locations, the institutions that serve those areas, and the procedures that govern them may have been altered, or created from whole cloth to suit the needs of the story. Tuesday, September 2, 1997, North of Barstow, California Deputy Sheriff Tom Nettle kept a firm foot on the brake pedal of his San Bernardino County Blazer. The unpaved trail road he was on was punishing his kidneys. This area located a few miles from Barstow was desolate California desert, and at night even the experienced could get lost or stuck. He rechecked his map and tried to peer past the billowing dust and silt lit up by the powerful roof mounted light bar. A call about strange lights in the area could mean anything. It was probably nothing, but it had to be checked out. The off roaders had moved onto better trails so he discounted that. Early morning hours, suspicious lights, a remote location - it could be drug activity. He'd recently spent two weeks in Sacramento training with state and federal agencies. The California State Hazardous Materials Unit demonstration on the dangers posed by mobile drug labs had certainly gotten his attention. Dispatch had already contacted the nearby Army post and they reported no scheduled or unscheduled activity. Twenty minutes later, Deputy Nettle decided that he had done his due diligence. With his spot light on the trail shoulder, he began looking for a place to turn around. Radioing dispatch he started to report. "Dispatch? Unit thirteen. Did the reporting party make any further ... standby!" Braking to a hard stop, Nettle focused the spotlight on a ghostly figure. He was already grabbing the microphone for his portable radio as he exited the vehicle. "Dispatch, this is unit thirteen. I'm code six at this location, three or four miles north of the abandoned gas depot off Forgotten Mine road." The blowing silt was lit up like a dense fog by his lights, swirling around the vehicle and the small child standing in the middle of the trail. "I'm a police officer, can you tell me your name?" he announced as he moved toward the child. Years of experience had taught him that small children knew what a police officer was, but 'deputy sheriff' just confused them. The nearly naked child was covered from head to foot in what looked to be oily sand and dirt. As he moved closer, careful not to frighten the child, the details of what he was seeing concerned him. A pair of blue eyes stared out from the dirt encrusted face, focused on nothing. He, or she, was panting for breath in quick shallow little gasps. "Dispatch? Unit thirteen, how quickly can an RA unit respond to this location?" "Unit thirteen, at least forty minutes if they don't get stuck. What's your status?" "Dispatch, I've found a small child in need of immediate attention." Several seconds passed, "Oh God." In the dispatch center, that tone of voice, and the unusual radio procedure from an experienced deputy got immediate action. "Dispatch, we need Air Medical immediately. I need backup, K-9 if possible, and a supervisor to this location. Have the Third Floor duty officer contact me." The dispatch center kicked into high gear. A coded alert with the deputy's general location was sent to the Air Medic office. The nearest patrol units were redirected toward unit thirteen. The area supervisor had monitored the call and was already rolling. At the Barstow Courier, the overnight editor perked up when she heard 'third floor' over the paper's scanner. Third Floor was local code for homicide and specialized investigations. She knew that they would use a cell phone to keep the juicy stuff off of the public airwaves, but a story was brewing in the desert. Tom Nettle was fighting rising nausea. He'd been with the department for twelve years. He'd seen some pretty terrible things in Kuwait back in '91 when he was in the service. Kids were every officer's weak spot, or they weren't very good at the job. "Unit thirteen this is Dispatch. Air Medical is getting airborne and needs details." "Dispatch, there should be plenty of landing room. There's nothing out here. Some terrain issues to the west. No hazards. I'm the only thing lit up for miles." "Unit thirteen, they're requesting patient info." "Dispatch, patch them through to my phone." "Unit thirteen, standby one." Nettle answered his phone on the first ring. "Deputy, this is Flight Nurse Anderson, what have you got? We're ten to fifteen minutes out." The noise of the helicopter was muted by her microphone. "A child, male I think. I'd guess between four and six years old. The child is non-responsive, but conscious. Breaths are rapid and shallow. He's covered in sand and dirt, and soaked in old blood, lots of it. There's a kitchen knife stuck in his chest." "Say again?" "A kitchen knife. The handle is behind his right arm, just below the armpit." The deputy tried not to look at the knife handle jerking with each rapid breath that the child made. "How is the patient positioned, and how large do you think the blade is?" "He's standing. I'm not sure if I should try to sit him down or not? The blade is buried to the hilt, and it must be three inches wide at the base. I don't know how long it could be. I hate to think about it." "Copy that deputy. Don't try and move the knife. We'll be there shortly. If you can keep the patient upright please do so, or lay him down on the opposite side if you have to. The less movement the better. I'll let Regional Memorial know the situation. Air Medical out." In the distance, Deputy Sheriff Nettle could hear the faint siren of another patrol vehicle working its way up the valley. His phone rang again. "Tom, it's John Alvarez. What have you got out there?" "Sergeant, I've got a four to six year old child, I believe it's a boy. He's been stabbed." "Ah, man," said Alvarez. "He's caked in dirt and blood. It's in his ears and nose, head to toe. He's naked except for some underpants." In almost a whisper, "I think somebody buried him out here. His fingers look real bad, they're all torn up. His feet aren't much better. I don't know how far he's walked, or for how long." "You think there's more?" "I think there has to be. This blood can't all be his," replied the deputy. "I'll call in another K-9 unit," the sergeant said. "At first light we can get some people on horseback out searching. I'll call over to China Lake and see if they can put something up to help. The Navy has some pretty good night/thermal gear. We'll see what the Army guys can kick in. Lieutenant Moore is the duty supervisor and is en route. He may call in the state boys." "Thanks, Sergeant." "Keep me posted, Deputy." A short eternity later it was all routine, but with an edge. There were procedures to follow. Tape was strung where Deputy Nettle indicated that he had first spotted the boy. It was a known point the dogs could work from. The first responding unit laid out flares for the landing zone. Air Medical was on scene and they were attempting to stabilize the knife so that it wouldn't shift during transport. Nettle could tell that they were having trouble with all the dirt. They'd placed foam blocks around the knife handle, and were trying to tie it all down. The experienced crew had carefully moved him to the gurney, wound side up, using purpose built cushions to keep him fixed in place. They had trouble getting the IVs started, but the flight nurse was good. This crew knew trauma. They were moving quickly. Lieutenant Moore was on scene with a phone stuck to his ear. There was a lot to coordinate. Reserve personnel were being called in to help with the search. The undersheriff, or even the sheriff himself needed to be kept apprised. The case was certain to have profile. Other deputies waiting for assignments were standing around watching the medical team load up the patient. It was a familiar routine except for the grim faces. Later, as the sounds of the helicopter started to fade, Lieutenant Moore walked over. "It's a hell of a thing, Tom." "Yeah," he rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not going to forget this one." "What did you notice first?" the lieutenant asked. "Scared the hell out of me popping up on the road like that. When I got up close I could see that his hands were all torn up. With all that dirt, and what I figured out was blood, it was hard to see if he had other injuries. He wasn't talking, or reacting, and I didn't want to scare him further. I started walking around him with my flashlight checking. Finding the knife like that, I just knew it was bad." Lieutenant Moore carefully put a hand on Tom's shoulder, "Yeah, that's rough stuff, but he's survived this long so he has a chance. Where do you think he came from?" "Somewhere out there," the deputy pointed into the dark. "We've got to find where." "I think the K-9 crew brought in some coffee and rolls. Let's get you warmed up." Lieutenant Moore patted him on the shoulder. He knew a veteran deputy like Nettle would be okay once he got him refocused. A case like this would stick with you no matter what, but it would eat at you if you let it. Moore gathered his team together and started prioritizing; it was going to be a long day. One thought was shared by all, "Where are the parents?" Late Afternoon Detective Sergeant John Alvarez and his newly assigned deputy, Detective Susan Miller, sat in their department issued sedan parked outside of the county crime lab. "The Bureau offered to expedite any lab work we needed," he explained to the detective as he plugged the cell phone back into the charger. "What I want to do now is get back to the office and find out where we're at with missing persons." Their time with the lab director had been frustrating. Forensic examination of the kitchen knife revealed little. It was a common type sold in stores all over the state. There were no finger prints. Soil samples gathered from the victim's body and underwear were consistent with what you expected to find in the area. Even with being moved to the head of the line, tests on the blood evidence would take days. The DNA would take weeks. Their best information had come from Dr. Patel at the hospital. He reported that the child was well nourished, and had access to regular health and dental care. There were no signs of prior abuse or sexual assault. Somebody had cared for this child. They'd had a quick look at him in the critical care ward. There seemed to be more medical equipment than patient. Alvarez had asked what the prognosis was. Dr. Patel paused, and then replied, "He's critical. Cross your fingers for the next forty-eight hours because we are. If he makes it past this crisis then I'll be guardedly optimistic. I can tell you that the consulting neurologist says that all the tests he looked at were good. However, we won't really know until we try to wake him up. It was a quiet drive back to the office, each detective wrapped up in their own thoughts. Deputy Miller turned to her sergeant, "So what's your theory?" "I've just been going over it again. Somebody stuck a knife in this kid, took him out to the desert and buried him. He might not have been found for years, if ever. No abuse. No rape. What's the motive? And I don't think we can just assume the doer was familiar with the area." "I couldn't find it," Miller said. "You could end up there, but I agree that getting back out would be very tricky. It suggests familiarity, but we can't get locked into that." "Somebody is missing this kid," she stated. "Unless they're out there too," replied the sergeant. "After the evening news the pressure is going to be on." "You've handled high profile cases before." "Yes, of course there's pressure on us, but I meant pressure on our would-be murderer. His, or her, big secret didn't stay buried. That may force the mistake that we need to break this." Back at the Specialized Crimes Division office a new white board had been set up. The few, known facts were highlighted, and a brief time line was listed; time of the original call about strange lights, time of initial contact between Deputy Nettle and the victim, time of victim's arrival at Memorial, confirmation of the delivery of physical evidence to the county crime lab, and so on. There wasn't much to go on. Deputies dispatched that morning to the home of the caller learned little. Standing in front of a rundown airstream trailer located out in the middle of nowhere the aging alcoholic had not seen a vehicle. Solemnly declaring, "I seen strange lights, so I called. Don't like those damn aliens out here." The deputies remarked that a follow up welfare check by county services would be a good idea. Somebody had transferred a portion of Miller's notes from their interview with the doctor to the board. 'Penetrating chest trauma, thoracic injuries, combined with blood loss, shock, and exposure. Self inflicted abrasions to the extremities.' It didn't really belong up there, but the sergeant understood why it had been written. They were professionals, but motivation never hurt. A stark picture of the kitchen knife had been added. One corner of the board had a detailed survey map taped to it. Colored flag post-it notes indicated where the boy had been found, and what the search team had been doing. Clipped to the top of the board was a transcript of the callout from the dispatch center. Word from the K-9 units was disappointing. They'd tracked the boy for several hundred yards, but it was clear that he had been stumbling aimlessly around. The dogs were confused doubling back on the same tracks. A thermal survey by a specially equipped Navy helicopter revealed only a few coyotes or wild dogs. A daylight search confirmed what Alvarez already knew. There were vehicle tracks all over that part of the desert and most were years old. Out at the scene, Lieutenant Moore had pulled Tom Nettle to one side and whispered that if there were other victims, the investigators' best bet might be to start looking for vultures. A quick briefing was held to make sure that the entire office was up to speed and operating on the same page. The California Department of Justice was coordinating the missing persons angle, and their equivalent partners in Nevada, Arizona, and Colorado had been notified. "We're going to need all hands on deck after the evening news. The county call center is going to screen calls, but anything with potential is going to get forwarded here," announced Alvarez. "Let's get that TV turned on. We can see what the brass have been up to." Regional Memorial Hospital The hospital administrator was nervous which was making the chief of surgery nervous. There had been press conferences at Regional Memorial in the past, but none that caused such a buzz in the air. Satellite trucks were parked up and down the street outside of the hospital. The surgeon had never gotten one phone call from a hospital board member before, let alone five. The administrator told him as they sat down that the governor had personally called the sheriff of San Bernardino County while the two men were waiting together outside of the conference room. After some perfunctory remarks by a member of the hospital's public relations department, the microphone was turned over to the administrator. "I'll make a brief statement. Our chief of surgery will make a statement, and then we'll take questions. The sheriff and his people are waiting here patiently. I want to say that there are many questions that I will not answer. The patient is a minor, please keep that in mind." Reporters simultaneously shouted questions. Ignoring them he continued, "Our surgical team received the patient at 3:22 a.m. from San Bernardino County Air Medical. Surgery lasted just over two hours. I want to thank our trauma team, the surgical staff, the thoracic and cardiovascular group that consulted, and our critical care unit. Barring setbacks, the team here at Regional Memorial is cautiously optimistic about the patient's recovery. Chief do you want to say a few words?" The chief of surgery, master of the operating room, top dog of the surgical wards looked out at the hungry pack of reporters and punted. "No sir, I think you said what I would have, I'll just wait for questions." The surprised administrator turned and pointed at the KABC reporter. She shouted, "Is he conscious and has he said anything?" "Please wait for the microphone so that we all can hear the questions," the administrator admonished. "Chief, why don't you answer this one?" "The patient is being kept unconscious, medically. That decision was made by the surgical staff and the post op care team. Recovery will be delicate, and the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are critical," replied the surgeon, licking his suddenly dry lips. "Has he said anything?" shouted another reporter. "That's best addressed to law enforcement." "—from KTLA, were there any surgical complications?" he only caught the end of the question. The questions continued for another fifteen minutes. The hospital administrator once again took the microphone. "I'm going to wrap up our portion of this press conference and turn you over to the sheriff and his people. Before I go I want to remind all members of the media about where you can, and cannot go here on hospital property. Please stay within those established media areas. I especially want to thank our local police department for sending extra personnel to help remind you of that if needed," the administrator said sliding out of his chair. "Sheriff, they're all yours." "Thanks," muttered the Sheriff of San Bernardino County. Taking his seat the sheriff waited for the rest of the new participants to find theirs. Past the glare of the television lights he could see reporters shifting in anticipation. Remember to smile, he thought. His wife nagged that if he'd smile more, then reporters wouldn't be so hostile. They'd be a lot more respectful if I shot a couple, he laughed at the notion. Smiling, the sheriff adjusted his microphone and began to speak. "I'd like to thank the staff of Regional Memorial, and the administrator in particular, for hosting us. I hope you'll agree that it was easier for all of us to come here than to have two different press conferences?" He could see a few reporters nodding. The camera and sound crews seemed more enthusiastic on that point. "To my left is Captain Parsons, head of our Specialized Investigations division. To his left is Lieutenant Moore who was the initial on scene supervisor. To my right is Lieutenant Rodriguez representing the Highway Patrol, and to his right is Commander Jansen representing the U.S. Navy which has been helping us with the search." "Why is homicide the lead on this investigation?" shouted a balding, middle aged reporter from the second row. Because it will save time you idiot, thought the sheriff. Smiling a second time he replied, "We wanted our best investigators. Given the facts and the nature of the case, Captain Parsons and I agreed that this was the best course to follow. As you can see we're making every effort and we have tremendous support from the entire law enforcement community. Let me say that departments all across our state coordinate like this on a daily basis, but we don't usually have you fine folks dropping by to steal our donuts." There were appreciative chuckles from the assembled reporters. Another reporter, "Why can't we hear from the lead investigator?" "We could arrange that at a future date. Right now, we're here to answer your questions while our investigative team works the case. You can appreciate, I hope, that time is of the essence?" Another voice from further back in the room, "Can you recall any similar cases where the victim was buried alive?" That one disturbing fact explained all of the satellite trucks. Friday, September 5th The investigators were anxious, the first forty-eight hours has passed without any new leads. The volume of phone calls had quickly fallen off without new details for the public to feed upon. If it bleeds, it leads, and once it stopped bleeding the press was off to the next story. They'd gotten the usual rash of crazies. Enterprising psychics called and told them to look, "close to water." Sergeant Alvarez was thinking about taking his kids to the beach on Sunday. The worst calls were the ones from desperate parents. Several dozen leads were checked, but none fit the right time frame, or the details of their victim. While the investigation floundered, news from the hospital kept their spirits up. The victim had stabilized. Vitals were strong, Dr. Patel reported. If he had a good weekend they wanted to start letting him wake up. Patel passed along another tidbit of information that made the whiteboard. Blood work by the hospital had shown that the victim had all of the state's required inoculations. That ruled out a recent immigrant who had bypassed traditional screening measures. It was a worry that the investigation team had raised, one that might explain the lack of any missing persons reports. In exchange for that detail, Alvarez had gotten a lecture about, "A century of public health policy and medical research spent wiping out third world diseases only to be ruined by a decade of yuppie knows better. Clusters of whooping cough and measles could be found with increasing regularity in California," Patel practically shouted. He'd only gotten the good doctor off of the phone by reassuring him that all his children had gotten their shots. The desert search had been scaled back, but a new volunteer effort was going to kick off Saturday morning. Volunteers were bringing horses, ATVs, and dirt bikes. Several local off road racing crews were going to lend a hand and try to keep the amateurs from getting lost. ------- In a quiet neighborhood north of Los Angeles called Altadena, Marty Rothstein was going to get his wife, Miriam, off of his back one item at a time. His 'honey do' list had gotten too long to be tolerated, or so she told him. First on the list was cleaning up the garage. After thirty-five years of marriage Marty knew that the secret to a happy union was doing what Miriam wanted. Well, I can finally return this chainsaw to the Van Pelts, Marty decided. He's used the little electric chain saw to cut up a dead crape myrtle before Thanksgiving. It hadn't even been a year yet he grumbled. Typical of the new families that had moved into the neighborhood over the last ten years, the Van Pelts were always on the go. While they often exchanged pleasantries over their adjoining back fences, Marty thought he should walk around the corner to their front door and express his thanks properly. "Miriam, I'm going next door to the Van Pelt's," he shouted. "It's about time!" she screeched. They're not home, he decided as he got a look at David Van Pelt's uncut grass, and at the last few days' worth of the local paper scattered around the front door. Taking in the accumulated lawn service and food delivery door hangers Marty decided he could use one to leave a note. Wedging the note into the door, Marty glanced through the side window. "Miriam! Miriam call the police!" ------- John Alvarez had just relaxed into his seat for Friday night dinner when the phone rang. He exchanged the look with his wife. They didn't need the words after this much time together. "Sorry to disturb you, Sergeant," he heard as he answered the phone. "What have you got?" "LA County has something on the Johnny Doe case, it looks good," the deputy relayed. "I thought we agreed we weren't going to call it that?" "Come on, Sergeant," the deputy protested. "Did you get a hold of Detective Miller?" Alvarez asked deciding that he couldn't win that argument. "She's on her way in." "Alright, I'm out the door." John Alvarez clipped his duty weapon over his belt, and put the wrinkled sports jacket back on with the tired ease of long practice. His children barely looked up as he walked out the kitchen door. They knew weekends with dad were a long shot anyway. ------- Alvarez and Miller were both excited in the professional sense as they sped along the freeway toward Pasadena, the sedan's hidden grill lights flashing. The thrill of the hunt was part of detective work. The Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department did have something good. A nosy neighbor, a key component of many law enforcement investigations, had spied blood splattered all over his neighbors' living room couch. Officers made entry and discovered lots of blood, but no bodies. A husband, wife, and five year old boy were all missing. "It's odd isn't it?" Miller gestured to the print out of her map to the house. "Why wouldn't he have taken them up into the hills?" The house was located right at the foot of the Angeles National Forest. "If his vehicle could handle the desert terrain north of Barstow, why not just head up into the hills and find an isolated spot?" she wondered. "Psychology," replied Alvarez. Miller was interested, 'give me more' she indicated with her hands. "Sometimes they don't want to spoil the nest. They take this dirty thing that they've done and put it as far away from them as they can. It leaves the nest clean, gives them psychological room to breathe in their comfort zone," he explained. "That's on the level?" "A guy I met from Quantico went on about it in great detail at one of the courses I attended. He used a lot more jargon, but that's the essence of it. There's an entirely different discussion that we could have about that the type that likes to keep reminders with them." They both thought about their suspect, or the doer in detective's short hand. He was male in their minds. This type of crime did not have a feminine hand. What motivated him and what was he doing now? Arriving in the normally quiet Altadena neighborhood they took note of the activity surrounding the crime scene. So far, there didn't appear to be much media. Perhaps a print reporter or two were standing by the tape. That wouldn't last if word of their presence got out. Shaking hands with their LA counterparts Alvarez asked if they could get out of sight, "I don't want to get the fourth estate stirred up yet." "Let's go around back," said the taller detective. Alvarez introduced Miller as they walked. Their LA County brethren were Morse, a tall, slightly ascetic looking man, while Jones was short and darker. "Jones?" Alvarez queried as they showed their IDs to the recording officer stationed on the back patio. "You'd prefer 'Chokroborti?' My father changed it after we emigrated from Bangladesh," Jones explained with a smile. "Tell us about the scene?" "Forensics has got the bulk of the work completed. Three separate attacks. One looks like it starts in the home office and continues into the front living room. That's what our witness got a look at. The second is in the first floor laundry area off of the mud room. The third is upstairs, the child's room," he explained for emphasis stepping through the sliding glass doorway and into the stale, sour air of the house. "The Van Pelts; David Alan, twenty-eight, Andrea Leanne, twenty-five, and Scotty, no middle initial, age five." "What are you thinking?" Miller asked. Morse nodded at Jones to continue. He guided them toward the home office, pointing out the drag marks and evidence tags as they stepped around them. The smell was stronger. "Our working theory?" Jones asked. Miller and Alvarez both nodded. "Somebody they knew. No forced entry. It starts here in the office, out the other doorway into the living room, ending there. Quick, but violent. They've bagged and removed a cushion with two clear marks where a knife blade was wiped clean. A hunting knife from the impression. Later, the vic was dragged out and through the garage on a sheet." "The sheets were taken from upstairs," he explained to the unasked question. Walking carefully toward the mud room, "She was doing laundry and listening to one of those personal CD players. It's smashed on the floor besides the washer. I don't think she heard what happened in the other room. This attack was frenzied. Cast off in every direction, the ceiling, and so on. Our people say we'll find a number of stab wounds on the body. Then she's dragged out to the garage. The head geek says with some lab work, they'll be able to prove in court which drag mark came first." Sergeant Alvarez traded raised eyebrows with the forensic tech working in the laundry room at hearing, "head geek." There was a lot more blood here. Liquid laundry soap had spilled onto a section of the floor making strange patterns with the blackened blood. "Upstairs?" asked Alvarez, wanting to see the room and know once and for all. "Kitchen first, there's something I want to show you." Jones replied. "He came in here and washed up in the sink." Dried blood was smeared all around the sink, and the island counter. "He wiped it down with a sponge, but didn't do a very good job of it. He had to be covered in blood. Sponge is missing by the way." Then he silently pointed at the cheap butcher block knife set. A hole from a missing blade was staring back at them. "Oh, and take a look at this," he pointed to some faint powdery striations on the counter top. "Cocaine?" asked Miller. "Tested positive," said Morse, picking up the story, "but they weren't users, not a sign of it in the place. It has to be the doer. He stopped and did a couple of lines before going upstairs. Then he took a new knife with him." Drugs complicated the picture. If the Van Pelt's weren't users, maybe it was about dope money. There were so many variables when a case went this route. Morse got their attention again, "Narcotics has checked. They've got nothing on the family. Not a hint." An estranged family member, Alvarez wondered? "John," Detective Miller said softly as she placed a hand on his arm, "the refrigerator." They all turned to look. Jones bobbed his head. Sergeant Alvarez pulled the picture from his jacket pocket and held it up to the others stuck to the refrigerator. The eyes were taped shut in the hospital photograph. Faint impressions from an oxygen mask were still visible on the victim's face where it had been removed for the photo. The chin was the same, cheek bones, ears, hair color – the photo matched. "That's him," he stated. "Can we get prints from the bedroom? We'll have to confirm, but it's him." "Of course." They shook hands in a strangely formal ritual. The case was not solved, but this was a big step. The two cases were coming together as one, joining forces. "Do you still want to see upstairs?" Jones asked this time. "I think we have to," said Alvarez. Moving up the central staircase, avoiding evidence markers as they went, Detective Miller observed, "No drag marks." "Probably just carried him," Jones replied stopping to point out where the central air had been shut off for some unknown reason. Dried smears, proof of the failed clean up attempt, were on the thermostat and wall. They crowded into the child's bedroom. It would have been a cheerful room. Rocket ships adorned one wall, and 'Scotty's Room' had been painted in a grand curve on the opposite. "He took the top cover," Morse started, and then stopped to gather his thoughts. "We've read the file you sent out." He continued, "This is what we think fits your forensics. The child was asleep, face down on the bed. Killer comes in, grabs the pillow using it to hold the back of his head down. A single thrust into the side of his chest. The wide blade wedged into his ribs so he can't pull it out. The angle behind the arm, right handed attack, it fits. Then he thinks he's done. Takes the bodies to the vehicle through the garage and drives up to your desert. "Not into the hills?" Miller asked. Morse and Jones look at each other and shrug, they can't explain it either. "Lieutenant?" Alvarez questioned into his cell phone, as he walked around enjoying the fresh air on the patio. The detectives had quickly reconvened outside. "Sergeant Alvarez here sir. Yes, we're at the scene. LA has a good case. We've got a solid ID on the boy." He listened for a moment, "Yes. They're going to run prints up to our lab tonight." Miller was only half listening. "We'll get hotel rooms, and then head back tomorrow afternoon. Yes, sir, I'll pass that along," he said hanging up. "Kudos from our lieutenant to yours. Can you recommend a good hotel for the night?" Later that night the two detectives ambled toward their respective hotel rooms, relieved at identifying their victim, but physically and emotionally exhausted by the crime scene. "Wanna get lucky?" Alvarez asked. Pausing to open her door Miller said, "Your wife would kill you." "Yeah, but would it be worth it?" "You'll never know," she said passing the test. With an exaggerated bump of her hip she entered her room and closed the door. Regional Memorial Hospital, Wednesday, September 10th The boy was having a nightmare. In the dream he woke up when somebody punched him in the side, but he couldn't hit back. There was a long bumpy car ride. The car had a really lumpy floor, and there was a heavy blanket over his head. He wanted to cry because his side ached, but he couldn't move or even blink. When the car stopped it was quiet for a long time. Suddenly the door opened and a man picked him up. The man carried him over to a hole in the ground and dropped him by the edge. The man came back dragging a heavy sack, and then another. The man kicked him into the hole, and then dropped the heavy sacks down on top of him. He heard digging and it started to get dark again. The last thing he saw was Mommy's hand. The dream changed. He was alone and lost in a strange place. A space ship landed with really bright flashing lights. A tall figure got out of the space ship wearing a cowboy hat and reached its hand out to him. The boy couldn't wake up. ------- The weekend volunteer effort to locate the desert burial location paid off. The coroner's office, in conjunction with the forensic lab, conducted a careful exhumation and examination of the new crime scene. The bodies of David and Andrea Van Pelt were recovered, along with a lot of significant physical evidence. In Altadena, Los Angeles County forensic work had identified multiple fingerprints throughout the Van Pelt's house as belonging to Craig Carson, David Van Pelt's business partner. His fingerprints were also identified on items recovered from the San Bernardino County crime scene. An arrest warrant was issued, but Craig Carson was nowhere to be found. Investigators believed he may have fled across the border to Mexico. An exhaustive background investigation into the Van Pelts cleared them of any involvement in narcotics. The Van Pelts, it was learned, met in Lubbock, Texas, where David and Andrea both attended Texas Tech University. They married after David graduated with a degree in International Business. The couple stayed in Lubbock while David did graduate work toward a masters in Business Administration. The couple left Texas for California shortly after the birth of their son. A year after arriving in California, David Van Pelt formed a small company with a lawyer named Craig Carson. Investigators could not discover what had brought the two men together. Their company acted as an agent for domestic manufacturers and prospective international purchasers. They handled the complex licensing and documentation required by the State Department for certain export products. Many companies lacked the expertise to deal with the byzantine rules and paperwork imposed on them by ever expanding federal regulations. It was a decent business, but finances were tight. It was apparent to investigators that David Van Pelt had no idea what kind of lawyer he had gone into business with. Craig Carson came from a wealthy family, but had been run out of a law firm in northern California for a series of irregularities in their estate and trust division. He had two arrests, but no convictions, for driving under the influence. In Los Angeles he was living far beyond his apparent means while fueling a growing cocaine addiction. Either the addiction was new, or he kept it well hidden. Investigators suspected that David Van Pelt might simply not have recognized the lawyer's behavior for what it was. An audit of the partners' finances showed that Carson had been bleeding the company dry in the months before the Van Pelt murders. This was the apparent motive for the murders although it made little sense. If Carson wanted to cover up his financial crimes the disappearance of the Van Pelts could only bring attention to their partnership. The excessive amounts of cocaine that Carson was believed to be consuming probably accounted for this disconnect from reality. The narcotics squad had caught up to Carson's dealer. When interviewed the dealer said, with absolutely no sense of irony, that he had been "very worried" about the lawyer's behavior. Monday, September 22nd Detectives John Alvarez and Susan Miller left a meeting at the district attorney's office and were headed to Regional Memorial Hospital. "Dr. Patel would have mentioned something if the boy had started talking," Detective Miller said. Scott Van Pelt had woken up several days earlier, but seemed unable to communicate or understand the world around him. "He did seem a little evasive," agreed Sergeant Alvarez. Miller went back over their meeting with the district attorney. It was her first case as a homicide detective and she was apprehensive, "What will they decide about jurisdiction?" Alvarez understood where the question was coming from. "We have no control over that. We just keep working the case. The court will decide jurisdiction. We've got the bodies and the burial location. They've got the murder scene, but more importantly we've got the boy." A half hour later the detectives were seated in front of Dr. Patel's desk. The doctor liked these detectives. They seemed genuinely concerned for the patient. "Thanks for coming in," said the doctor. "What can we do for you?" asked Sergeant Alvarez. "I wanted to give you an update on our patient, but I called because of something else" he confessed. "A rude woman from Children and Family Services was here demanding access to his records. She didn't even have a court order. I'd really like to know what's going on." The detectives exchanged a look. "There aren't any surviving family members," Detective Miller explained. "The father, David Van Pelt was the only child of elderly parents who died years ago. The mother's parents died in a private plane crash shortly after she graduated from high school. There are no siblings, distant aunts or uncles, or even cousins. It looks like he'll have to go into care." Dr. Patel was tapping a pen against his thigh, "No family? That's going to make things difficult." Standing up he announced, "Let's walk. He's still not responding to us. Call it a catatonic mute state or even selective mutism. All the neurological tests show a healthy, but agitated brain. There's a lot going on in that head of his, but it's not making it to the outside. There's no physiological reason for him not to be talking. In fact his wounds are healing much better than expected." Stopping them outside of the boy's room he continued, "Records from his pediatrician tell us that he was a bright, active child before all of this. He responds to stimuli; pain, bright light, he'll chew and swallow food and liquids. Unfortunately, he's still completely disengaged from the world around him." The detectives had seen it for themselves. The boy was awake, but he wasn't there. You could stare at him, but nobody stared back. His head would turn, but the eyes focused on nothing. He ignored the television. Nurses would sit and read to him with no response. They were feeding him solid food, but the process seemed purely automatic. The treatment plan was to try and provide normal stimulus activities. Eventually the psychologist explained he should come out of this 'locked in' state. If not, the psychologist conceded that he'd have to be institutionalized. No foster care family would be able to provide for such a child. Sergeant Alvarez hid a smile as he spotted Deputy Sheriff Tom Nettle coming up the hallway. The hot rumor around the division was that there was a serious romance blooming between Detective Miller and the handsome veteran deputy. "Deputy Nettle, what brings you down on your day off?" Alvarez asked. Detective Miller's head turned quickly at the question. "A group of us volunteered to come down and read on different days," Deputy Nettle replied as he tried to make eye contact with the suddenly shy female detective. "That's very thoughtful of you," she offered in her most professional voice. The doctor and the sergeant ignored the flirting as they moved toward the door. Entering the room they were surprised to see the bed empty, one sheet hanging over the edge, monitor wires discarded. The alarms were silent, or not functioning. The doctor moved to the patient's chart to see where the boy was supposed to be. He shook his head, no tests scheduled. Sergeant Alvarez pointed to the far side of the bed, and Miller hurried around to check. Deputy Nettle opened the bathroom door and came back out. "Not here," he announced. Detective Miller checked behind the curtain and around the bed shaking her head, "No." Doctor Patel walked to a phone mounted right beside the door. Picking it up he pushed two buttons, and started issuing a series of rapid-fire instructions. Seconds later they heard, "Code Purple," announced over the hospital's speaker system. A nurse supervisor rushed to the door as Sergeant Alvarez, and Deputies Miller and Nettle were hanging their badges visibly from their jacket pockets. Conferring quickly with Doctor Patel, the supervisor agreed and said, "Eight minutes. He was checked on just eight minutes ago." Doctor Patel had a thoughtful look on his face. "This is either really good or really bad." Detective Miller looked at him incredulously. "Somebody took him," waggling his hand, in a maybe yes or maybe no gesture, "or, he got up and started walking around on his own." Sergeant Alvarez was nodding, "Let's hope for the latter. Nettle, you take this floor. Miller check the third. I'll head down to the first floor and check in with security. Let's move." The Code Purple call put a well honed emergency plan into action. All exits were now guarded by hospital security employees who would check every individual attempting to enter or exit. Staff reported to their designated stations. Patient lists were being checked against each hospital bed. Maintenance personnel brought each of the hospital's elevators to the ground floor where they were secured. Patient transfers were temporarily suspended. In the hospital offices the assistant administrator sat at her desk and prayed that this was all a big mistake. She desperately wished that the administrator wasn't away at a conference. A missing child was horrible, but this child with all the associated media coverage? She groaned and rested her head on the desk with a soft thump. On the first floor Sergeant Alvarez was discussing video coverage of the hospital exits with the head of security. Up on the third floor Detective Miller had first run to the roof exit making sure that it was locked, then began checking room to room. On the second floor Deputy Tom Nettle had already checked the pediatric critical care unit since it wasn't very large. He was moving on to the pediatric cancer ward. The brightly painted and cheerful hallways worked hard to compensate for the serious nature of the care given here. In a playroom, a volunteer candy striper was reading to a group of children. Several of the children were wearing tightly fitted knit caps of differing colors. Ladybugs appeared to be a popular choice in this crowd. Perhaps it was a character from some cartoon that he didn't know about. He almost missed the boy standing in the back. Putting a smile on his face he opened the door and walked in. Motioning for the volunteer to continue he approached the boy. The boy looked up at him and then held out his hand. "Remember me?" the deputy asked, gently taking hold of the hand. The fingers were individually wrapped in gauze. Together they walked into the hallway after the candy striper took careful note of the deputy's badge. At the nearby desk Deputy Nettle caught a nurse's attention. "Could you call Doctor Patel and have him cancel the code?" he cut his eyes toward the child while holding his free index finger to his lips. "Oh I'd be happy to," she said as she picked up the phone. Speaking quietly she cocked her head to one side taking in the scene. "We're going to walk back to our room," announced the deputy, looking for agreement from his new partner. The nurse nodded her head and passed the information on as they turned and slowly headed back to the pediatric critical care center. By the time they got to the end of the hallway, a nurse was holding the door open for them. Tom Nettle was thinking serious, but happy thoughts. The incident in the desert had changed his life. During the early days of the investigation he'd met Susan or 'Detective Miller' as he wryly reminded himself. He couldn't explain it, but he was pretty sure this was going to be the one. As they approached the child's hospital room, Dr. Patel hurried to meet them. "There you are. Isn't this the second time you've rescued our little miracle?" he kidded with a quirk of his eyebrow. "All yours, Doc," the deputy announced trying turn the child's hand over to the doctor. The child ignored the attempt. "No problem," the doctor said. "Why don't you both take a seat up on this bed, and we'll give you a quick check up. Agreed?" Dr. Patel examined the patient with a professional eye. He turned the child's palms up and flexed a finger experimentally. "I think we could probably take these bandages off this afternoon. Won't that be nice?" he casually asked the child. No response. "Okay your turn," the doctor said as he poked the deputy in the stomach. "Maybe this one's funny bone needs a tune up?" The boy looked up at Deputy Nettle sitting next to him and tugged on his hand. "Hey buddy, what do you need?" the deputy asked. The boy pulled him closer. "I'm hungry," he whispered into the deputy's ear. Looking at Doctor Patel, Deputy Nettle announced, "He's hungry!" There were smiles all around. Scotty Van Pelt had come back to the world. Outside the room a greatly relieved sergeant turned to his partner. She had a slightly awed look on her face as she watched the doctor's playful examination of the deputy. "You stay here and keep an eye on things for me," he said with grin. "I'm going to down to talk with security again. This was good practice for the real thing." ------- Chapter 2 Thursday, October 30, 1997 Sergeant Alvarez was at his desk finishing up a file on a gang shooting. The case was closed; the shooter had been killed in a retaliatory hit by a rival gang. That meant a new case, but it wasn't his. Gang violence was on the upswing in the county. Alvarez was surprised to see Captain Parsons walk into the office. Parsons was the head of the Specialized Investigations Division, and was supposed to be in Los Angeles for a quarterly meeting of all the area homicide units. He pointed at Alvarez and barked, "Lieutenant's office now! Where's Miller?" "She's in court on an old vice case of hers," Alvarez replied hurrying to catch up with the captain. Miller had distinguished herself in the vice unit before being promoted to homicide. "Something wrong?" he asked as Parsons closed the office door behind him. "You know anything about that home invasion and murder down in Fontana yesterday?" The captain asked. Surprised, Alvarez replied, "I remember seeing it on the sheet. The locals have it. Have they asked for our help?" Parsons shook his head, "Your Van Pelt suspect, Craig Carson, is back from Mexico. There was a nanny cam in the Fontana house. There are some very clear shots of Carson torturing the victim before he killed her. He was identified by fingerprints early this morning." Sergeant Alvarez was sorting through the details of the Van Pelt case in his mind, trying to make a connection to the city of Fontana, but kept drawing a blank. "Do they have a motive?" he asked. "The locals didn't, but for some reason they called LA County Homicide first. LA called me. The victim was a county employee, a San Bernardino County Children and Family Services employee." "You think he's after the kid?" said the stunned Alvarez. "Forty minutes ago, as I was on my way here, somebody shot and killed a Family Services supervisor. Shot her right in the parking lot of their Rancho Cucamonga office. Witness descriptions are pretty clear. It was Craig Carson, and he stole the work files from the supervisor's car." "We've got to get our people on the foster family. Move them into protective custody," Alvarez was clenching his fists he was so anxious do something. "I've already got a patrol car en route," the captain assured him. "We're lucky only in that the Rancho Cucamonga office had nothing to do with the Van Pelt boy's placement. Once Carson figures that out, he could strike anywhere." "We should have Tom Nettle from patrol go sit with the family. He's got a connection with the boy," the sergeant suggested. "That's a good idea John. You make the call. The undersheriff will have issued an order by now calling up all reserve deputies. We're going to need a uniformed presence at every Family Services' office in the county. I called Los Angeles back and advised them to consider doing the same. I don't think we can predict what happens next." "Has the press sniffed this out yet?" asked Alvarez. "They will," replied the captain. "Family Services of Rancho Cucamonga is trying to recreate the client lists that the deceased supervisor would have had with her. We have to believe that those families are in immediate danger." The two men stood quietly for a minute considering what needed to be done. What Craig Carson thought he could accomplish was beyond them. Killing the Van Pelt boy couldn't stop the murder charges already filed against him. Conviction would not depend on any witness testimony. If the original Van Pelt murders were senseless then these additional murders were incomprehensible. The moment passed. "I'll head over and pick Detective Miller up from the court house. Where do you want us?" Sergeant Alvarez asked the captain. "Briefing room. I want you to brief a joint task force that I'll have setup by the time you get back." Foster Care Phil and Janet Eastman had been a foster family for six years. They did it, not for a check, but because they truly believed in the foster care mission. Typically, a child would be placed with the Eastmans for only a few weeks, and no longer than three months. These children would leave the Eastmans for more permanent placement, or go back to their families if whatever situation that sent them into care had been resolved. Because they had completed specialized training, hard to place children facing challenging health care issues, or those exhibiting extreme behavioral problems, were often placed with the Eastmans. Scott Van Pelt had been placed with the Eastmans as a precaution given his recent history. Regular medical checkups showed that Scott was recovering nicely. After the first week with the Eastmans all the bandages on his feet and hands were removed, and the following week the last of his stitches were removed. His fingertips were still very tender. The torn nails had been surgically removed so that healthy nails could grow unimpeded. It would take months for them to grow in. Scott's chest pained him if he moved too quickly as the muscles and ribs slowly knitted, but Doctor Patel was very pleased with the rapid improvement in lung function. He instructed the Eastmans to begin encouraging the boy to play more actively. He remained the shyest boy they had ever fostered. Janet was pulling weeds from the front flower beds with Scott's help when a sheriff's department cruiser pulled abruptly into their driveway. Two deputies erupted from the car, their posture tense and eyes scanning. "Mrs. Eastman?" called the lead deputy as he approached, hand resting on his holstered weapon. "Yes," she cautiously replied. Scott had moved behind her and was holding onto her leg. "Can you take the boy into the house, and is Mr. Eastman here?" he asked. The other deputy was checking the garage. Phil Eastman having heard the commotion stepped out the front door, "What's going on deputy?" "Mr. Eastman, we need to get everybody inside and secure all the doors and windows. I'll explain after we're inside," the deputy insisted. "Well, alright, if you say so. Should I call family services?" he asked stepping back into the house. "That's probably a good idea," replied the deputy. His partner, armed with a shotgun, was taking position outside the front door. The kids were parked in front of the cartoon channel in the living room. Scott Van Pelt was flipping through a picture book. The adults huddled in the kitchen. The deputy's explanation had scared them. Phil Eastman was worried about putting his family into protective custody while Janet worried about how it would affect the children. The deputy's radio crackled, "Tom Nettle is here." The Eastmans were pleased. Tom Nettle had stopped by at least once a week to check on Scott. For the last visit he had brought his girlfriend who happened to be one of the detectives working on the Van Pelt case. Tom walked into the kitchen and shook hands with Phil and the deputy. Turning to Janet he explained, "The marshals are about a minute behind me. They've got a big transport van with blacked out windows. They'll take you to a safe house." "Are we really in danger?" she asked. Looking at Phil before he answered, "Yes, I'm afraid it's very serious. Start packing a few essentials, enough for a day or two. Be sure to get all the medications that you'll need. The marshal's service will help get you anything else that you need later. How's Scotty taking this?" Janet shrugged, "Go see for yourself. He was a little scared when the deputies first arrived. Now he doesn't seem bothered at all. The other kids are all treating this like an adventure." With the Eastmans safely in protective custody the hunt for Craig Carson became a spectacle. Local television breathlessly reported the vaguest rumors about the man they dubbed the 'Valley Monster.' Sightings were reported from as far away as Seattle. Five days later Craig Carson attempted to force his way into a records room at Regional Memorial. An alert security guard chased Carson out of the hospital. No one was injured. Carson disappeared again, and his family disavowed their fallen heir. Craig Carson's name went up on state and federal top ten must capture lists. Agents from U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration learned of a rumor coming out of the Mexican cartels. A two-hundred thousand dollar contract had been placed on the life of Scott Van Pelt. In the 'old days' no one would take a contract on a child. The drug war in Mexico had changed that. Nothing seemed off limits. On December 10th a state judge was murdered in his chambers. There was no direct evidence of Craig Carson's involvement, but law enforcement was not taking any more chances. All records pertaining to Scott Van Pelt were placed under seal, and security was increased at all state buildings. In the midst of the massive man hunt for Craig Carson, a phone call was placed and an extraordinary decision was made. ------- The Marshal The United States Deputy Marshal subtly adjusted her jacket. No matter how lightweight they made bullet resistant vests she was still stuck inside of the damned thing for eight to ten hours a day. Her male colleagues had no idea how uncomfortable and sweaty her sports bra got after a long day. She kept a trim figure which made her breasts look bigger than they were. Her face was serious, or so her last boyfriend had told her. Her hair was kept short and easy to manage like her nails. No fuss, no muss. Big bosomy marshals with several buttons undone and a sexy bra looked good on television, but out here in the real world she needed to be ready to run. Ever tried chasing down a target with your breasts flailing around? Not comfortable, or professional. Of course this deputy marshal was unlike most of her colleagues. Anne Morrison had been with the marshals for two years, and before that she had been an agent with the Unites States Secret Service for six years. She was thirty-three years old, and an Air Force veteran who had done a stint as an enlisted security guard right out of high school. Guarding strategic assets in the middle of the country was boring. The items they protected might be exotic, but the biggest dangers came from drunk drivers getting lost on base, or the greatly feared inspector general from higher headquarters. After her discharge she went to college and graduated with a degree in early childhood education. It only took four months in a classroom dealing with mommy and daddy's little nightmares for her to apply to the Secret Service. Thankfully she had a minor in something academically challenging. That combined with her military background and gender helped her gain entry to the training academy. She excelled in early assignments with the service, and eventually landed a coveted spot on the Vice-President's detail. Her downfall came when she reported a fellow agent's involvement with a foreign national. Anne filed an internal memo calling attention to the compromising behavior. Unbeknownst to her the agent was destined for greater things within the service. Management offered her the chance to withdraw the report, but Anne stubbornly refused. She was ostracized and assigned to a desk in an out of the way annex. When she refused to go quietly away she found herself stationed in the northern plains chasing down letter writers. That was how far off the radar Anne had fallen. She was chasing down drunken idiots who couldn't even send their threats via email. Anne Morrison's rescue came from an unlikely source. He was a kindly looking grey haired man who could have passed for an accountant. They met at a coffee shop in Bismarck, North Dakota, and he asked her only one question, "Would you do it again?" When she answered in the affirmative he told her that she had passed the job interview. The man told her that the service knew very well what the agent was up to. For the most part it was overlooked. It was the price the service paid for men who operated at such high tempos. Anne thought it was bullshit, but kept her mouth shut. In the years since she had rarely seen the man, but came to know that he was the most ruthless person she'd ever encountered. He'd recruited her into a section of the United States Marshals Service that didn't exist. Since it didn't exist it had no name. In her mind she referred to it as the office. They did the dirty work that no other agency would touch. Their specialty was making problems disappear. That could mean an agent who had gone off the reservation, or a congressional staffer who talked too much about things they shouldn't. Occasionally they'd move somebody off of the grid outside of the Witness Security Program. It might be to pay off a favor between agencies, or involved someone who didn't qualify for the program but that somebody needed kept alive. It might seem an odd career for a would-be whistleblower. Ann was more circumspect. The agent that she had reported had put her mission in jeopardy. She didn't care if they drank or whored around on their own time. The mission, the job, was paramount. Her current assignment was low profile. She was surveilling the wife of a US Marshal who headed up a regional sub-office. The wife was having an affair with a local construction magnate who had ties to the mob. Was the marshal compromised? That was the problem of the internal watchdogs, not her. Her problem was that the wife was the third daughter of a powerful U.S. Senator. If they could extract her from the situation without making waves, they'd have another senator in their pocket. Her cell phone vibrated. "Morrison," she answered. "Drop the current assignment. Head for the airport, be prepared to go for coffee," the voice said. Even on their encrypted phones they avoided certain terms. The code words meant that she was going to do something that wasn't going into the files. At the airport she boarded a small private jet, pulled up the stairs, and secured the door. Nobody assisted her. When she was done she knocked on the cockpit door three times. The plane's engines wound up and they began to taxi. No crew member would disturb her in the cabin. When they landed she would be transferring planes at an obscure airstrip in the middle of one of several federal reservations. The marshal wouldn't even bother to find out where, it didn't matter. It was all part of the standard shake and bake for such a mission. She read the scant file that was waiting for her. There was a mess in San Bernardino County, California. She was to relocate somebody outside of channels. A state judge, who was up for a federal appointment, had been murdered. Mexican drug cartels were reportedly trying to track down and kill the survivor of a brutal multiple murder scene. The killer himself was also in the hunt. The file suggested that the judge had either gotten in the way, or his killers thought he knew something. It didn't make much sense, but it wasn't wise to ask too many questions. The service would have done a thorough background check and security assessment on the judge for a future protection detail, but the protection wouldn't go into place until the appointment was official. The drug cartel wasn't anything that the service was concerned with, but the survivor's safety would legitimately fall into their remit if it was a federal case. From the file the case looked like it could go federal, but it hadn't yet. All of that detail was the cover within the cover. Hiding the truth was a specialty of her office. In fact the survivor was being relocated as a favor to a powerful individual unidentified by the file. She didn't want to know anymore than that. This was an easy assignment. Fly in, get the survivor and then disappear. Compared to some of the sleaze that she normally dealt with, this assignment might actually let her sleep at night. There was a locked case in the seat next to her. She input her key code and opened the case. Inside was a wallet and credentials' case. She traded identities. The fake credentials were for dealing with local authorities. Any federal personnel that she encountered would be unlikely to check her identity. She had by necessity kept a low profile since leaving the Secret Service, and had drastically changed her look. The plane landed and came to a stop. She left the file and her old credentials behind. The plane door was easy to open. They were parked next to a similar aircraft. She traded planes and was soon airborne again. It was early evening when the jet landed in California. A standard black SUV with darkly tinted windows waited for her. They made a high speed trip to a safe house operated by the service. Early Evening, December 10th, 1997 The foster family had gone all out to celebrate Scott's sixth birthday. The party was a complete surprise because Scott Van Pelt couldn't remember his birth date. Special guests arrived in a blacked out van. Doctor Patel was there with several nurses. Scott was happy to see his favorite people from the sheriff's department. A pretty flight nurse gave him a really long hug and called him her miracle boy. The marshal didn't recognize any of the deputies on guard duty as the SUV pulled up outside the safe house. The vehicle and her method of arrival helped ensure that nobody would question her. The marshal couldn't believe that the safe house was hosting a birthday party. The mission objective turned out to be the birthday boy. He looked even younger than the file suggested. Her antenna twitched when she learned that a couple of the party goers were local homicide detectives. "Pack a bag for the boy," she instructed the foster care mother. Marshall Morrison took the opportunity to pump the detectives for intelligence on the situation. The detectives were competent. The people after the kid were serious. The cartel connection meant resources and money. Throw in the randomness of the murder suspect's behavior and you had a volatile situation. She wasn't sure if it required the level of service that her office provided, but the order had come down and she would follow through. Anne was worried that the boy would be a crier. She noted that the local sheriffs had a strong connection with the boy. They accepted her invitation to ride along with them to the airport. It might help keep him calm. As far as the locals knew, this was a standard operation. Before leaving the house she dumped out the travel bag that the foster parent had packed and searched it. She tossed out the presents and any identifying items. Her scanner showed that the bag and clothes were clean of tracking devices. She checked the boy for good measure. She handed the bag to the tall, good looking deputy sheriff and announced, "Let's go." It was dark when their vehicle parked beside a hanger at the isolated Barstow-Daggett Airport. A non-descript jet was waiting in front for them; it had seats for eight passengers. The marshal climbed aboard the jet and waited for the boy by the door. Deputy Tom Nettle, Detective Susan Miller, and Detective Sergeant John Alvarez walked with the tired six-year-old toward the plane. Alvarez passed a bag up to the marshal standing inside the plane. He patted Scott's shoulder and told him to behave himself. Susan Miller gave the boy a tearful hug. Tom Nettle knelt down to look Scott in the eye. "You're going to have a great adventure in your new home, and you get to ride on a really cool airplane. If you ever need anything you can give me a call. Okay?" Scott stuck out his hand and shook Tom's, "Thank you for finding me." Aboard the jet the marshal knocked on the cockpit door and they were quickly airborne. The kid was curious, but quiet. So far so good, Anne thought to herself. ------- Take off had been pretty exciting, but Scott was having trouble getting comfortable in the seat. The female marshal leaned over and asked him if he wanted a coloring book. He shook his head no. The last two months had been an interesting experience. The foster family, Phil and Janet Eastman, had been very kind. They didn't smother him as he fumbled around trying to regain his sense of balance during the first week out of the hospital. Minor things irritated him, and he tended to get angry for no reason. They were always very patient with him. The Eastmans were supposed to, "Let him work his frustrations out," he overheard a doctor tell them. The one big puzzle he couldn't solve was his memory. He could remember the accident which is what everybody else called being stabbed by a monster and then buried in a hole. Nobody wanted to talk about that, or his weird dreams about the lights. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't remember anything from before. He knew his parents' names, and what they looked like, but not anything about where they lived. It frustrated him because he knew that there were answers somewhere in his head. He learned a hard lesson about what he could and couldn't tell people. When he was still in the hospital he'd gotten sympathetic visits from candy stripers. They were older girls who volunteered to work in the hospital. He liked the attention as long as he didn't have to talk much. Teenage girls, he learned, liked to talk a lot. They would read to him or play board games. In the last week of his stay he'd gotten angry after two detectives kept asking him questions that he just couldn't answer. It wasn't Sergeant John or Tom's friend, Susan. He liked them a lot. The pushy detectives were from Los Angeles. After they left, a candy striper named Samantha stopped by and made the innocent mistake of asking about his accident. She ran from the room crying when he told her what had really happened. He felt terrible about it, but she never came back. Aboard the airplane, he closed his eyes as he thought about the Eastmans. He would miss them he decided, but not their other foster kids. They made him uncomfortable. One of the boys was always picking his nose. He wouldn't stop. The only girl the Eastmans were fostering had a ratty doll that she took everywhere. It had a hole in its side that the girl used for hiding food. Mrs. Eastman was a real good cook, and the kids got plenty to eat. It made him sad to think about why the girl had learned to do that. Even when the family had to move because the monster was looking for him, the Eastmans hadn't blamed him. Nobody came right out and said why they were hiding, but he'd managed to overhear a few whispered conversations. The armed marshals were all very serious, but polite. The kids treated it like an adventure, and it was until his birthday surprise. Scott hoped he would get to see Tom and Susan again, and even John the sergeant who told him funny jokes when nobody else was around. The marshal woke him up and told him they were getting ready to land. ------- The marshal was relieved when they landed at Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri. The military base was a great layover offering both physical and operational security. They were just another anonymous government airplane doing who knows what. Any airman who got too nosey would be threatened with a post in the Aleutians. The next morning they ate breakfast in their room, and then went to the airfield where a new plane waited for them. Once they were airborne the marshal checked the file that waited for her. They were heading to Texas. The relocation would be in the western part of the state. She'd never heard of Fort Stockton, but it looked good on paper. There were two schools of thought on witness relocation; stick a person in the endless neighborhoods of a big metropolitan area where it was easy to get lost, or place them out in the boonies where they'd be hard to track down. Fort Stockton qualified for the later. There were very few parts of the country that got more isolated, and still counted as civilized. A United States Attorney that the unit had co-opted was covering the paperwork and had greased her way with the locals. When they landed in Texas, the plane was met by a fellow operative who handed her a new briefcase. The wind blowing around the plane was cold and cut right through her jacket. She loaded the boy into a sedan and headed into town. The kid's damaged, she thought to herself she drove. He hadn't said a word since breakfast, and then it was only to ask for a piece of fruit. Then to prove her wrong he asked why everything was so brown. She didn't know, but told him it was because it was winter. Maybe Texas always looked like this. It reminded her of a drier version of the plains, but it wasn't as frozen. They were in Pecos County. Just like Pecos Bill the marshal told him. Anne's instructions were to drive to the court house and meet the local sheriff. This portion of the operation was critical. She had to smile and play the dutiful marshal. No need to raise the suspicions of the local authorities. The marshal parked next to a big white pickup truck. A good looking man wearing a grey cowboy hat got out of the pickup truck, and walked over to the car. The marshal told Scott to wait, and got out to greet the sheriff. ------- Scott liked the fancy belt that the man was wearing with his black jeans and pressed, bright-white button up shirt. The marshal motioned for him to get out of the car. Together they walked into the courthouse and went up a flight of stairs. The man knocked on a heavy wooden door. Behind an enormous desk in a fancy office was an older man wearing an unbuttoned suede coat over a t-shirt. He was seated in a big high backed leather chair. Scott was fascinated by a huge set of horns mounted right above the man's head. He could also see some interesting old black and white photos scattered around. A table displaying a brown metallic statue of an Indian on a horse caught his attention. The man in the white shirt took off his cowboy hat. "Your honor, this is the deputy marshal," the sheriff made the introduction. This might be a small town stuck in the back of nowhere, but the county judge was sharp and the marshal was cautious. The judge clasped his hands together and looked at the marshal, "When I got a call at home from the U. S. Attorney for the Western District of Texas suggesting that it would be a good idea for me to call the sheriff and meet a Deputy United States Marshal in my private chambers this morning—and to keep quiet about it—well, you could say that it piqued my curiosity." In truth, Judge Elijah Upcott was more than a little angry at the U.S. Attorney for not answering his questions about this mysterious meeting, but the added presence of the boy kept him from expressing that anger. The marshal unlocked her brief case and took out two folders. "Your honor, I apologize for the unusual nature of this meeting. May I show you these?" "Let's see what this is all about," he said holding out his hand. The marshal handed him the folders and stepped back. The judge opened the smaller of the two and started reading. He closed it quickly and examined the boy with a raised eyebrow. Then he picked up the thicker folder and flipped through its contents. It was very quiet in the judge's chambers as he examined the paper work. The judge looked at him, "Are you Scott?" The Marshal answered for him, "He is your honor." The judge began to speak, "The facts, as I understand them are that the boy's parents are deceased and that there are no living relatives? The boy is to be placed with the Broken Creek Boys Ranch. The Pecos County Court, meaning me, is to monitor him on a regular basis. He'll need regular medical checkups. Finally, I'm to seal all of this and the sheriff and I will pretend to forget you and how the boy came to be here?" The marshal replied, "That's correct your honor." The judge stood up taking documents from each folder. He walked around to the front of the desk and lined them up. He took out a pen and said, "Walter, you better sign this. I'll sign after you. Marshal you'll sign as witness." The sheriff took the pen and looked at the first document, "I've never signed something like this." "Just sign it Walter." The sheriff signed his name, and then the judge signed his. The marshal provided her cover signature ... The judge read the document one more time, placed it in the first folder and handed it back to the marshal. She took the folder and locked her case. "Now that we have that business out of the way we need to get this young man taken care of. He should have a middle name for example." The judge looked at the sheriff for ideas. The sheriff who had noticed the boy surreptitiously examining his cowboy hat said, "How about 'Wayne? It's a classic." The judge ran the name over a few times in his head, "I like it. Scott Wayne MacIntyre it is. I'll initial the changes. He turns six in January. Is that going to be a problem for Broken Creek, or the school Walter?" The sheriff thought it over, "No, your honor. He meets the minimum age for the ranch. I suppose they can test him at the school for placement." "Well young Mr. MacIntyre, are you looking forward to your birthday?" asked the judge. Scott shifted on his feet and look over at the marshal, "What am I supposed to say?" "Your honor, his date of birth was adjusted for security reasons. We moved it a few weeks so that—" The judge held up his hand, "Better stop right there deputy. You found an easy way to change the year of his birth, I get it. I don't really want to have to sign another document like the first one." Then the judge announced in an official sounding voice, "Per the U.S. Attorney's instructions I am sealing all documents and any record related to these irregular proceedings. Marshal, would you and the boy step outside for a moment? I'd like a word with the sheriff." After the door closed, the judge sighed and sat back down, "Walter, what the hell have we gotten ourselves into? Do you have any idea what they're trying to hide this boy from?" Sheriff King stretched his legs while he thought about the question. "Elijah, that jet out at the county airport could have come from anywhere. Nobody does witness protection for a six year old boy by himself, and then sticks him in a place like Broken Creek. Hell, I'm just a county sheriff so what do I know?" "Not the 'awe shucks I'm just a country bumpkin' routine, I've known you too long Walter," the judge replied. ------- Outside the judge's chambers the marshal was relieved. The two men signed the non disclosure agreement. It threatened all sorts of dire consequences if either of the men violated the confidentiality of the agreement. The kid's name and date of birth were legally changed, and he was placed into the local foster care system as the mission required. She took the boy out into the hallway and told him the facts of life. He was to keep his mouth shut. No talking about the past. Fail to keep a low profile and the bad men would come and find him. A little harsh for a six-year-old, but the kid needed to know. ------- The pair were sitting on a bench waiting for the sheriff when he walked out of the judge's chambers. "Ready to get the show on the road?" asked the sheriff. The sheriff tossed Scott's bag into the back of his truck as they watched the marshal drive away. "Real friendly lady wasn't she?" "Yes, sir." "I'll bet," the sheriff replied. "First thing we're going to do is go over to the hospital and get you a quick medical checkup. Then we'll get some lunch. After that we'll drive out to Broken Creek." ------- The marshal's plane left Texas and landed somewhere far away from civilization where another jet was waiting for her. The marshal deplaned and walked to a fifty-five gallon drum that was located about a hundred feet off of the runway as her ride taxied away. Anne dumped the transfer documents, the non disclosure agreement, and her credentials into the barrel. She poured lighter fluid into the bottom and set the papers alight. When the flames burned down she used a long piece of rebar to stir the ashes around. Anne verified that all of the material had burned. The deputy boarded the remaining plane. She opened another box and changed identities. A new assignment waited for her. ------- It was a short ride over to the hospital. The sheriff and the boy were there for an hour, and got a quick bite to eat in the hospital cafeteria. It wasn't the worst hospital food that Scott had ever eaten. The Broken Creek Boys Ranch was located about forty miles outside of Fort Stockton. The truck ride on the lonely road would have been boring if the sheriff hadn't decided to give a version of his 'Welcome to Pecos County' speech. Scott learned that Pecos County was the second largest in the state of Texas. In fact it was just a bit smaller than Connecticut. Since Scott didn't know how big Connecticut was he wasn't sure if that was good or bad. Connecticut had three point five million people living it the sheriff explained, but Pecos County had less than sixteen thousand residents. In fact the entire county only had two incorporated cities; Fort Stockton and Iraan. He pronounced the second city as, "Ira–Ann," and explained that it was named after two people named Ira and Ann. "What's an incorporated city?" Scott asked. The sheriff stopped his speech and looked at the boy, "Now that's a very good question. It's a technical term, but what it basically means is that they are 'official' cities recognized by the state. So we have two cities, and six unincorporated areas that are too small to be called a city. I guess the best way to explain it is that Pecos County has a lot of land, but not very many people." "Are we going to visit Connecticut?" "Ha!" laughed the sheriff. "No, Connecticut is pretty far away. I guess I should remember my audience when I give that speech." They drove for about half an hour passing mile after mile of emptiness. The sheriff slowed the truck down as they approached a small group of commercial buildings, and a gas station next to a small restaurant. "That's Meritt's Diner," he said as he pointed. "It's a combination gas station, post office, diner, and meeting place. They make a really good chocolate meringue pie there, the milk shakes are pretty good too, and they serve a big breakfast. From Meritt's it's another seven miles to the ranch." There were only two houses between Meritt's and where the sheriff pulled his truck off the road. "I need to open the gate, and you can help me." Scott climbed down from the truck and looked around. The November wind cut right through his thin shirt. There were two sections of metal fencing on either side of the gate which was blocking a dirt road. The gate was centered over grating stretching completely across the road. The sheriff explained to him that the cattle guard kept livestock from escaping the property if somebody accidentally left the gate open. "Good neighbors always make sure that gates are secure when visiting," the sheriff told him, passing along a bit of country wisdom. Except for sections around the gate, the rest of the fence was barbed wire stretching as far as he could see. The metal gate was secured to a piece of pipe with a length of chain. In metal along the top curve of the gate was written, 'Broken Creek Ranch.' Together, Scott and the sheriff lifted the gate and walked it open. The sheriff did most of the lifting. "You hold the gate and make sure it doesn't swing back into my truck," the sheriff instructed. It was a big gate and Scott had to lean into it to keep it from moving. The sheriff drove the pickup through the gate, stopped, and came back to help Scott. They walked the gate back into position, and the sheriff wrapped the chain around the pipe. They drove slowly down a dirt road until it came to a small rise, and then turned down to a collection of buildings. The first building was a normal looking, ranch style house. Behind it were three smaller buildings that could be cabins. Set away from the house was a horse barn and a smaller metal building. The sheriff carried his bag as they walked up the steps to the house. He knocked on the screen door. It was opened by a plain man wearing a baseball cap. "Come in, Sheriff," he said. "You better come through to the office." "Thank you, Mr. Rewcastle," replied the sheriff taking off his cowboy hat, and wiping his feet on the door mat. As they walked through the house Scott peered into the front sitting room and saw a couch and chair covered in shiny, see through plastic. It didn't look like a room that anybody used. He noticed little figurines on just about every surface. There were more in the living room, and even some on little shelves in the hallway next to the office that the sheriff guided him into. They sat down in the two chairs facing the desk that Mr. Rewcastle was moving behind. Mr. Rewcastle folded his hands together on top of his desk and said, "So, this is our new boy. Did you bring some paperwork for me?" The sheriff handed him a folder. Mr. Rewcastle sorted through the papers. He looked up, first at the boy and then at the sheriff. "This won't do at all. Where's the psychological assessment, his kindergarten or pre-school records, the family history, and his birth certificate?" asked the agitated man. "Lawrence," replied the sheriff deciding that good manners were no longer required, "you have a signed placement order from Judge Upcott. There's a copy of the waiver from family services. We just picked up a complete medical and shot record from Pecos County Memorial Hospital. There aren't any school records, and the state will mail you his replacement birth certificate." "It's highly irregular, Sheriff," insisted Mr. Rewcastle. "Lawrence, you and Roberta get a nice grant every year from the county, and that's on top of what you get from the state. I know Judge Upcott will be happy to hear how accommodating you've been." "Well!" said Mr. Rewcastle. He took off his baseball cap, and ran his hand over the top of his balding head. Mumbling to himself he took the paperwork out of the sheriff's folder and put it into a bright yellow folder. He wrote something on the folder's tab, and then looked directly at the boy, "We need a photo." Mr. Rewcastle took a picture of Scott standing against the wall with a Polaroid camera. Then he stapled that photo to the front of the yellow folder. He spun around in his chair and put the folder into a filing cabinet that he locked with a key. Tucking the key back into his pants he looked at Scott and began to speak. "The Broken Creek Boys Ranch is a residential care facility," he explained. "The ranch usually houses between ten and fourteen. Right now we have twelve boys in residence. About half of our boys are here for court ordered non-violent juvenile offenses, while the other half are temporary foster care boys who were difficult to place. We rarely have boys who are old enough to age out of the system." What happens to somebody who ages out of the system? Scott wondered. Mr. Rewcastle continued, explaining the living arrangements and ranch rules. Ranchers were divided into three groups; scouts were ages five to ten, juniors were eleven to fourteen, and seniors were fifteen to eighteen. Each had their own bunkhouse. Boys weren't allowed inside the living areas of the house. They were only allowed in the kitchen area for chores, and the boys' dining room for meals. Boys had to address Mr. Rewcastle and his wife as, "Sir or Ma'am." Scott snuck a glance at the sheriff during this lecture, but the sheriff was studiously examining a spot on the other wall. There was no television or rock-n-roll allowed at the ranch. There was a record collection that boys could listen to if they had permission. Reading was encouraged. A bookmobile from the county library stopped once every other week. Each boy was assigned chores that would be listed daily on a board outside of each bunkhouse. Rule breakers were disciplined by corporal punishment. "Any questions?" Mr. Rewcastle asked. Scott shook his head no. "We better get you settled in then. Sheriff, it was good to see you as always," Mr. Rewcastle said. "Lawrence you'll remember to see that he gets to those medical appointments won't you? And don't forget that the judge will want to see him once a quarter," the sheriff replied. Mr. Rewcastle grimaced at the mention of the judge as he escorted the sheriff to the front door. Scott watched the sheriff drive away. Mr. Rewcastle opened up his bag and started going through his things. "Have to check for contraband," he explained. There wasn't anything interesting in the bag. Back in California the marshal had gone through all of his things and took out any personal items. He wasn't allowed to take anything from his old life, not that he had much. That included the honorary sheriff's badge that his friends had given him for his birthday. He couldn't even take the photo of his parents that Mrs. Eastman had somehow gotten for him. The bag just had clothes and a small zippered pouch that held his toothbrush and comb. Scott followed Mr. Rewcastle into the kitchen. It was a big kitchen. To one side was a small, middle-aged woman making little balls of dough from a bigger ball. "Mr. Lawrence," she said with a thick accent, "Miss Roberta went to Meritt's for the mail." "Mrs. Delgado, this is one of our new Ranchers," said Mr. Rewcastle. "Hola, Mijo," she greeted him. "Hello, Grandmother," Scott replied. Mrs. Delgado beamed in delight. Mr. Rewcastle gave Scott a funny look and hustled him out the back door toward the bunkhouses. The closest bunkhouse was for scouts like him, followed by the junior and senior bunkhouses. As they walked up to the front door the man pointed out the 'Chores Board' with chores written in chalk next to individual strips of tape bearing the names of each boy living in the bunkhouse. "You get a day to settle in before your name goes on the chore list," explained Mr. Rewcastle. "Can you read? If you can't, get one of the older boys to explain it to you." Scott didn't reply. Poking his head through the door Mr. Rewcastle looked in and yelled, "New boy, make sure he's at dinner." Then he turned around and left Scott standing there on the porch. Scott picked up his bag and dragged it through the doorway. After his eyes adjusted from the brightness outside he could see an older boy staring back at him. The two boys examined each other. "New guy!" exclaimed the other boy. Walking up to him he stuck out his hand and said, "Name's Roger, I'm eight. Who are you?" "I'm Scot Van—" he stopped, suddenly tongue tied, "Scott MacIntyre. I'll be six in a couple of weeks." "Cool," replied the boy. "I'll help you pick a bunk. Those two by the end are taken. I'm there by the closet," Roger said pointing to a bed at the end of the room. "I guess that one?" Scott said pointing at the empty bed near Roger's. "Great choice!" The bunkhouse was uncomplicated. The end with the porch and door opened up to a little study area. On one side was a round table with four chairs, and a couple of bean bag chairs on the other side. There were four beds, two on each side of the bunkhouse with an aisle through the middle. Past the beds was a short hallway with a door on either side. One opened into a little bathroom with a tiny shower while the other door opened into a storage closet. "Rewcastle tell you the rules?" asked Roger. "What's corporal punishment?" asked Scott taking his clothing and zippered pouch out of his bag and spreading them out on his bed. "A whipping. One of the older kids back talked to Mrs. Rewcastle and is getting busted tonight," Roger said. "You can put your stuff in the locker box at the end of the bed, or you can put things on the shelf over the head of the bed." It didn't take long to store his meager possessions. "Hey, you need sheets. There's some in the closet," Roger showed him the closet, and the bigger boy helped him make his bed. "Okay, sit down. I gotta tell you the rules. No stealing from other ranchers, ever. No ratting on other ranchers. Don't get friendly with Mrs. Rewcastle, she's mean. Don't tell stories about the ranch to other kids or talk about who's lived here. Oh, and nobody messes with Mrs. Delgado," Roger finished with a rush. "I met her, she seemed nice. Where is everybody?" Scott asked. Roger hopped up, "You need something warmer than that shirt before we go looking for them." Roger went back to the storage closet and dug out a sweatshirt with 'Broken Creek Boys Ranch' written over the breast. Scott struggled to put it on and tried to keep up with the older boy as he sped out the door. They were heading toward the barn. Roger gave him a quick tour, "We're lucky that there are only three of us in our bunkhouse counting you. There are seven juniors sharing three rooms. Right now we only have two seniors, and they each get their own room in that bunkhouse. One of the older guys used to be in juvy in Midland. He said they had twenty kids in a dorm. Can you believe that?" "What's juvy?" Scott asked. "Juvenile hall, it's like prison for kids. A lot of the older kids are here instead of in juvy." It sounded like Roger was always in a rush when he talked. They found the rest of the ranchers behind the barn. They were mostly all older kids, busy cleaning horse tack. Cleaning supplies were spread out on a picnic table. Brushes were being washed in a bucket. One boy was wiping a trail saddle down while explaining to a younger boy how the stirrup leather should be cleaned. Roger introduced him, "This is the new kid. His name is Scott, and he's almost six." The other kids ignored him. "Don't worry about these guys' names. Most of them are getting paroled back to their families for Christmas." Later that night Scott was struggling to unfold a blanket for his bed. The temperature had dropped and he was cold. Roger got up and was helping him. A noise came echoing across from the Rewcastle house. 'Thwack.' 'Thwack.' 'Thwack.' "What's that?" "That is corporal punishment. At least we can't hear him crying," replied Roger. Scott had a hard time going to sleep that night. He lay there thinking about the last twenty-four hours. Mrs. Delgado fixed a great meal, but dinner was a strange, quiet affair. Nobody talked except for the Rewcastles and that was mostly about themselves, or Mrs. Rewcastle's horses. There were two tables in the dining room. The older boys had to sit with the Rewcastles while the younger boys sat by themselves. After dinner the younger boys cleared the tables and washed the dishes. The older boys got to leave. Scott's first glimpse of Mrs. Rewcastle was not a favorable one. She had a thin, pinched face, and looked at him coldly. He decided the Ranchers' rule about Mrs. Rewcastle was a good one. The boy who got punished had talked back to her according to Roger. Scott wondered if that was worth three licks from the paddle Roger described. Corporal punishment, according to Roger meant that you had to be in the kitchen when Mr. Rewcastle told you to be there. Then you had to ask for permission to be spanked by saying, "Sir, I request corporal punishment." Scott didn't understand that at all. Scott fell asleep wondering if his old foster care family had finally gotten to go home now that he was gone. After breakfast the next morning five of the ranchers were paroled for the Christmas holiday. Roger said most wouldn't come back. Boys were always coming and going from the ranch he explained. Some would finish their court ordered punishment and leave. Other boys would go back to their families when they were released from the foster care system. Rarely, a boy would be adopted out. Families wanted babies, not preteen or teenage boys. Scott settled into life at Broken Creek. Everybody got a big laugh when he finally gave into curiosity and asked where the creek was. There wasn't one. One of the older kids said it was meant to be ironic since there wasn't a creek, and it wasn't much of a ranch. He also said that the boys were cheap labor. They kept Mrs. Rewcastle's horses and tack looking good while the state paid the Rewcastles for the privilege. Scott didn't know if that was the truth, but it sounded good. His one bad experience was with the ranch foreman. The foreman's name was Bodie. He drove a ratty pickup truck, and chewed tobacco. Nobody seemed to use his last name if he had one. Their run in occurred when he was taking kitchen scraps from lunch out to the compost pile. The youngest kids always had kitchen duty. You had to unpin a tarp that covered the compost, dump your plastic bin full of scraps out, and pin the tarp back down. As he was stomping on the pin to drive it back into the ground Bodie walked up to him and hocked a big wad of chewing tobacco and juice right onto Scott's tennis shoe. "You'll have to try harder boy." Scott learned to enjoy kitchen duty. Mrs. Delgado would tell him amusing stories about the people she knew while he and the other scouts washed vegetables or did whatever she needed help with. He loved to help make fresh tortillas. Roger asked him one night how come he knew Spanish. "What do you mean?" he asked. "You and Mrs. Delgado are always chattering away," replied a confused Roger. Scott didn't know that he had been speaking Spanish with Mrs. Delgado, and had no idea how he knew the language. The Christmas holiday was quiet. The best part of it was being left alone by the Rewcastles who spent most of the holiday in the house and away from the boys. The boys had an early Christmas Eve dinner with Mrs. Delgado, and all of them got to sit at the main table with her. The ranch got a little lonelier when she left to go to Christmas Eve mass. Back in the bunkhouse Scott closed his eyes and thought about the first, and only, Christmas he could remember. The Eastmans probably had a house full of happy foster kids. Maybe they had exchanged gifts with Doctor Patel, Tom and Susan, and Sergeant John. He wondered how many Christmases he would spend at Broken Creek? What was school going to be like in Fort Stockton? He finally fell asleep. New Years Day, 1998, San Bernardino County, California Craig Carson was speeding down a freeway in a grey van. A highway patrol officer attempted to pull the van over near Temecula, California. Shots were fired at the officer. After a twenty-five mile chase, Carson lost control of his van and wrecked it. He attempted to escape on foot. Refusing to drop his weapon, he was shot six times by patrol officers. Carson survived anyway. After months of negotiations he agreed to plead guilty to the Van Pelt murders, the murders of two county employees, the attempted murder of Scott Van Pelt, numerous narcotics charges, and a slew of lesser chargers, all in exchange for the state dropping the death penalty. It wasn't much of a threat in California, but Carson was a coward without the artificial bravery that his cocaine habit had provided him. The unsolved murder of the state judge was not included in the charges as Craig Carson insisted that he had no involvement and investigators were never able to tie him to it. In exchange for his guilty plea Carson was given four consecutive life sentences. With Craig Carson in jail, the threat against Scott MacIntyre (nee Van Pelt) was over. However, the unusual nature of Scott's placement at Broken Creek meant that nobody in California knew where he was, and nobody in Texas knew that Scott Van Pelt existed. All of the records about his original identity had been sealed. Any records related to his transfer by the marshal had been destroyed. Scott MacIntyre had been effectively dropped into a bureaucratic black hole—as was intended. Two years and four months after Craig Carson went to the state penitentiary he was found dead. He had been hanged from a fixture in the men's shower with a piece of bed sheeting wrapped tightly around his neck that then ran down his back where it was tied short to his ankles. A sock had been stuffed into his mouth. Carson had strangled himself attempting to relieve the pressure around his neck by standing up. Done properly there was no way to survive this particular ligature. The only difference the victim's struggles made was in how long it took to die. They always struggled. Prison officials wrote it up as cartel payback. Carson's body was quietly claimed by his family. ------- Chapter 3 Eight years later, Fort Stockton Middle School At the back of the classroom Scott held a book open on his desk. The student seated at the head of his row was reading aloud. This was supposed to be Advanced English with Mr. Hunt. The substitute teacher filling in for him apparently thought that reading aloud was a skill of great importance. Having English right after lunch was bad enough, but this was bordering on cruel and inhuman. The revolt started when the student right in front of Scott began reading. There were coughs and other noises as Eddie Mendoza read aloud in a thick, nearly incomprehensible 'Mexican' accent. The substitute teacher sat up in his seat and rapped his knuckles on the desk. There would be no harassment or racial discrimination in any classroom of his! Somebody snickered, but Eddie kept reading. It was an impressive performance especially for a student who normally spoke with just a hint of West Texas twang. The Mendozas, as Eddie was fond of pointing out, were in Texas a hundred years before most of the gringos of Pecos County had even been born. Then it was Scott's turn. He went for an absolute dead, almost robotic monotone: "During this time that Jurgis was looking for work occurred the death of little Kristoforas, one of the children of Teta Elzbieta. Both Kristoforas and his brother, Juozapas, were cripples..." It was an exaggerated version of the voice that he might have used in the past. At the start of the year his English teacher had a little heart-to-heart with him. Mr. Hunt explained that twenty percent of his final grade depended on class participation. It didn't matter if he read every assigned book months in advance, or aced his tests and wrote perfect reports. The best he could hope for was a 'B' if he didn't start participating in class discussions. Scott's grades were extremely important to his future plans, so he had worked very hard since the start of the school year to overcome his shyness in class. The reading rotation shifted to the head of the next row. Bo Mason was the best all around jock in middle school, and was destined to be a star high school athlete. He was also very smart. When he started reading the next passage with an effeminate lisp the class devolved into open laughter. As they walked to the school office with their note from the substitute, Bo and Eddie switched accents. "Eeeet was worth it," said Bo. "Oh you shhily boy," replied Eddie. They 'low fived' saluting their comedic brilliance as Scott just shook his head in resignation. Principal Acuff stared over her glasses at the trio of seated troublemakers. "It's not often that I see three of 8th grade's finest in my office all at once." Returning her attention to the note from the substitute teacher she read aloud with a raised eyebrow, "Made a mockery of the reading assignment? Care to explain?" Scott glanced at Eddie who turned and looked at Bo. Bo took up the challenge, "Ma'am, the class has been discussing Upton Sinclair's writing and turn of the century America. The substitute had us reading aloud like a bunch of—" "Okay Mr. Mason, I get the picture," Principal Acuff interrupted. She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Why don't the three of you go contemplate appropriate classroom behavior in the library until the bell?" "Is that all ... hey!" complained Eddie as Bo and Scott each kicked the leg closest to them. As they walked to the library Bo was telling Eddie, "You should be more like the monk over there. His mouth never gets him trouble. She was cutting us a break." He switched the subject, and the two boys started talking about Pony League baseball. The high school team coach was known to scout the Pony League players and they had high hopes for next year. Scott tuned the baseball talk out as they found an empty table and sat down to wait out their five or six minute punishment. He was thinking about how remarkable it was to have friends like Eddie and Bo, and his early days in Pecos County. Growing up at Broken Creek It took a few months, but after settling into life at the boys ranch Scott began to realize that he was different than other people. One morning he'd gotten up early to do his chores. He was using the step stool in the kitchen to take down plates for the morning meal. Mrs. Delgado walked into the kitchen and turned on the lights. "Mijo! What are you doing in the dark baby?" Startled, he finally managed to get out that he hadn't wanted to disturb anyone. He hadn't realized it was dark, he could see perfectly fine. Mrs. Delgado told him that it was better to disturb somebody if meant that he wouldn't hurt himself in the dark. A thought resonated through him—be careful. He needed to discover just how different he really was. Broken Creek Boys Ranch was the perfect laboratory. His fellow ranchers were some of the most naturally suspicious people that he'd ever met so he became a keen observer of human behavior. When some of the older boys were having trouble moving the tables out behind the barn, he snuck back later to lift an end for himself. He measured himself against his peers at every chance. Put a dozen boys together ranging from six to sixteen and you get lots of horseplay and games. Who was the fastest around a pasture? Could you make a rock skip more times in the retaining pond? Were you brave enough to jump from the hay loft? How long could you balance on a fence post? These tests went on and on. Scott was careful to never win. No matter how cautious he thought he was he could still be surprised. One example came in the spring. The boys were cleaning out the equipment shed. This required that they move all of the equipment outside. The plan was to sweep out the shed, and then begin servicing all the equipment and tools according to the ranch foreman's directions. Scott had been sent to grab a pile of shop rags. When he returned with the rags one of the oldest boys jumped, "Damn, don't sneak up on people like that!" Scott shrugged his shoulders in confusion. "You're so quiet, you move like an Indian or a ninja or something," the older boy complained. "Yeah," said another, "he's a little midget ninja assassin come to kill us all." That got group the group laughing and they returned to their chores. Scott ran the incident over in his mind. He did move quietly. The other boys were so loud in everything they did. He could always tell where other people were by the noises they made. Private moments and conversations were something he could listen in on if he didn't choose to tune them out. Subconsciously he had been training himself to be quieter than others. It was an economy of motion that allowed his breathing and footsteps to be so silent. He had done exactly the opposite of what he trying so hard to do. He had nearly exposed himself as being dangerously different. From then on he was careful to always make a little extra noise when around other people. To avoid getting the wrong kind of attention Scott became very good at hiding in plain sight. Lawrence and Roberta Rewcastle ran the Boys Ranch efficiently, but not warmly. They weren't overtly cruel. Yes, they used corporal punishment to enforce their rules, but never to the point of causing lasting physical harm to their charges. They made sure that the boys got to school on time, well Mr. Delgado did because they paid him. The boys got regular medical checkups. They saw state counselors or psychologists when they were told to. The Rewcastles were very diligent about checking off all the boxes required by the State. What Scott finally decided was that they weren't really interested in children. So staying out of sight and off of the Rewcastles' radar meant that they left you alone. Things only got bad if you caused trouble. There were always a couple of trouble makers passing through the ranch so lessons were readily available on the consequences of bad behavior. Scott took it to heart. He did his chores quietly and as quickly as possible. Talking back was out the question, and the temptation was easily avoided if you only spoke when it was absolutely required. Never outgoing after what happened to him in California, the transient nature of boys coming and going through the ranch only reinforced his solitude. Making friends that would move on while leaving you behind was a tough early lesson. Eventually, he stopped making friends at the ranch. He could fake being friendly when it was required. In first grade his teacher suspected that he was developmentally disabled. It was in this class that an assistant teacher observed that he was, "As quiet as a monk." The monk nickname would stick. The school district scheduled an appointment with a state specialist who made regular visits to the county. When the test results came back the elementary school principal and his teacher were shocked to learn that he had scored in the high gifted range. He found refuge in books, and an old record collection. There was no television at Broken Creek or even radio. The county bookmobile stopped by every other week. It was a lifeline. Scott would haul the ranchers' books back and forth from the bunkhouses to meet the bookmobile out at the road. It wasn't for altruistic reasons. You were limited in the number of books that you could request. Bookmobile volunteers would remark for years about how well read the boys out at Broken Creek were thanks to some very creative request forms. The ranch had a large collection of vinyl albums. The Rewcastles didn't listen to music so the collection was a bit of a mystery. The records were almost entirely country albums from the 1950s to the late '70s. There were a few classical albums, and a bit of opera. It was an eclectic mix. As long as you weren't on restriction you could borrow the old turntable. After a year or so it gained a permanent spot by Scott's bed. He was the only one who knew how to operate it, or had any interest in doing so. The albums were stored in four crates stashed in a corner of the boys' dining room. He'd listened to them all, some many times over, through a pair of vintage stereo headphones. They had hard clamshell ear cans and weighed a ton on his elementary school sized head. He learned to love the voices of Charley Pride and Ronnie Milsap. He got countrified with Conway Twitty, Merle Haggard, and George Jones. There was Tom T. Hall, Lefty Frizzell, and the Bakersfield sound from Mr. Buck Owens himself. Desperado by The Eagles had somehow found its way into the collection. It was subversive. He loved them all. Through the bookmobile he got ahold of a book of music charts for the 1960s and 70s and read it from cover to cover. The music soothed him for reasons that he couldn't explain. Life at Broken Creek became a predictable pattern. About once a month, Mrs. Delgado would pick him up early on a Saturday morning and drive him into town. She would go shopping after dropping him off to get a haircut. Early Saturday mornings at the barbershop were the domain of the retired gentleman of the county. They gathered to swap stories and catch each other up on the town gossip, although they called it 'just visiting.' The introduction of a little boy from Broken Creek amused them. He loved their magazines and refreshingly honest opinions. Old men, he learned, had earned the right to say what they wanted. He envied them. Mrs. Delgado was an important figure in his life. On one Saturday trip she told him "Mijo, no matter how smart you are if people hear you talking with that twangy voice they'll think that you're not as smart as them. Some day you will go off to someplace big like New York. I don't want those people to ever look down on you. That's why all my boys learned to speak good English." "But I love your accent, Abuela." "I know, but it's better to talk like a smart gringo." She reached over and squeezed his shoulder, "Comprende?" "Yes, ma'am." He worked on the accent that he had unknowingly acquired from the kids around him. During the school year Jorge Delgado would drive the boys in a passenger van to and from Meritt's Diner each weekday so that they could catch the bus into town. Mr. Delgado was a cheerful man. He insisted the boys call him Jorge out of range of the Rewcastles. Scott had no problem calling Mr. Delgado, Jorge, but could never bring himself to think of Mrs. Delgado as Luisa. She would always be Mrs. Delgado to him. Jorge also took him to his quarterly visits with Judge Upcott. The first meeting with the judge was tense for about five minutes. Then the judge loaded Scott up in his car and they went to lunch. That set a pattern that they would follow for years. The judge taught him a lot of great lessons, and talked to him like an adult. "Always find out where the boys in uniform eat." He explained that if there were law enforcement vehicles parked regularly outside of a restaurant then you could be sure that the food was good and affordable. When the judge learned that the boys at the ranch didn't have any bicycles the ranch got a donation of used bicycles from the Rotary Club. The judge gave Scott his own bike lock and chain and told him to pick a bicycle for himself. At first he was too little to ride very far, but as he got older he would be allowed to ride the seven miles to Meritt's. The combination diner, store, and post office was the only bit of civilization close by. There were two houses located between the ranch and Meritt's. The house closest to the ranch was a rental that was usually empty. The next house was owned by a retired couple that waved if they were outside when he rode past. It was a well kept house and there was always a crisp American flag flying from the porch. Depending on how fast he rode he could make it to Meritt's in thirty-five to forty-five minutes. The houses helped him time himself. Ten minutes to the rental. Another eighteen minutes to the house with the flag. The road was sparsely travelled. What traffic it did have was usually speeding, which meant that Scott would slow down and get as far over on the shoulder as he could. He hated the occasional cattle truck that came by. It meant he'd be riding in a rich miasma of smells for the next ten minutes. The summer before 5th grade, Scott was a Broken Creek Boys Ranch veteran of five years. His stay was longer than any previous ranch resident. The explanation given was that he was a true orphan with no surviving relatives even several times removed. Only the judge and the sheriff knew he'd been placed there under unusual circumstances. Scott was in the kitchen helping Mrs. Delgado make tortillas after lunch. He would quickly pinch off a ball of dough and pat out a tortilla between his hands and then place it on a damp tea towel. Mrs. Delgado would cook the tortillas on a big flat griddle on the stove. It never ceased to amaze him how she could just grab the hot tortillas with her fingers and flip them over. He had tried to help cook the tortillas once. Mrs. Delgado slapped his hand, gently, and told him in no uncertain terms that cooking was her duty. Besides she didn't want her little mijo burning his precious fingers. "Would you like to help me this afternoon?" she asked. "Of course, Abuela." "Friends of mine have moved here and purchased the rental house. You know it?" He nodded. "We're going to help clean the house. They have three boys and two little girls. One of the boys is your age," she said looking carefully at him. What could he do? She had trapped him nicely. Mrs. Delgado drove an old station wagon. It may have been twenty years old, but the paint gleamed and the chrome looked brand new. Jorge kept it lovingly maintained, and Scott had often helped wash it. When Mrs. Delgado pulled into the gravel driveway there were already cars and trucks parked in front of them. It looked like a small army had descended on the house. Scott followed closely as Mrs. Delgado made her way inside. A small woman broke away from a group of others. "Luisa! You came," she cried rushing to hug Mrs. Delgado. "Of course I came. Constance, this is Scotty," she was patting him on the shoulder. "I thought Eddie might use a little help?" "Oh, that's a terrific idea," Constance said. "Eddie, get down here!" Scott suppressed a sigh. They were so transparent, but he loved Mrs. Delgado and could hold nothing against her. He was being introduced, "Scotty, this is my good friend Constance Mendoza. Her husband Hector is around here someplace. You'll meet all the children; Robert, Tommy, Eddie, Lilly, and Janie." A boy came running down the stairs. "Yes, Momma?" he asked. "This is Mrs. Delgado's friend, Scott. Why don't you two go up and start cleaning your room?" she asked. The boys stood looking at each other, aware that they had suddenly become the center of attention. Mrs. Delgado and Mrs. Mendoza had moved back over to the group of ladies. Mrs. Mendoza was whispering to them, "Watch what you say. He speaks perfect Spanish." A lady asked, "Who are his people?" "Nobody knows." Scott turned his attention back to the boy. "You wanna come see my room?" Eddie asked. "Sure." They turned and trooped upstairs. The bedroom was about twice the size of the room that he hoped to get when he moved into the junior bunkhouse. Eddie started right in, "Momma says you don't talk much." "Uh?" "Well you can talk to me," Eddie said. "What's it like going to school in town?" "School's okay," he replied. "I mean what's it like going to school with all those other kids? We only had thirty-one kids in our entire school." "Wow. I think there are eighty or ninety kids just in 5th grade here," answered Scott. "See, you can talk," joked Eddie. "Your room looks pretty clean to me." "You're right. Let's go find my dad and see what he's doing." They ran down stairs and out into the back yard where the men had gathered. That summer, Scott spent as much time at the Mendoza's as he did at the ranch. The Rewcastles didn't seem to care as long as his chores were done. The boys spent hours exploring the land around the Mendoza house. At Meritt's, what some were now calling "Meritt's Corner" after it had grown, Mr. Mendoza had opened a machine shop and engine repair center in a pair of buildings that he was leasing. The boys spent a lot of time in the field behind the machine shop that had been turned into a storage lot for old farm equipment. In one corner they found a strange machine. When they showed it to Mr. Mendoza he got pretty excited. It was a steam engine. He spent thirty minutes lecturing them on the virtues of steam power and how it worked. When school started the two were inseparable, but polar opposites. Eddie was a chatterbox and a social butterfly, while Scott was quiet and withdrawn. By sixth grade Eddie and the entire Mendoza family were well entrenched in Fort Stockton academics and athletics. The older brothers were stand out athletes in both baseball and football. Eddie was expected to be another star prospect by the time he got to high school. Eddie had a big group of friends, but always included Scott. When somebody complained about being seen with 'the monk, ' Eddie set them straight. Bo was a friend of Eddie's, so he was a friend of Scott's by extension. It never bothered Scott that other kids thought he was strange because he didn't like to talk. If he hadn't finished his homework during lunch or study hall, he would finish it on the bus ride to Meritt's Corner. Sometimes they worked on their homework together. Eddie was a good student, and the two friends had several advanced classes together. Sixth grade marked the first and last time that Scott ever got in trouble out at Broken Creek Boys Ranch. For their Physical Sciences class the boys were doing a project on sustainability. This was after a week of talking about global warming in all of their classes. By sixth grade most kids were bored stiff with the constant 'green this' and 'green that' they had fed to them. Earth Day was a quasi religious holiday according to the school system. Eddie said that it reminded him of the confirmation classes he had to take at church. It wasn't a terribly original idea, but they decided to evaluate Broken Creek Boys Ranch to see how it might be made greener. They would refer to it as a generic ranch and leave off any mention of Broken Creek. On the bus ride out to Meritt's Corner the two boys tossed ideas around. They had their plan all worked out by the time they got to Meritt's Corner. Scott was surprised to see that Mrs. Rewcastle had driven the van to pick up the ranch boys. He decided it was a good time to ask permission for Eddie to come over. Usually, Scott spent most of his free time at Eddie's as the ranch boys could only have visitors with prior permission. When he asked Mrs. Rewcastle she practically spat her answer at him. "I don't want that wetback anywhere near my horses." Scott was so shocked he blurted out what he was thinking, "You can't call my friend that." Roberta Rewcastle was furious. Nobody talked to her that way, and no foster boy dared question her. She grabbed his arm and walked him to the van. "We'll see what Mr. Rewcastle has to say about this young man!" she sneered. The other boys boarded the van and it was a silent ride to the ranch. He got a lot of curious looks. As a sixth grader he got one of the rooms in the junior bunkhouse. So far he had the room to himself, and it looked like it might stay that way. The boys knew he was in trouble, but it was so out of character that they didn't know how to react. At the ranch Mrs. Rewcastle told him to wait in the kitchen. Mr. Rewcastle came in after about five minutes. He squinted his eyes and told Scott in his official voice, "You will report here after supper for corporal punishment." Scott thought about it for about half a second. "No, sir, I will not," he replied, amazed at how steady his voice sounded. Mr. Rewcastle stared at him in disbelief. "You will report here for your punishment!" Scott looked at him, "I won't, and if you try to hit me ... I'll tell Judge Upcott." "Be here after supper or else!" sputtered Mr. Rewcastle. The evening meal was even quieter than usual. Afterwards Scott walked back to the bunkhouse. The other kids wanted to know what his punishment was for talking back to Mrs. Rewcastle. He shook his head and said, "Nothing." That night he slept soundly. The next morning Mr. Rewcastle pretended that nothing had happened, and Mrs. Rewcastle refused to even look at him. After that, Scott rarely had any interaction with the Rewcastles. During the school year he did whatever chores were listed for him before school, and during the summer his chores were finished long before the rest of the ranch was up. Notes were left for him if he had a medical appointment, or something else related to the foster care system. Other than chores and the occasional meal he was little more than an absentee boarder. Scott and Eddie ended up doing their science project on the old steam engine behind the machine shop at Meritt's Corner. Later that year Eddie confided to Scott that his parents had tried to arrange for him to come live with them, but they were told that it wasn't possible. Present Day, School Library Eddie stopped talking baseball for a moment and asked, "Why are you smiling?" Scott looked up, "I was thinking about our 6th grade science project." Eddie and Bo gave him strange looks and headed to their next class as the bell rang. "See you at the bus," Eddie called as they went their separate ways. Scott practically slept through Computer Applications. He liked the class, but it was also a bit of personal torture. He fought against temptation every time. There were names that he wanted to search the Internet for and things that he wanted to know. He always stopped himself mindful of the marshal's admonition to keep a low profile and not draw attention to himself. The school monitored Internet activity as their teacher was fond of pointing out. There was another thought running around in Scott's head but he couldn't focus on it. He headed to the gym for his final period, physical education. There wasn't much education in PE, but he enjoyed it. Coach Phillips was a pretty easy going guy. This semester he was letting them 'self study' every other week. That meant they got to choose their activity. Scott was opting to run and then do a light workout in the weight room on alternating days. Running had been a total surprise to Scott. It was an activity that he grew to really enjoy. He could do laps on the track, or run around the perimeter of the school, and totally lose himself in his thoughts. Coach Phillips had gotten him to give cross country running a try. He didn't compete, but he worked out with the cross country team. As he ran laps around the cinder track the niggling thought that had been working its way through his brain became clear. The Rewcastles' response to his stand against corporal punishment back in 6th grade made no sense. Adults didn't behave that way. The perspective that he had now looking back two years into the past startled him. Why had he gotten away with it? The thought preoccupied him as he showered, and continued as he rode the bus next to Eddie. Finally, Eddie asked him, "No homework?" "Finished already." "Can you help me with this math homework then?" he asked. Scott was happy to help. Math was Ed's only weak point as a student. They spent the rest of the bus ride working on it. Eddie was always amazed at how Scott could make any problem seem so much clearer. His approach to difficult subjects was completely different than anyone else's. "Eddie, you look at math all wrong," Scott told him. "You think you hate math so you make everything about it harder than it has to be. You should love math. If you do math right, you always get the right answer." "You're crazy." "Eddie, trust me. Math will never cheat you, or lie to you. But you can cheat doing math. Every time you have a bad thought about math I want you to say, 'I love math' and I promise you'll stop having so much trouble with it." Eddie stared at his friend, "You have lost your mind." "Let's make it a bet. You say 'I love math' every time you think about math and I swear that you'll see the difference," Scott stuck out his hand, "Swear." Eddie put out his hand, "I still say you're crazy." "I never said I wasn't crazy." Their bus pulled into the lot at Meritt's. Scott got off and waved to Jorge Delgado waiting by the van. He walked over and said hello. "Scotty we don't see much of you anymore," Jorge complained. "A man's gotta work, Jorge," Scott said, repeating one of Jorge's favorite lines back to him. Jorge chuckled, and Scott walked with Eddie toward the engine repair center. Scott had turned fourteen that January which made him legal to work part time. Eddie's dad gave him a job sweeping up around the fabrication shop and engine repair center until Judge Upcott had given him a waiver that allowed him to work in more areas. Child labor laws were very specific in Texas. He wouldn't be able to work on engines or in the machine shop until he turned sixteen unless he had an apprenticeship. But he could wash parts in the repair center and do cleanup in both shops. That's what he did for two hours after school, and five hours on Saturdays. The Mendozas, like most of Pecos County, shut down for Sundays. The judge had helped him open a savings account in town. His bank account had almost three hundred dollars in it before he started working for the engine shop. The judge had given him twenty dollars every Christmas. He had saved almost all of that money and had earned extra doing odd jobs around Meritt's Corner and for Mr. Mendoza. It wasn't a lot to show for eight years. Now that he had an honest job he could start adding real money toward his goals. The first part of his plan was to buy a small motorcycle when he turned fifteen. You had to be at least fifteen to get a motorcycle license in Texas. He figured that he could afford gas and insurance for a small motorcycle, but never for a car. Once he got a little mobility he could begin to put the rest of his plans into action. His job at the repair center was paying him just about eighty dollars a week. That was after FICA tax withholdings. Looking at his first paycheck he was shocked to see that money was being taken out by the government. Mr. Mendoza had laughed at his reaction and welcomed him to the 'real world.' Scott was almost finished sweeping when he saw Rico Lopez slipping outside the back of the machine shop to grab a smoke. Rico was in his mid-thirties and had first come to work for the Mendozas on a work release program from the county jail. Rumor had it that he worked for a lock smith, but decided to start ripping off the clients instead. After he completed the program Mr. Mendoza had hired him on full time. He had turned out to be a solid worker. Scott looked around before walking over to Rico. "Hey, gringo," said Rico. The guys around the shop sometimes called him 'gringo' but they always did it with a smile. Scott asked in Spanish, "Rico, can I ask a favor?" "Depends," replied Rico. "I need some help with a lock that I don't have a key for—" "What are you asking me?" said Rico with a bit of anger in his voice, his face turning slightly red. "I want you to teach me how to open a lock, please," Scott said. Rico started to walk in a circle, motioning agitatedly with his hands. "Vato, are you insane? Mr. Mendoza would kill me if I got you into something like that. Hell, Mrs. Mendoza and Mrs. Delgado would string me up and break out the knives. You are a good boy. Even the mean old foreman talks like you and Eddie have sunshine coming out of your asses." "Rico, it's not like that. I won't get into trouble. I'll never mention your name to anyone. Besides, I can help you." "You're crazy!" he heard for the second time that day. "What do you mean you can help me?" Rico asked. "Well, I know you want to take the GED (General Educational Development) and get your high school equivalency certification right? I can help you study for it. Just ask Eddie, I'm the best tutor around." "You would help me study?" he asked slowly, thinking it over. "You won't break into anything at school, or steal from somebody?" "Rico, I'll help you study and pass the GED in exchange for what you teach me. I'll never ever mention your name to a living soul, and I swear that I won't break into anything at school or steal from anyone. You have my word." "Alright little gringo, we will see what your word is worth." ------- Scott was rushing to finish the next day's algebra assignment while absentmindedly taking bites from his salad. Eddie set his tray down and dragged a chair over. "Man, how can you eat that rabbit food?" Eddie asked. "What? I like salad. You should eat more of it. You don't want the future Mrs. Mendoza to start calling you 'Gordito'," Scott grinned at the look on Eddie's face. "Future Mrs. Mendoza! What have you heard?" "Nothing, nothing I swear," laughed Scott. Scott returned to his algebra as Eddie dug into lunch. He knew Eddie wouldn't be quiet for long. "Does this lasagna taste funny?" Eddie asked. Scott replied without even looking up, "I make it a practice not to eat the lasagna served by the fine kitchen staff of the Fort Stockton Middle School." Eddie pushed the lasagna away and took the packet of crackers from Scott's salad plate. "Did you know that we only have seventy days left until summer vacation starts? Only fifty days of class? I don't know if I'll make it. We'll be freshman! Hey, what's this I hear about you tutoring Rico Lopez? I can't believe you'd ever even talk to that guy." Scott looked up from his homework, "Rico's okay. He just wants to pass his GED. So I agreed to help tutor him after work. Everybody deserves a second chance and all that stuff, you know?" "He's a criminal." "Don't let your dad hear you talking like that. Besides, I live with a few amateur criminals, remember?" Eddie snorted. It was a cautious meeting that first afternoon. Rico was wary. He had dropped out of high school and hated to be thought of as stupid. For his part, Scott wasn't sure how Rico would react to taking instruction from someone half his age. Scott quickly discovered that he enjoyed tutoring Rico. It was more rewarding than occasionally helping Eddie with his homework. Rico surprised himself and became an eager student. It was different when you wanted to learn. They concentrated on the areas that Rico knew he had trouble with and made excellent progress. Scott realized that Rico's main problem was that he was a terrible test taker. That was something that they could fix with just a little work. Scott managed to get a packet of sample tests from the guidance counselor who rotated between the high school and middle school, but only after he assured her that the GED material was for a friend. Then he started teaching Rico how to take tests. Frustratingly, Rico refused to discuss 'locksmithing' until he felt that he was ready for the GED. Scott spent a lot of time doing research. Through the library he requested several different books on criminal investigation and forensics. Then he read a lot of mystery genre fiction, specifically detective stories. He had known a couple of detectives. Their lives didn't seem nearly as glamorous, but he liked the idea of solving puzzles. What would it be like to live in the Florida Keys, the Twin Cities, Manhattan, or even Hollywood where these super detectives practiced their trade? The tutoring sessions were for an hour every day after the fabrication shop closed which meant that Scott missed his ride with the Mendozas. Fortunately he had a mountain bike. It was the third different bike that Scott had 'owned' at Broken Creek thanks to the Rotary club's continued support of the ranch. Riding, like running, allowed him to do a lot of thinking. Travel time between Meritt's Corner and the ranch was now down in the twenty-five minute range thanks to his new bike and its multiple gears. He still timed himself against the houses. He noticed that the house with the flag was looking a little run down. Sometimes he stopped at the Mendoza's to goof around with Eddie, and other times he headed straight to the ranch. After three weeks, their Friday tutoring session ended on a high note. Rico had done very well on the practice tests and Scott was sure that Rico could soon pass the GED. He was zipping up his backpack and preparing to leave when Rico told him to wait a moment. Rico dug into his bag and pulled out a thin paperback book. The cover was worn and it had been thumbed over many times. "You've really helped me a lot gringo and now I have something for you. Read this carefully and study the types of locks and their parts, and what the tools are for. On Monday, I will give you a test for a change," said Rico. "Thanks," Scott said has he unzipped his backpack and found a place for the book. That night, alone in his room in the bunkhouse, he read through the book with his usual speed. Once committed to memory, he wouldn't forget anything that he had read. He could lay back and review it in his mind. It was a good study technique that he had developed. He closed his eyes and tried to picture a lock in three dimensions and how the pins worked. The next Monday they began splitting the study hour. For the first half they reviewed for the GED, and the second half belonged to the subject of lock picking. Rico was an interesting teacher. He tended to jump around from subject to subject. The first day, as promised, Rico quizzed him on terminology and the functions of various locking mechanisms, and what the tools were used for. The rest of the week was spent introducing him to the tools using examples that Rico had hand made in the metal shop. Lock picks were surprisingly simple. Rico let him practice on old locks that he had prepared by removing some of the pins to help reduce their complexity. At first, Scott felt clumsy. It was a feeling that he hadn't experienced in a long time. You picked a lock by understanding the hidden mechanism. It was critical to know what you were feeling with your tool, and what it took to manipulate it. Scott's senses gave him an edge, but he had to combine theory with practical experience. The following Friday, Rico told Scott that he didn't think he could teach him much more about lock picking. Rico had only been an apprentice locksmith. A real locksmith he explained never stopped learning, but Scott now had a firm grasp on the basic concepts. Rico sat back in his chair, "Do you think I'm ready for the GED?" "I do," replied Scott. "Tell me this, my young friend. Why don't you get your GED and get out of that damned place? I know you can pass this test without breaking a sweat," he said. Scott thought about how he wanted to answer the question. "I'm only fourteen. You're right, I could pass the test and I haven't even started high school. My options are too limited right now. It's better that I wait." Rico looked closely at him and nodded. Then he reached into his bag and took out a small package. He handed it to Scott and told him to open it when he was alone. "I will answer one question specific to your ... problem. Don't tell me any details of when and where, or why. Tell me this though, what kind of lock do you want to open?" Scott leaned forward and lowered his voice, "A wafer lock on a filing cabinet." Rico barked, "Shit! Take a screwdriver and force it open, or get a hammer and knock the damned thing out with a punch." Scott was shaking his head and trying to shush him with his hands, "Rico, I don't want to leave any traces that I was there." "Oh my friend, that is a different question all together." Rico relaxed and ordered his thoughts. "A good locksmith can pick a lock and no one will be the wiser. When you do this you must be absolutely steady. The tools will scratch the face of the lock cylinder leaving tell-tale marks unless you are very careful. Of course if you are caught or if something goes missing from behind a lock..." his voice trailed off. "Ask your question." Scott asked a different question than the one he had been planning, "What can I do about leaving marks on the lock?" "Practice," Rico said quickly. He thought more about it and then added, "You might try a piece of Emery cloth. If you very lightly polished the cylinder face it might work, but it's best not to leave any marks in the first place." Rico stood stiffly. "I thank you for teaching me how to take a test, and for tutoring me. I will pass the GED. Now don't go and get your ass in a sling, gringo," and with that he walked away. "Thank you, Rico," Scott said softly. It had been a productive five weeks. The bike ride to the ranch didn't help clear his thoughts. In his room, he placed a chair against the door handle and sat down to open Rico's package. It was a set of tools in a billfold like leather case. There was a note inside that said simply 'I don't need these anymore – R.' The metal of the tools had a bluish cast to it, and the tools themselves were elegantly made with smoothed edges and tightly wrapped handles. Scott listened for any signs of life in the bunkhouse. Then he opened the door to his tiny closet and sat down. When he'd first moved into the junior bunkhouse he spent a lot of time carefully examining his new room. The carpentry work that he helped do around the ranch had come in very handy when he needed to borrow some tools to make minor repairs in the bunkhouse. He reached into the closet and slid the two, short, side pieces of painted wood baseboard up and out. You couldn't remove the longer back baseboard piece without first removing these two side pieces. Behind the back piece was a small hidden cutout. This was his private cache. It contained the paperback book on basic locksmithing, sixty-five dollars in emergency cash wrapped tightly in a rubber band, and a brochure on motorcycle safety. It wasn't much. He added the set of lock picks to the cache and carefully set the boards back in place. Looking to make sure that everything was correct, he decided it might be time to borrow a can of touchup paint and fill in some of the scratches left from moving the baseboard. It took a few days to gather the rest of his materials. The timing had been perfect; either he went now, or he would have to wait a month for the next new moon. It was 1:55 a.m. Tuesday morning when he quietly rolled out of bed and crouched to the floor with his hands spread out on the floorboards. Closing his eyes to the darkness of his room he began to relax. He had spent years building the illusion of being a normal kid using a kind of tension to contain the things that made him different. He allowed it all to fade. A deep breath, and then another. He cleared his mind of thoughts and felt ... reborn. He let his senses expand and reach out. There were four sleeping boys in the other two bedrooms of the bunkhouse. Listening to their breathing and the steady thrum of resting heartbeats he built a map in his mind of where they were. There was a drip in the bathroom sink that echoed off the porcelain. Through his fingertips he could feel that there was no movement anywhere in the bunkhouse. Opening his eyes he took in the darkened room as it began to brighten. The grey ghostly image brightened to reveal softly muted colors. The details of his room were laid out clearly before him. He concentrated and began to see hints of thermal variation in the color shifts around the doorway. Satisfied that no one was awake he reached for a pair of comfortable, plain moccasins that had no beadwork or fringe. He'd purchased them at a fair in Fort Stockton to wear around the bunkhouse. They were just what he needed for the night's work. He put them on over his bare feet and stood up. He was already dressed in a tight navy blue, long sleeve pullover with a matching pair of sweatpants. He was outgrowing them, but their tightness was perfect for this mission. Using a sharpie he had colored in the off brand logos that would have stood out otherwise. Next he pushed his left sleeve up and pulled an old sports bandage on over his forearm. Then he took the lock pick pouch and secured it under the tight stretch bandage. He pulled the sleeve down. The outfit would help him blend into the darkness, but was easily explained as workout gear if he was caught out in the open. He put on the last item from his kit. They were a pair of thin, powder free, vinyl gloves that he had liberated from the serving line during lunch the day before. These he would not be able to explain away. Scott made his way outside carefully opening and closing the bunkhouse door. He had oiled the hinges of that door, and a few others, as part of some bonus chores that he had assigned himself. Standing back from the edge of the bunkhouse so as not to break the line of the building, he could make out faint shadows in the dark of the moonless night. He wondered if anyone else had ever seen shadows cast by starlight? In front of him was the objective of this clandestine adventure, the Rewcastle house. He entered via the kitchen door. It too had been oiled the previous day. Slipping through the kitchen, his footsteps silent, he held nothing back for the first time in years. Mr. Rewcastle's office door was just down the hall. He was prepared to pick the lock if necessary. Scott pressed his left hand against the door giving it some pressure, and then slowly turned the handle with his right. The door was unlocked. He entered the office and shut the door behind him. Standing inside the office, he detected the relaxed breathing of the sleeping Rewcastles in the bedroom above him. There was no turning back now. He knelt and examined the file cabinet lock. Removing a tension bar and a simple hook pick he carefully set the leather case down and began to work on the lock. He felt and then pushed each pin up, and the lock turned with just a bit more pressure from the tension bar. It was that easy. The file drawer worried him. It had been some time since he'd been in the office, but he didn't remember the filing cabinet being very noisy. He carefully pulled the drawer out. It was full of files on ranch residents going back several years. He found his and began to read. The Rewcastles were getting extra grant money for him. It wasn't a lot, but it made him slightly more valuable than other Broken Creek residents. This wasn't enough to explain their odd behavior. He returned the file and closed the drawer. He took the Emery cloth from the case and gave the lock a very careful wipe. There were two other locked cabinets in the office. Two hours later he was back in his bed rolling the details of what he had committed to memory around in his head. The night's action had been worth it, but if he had been caught it would have destroyed his future plans. He was also embarrassed, his ego had been checked and his self imposed rules were now fully in place. His last act before leaving the office was to go through the unlocked desk drawers. There, in a little shelf at the front of the center desk drawer was a set of keys for the filing cabinets. He crossed 'master criminal' off of his list of potential careers. Later that morning on the county bus, Eddie flopped down beside his best friend. Scott felt physically fresh, but emotionally empty. "Only thirty-eight days left until summer vacation!" Eddie announced. "You're going to do this every day until break aren't you?" "That's only twenty-eight school days," he told him. "Make it stop." The day flew by. At the ranch later that afternoon, Scott stopped into the kitchen to talk with Mrs. Delgado. He told her about Eddie's daily count down toward summer vacation and the latest news from school. She asked him what he had planned for summer. "Work, and more work," he told her. "Don't forget that it's summer vacation," she said. "I'm sure Eddie and I will manage an adventure or two." Mrs. Delgado frowned. Dinner with the Rewcastles was uncomfortable and tense which meant that it was completely normal. There had been absolutely no reaction to his early morning intrusion. The only hiccup in his day was when he got back to his room and found a note. It was time for another evaluation by the state family services people. The next morning his homeroom teacher called him up to her desk. "You're excused from fourth and fifth period and are to report to the testing office," she told him. Scott had been in the foster system for a while now, he was used to the yearly evaluations. If the state had sent a counselor then he'd get the standard aptitude or achievement test and an easy interview. On the other hand, if they had sent a psychologist then he was in for a long two hours. The trick was to give them the answers that they expected, and to never surprise them. The testing office was an empty, windowless room located near the administration offices. Scott went in and picked one of the big desks to set his backpack on. He looked at his watch and decided to review his notes for the final English paper that he had to write for Mr. Hunt. A few minutes later the door banged open, through it came a young, beautiful woman with a soft leather satchel clutched to her chest. She looked at him and headed for his desk. Scott liked beautiful women, but this was a disaster. Young meant new, and new meant eager. There was nothing worse than an eager, would-be miracle worker. The crusaders were the worst. He preferred the cynical, burnt out types that he normally dealt with. This was going to be a very long morning. "May I?" she asked, indicating his papers. "Just my English notes," he said as he put the papers into his backpack and slung it under the desk. She considered him for a moment. Looking at her own notes she said, "You're Scott MacIntyre?" "Correct." "There's not much background in your file, do you know why that is?" "No." She tried a different tack, "What do you remember about your parents?" "They died." She was going for direct confrontation. He had to be careful. "Do I make you uncomfortable?" she asked playing with her collar. What was she up to? Maybe she's using her femininity as some sort of tool he decided. Get the hormonal boy flustered. "No," he answered. "Don't you want to make a good impression on me?" He considered his answer. "I'll never see you again." "Why not?" she asked. He just shrugged. He could tell her that she was either finishing an internship, or paying her dues until something better came along and would never be back this way, but he held his tongue. It was better to make them talk. "Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked. "No, I don't have a girlfriend." "Don't you like girls? Are you a homosexual? Would it bother you if I thought you were gay?" Scott sighed. "I like girls. No I'm not gay. No it doesn't bother me if you think I'm gay." "I see that you're an excellent student." He repressed a yawn. "No response?" she asked. "What are your plans for high school?" "I plan to graduate." "And after that?" she asked. "After that I'm out of the foster care system." "You've never remembered anything from before your accident?" She was trying to change subjects and keep him off balance. It was a long morning. Scott was exhausted by the time he sat down for lunch almost two hours later. Eddie took one look at him and asked, "Where've you been?" "Foster care shrink," he grumbled. Eddie was curious. "What do they ask you about?" "My feelings," he replied. They both groaned. "Eddie, how many days till summer vacation?" "Thirty-seven!" was Eddie's cheerful reply. ------- The first Saturday in May was Scott's second meeting with Judge Upcott that year. They were talking over chicken salad sandwiches at a new place that had opened near the courthouse. The judge asked him what his plans were for the summer. Scott told him that he hoped to work a lot of hours and build up his savings account. "Have you talked to Mr. Mendoza about your plans?" the judge asked. "Uhh, no?" "You should," said the judge. "Still saving toward that motorcycle?" "Yes, sir. My birthday's in January. Then I can get my learner's permit and apply for a hardship license." The judge smiled, "I know, but the motorcycle worries me. They aren't very safe." "They're much more economical to operate than a car, and I'll be a safe rider." Judge Upcott knew it was a lost cause, but he had to try. "Okay, tell me what classes you're going to take next year. I can't believe that you're going to be starting high school." Scott leaned forward, "Me either! I'm going to try and take Algebra II and Geometry. My math teacher said he'd give me a recommendation for the freshman guidance counselor. I'll have Advanced English, the high school version. Biology, something called Cultural Geography, and we have to take Health the first semester." "How can you take two math classes?" asked the judge pointing a pickle slice at him as if he was in the courtroom. "My math teacher says it isn't a problem. Oh, and I'm going to go out for cross country." "Do you think you can make the team?" the judge asked. "There are only six kids on the entire team. It's so small that the middle school practices with the high school team so the coach already knows me. All I have to do is tell him I want to run." The judged laughed. "I guess I don't know anything about cross country. It's not at all like Friday night football is it?" "Nope," Scott replied "No cheerleaders, no crowd, but I like running." "Cheerleaders? Is there something I should know?" "No! Nothing like that." The judge tried a hunch, "How many girls are on the cross country team?" "Four, but it's not like that, honest," Scott protested. Changing the subject back to something safer, "Besides, I can only compete in the local meets. Without transportation I can't get to school early enough in the mornings to leave for an away meet. Even if I did, when they returned I'd be stuck in Fort Stockton. So that's one reason why I'm saving for a motorcycle." "Alright, I tried my best," said the judge, acknowledging Scott's persistence on the subject of the hypothetical motorcycle. "However, when the time comes I want you to be safe. You'll complete the safety class and pass it, and I'll have a friend of mine check that you're a safe rider. Understood?" "Yes, sir!" "Now, on to important business," the judge said, "I've got our next meeting down for August, where are we going to eat? They put stuffed jalapenos back on the menu at the taqueria." "That's pretty tempting, but don't forget our quest to find the best chicken fried steak in Pecos County," Scott said. "Excellent suggestion. I'll put the research staff right on it." "Research staff?" "The sheriff's department," the judge replied. On Monday, Eddie's count was down to twenty days. Teachers were desperately trying to hold their attention as the thermometer climbed into the mid 80s. Summer was coming. That afternoon Scott walked through the engine repair center toward the back offices. The shop radio was blaring. Today it was a tejano station. The shop floor employees voted each week on the rotation. Some days it was country, others days rock-n-roll or tejano, and if they got a good bounce it was a baseball game from a station in San Antonio. Scott let the shop foreman cast his vote for him. He didn't care what was on the radio, he just loved being able to listen to it. He knocked on Mr. Medoza's door. "Come in." "Mr. Mendoza? May I speak to you for a moment?" "Sure Scott, come in and have a seat. I've been meaning to talk to you." "Yes sir, thank you. I wanted to ask you about my summer schedule, and maybe doing an apprenticeship? I'd like to learn about small engines." "Yes, your summer schedule. First let me say that I've been very impressed with your work ethic here at the shop. My foreman says he doesn't even have to check when he gives you an assignment. That's high praise. Your first job is where you learn habits that will last a lifetime." Mr. Mendoza rubbed his eyes and ran his hands up into his hair and then laced his fingers behind his neck. "Son, the truth of the matter is that with the economy in the shape that it is in ... I'm having to limit the hours of my full time workers. I can't give you hours that will take away from a fully trained worker with a family. Do you understand what I'm saying?" "Are you firing me?" "No! No, not at all, but I can't have you go full time this summer. You're at what, fifteen hours right now?" "Yes, sir." "The summer schedule I'd like you to consider is an eighteen hour week; Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. I'll understand if you want to try and find something else." Scott was devastated. That was less than half the hours he had planned on. Living so far from town he was lucky to have the job that he did. Was the economy that bad? What if Mendoza's went out of business? "Sir," picking his words carefully, "if it will help I could take a pay cut." Mr. Mendoza shook his head and stood up, "You're a good boy. No, I pay a man what he's worth. We've been paying you the part time student wage. Since you've been here longer than ninety days you'll see a fifty cent raise in your summer paycheck. Now why don't you go find Eddie? Mrs. Mendoza was planning to cook out and you can eat with us tonight." Scott left the office in a daze. He'd planned on twelve solid weeks of work. Running the new numbers through his head he calculated that he might walk away with twelve hundred dollars for the summer if he was lucky. That was less than half of what he'd counted on. Added to nine hundred that he now had in the bank, with perhaps another seven hundred he could earn in the fall, he didn't think it was possible. A bike that would get him to town and back would eat most of that up. Then he had to pay insurance and registration fees. Later, sitting in the Mendoza's back yard, he and Eddie had stuffed themselves with hotdogs and Mrs. Mendoza's potato salad. Scott told Eddie he didn't think he'd be able to find a second job. "At least we'll have more time to hang out this summer, go swimming and goof around. What do you think?" "About that," said Eddie, he looked as miserable as Scott felt. "What?" "I'm going to church camp this summer." "Could be fun, how long are you going for?" "The camp is three weeks," Eddie explained. "That's not bad. Where is it?" "It's out by San Angelo, there's a big lake there." Eddie looked like he might cry. "What?" Scott asked. "After camp, mom is taking my brothers and me to my uncle's up near Imperial for the rest of the summer. He helped dad out a few years ago and now we're going to return the favor. I'm going to spend the summer salvaging scrap from old houses. Are you mad?" Scott shook his head, "Dude, you're going to help your family out. That's a good thing right? I'd be a jerk to be mad about that. Send me a post card from camp or something. I've never even seen a lake." "You've never seen a lake? Not ever?" "Don't think so. A few retaining ponds. You may not have noticed, but it's kinda dry here in West Texas." Eddie tried to punch him in the shoulder. "Kind of dry," Eddie said, looking around to see if his mother was nearby, "and damn hot. It's going to be pretty miserable working in those old houses." "What does your uncle do?" "Mostly, commercial and residential salvage. He usually does contract work up in Odessa or Midland. They go in and pull out everything; sinks, toilets, doors, trim, hardware, entire window units, you name it. That guy can talk. You should hear some of the gross stuff they find." "You getting paid?" Scott asked. "Dad said they'd work something out, whatever that means! Are we okay man?" "Yeah, we're good. Come on. Think your mom has any ice-cream?" Scott was putting on a brave face. He couldn't blame Eddie, but it looked like he was in for a lonely summer with a lot of free time on his hands. The last couple of weeks of school were frenzied. They studied for tests and wrote final reports, while their teachers tried to keep them from all going crazy with summer fever. The final bell rang and there was a whoosh of emotion that threatened to blow out the windows. Teachers walked around in dazed relief. The entire 8th grade had a silly smile plastered on its face. Shouts of joy echoed up and down the halls. Next semester they would be high school students. True, it was only a mile and half away and had barely over six hundred students, but it was the big time in Fort Stockton. Scott cleaned out his locker and dodged revelers as he headed for the bus to Meritt's Corner. The happiness around him was infectious, but his thoughts were subdued. What's next, he wondered? ------- Chapter 4 Summer 2006 The second week of summer vacation was half over, and Scott was considering which hobby he should take up. How hard could whittling be? Find a piece of wood, a pocket knife, and start carving. He was actually looking around outside the horse barn for a scrap of wood when he realized he didn't know where to find a pocket knife. This was Texas. You could sit in your homeroom class and discus deer hunting versus quail hunting, or the merits of your favorite rifles, but get caught with a little pocket knife at school? You might as well volunteer to do the castration yourself. Scott's search for a second job had been a complete bust. He'd applied for anything at Meritt's, but a waitress told him she doubted they'd hire anybody before fall. None of the ranches or homesteads within an hour's bicycle ride needed any help. A couple of deer lease management companies needed help clearing brush and doing summer feeder maintenance, but they were on the wrong side of Fort Stockton. Even Judge Upcott hadn't been able to help. The judge did say that he knew a guy who might be able to get him a job with a big outfitter in a year or two. Scott counted himself lucky to have a part-time job. He'd gotten so bored that he started helping the younger ranch kids. Summer was usually a decent break at Broken Creek since Mrs. Rewcastle always took several long trips during the summer. Even Mr. Rewcastle would relax after she'd been gone for a few days. Scott showed the new kids how much antibacterial detergent to put in the water when they cleaned horse brushes. He was warning one boy about not soaking the wooden brushes when Mrs. Delgado shouted to get his attention. "Mijo!" she shouted. Thirteen kids at the ranch now and most were younger, but he was the only she called 'mijo.' "Be there in a minute," he yelled, rinsing his hands in clean water. She handed him a big glass of ice water as he came into the kitchen. He gulped it down and went to refill it. "Mijo, do you know the Piotrowskis?," she asked. "Don't think so," he replied between gulps. "They own the house between the Mendoza's and Meritt's," she explained. "The flag house? Sure I know it, but I've never met them. They always wave when I go by." Mrs. Delgado handed him a cookie. "Verna Piotrowski died last month. Mr. Piotrowski, that's Alex, needs some help cleaning out the house and fixing the place up. I'm told it will be a big job and might take several weeks, if not most of the summer. Are you interested?" "You found me a job?" he asked staring at her in amazement. "Mr. Piotrowski is a good man. He asked if I knew a trustworthy young person who might be able to help. I told him I'd try to find one. Do you know anybody we should ask?" "Abuela, you're teasing me." "Oh, were you looking for a job?" "I guess I could ask around," he said before he finished the cookie. "I'm sorry the lady died, was she a friend of yours?" Mrs. Delgado paused and patted her hands dry. "We were friends years ago in the women's auxiliary. Their son got in to some trouble and died. The Piotrowskis didn't socialize a lot after that, but yes, we were friends. It was a long time ago, Mijo. I only tell you because if you take the job you're going to be over there a lot. Mr. Piotrowski was married a long time and is probably very ... sad." "So you think a poor orphan boy can cheer him up?" he asked. "Mijo! You know I don't like that word." "Abuela, it's what I am. Maybe would you prefer waif, or ragamuffin? Foundling is good. How about wastrel? Any of those words are better than ward of the state." Mrs. Delgado grabbed him and pulled him into a hug, "What am I going to do with you? You're starting to get too big to spank." "You never spanked me!" he protested. "I should have!" "What do you want me to do? Should I call Mr. Piotrowski?" he asked. "Why don't you ride over and introduce yourself? I think you'll make a good impression." Scott looked at his watch. It was starting to lose time, but he still wore it. It was close enough to lunchtime. "I'll do that, but first I need a sandwich." Scott ate quickly and went to change into clothes that didn't smell like he'd been working in a barn. He put on a comfortable pair of jeans, an old Astro's baseball t-shirt, and his work boots. He had to have steel toed boots to work in Mr. Mendoza's shop. He went over to a drawer and pulled out a pair of heavy gloves that he had for when they cleared brush on the ranch. The gloves he stuffed part way into his front pocket. Going out the door he grabbed a battered baseball cap. He was ready to work. Deciding that he didn't want to arrive at Mr. Piotrowski's door all sweaty, he backed his pace down. When he got to the house he could see that it needed fresh paint. He laid his bike down with a little less clatter than normal and went up the steps of the front porch. Scott knocked on the screen door and stepped back. After a minute a man opened the interior door to peek out. Seeing a boy he opened up the door and asked, "What do you want?" Scott took off his hat, "Mr. Piotrowski? Mrs. Delgado over at Broken Creek said you might need some help this summer?" "And what's your name young man?" "Sorry, sir. My name is Scott MacIntyre." "Are your people Irish?" "I don't know, Mr. Piotrowski." "You should find out. It's important to know where you come from." Mr. Piotrowski unlocked the screen door and motioned for him to enter, "Come in before we let all the cool out." Inside, he followed Mr. Piotrowski to the kitchen where he was directed toward a chair. "What kind of work do you think you could do around a house?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. Scott thought about the kinds of chores he did around the ranch. "Sir, I can do basic carpentry. I know to measure twice and cut once. I can do miter cuts, and use a coping saw. I'm good with a hammer. I've done a lot of painting. I can repair a fence, clear brush, and if you've got any old horse tack around I can clean it up real nice. I know how to clean, and do it right. I'm a hard worker, and I learn fast." "What can't you do?" the man asked. Scott shrugged, "I'm not very good with power tools. The ranch foreman doesn't let us use them. Safety issue he says." "I don't have many power tools anyway. Do you have any previous work experience?" "I've worked for Mr. Mendoza part time since January over at Meritt's Corner." That got Mr. Piotrowski's attention. "What sort of work have you done?" "I started out just sweeping floors and picking up trash. Then I washed parts in the engine shop. This summer I'm working three days a week and I've been learning about parts inventory and how to log in deliveries. I still wash parts and clean though." "Well you are a pleasant surprise young man. If you're working three days a week, would you want to work the other days of the week?" "Yes sir, I would like to. Very much," Scott replied. "What days are you working for Mr. Mendoza?" "Thursday through Saturday, sir, but only for six hours each day so I could work evenings if you needed me." Mr. Piotrowski slapped the table with a big meaty hand. "You've got the right attitude son. I'm an old man though and don't need to work that hard anymore. Would you mind working Sundays? Do you go to church or anything like that?" "Sundays are fine sir." "Don't go to church?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "No, sir." "Well young man, how about you work Sunday to Wednesday for me. Let's say sunrise till the afternoon, or whenever I get too worn out?" "That would be fine, sir, thank you." "What do they call you anyway? Scott or Scotty?" "Scott, if you don't mind." "Scott it is then. If you'll follow me, I'll give you the nickel tour." Scott got up and followed Mr. Piotrowski. It was nice old house, but needed a good cleaning. Mr. Piotrowski explained that he hadn't done much of that after his wife had gotten sick. The kitchen had a nice, homey feel to it. There was a large pantry area and several closets. The front sitting room was cluttered with an old television set and stacked with furniture. That was explained when they went into what had been the living room. It had been turned in to a home hospital room for Mrs. Piotrowski. It was nearly empty now. The equipment rental people had taken away the special bed, but the room still had a smell that Scott associated with sickness. Upstairs was a bathroom, three bedrooms, and a sewing room. The air in the master bedroom was stale. Scott could tell that nobody had slept here in a long time. It looked like Mr. Piotrowski had been using the smaller bedroom closer to the stairs. Mr. Piotrowski wanted the big bedroom completely cleaned out along with the other bedrooms and sewing room. The closets were packed with ladies clothing, and shoes. "Mr. Piotrowski, what do you want to do with all the things that you want cleared out?" Scott asked. Mr. Piotrowski scratched his head, "I thought we'd just send a bunch of it to the dump. Might see if some charity wanted some things, and then I thought I'd have a big yard sale." This was going to be a lot of work. "Come on, I still haven't shown you out back yet." Scott stood next to Mr. Piotrowski, gaping at the scene. Completely hidden from the road was a ramshackle building built straight back from house. It had started life as a detached garage and had been added to along the way. Just from this view, it was clear that it was packed with all manner of things. Most of the mystery items were covered with tarps, or concealed in boxes. Mr. Piotrowski explained that he had been a bit of a collector. He had liked going to auctions and estate sales. He had stopped at some point and this building hadn't been touched much in ten years or more. Scott stared at Mr. Piotrowski with awe, 'a bit of a collector?' This was an entire summer's worth of work. They sat down on the back stairs looking at the building. "Still want the job?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Yes, sir, I was just trying to organize it all in my head. How do you want to go about doing all of this?" "I thought we should do the house first, then this outbuilding. Have you heard of the Internet?" Scott stared at Mr. Piotrowski until he realized that he was serious. "Yes, sir, we use it in school." "Do you think this eBay thing is okay? I read about it in the Reader's Digest. People can apparently sell anything on it." Scott nodded, "That's an excellent idea Mr. Piotrowski. I'm not exactly sure how it works, but I can check in to it and let you know on Sunday?" "We have one problem," said Mr. Piotrowski, "You forgot to ask how much I was going to pay you." Scott hadn't forgotten he just figured that it didn't really matter how much Mr. Piotrowski paid him. It was clear that he wasn't going to find another job. So anything he made from this job would be a bonus. The hard work didn't bother him, and Mr. Piotrowski clearly needed the help. "Why don't I work for a week and then you decide what you think it was worth?" he offered. Mr. Piotrowski considered the idea and stuck out his hand, "Deal." Scott shook it and said, "There are a few hours of day light left why don't I get started?" After showing Scott to a closet filled with cleaning supplies, Mr. Piotrowski announced that he was going to sit down and watch one of his shows. Scott got to work. The first thing he did was clean out the cleaning supplies closet. He pulled out a couple of buckets and boxes, some old mops, a nice push broom, a sweeping broom, and an odd looking brush on a telescoping handle. He found a big box of heavy duty trash bags that were going to be very handy. He spent ten minutes shaking bottles to see if they still had contents in them, but most were too old to be of any use so he started filling up the first bag of trash. After sweeping out the closet he wiped down the shelves and reorganized the remaining supplies. The mops would have to be thrown out, but fortunately the brooms were in good shape. There was a bag of old rags that he hung from a hook in the closet. He was off to a good start. There was a lot more room for storage. Next he decided to tackle the sick room. He understood why Mr. Piotrowski didn't want to help since he must have spent a lot of time in the room as his wife slowly died. Scott moved a floor lamp and a small side table out into the hall. There were some pocket doors to the front sitting room, but he left them closed. He pulled the drapes back from the bay window to get as much light coming in to the room as possible. The curtains were heavy fabric and needed to be cleaned. He had no idea how you cleaned curtains, but would find out. Scott started sweeping the floor. It was a nice wood floor that he suspected would gleam with a little attention. He found an envelope on the floor near where the side table had been. Scott picked it up. It was some kind of billing statement. He went out into the hallway and opened the side table drawer. It was overflowing with medical bills and insurance statements. Scott walked back to the kitchen where he had seen a milk crate with miscellaneous folders and a box of envelopes. He rooted around in it and found a cardboard folio. He put all the material from the side table into the folio, tied it shut and wrote "Medical Bills and Statements" in large letters on the front and set it on the kitchen table. He went back to sweeping the floor and got everything pushed into little piles. Then he swept the debris into a pan and dumped it in the garbage bag. Looking around he noticed cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. Ah ha. The funny brush with the telescoping handle made quick work of the cobwebs, so he ran it around the entire ceiling knocking down dust. He found a step ladder and dusted the light fixtures. Then he had to sweep the floor again. Next time he would start at the top and work his way down, saving the floor for last. Scott thought about cleaning the big bay window, but decided that maybe windows should have their own day. How many windows were in this house? Make that two days for windows. When he checked on Mr. Piotrowski he found him sleeping in his easy chair with the television running. Scott decided not to disturb him and left a note explaining what he had done and that he'd be back Sunday bright and early. He carried the trash bags out behind the house. They should be safe from any curious critters since there was no food in them. Scott climbed onto his bike and headed back to the ranch. Mrs. Delgado had already left and he had missed dinner. In the refrigerator he found a plate of food that he quickly heated in the microwave. Back in his room Scott found a new note. It was time for him to move to the senior bunkhouse. It wouldn't take long to move his few possessions. He'd need to do some work in his closet to return it to its former state. The senior bunkhouse would be his last stop at Broken Creek. The move seemed very minor compared with his new summer job. He fell asleep planning the rest of his cleaning attack on the Piotrowski house. The next morning Scott was eagerly telling Mrs. Delgado about the job and Mr. Piotrowski. "You keep an eye on him for me." Mrs. Delgado said. "Sometimes after older people lose somebody they just want to fade away, but Alex has some good years left in him." Scott agreed, "I think cleaning the house out will help. There are parts of his house that he doesn't even like being in now. It's going to be a lot of work. Mr. Piotrowski even wants to try and sell some things online. I'm going to check into that. You don't know anybody who would want a bunch of old clothes do you?" "What kind of old clothes?" she asked. "There are three, maybe four, closets and a room packed with women's clothes," Scott answered. "The women's auxiliary," Mrs. Delgado said firmly. "Sort it all out and I'll arrange for some ladies to come pick it up. We'll take out what we need for the Goodwill here in Fort Stockton. If there's anything left over we could send it to the women's shelters in Alpine or Midland." "There's a lot of stuff. How exactly should I sort it all out?" "Organize it by outfits, then pants, dresses, blouses, like that. Throw out any undergarments, we can't take that." Scott looked at his watch, "Okay. I'm not sure when I'll start working upstairs where the clothing is, but I better get in gear and head to Mendoza's. Thanks again, Abuela, working for Mr. Piotrowski is going to save my summer!" "Don't work too hard," she called as he raced out of the kitchen to his bike. Scott didn't see Mr. Piotrowski when he rode by the house headed toward Meritt's Corner. He planned to drop in on his way back to the ranch and check up on him. At the engine shop Scott was spending most of his time converting the inventory system. It was a big change since the old system consisted of cardboard boxes with hand written labels. The new system was made up of custom built shelves and plastic bins. They even had a couple of hand held gadgets that could read the stock codes along with a neat little thermal printer that cranked out labels. There was a lot of grumbling from the shop floor since the guys couldn't just walk in and grab parts like they used to. Mr. Mendoza had stopped in to see how the inventory room was progressing. He spent a few minutes explaining to Scott how he had to spend money to make the company more efficient. It made sense. Mr. Mendoza seemed a little more cheerful. Scott hoped that it meant that things were looking better for the company. The shop foreman stopped by to talk while Scott was eating a turkey club sandwich for lunch. "I hear you want to train on small engines? You know we don't do a whole lot of small engine work here right? Come see me in the mornings like normal on Thursdays and Fridays, but after lunch you're going to be working with Noah. He'll teach you small engines. Saturdays will be a regular workday. Any questions?" he asked. Scott thought it was worth a shot, "Do you know anything about eBay?" "Did one of these morons tell you to ask me that?" barked the foreman, his face turning red. "No, sir. Nobody put me up to anything," Scott stammered, hoping to talk his way out of whatever he'd stepped in. "I'm helping Mr. Piotrowski clean out his place up the road. He wondered if he might be able to sell some of his stuff online. I told him I'd check into it." The foreman relaxed and leaned in. He gave Scott a fifteen minute description of the ins and outs of online auctions and his bidding strategies. The foreman was apparently a rabid collector of some sort of movie memorabilia that involved action figures. Scott was jotting notes down on the back of his lunch receipt, "So he needs an eBay account and a PayPal account. Then he needs to either include the cost of shipping in the item price, or explain up front what shipping will cost for each item, and he needs to ship quickly." "Exactly. Does he have a computer?" the foreman asked. "And he needs a computer," Scott made a new note. "You might be in luck, Meritt's is also a cyber café now," smirked the foreman. Meritt's tried to be a little bit of everything this far out in the country. A few things they had experimented with hadn't worked over the years. These trial balloons amused the locals, but Scott had always been impressed at the creativity of Meritt's owners. Granted, their Friday night sushi bar was never well thought out. The foreman continued, "They put two computers in the old vending machine room between the post office and the diner. You have to get a password from somebody over there. You could also stop and talk to the post mistress." "Thanks, that could be a big help," Scott replied. "Any other questions?" asked the foreman. It worked the first time, "Know anything about cleaning drapery?" "You'll want the dry cleaners in Fort Stockton." Scott was impressed. The foreman was a man of hidden talents. If he wanted to collect dolls, okay 'action figures', then that was fine by him. After lunch Scott went and tracked Noah Easterbrook down. "Why do you want to learn about small engines?" Noah asked. "I'm going to buy a motorcycle this fall. Figured since I'm working in an engine shop that I should pick up a few things," Scott explained. Noah nodded his approval. "I like it. I see a little bit of everything here in our expansive small engine department," he waved at the corner bench setup and a table with a rototiller half disassembled next to it. He had one toolbox next to the table. "I also hear from Mr. Mendoza that you're our new inventory control expert, is that true?" Noah asked with an eager gleam in his eye. "I guess, sure," Scott answered and waited for the other shoe to drop. "Great! See what you can find from this list in inventory and order the rest," Noah handed him a sheet of paper with items listed in bullet point. Scott didn't mind being a gofer since it allowed him to move around a lot more. He might even learn a little about small engines. After work he went over to Meritt's to explore the new internet café setup. He knew from school that most internet cafés had been replaced by wi-fi hot spots, but that would be a long time in coming to Meritt's Corner. He asked a waitress who he needed to see about using one of the computers. "That's me, honey," she said cheerfully. "How much is it?" he asked. "It's only five dollars an hour, but you have to leave your ID with me." Scott pulled out his wallet and handed her his student ID along with a precious five dollar bill. She walked to the cash register, rang him up, and put both the money and his ID in the register drawer. On the receipt she jotted down a password and handed it to him. He looked at it and wondered how often they would change passwords. "You're not going to look at porn are you?" she asked him with an evil grin. "No! I'm doing research on online auctions if you must know," he glancing around to see who had overheard, but nobody had paid them any mind. The waitress laughed and picked up a fresh pot of coffee to distribute to her charges. Scott wondered what it was with women lately. They seemed to take entirely too much pleasure in teasing him. He went into the room with the two computers. They weren't any worse than what they had at school, but he thought that with only two computers they should probably call it a kiosk instead of a café. He bumped a mouse and sat down. He entered the password, and then brought up the auction site and started reading. Scott made another note about getting a cheap digital camera. He didn't really need to make notes, but it was a habit that he forced himself to follow. People, mostly teachers, didn't think that you were taking them seriously unless you took notes. It wasn't like he could tell them that he wouldn't forget, or in fact couldn't forget. He'd looked up eidetic memory once. While that came close to describing the way his mind worked, he thought it only got a portion of what was going on in his weird head. It was best to keep people comfortable by doing the things that they expected of you, so he took notes. Comfortable people didn't haul you off and cut you open to see what made you tick. After thirty minutes of research, and a minute of staring at a blank Google search box, Scott logged off of the session and went to get his ID back. It was close to 4:30 when he knocked on Mr. Piotrowski's door. The door opened and Mr. Piotrowski said, "I thought I wasn't going to see you until Sunday?" "Good afternoon, sir. I thought I'd stop by and tell you what I've learned so far. If you wanted I could still get a couple of hours of work in?" "You better come in then." "Thank you." "Would you like something to drink? Come on through to the kitchen," directed Mr. Piotrowski. "Yes, sir, some water would be great." Scott took out his notes and began explaining everything that he had learned about the auctions. Mr. Piotrowski listened intently. When he was finished Mr. Piotrowski looked encouraged. "That's a very good presentation Scott," he commented. "I'd say that you've got a flair for public speaking." Scott had been taking a drink and immediately started to choke when some water went down the wrong way. Mr. Piotrowski got up and gave him a couple of very solid thumps between the shoulder blades. Mr. Piotrowski must have been one tough hombre back in his day. Those whacks had some power in them. Embarrassed, Scott told Mr. Piotrowski that he didn't talk much in school, or to other people for that matter. Although, as he thought about it, he realized that wasn't really true anymore. He didn't have any trouble speaking to people at work. Maybe his problem was just at school? It was something he needed to mull over for a while. "You had other news?" prompted Mr. Piotrowski. "Right," Scott snapped his fingers, "we can take the curtains to the dry cleaners in Fort Stockton. I'm told they do a quick turnaround service for a very reasonable fee. It might take a couple of trips because I don't know how much we can fit into your car." "You're right about the car, but you haven't seen my panel truck. It might need a new battery to get it turned over, but we can haul anything the two of us can move. Tell you what, let's go take a look at it, and you can tell me the rest as we perambulate." Scott turned the word over in his head. Perambulate, I like it. Mr. Piotrowski nodded his head in approval when Scott told him about the women's auxiliary and the clothing. He pointed Scott toward the end of the building. When they reached the end he took out his keys and hunted for the one he wanted. He found it and unlocked the padlock on the carriage door. Scott took a firm grasp and pulled the door open on its track. He stepped back a few paces to try and get a good look at the building. You could park a lot of cars side by side in this thing, and it was full of ... well he had no idea what it was full of. In the stall was the massive back end of an old vehicle. Mr. Piotrowski climbed back out of the driver's side and announced that the battery was dead. Scott walked around to the front of the beast and watched Mr. Piotrowski reach in through the grill to release the hood latch. He helped him push the heavy hood up. The engine bay was cavernous. "Bet you've never seen anything like it have you?" said Mr. Piotrowski with more than a bit of pride in his voice. "What is it?" "That lump of iron right there is a 235 cubic inch inline six, or what some call a straight six. It'll run forever if you take care of it. Weak point is the clutch and transmission. I've replaced the throw out bearing twice on this one. I bet you could crawl in there and sleep on either side of that head. Modern car you can't hardly fit a hand down under the hood. I can reach in there and touch every single component on this engine. No sir, they don't make 'em like this anymore." Mr. Piotrowski closed the massive hood. "As for the rest, you're looking at an original 1959 one ton Chevy panel truck, a model they called the Apache. I've driven this thing all over; Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, New Mexico, you name it. It always brought me home. After we get it charged up, I might even let you try it out. Can you drive a stick?" This was the most excited that he'd seen Mr. Piotrowski, "No sir, I've never driven a stick, or anything else." "Heck, every boy should learn to drive a stick shift. Why don't you climb up in there, and get acquainted with her?" Scott opened the heavy steel door and climbed up in to the driver's side. He was sitting on a bench seat. There wasn't much to the interior. The truck had an overly large steering wheel, and a long shift lever rising up from the floorboard. The dash was neat. There was only one gauge, a speedometer. It was a big, broad V shaped display with a single sweeping arch of numbers indicating miles per hour. There were some pull knobs on either side of the gauge, and three pedals on the floor. No air conditioner he noticed, but it did have an older style radio bolted under the dash. The bench seat was pretty wide. He thought they might be able to fit four people without it getting tight. Behind the seat was a massive expanse of emptiness back to the two clam shell doors at the rear of the truck. Mr. Piotrowski was right; they could fit just about anything in here. He wasn't so sure about driving this thing. It was huge. Mr. Piotrowski rapped on the window. Scott hopped out. "I can't find my battery charger," complained Mr. Piotrowski. "I'll look for it tomorrow. Let's go back into the kitchen and get cool." Scott slid the carriage door shut, and put the padlock back on the clasp. "You're stronger than you look, that door always gives me problems. Course I'm not as young as I once was." Whoops. "That's ranch work for you, Mr. Piotrowski. I'm strong for my age. Maybe we should oil the track?" "That's a fine idea." In the kitchen Mr. Piotrowski was pleased, "You've gotten a good handle on this auction situation. I'll talk to my bank tomorrow. I should still have an old account that I used from when I went to auctions. Verna would only let me spend so much money, so I put it in that account and it kept me honest. It would be good for this payment thing we need. There's a fella in town that I can talk to about finding one of those digital cameras cheap. It sounds like the sort of thing he'd know about. Is there anything else?" "I think maybe that's all for today, Mr. Piotrowski. Tomorrow I'll get here earlier enough to get some work done." It was Sunday before Mr. Piotrowski found his battery charger. Scott had spent Friday and Saturday night cleaning out the pantry and the kitchen. Now he was surveying the front sitting room. There was barely enough room for the recliner Mr. Piotrowski liked, and the big consol television set, because of all the extra furniture stacked up. The extra furniture had been cleared out from the living room to make space for the hospital bed and equipment that Mrs. Piotrowski had needed. There were two sliding pocket doors between the living room and front room. He had gotten one open but the other wouldn't budge. "There's a catch at the top of the door," Mr. Piotrowski said as he came up behind him. He reached over Scott's head and dropped the catch. "Try it now." The door opened easily. "Will you be alright here for a while? I got the truck started and I'm going to drive it down to Meritt's and get it gassed up. I'm going to get them to put it up on a lift and lube the chassis and steering rack." "Yes, sir, I'll be fine. Can you tell me real quick what you want in this front room and what you want put into the living room?" "Leave the heavy stuff for when I get back, but I want my two reclining chairs here in the front with that little table between them. We can put the television over in the corner. The rest can go into the other room," Mr. Piotrowski explained. Scott understood what he was doing. The front room had been a fancy sitting room that the couple obviously hadn't used much. Mr. Piotrowski was taking it over as the television room. The old living room where his wife had been sick for so long was a room that he didn't want to spend time in. He couldn't blame him for that. Besides, Scott thought, the front room was cozier and had a small fireplace. It would probably be a lot more comfortable than the other room. He waited until the panel truck had disappeared down the road. Walking into the kitchen he dug into his backpack. Mrs. Delgado has packed a sandwich and an apple for him in a brown bag. He bypassed his lunch and grabbed four smooth plastic discs. He used his superior strength to move furniture from one room to the other. He tried to arrange the furniture in a pleasing manner. The small couch he put against the far end of the old living room. He mirrored the arrangement of what he thought the front room had looked like originally. He plugged the lamps in and tested them. He had to grab replacement bulbs from the pantry. After a few minutes he decided that the room didn't look half bad. He grabbed some rags from the cleaning supply closet, along with some polish, and started on the furniture. There was a lot of dust in the nooks and crannies. Scott took a short break to get some water and wash his hands. In the front room he pushed the television consol and the reclining chairs back against the wall. He used the floor vacuum to go over the large area rug. It looked like it was in good shape. Then he rolled it up and shoved it into the other room. He dusted the ceiling with the telescoping brush, and got up on the step ladder to clean the center light fixture. He swept around the furniture, and then used a flat dry mop he found to get all the remaining dust up off the wood flooring. He spent a little time polishing the mantel over the fireplace. Setting aside the fireplace screen he tried to peer up into the flue, but had no idea if it was an operational fireplace. He was rolling the rug back out when Mr. Piotrowski interrupted him and exclaimed, "How the hell did you get all that done?" Scott looked over his shoulder at him. Mr. Piotrowski was holding a large paper bag with food from Meritt's Diner. "I cheated," he said. Standing up he walked over and pointed to the base of the television consol. Mr. Piotrowski followed him over. Scott pointed to the four plastic discs he had put under each corner. "We use these in the bunkhouses at the ranch. They're very slick and slide over just about any kind of flooring. We put them under the bunks so that it's easier to clean behind them. With over a dozen boys we do a lot of cleaning. So, they're a big time saver." "Well I'll be—" "You can buy them at the hardware store in town." Scott had used them to help move the couch and the television consol. The big pieces were too unwieldy for him to move without damaging a wall or the doorway. Mr. Piotrowski didn't need to know how he had moved the rest of the furniture. "I picked you up a burger and a vanilla shake at the diner. There are french fries too. Let's eat before they get cold." "Thank you, Mr. Piotrowski, you didn't have to do that." "Come on and eat. You've been working hard." Scott didn't eat much junk food, but every once in a while a greasy cheeseburger really hit the spot. Besides, Meritt's made the best milk shakes around and he wasn't going to turn that down today. Scott cleaned up after lunch, and put their trash away. He hauled another bag out back stopping to stare at the growing pile of garbage bags. They needed to take a trip to the landfill. He went inside and found Mr. Piotrowski sitting in his recliner. Mr. Piotrowski was looking around the room, "This is real nice now, just the way I wanted it. I think I'll sit here and rest a while. What would you say to taking the rest of the day off? Monday morning I want to take a trip into Fort Stockton. We can pick up some cleaning supplies and run some errands. How about it?" "It's fine with me Mr. Piotrowski. I was going to tell you that we need to make a trip to the landfill, but if we're going into Fort Stockton it would be a good time to take these curtains in." "That's a good thought. We can take the curtains down in the morning and head out. Don't worry about the trash. Jorge Delgado told me he'd take some garbage out to the dump for me in his pickup truck. Why don't you call him and see what he's doing this afternoon? The number's by the phone in the kitchen." "Yes, sir." Scott held the number in his hand. He'd never called the Delgados on the phone. He punched the number into the phone and listened to it ring. "Hello?" "Is Jorge Delgado there please?" "This is Jorge. Is that you Scotty?" "Yes sir, I'm calling from Mr. Piotrowski's house." In the background he heard Mrs. Delgado yelling, "Who's on the phone, Jorge?" "Luisa, it's one of your boyfriends," Jorge yelled back. "Tell him not to call me here," was the faint reply. Jorge was laughing, "What can I do for you Scotty?" "Mr. Piotrowski said that you might help haul some trash out to the landfill?" "Did he now?" Jorge chuckled. "Well I guess that is true. I offered to let him borrow the pickup truck, so I guess it's only right that I go along with it. Tell you what, I'll be over in about forty-five minutes. Will that work for you?" "Yes, sir, that—" "Call me Jorge!" "Jorge, it will be just be me helping. I think Mr. Piotrowski is a little tired. The bags are out back if you want to park your truck by the kitchen door." "See you soon," and with that Jorge hung up. Scott found Mr. Piotrowski sleeping in his chair again. He thought Mr. Piotrowski must be in his late seventies. He hoped all this activity wasn't bad for him. Taking a broom he went outside and started sweeping the front porch and stairs. It didn't take long to clean up. The porch had a runner made of astro turf that he moved so that he could sweep up. He tried to beat the dust out of the runner with the broom but that didn't work. He found a short garden hose around back and used it to rinse off the runner. He hung the carpet piece up to dry over the railing. The porch had a decorative wood lattice skirt painted to match the house. The lattice hid a space under the porch. One of the panels had come loose, and was pushed in on the bottom corner. Scott used a small framing hammer that was kept in the pantry to pry the lattice panel free. He was trying to decide if the wooden lattice was salvageable, or too rotten to nail back up, when he noticed the dried husk of a possum under the porch. He made another trip around to the back of the house where he grabbed a rake and a garbage bag. Then he ran inside and got his work gloves out of his backpack. Under the porch he found a lot of dried plant debris in addition to the mummified possum. He dragged several faded beer cans out from under the porch with the rake. The cans appeared to be made of heavier material than modern aluminum versions. He was tying up the garbage bag when Jorge pulled into the driveway. Jorge rolled the down window of his truck, "Hard at it I see." Scott walked over, "Pull around back." He followed as Jorge slowly drove down the driveway. He did a three point turn, and backed up to the pile of garbage bags. He climbed down out of his truck and helped Scott toss bags into the bed of the truck. "Where's Alex?" asked Jorge. "He's sleeping in front of the TV." "You're not wearing him out are you?" "I don't think so. He likes to take a nap in the afternoon. The cleaning seems to have actually cheered him up." Scott tossed the last of the bags into the truck bed. Jorge helped Scott put his bike into the back of the truck. "Let me leave Mr. Piotrowski a note while I grab my bag," Scott said. Minutes later they were on their way to the landfill and Jorge was making small talk, "How's your summer going so far?" "Pretty good since Mrs. Delgado found me this job!" "Luisa was pretty pleased with herself about that. We'd known Alex and Verna for a long time. Even though they were a few years older than us, Verna was always real nice to Luisa. She was the one who got her involved in the women's auxiliary. That Alex has always been a character. I guess you've probably figured that out by now?" Scott chimed in, "I like him. He's got that great panel truck, and that building out back is packed with all kinds of stuff. What's kind of weird is that there's nothing in the house that tells you what sorts of things he collects." Jorge reached over and turned down the radio. He fixed Scott with a look, "Did Luisa tell you about the Piotrowski's son?" "She said he died." "That's right. Mr. Piotrowski, Alex, was an oil field mechanic. They're a pretty rough bunch in the oil patches. An oil field mechanic is a guy who works on everything and anything. When he was younger Alex chased oil rigs from New Mexico to Oklahoma. You ever hear the term, oil field trash? That's what they used to call workers like Alex. They blew from place to place like trash. Verna followed him when she could. They didn't think they could have kids, so when Verna got pregnant she insisted that they settle down. They moved to Fort Stockton, and bought a house in town." "They named the boy Jack. Alex took a job servicing pump jacks and gas wells all over Pecos County. It kept him close to home, but money was tight. That's when he started going to auctions. He didn't just collect. He bought and resold all kinds of things to supplement the family income." Jorge paused for a moment. "Jack was always a bit of a rambler. Fort Stockton just wasn't big enough for him. When he was in high school he and a couple of other boys got in a lot of trouble for burning down a hay barn. There had been other little fires set around town, so it was a bit of a scandal. Jack dropped out of high school and basically disappeared." Scott was listening intently. He had never seen Jorge so serious. "That must have been hard on Mr. and Mrs. Piotrowski." Jorge nodded, "It was terribly hard on them. That's when they moved out of town to this house. They didn't hear from Jack for nearly two years. When they did he called asking for money. He had been arrested on a burglary charge up in Fort Worth. Alex drove up to bail him out. I guess the idea was to bring him back home. I don't know what happened, but Alex came back alone. A month later the police found Jack dead in a dope house in Dallas. That was in 1984, and Jack was only twenty years old. They brought him home and buried him." "That's awful," said Scott. Jorge continued, "Alex retired and Verna quit the women's auxiliary. The auction business kept Alex going for a few years, but one day he just quit that too. Luisa finally talked Verna into going back to the auxiliary. Things got better, but I don't think you ever get over losing a son like that. Alex and Verna had another twenty years together, but when Verna got sick we all worried about him." "Mrs. Delgado told me to keep an eye on him, but I think he's okay." "People react to death in different ways. People of his generation..." Jorge's voice trailed off, and he turned and looked at Scott. "Scotty, it doesn't bother you to talk about this does it?" Scott gave him a little smile, "No, Jorge, it doesn't bother me." "It's just that you never talk about it, I mean I know you were—" "Orphaned? Why do people have trouble with that word? I'd much rather people say that than all of the other words that they use to talk their way around it. It's not like I don't know that I'm an orphan. I guess it makes them uncomfortable." Jorge certainly looked uncomfortable, "It surprises me how ... practical you are about it all. You know you're a very unusual kid." Scott laughed, "You think? I'm practical because I have to be. Besides, I've got it pretty good." They arrived at the turn off to the city landfill. It had a gate, and was technically closed on Sunday afternoons. The gate was unlocked. Jorge had Scott get out of the truck to write down what they were dumping on a clipboard that was hanging from a post. The stench of the landfill was overpowering. Scott didn't think it had much to do with his enhanced senses. Jorge held his hand over his nose and shouted, "Come on. Let's get this done with and get out of here!" Jorge drove Scott back to the ranch. He dropped him off and told him to call if Mr. Piotrowski needed more help. Scott needed a shower, but held off. He might as well move out of his old bunkhouse and into the senior one. First he stripped his bedding, and put it in the big hamper out in the common area. From the supply closet he got a box and loaded it with books that made up his summer reading list. He took all his clothing out of the closet, and laid it on top bunk of the bunk bed. He didn't have many personal processions. Checking to make sure that the door was secure, he cleared out his hidden cache and put the contents in his backpack. The only thing left was the turntable. Scott got a piece of tape and secured the arm to the stop so that it wouldn't bounce around while he carried it. He grabbed his backpack and went to check out the senior bunkhouse. It wasn't much different than the other bunkhouses except for being slightly larger. Currently it was unoccupied. In the last few years they had only had one or two seniors in residence. Like the junior bunkhouse there was a common area and three bedrooms, but these were all set up as singles. Two of the bedrooms shared a wall while a third was set on the other side of the storage closet and central bathroom. Scott picked that one. He opened up the curtains and looked around. It would do. There was a bed, a chair and study desk with a lamp, a set of shelves, and a fair sized closet. The entire bunkhouse needed cleaning, but he thought that this might be a pretty good setup. He set his backpack in the closet, and closed the door. Heading back to junior bunkhouse he ran into the other ranchers. It looked like they had been out for a hike. He explained that he was moving out of the bunkhouse. The kid who was currently doubled up was ecstatic to hear that he would be getting his own room, at least until somebody else moved in. The ranch population dipped in summer time, and grew again in the fall. Scott wasn't sure why that was. The rancher getting his own room was very eager, and helped him move the rest of his stuff. Scott carried the turntable. Finished moving, Scott diverted to the equipment shed and got some tools and a can of touchup paint. He told the boy that some boards had come loose in the closet, and that he'd be a few minutes getting the room squared away. Scott hammered a couple of finish nails into the baseboards, and then swept out the room. He touched up a few scuff marks on the wall and the baseboards. Then he went and knocked on the other boy's door. Back at the senior bunkhouse Scott spent a half hour sweeping and dusting. The bathroom, fortunately, was clean. He got some sheets out of the storage closet and made his bed. Then he put his clothes away. Emptying his backpack on the bed spread he considered the items from his secret cache. Turning to the bookshelf he emptied the box of books and organized them on the shelves. There was a lot of room left over. He picked up the motorcycle safety pamphlet and put it on the shelf. He moved a couple of books and stuck the locksmithing book in between them. It was vocational training after all. The only things left that he really needed to deal with were his money roll and the lock pick set. He put them back in his backpack. He needed to think about it. Scott walked to the boys' dining room and started thumbing through the albums that were stored there. Mr. Rewcastle poked his head in, but turned to walk away when he saw who it was. Scott stopped him and told him that he had moved into the other bunkhouse. Mr. Rewcastle acknowledged the information and quickly left. Scott pulled two albums out of the milk crates. Should he pick the Duetsche Grammaphon recording of Dvorak and Tchaikovsky cello pieces, or Merle Haggard's seminal 1969 record 'Okie from Muskogee?' He was in a weird mood and took both. The next morning it took longer to take down all the drapes in the house than Scott thought it would. They only left the kitchen curtains up. Mr. Piotrowski said that his wife had handmade them, and they were too delicate for dry cleaning. The ride in to town in the panel truck was like no other that Scott had ever taken. The bench seat in the truck was bouncy to start with. The suspension in the truck showed all of its nearly fifty years of age. With the windows down you had to shout to be heard. Scott loved it. Mr. Piotrowski was showing him the shifting pattern. He told Scott to hold on the shift lever loosely and feel while he shifted gears. They made a quick stop at Meritt's to get bottled water for each of them. Pulling out onto the road again, Mr. Piotrowski told him, "I'm going to push the clutch in. You shift me into second gear okay?" It was awkward using his left hand, but he managed to shift down into second. Mr. Piotrowski accelerated, pointed at the shifter and yelled, "Get ready!" He had to help Scott find third gear. He yelled, "Are you ready to try this thing for yourself?" Scott shook his head, no, and yelled back, "No way!" Mr. Piotrowski shouted, "We'll see!" They dropped the drapes off at the dry cleaners. Mr. Piotrowski decided against paying extra for the quick turnaround service. Who on earth was going to look through his windows way out in the country he explained. After the dry cleaners, they drove over to the hardware store. Mr. Piotrowski told Scott to look around and pick up any supplies he thought they needed. "I got to see my guy," he said, and then walked to the back of the hardware store. Scott pushed a cart up and down the aisles. He put a gallon of concentrated window solution into the cart, along with a squeegee that you could put on the end of a broom handle. He spotted a big pack of sponges that were on sale and added that. When Mr. Piotrowski caught back up to him, Scott was examining a small, lockable metal case that was on display. He had fifteen dollars on him and the case was marked down to eight-fifty. "It's for me, Mr. Piotrowski, I need something for my room at the bunkhouse." Mr. Piotrowski got one of the hardware store employee's attention, "Will you take six dollars for this display model?" He leaned over and whispered to Scott, "You've got to dicker for this kind of thing." The employee walked over and picked up the case and turned it over in his hands. He looked up and said, "I can take six for it, there are a couple of scratches. Is that okay?" Mr. Piotrowski said, "We'll take it. Can you ring it up separately?" When they were back in the truck Mr. Piotrowski handed him a rolled up paper bag, "Open that up and tell me what you think." Scott unrolled the bag, and found a small digital camera and a couple of cables. He hit the power button and was surprised to find that there were already pictures on the memory card. He thumbed through them. "Do you want to save any of these photos?" he asked. "What are they?" "Somebody is either raising prize steers, or really likes taking pictures of beef on the hoof," Scott turned the camera so that Mr. Piotrowski could see for himself. "How about that?" he said in wonder. The next stop was at the bank. Inside Mr. Piotrowski met with the branch manager. Scott went up to a teller and got his current balance. He loved the concept of compounding interest, but the interest line on his statement was miserably small. He sat down and watched people coming and going from the bank. Mr. Piotrowski waved to get his attention. The manager let Scott use a computer at another desk. Scott set up a free mail account for Mr. Piotrowski. Then he wrote the log in and password in very clear letters on a bank notepad. Next he setup the PayPal account. When he got to the bank account verification section he told the bank manager. Scott walked a few steps away and let the bank manager and Mr. Piotrowski enter that information. The bank manager announced that was all there was to it. In a couple of days PayPal would verify the account, and they would be in business. On the way back out to the house Scott suggested that they stop at Meritt's so that they could look over the internet café setup, and talk with the postal folks. Mr. Piotrowski tried to push Scott into the seat at the computer, but Scott insisted that Mr. Piotrowski sit down. "You need to see how this works. Don't be afraid of this thing. In my computer class at school the teacher said that more seniors are online than ever before. If they can do it, so can you." "Are you calling me old?" Mr. Piotrowski asked mockingly. "No, sir, just experienced. Now, this is the mouse..." Scott gave a computer 101 tutorial for the next thirty minutes. Mr. Piotrowski grasped the major concepts. His biggest problem was the mouse. Manipulating it and clicking links frustrated him. That would just take time. Scott had him bring up the auction site. They looked at what people were selling, and got lots of good ideas. "It looks like good photos and a detailed description are what really make a good listing," Mr. Piotrowski observed. "Yes, sir, and check this out. Type in 'box of bolts' and see what comes up. Look at that. You can, literally, sell anything here." Mr. Piotrowski scrolled through the auctions featuring boxes of bolts. "That's amazing. We can sit here in Pecos County and offer our widget, and there are potentially millions of customers for it. We just need a handful of them to want what we have. If this had been around back in my day ... well things would have been a lot different." They left Meritt's and headed back to the house. Scott spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the downstairs windows from the inside. They would tackle the outside later. Mr. Piotrowski asked him what he planned to do for the next couple of days as he was getting ready to leave. Scott said that he thought it was time to deal with the clothing. Mr. Piotrowski got a sad look on his face, but nodded his approval. While riding back to Broken Creek on his bike Scott realized that removing Mr. Piotrowski's late wife's clothing might be pretty tough on the old man. He didn't know how to make it any less painful. When Scott passed the Mendoza house he wondered what his friend Eddie was up to. At the ranch Scott stopped in to say hello to Mrs. Delgado. She was busy supervising a group of younger Scouts as they prepared the evening meal. "Mijo, I'm glad you'll be here for supper. You better go see if the foreman has left. He was asking for you earlier," she said. Scott went looking for the ranch foreman. He finally tracked him down over by the well. The foreman was taking water samples. He had to do that occasionally, and send them to the county for testing. The foreman was glad to see him. He explained that he was going to treat the retaining pond. There had been a big algae bloom, and it was choking the pond. He wanted Scott to talk to the other residents and explain it to them. You could swim after the pond had been treated, in theory, but you wouldn't like the smell. Plus if the algae had gotten too far out of control the treatment would end up killing whatever fish were living in the pond. The ranch would probably have to restock later in the summer. Scott went to go find the other ranchers and tell them the bad news. As he walked he remembered the first ranch foreman he had met. That man had been a mean, nasty character. Mr. Rewcastle had been forced to fire him after he found the foreman passed out by the horse barn, apparently drunk. The man was naked, and partially buried in horse manure. The ranch stored the manure. They composted some of it, but sold the rest cheap or gave it away to anyone who wanted it. What they couldn't get rid of they had to bury. When the foreman woke up he was angry, and had a very sore head. The drunk swore that he couldn't remember anything from his wild night. The memory made Scott grimace. He had been younger with poor impulse control, but revenge on the foreman for his cruel behavior had been sweet at the time. It wasn't until much later that he realized that he had been very, very fortunate not to have accidentally killed the man with that shovel. Pouring cheap whiskey over his unconscious form and dumping horse manure on him had been a bonus. That incident had led to his mantra of self control. The ranchers were disappointed to hear that swimming was off for at least a week. Scott told them that they should see about getting Mr. Rewcastle to take them into town. He knew that this particular duty would get passed on to Jorge, and the boys would have a good time. He finally made it back to his room, and shrugged the backpack off of his shoulders. He took out the lockable case. He put the lockpick set and his money roll in the case, locked it, and put it high up on the shelf in his closet. He pulled off one work boot and was about to remove the other when he spotted something lying on the desk. Getting up he clomped over to the desk and picked up a post card. Stunned, he sat down in the chair and turned the card over. It was from Eddie. 'Camp is great. There's lots to look at. Wish you were here. – Eddie, ' read the back. Scott flipped it back over and stared at the picture. He had never gotten mail, ever, so he spent a few minutes just looking at the postcard. Finally, he pulled off his other boot, and then carefully propped the post card up in the book case. He collapsed into bed and stared at the post card until he fell asleep. The next morning he woke up ravenous. Mrs. Delgado shoveled another pancake onto his plate. She had given him a fair amount of grief for forgetting about dinner. They talked quietly about Mr. Piotrowski and how he was doing. Scott told her that he thought Mr. Piotrowski wasn't eating that well. He was cooking for himself. From what Scott could tell that mostly meant whatever he could fry up in a skillet. Mrs. Delgado considered that information, "What about the clothing for the women's auxiliary?" "I had planned to start clearing that out today," replied Scott. "When the ladies come to collect they'll poke around and make sure that he's eating right." "How will they do that?" "We have our ways." The confused look on Scott's face amused her, and she shooed him from the kitchen. There turned out to be a lot more clothing than Scott suspected. Mr. Piotrowski instructed him to bring the clothing downstairs, and sort it into piles. Before he started in on that, Mr. Piotrowski had him help take the sewing machine, its table, and miscellaneous boxes of thread and fabric down to the panel truck. Mr. Piotrowski was taking it in to town, and leaving Scott to move clothing on his own. Scott started in the unused bedroom and discovered why, he thought, that Mr. Piotrowski wanted to be out of the house. The bedroom itself was bare, but the closet had a teenager's clothing in it. It must have been intended to be the son's room. It didn't take long to move that clothing downstairs. He left the boxes in the closet. The sewing room closet was packed so tightly with dresses that he was a little overwhelmed. He finally just grabbed an armful and got back to work. In the bottom of the closet were a lot of ladies shoes. Scott wasn't sure if the auxiliary would take them, but he moved them downstairs. He got the step ladder and started pulling down boxes from the top shelf. They were hats in hat boxes that looked pretty fancy. Shoved into a corner was a box of what Scott guessed must be costume jewelry. He put that in the, 'What do we do with it?' pile. He took a short lunch break and got back to work. He was vacuuming when Mr. Piotrowski returned. The two rooms looked a lot different with everything out of them. Scott shut off the vacuum, "I thought I'd wait on the windows until we'd finished with the other rooms." "Sounds good to me. I can't hardly get past the hallway with all that clothing piled up. When are those women from the auxiliary going to be here?" "Tomorrow. I still haven't tackled the big bedroom yet," Scott replied. "Oh, and I found a box of costume jewelry, what do you want to do with it?" "Just throw it out, nobody will want that." Scott shook his head vigorously in disagreement, "Mr. Piotrowski, if you don't want it for the yard sale then it's perfect for the auction. I bet ladies, or girls, would snap it up. There may even be costume jewelry collectors. I don't know, but I'd bet that somebody will buy it." Mr. Piotrowski thought it over, "It would be good to put this whole process to the test. How do you want to start?" "Pictures. Let's take some pictures, and you should write up the description. Would it sell better broken up, or all as one lot? Jewelry and box?" "Let's sell it as one deal. Less to worry about it that way," Mr. Piotrowski decided. After pulling all the drawers of the jewelry box out Scott made a list of all the pieces and handed it over. Then he started taking pictures. When he thought he had enough he shut the camera off. Mr. Piotrowski handed him a sheet of lined note paper with a description of the jewelry and box. "It looks good to me. Why don't we go down to Meritt's and get your first auction started?" This time Scott took a seat in front of the computer with Mr. Piotrowski watching over his shoulder. After a few minutes of uploading the photos and entering the descriptions Scott stopped and smacked himself in the forehead. "What?" inquired a concerned Mr. Piotrowski. "I forgot all about shipping. Do you want to include it in the bid price, or run next door and find out how much they'll charge to ship this? We also need to know what extra to charge if we include insurance, that sort of thing." "Is that all? Hold on while I go find out," said Mr. Piotrowski. He got up and walked next door to the post office portion of Meritt's. He returned a short time later with a sheet listing box sizes, weight, and prices. Pointing to the highlighted line he said, "There's our shipping price." A few keystrokes and a couple of mouse clicks later, the first Piotrowski auction went live. They left Meritt's pretty pleased with themselves. On Wednesday they started on the master bedroom. Scott pulled the drawers out of the dresser and moved them onto the bed in the spare room. He put a chair in there so that Mr. Piotrowski could sit and sort through the drawers. Next he stripped the sheets from the bed, and put them in the washer. He grabbed a dusting cloth and made quick work of the furniture. Setting his shoulders he opened the closet. It was an oddly shaped walk in with a bit of a dog leg at the back. The light in the closet was burnt out so he had to dig up a replacement. Finally, he started taking clothes downstairs. There was a small section of men's clothing. Scott stopped into the spare bedroom and asked Mr. Piotrowski what he wanted to do with it? "Just move it into the bedroom that I'm using. I'll sort it out later," he replied. Scott did that and then fetched a black plastic garbage bag. Instead of making twenty trips up and down the stairs carrying shoes, he was going to fill the plastic bag and make it in one or two trips. The men's boots and shoes he moved into the bedroom by the stairs. Scott wondered if Mr. Piotrowski would move back into the master bedroom after they were finished cleaning. With all the clothes finally moved, Scott stopped in the kitchen and phoned the number that Mrs. Delgado had given to him. The lady on the phone assured him that a group would be there within the hour. He went back upstairs and told Mr. Piotrowski that the ladies were en route. Scott used the step ladder to clear off the shelves in the master bedroom closet. He took those items into the bedroom where Mr. Piotrowski was still sorting through drawer contents. He didn't appear to be very enthusiastic about the task. Back in the closet, Scott moved around to the odd dog leg. In the far corner of the upper shelf he found a trio of boxes. The first two held what looked to be family photo albums. Scott moved those into Mr. Piotrowski's bedroom. The second box had another smaller, polished wood box inside of it. Scott pulled it out and peeked inside. He tucked it under his arm and took it to Mr. Piotrowski. "Mr. Piotrowski, what are these?" Scott indicated the open box and its contents. "I haven't seen that in thirty years, maybe more," he got up from his seat and took the box. He started to lay the contents out. There were a few pictures, and some patches, and several strange oblong boxes. Mr. Piotrowski held up a patch, "These are my sergeant's stripes. They're called chevrons." He picked up a small black and white photograph and looked closely at it, then turned it so that Scott could see, "This was taken near a place called Wonsan. That's me on the left." "I didn't know you were a soldier," Scott said. "Marine! I was a United States Marine. We get a little touchy about the difference. Soldiers are Army, don't ever forget that," said Mr. Piotrowski, patting him on the shoulder to let him know that he wasn't being too serious. Mr. Piotrowski let him hold the photo and continued digging into the box. He looked up, "Do you know what the Korean War was?" Scott replied, "Yes, sir, 1950. President Truman, right?" "That's right, perhaps today's schools aren't a complete waste of time," he replied and took out a newspaper clipping which he set aside. Scott didn't have the heart to tell him that he'd read about Korea in a book, they'd never discussed it in middle school. Maybe that was something they covered in high school. Mr. Piotrowski began to speak, "I was too young to serve during World War II. That was the big war with millions of Americans in uniform. The entire country made sacrifices to support the war effort. I was living in Wichita Falls when I turned eighteen in 1947, two years after the war. I wanted to join at seventeen, but my folks wouldn't let me. I joined the Marine Corps Reserve and went to San Diego for training. Eventually I came home to Wichita Falls. That's when I met Verna." He handed Scott some more pictures. "You have to understand that after a worldwide war that killed so many and cost so much ... nobody wanted any more. The military budget was slashed to the bone, and then they went deeper. The First Marine Division was at less than half of its wartime strength when the North Korean Army rolled across the 38th Parallel in June of 1950. President Truman and General MacArthur were totally unprepared. The U.S. Army in Korea had old equipment and barely any training. It was a military disaster. The Marine Reserves were called up, and I was sent to California. From there we were sent by troop ship to Japan, and then on to Korea. I was 60mm mortar man. They made me a squad leader on the boat from Japan to Korea." Mr. Piotrowski rubbed an eye, "When I came home Verna and I married, and I never wore the uniform ever again." Scott opened one of the boxes. "That's my Korean Service Medal," Mr. Piotrowski explained. "This one is my Purple Heart. I got that for catching some American shrapnel in the back side." "You were shot by our own side?" "Not exactly. When the Koreans rolled over the 38th Parallel they captured a lot of American equipment and ammo. They used it against us. 105mm artillery has a very distinct sound when it's coming your way. I wasn't hurt bad. They had to dig it out of my back and ass, what they could get at anyway. I spent less than a week in the hospital after they stitched me up. Then I went back to the regiment. It hurt like a son of gun; don't let anybody tell you different." "What's this one Mr. Piotrowski?" Scott asked holding up a dusky, almost brown star with a colorful red, white, and blue ribbon with a little 'V' pinned to it. "That's a Bronze Star," he said a little gruffly. Scott looked at the photos and at the medals, and asked, "Were you a war hero, Mr. Piotrowski?" "No, not me!" Mr. Piotrowski almost growled. Then he paused and let out a deep breath, "I don't mean to bark at you son. Do you know what a 'war hero' is? The war heroes are the guys who never came home, or the ones who were so tore up that they had to teach them how to live all over again. Those are your heroes son." Scott gulped and nodded his head. They heard a banging on the front door. "I bet that's the auxiliary ladies," said Mr. Piotrowski, thankful for the interruption. There was a group on the front porch. A woman banged on the front door, and Mr. Piotrowski hurried to answer it. "Alexander Piotrowski, are you going to let us in or stand here all day?" asked a distinguished looking woman with silver hair. She pushed her way in, and was followed by several more women all carrying unidentifiable dishes wrapped in aluminum foil. They marched to the kitchen, and started poking around in the refrigerator and the deep freeze. Scott looked at Mr. Piotrowski with wide eyes. Mr. Piotrowski put his arm on Scott's shoulder and whispered, "Women are a like a force of nature. Sometimes you just have to get out of the way ... and these women are a category five hurricane." They gingerly walked to the kitchen to see what was going on. The ladies had a garbage bag out and were removing things that apparently offended them in the refrigerator. Another was wiping down the countertops with a sponge. The leader turned around and fixed Mr. Piotrowski with steely eyes, "Alex, you old reprobate, you're going to have to eat better than this, and who, pray tell, is this young man?" "I'm Scott MacIntyre, ma'am." "Luisa's young man then," she commented and turned back to Mr. Piotrowski. "These are individually packaged single-serving casseroles. They're clearly marked and we'll leave instructions for the oven or the microwave on your refrigerator. You need to start eating fresh vegetables and fruit, and stop frying everything. This just won't do Alex." "I'll try," replied a humbled Mr. Piotrowski. The ladies finished their repairs to the kitchen, and then fanned out over the house. They peeked and poked. Some made small noises of either satisfaction or dissatisfaction with what they found. After a while they finished their inspection and congregated in the living room and hallway packed with clothing. "So these are Verna's. Let's take a closer look, ladies," announced the leader. "No doubt about it, Verna hand made a lot of these," observed one woman. "She always did have the most delicate hand with a stitch." "Gentleman, if you'll assist us we'll get these things loaded up and see that they are distributed to some very needy people. Verna would have liked that," the distinguished lady said as she clasped Mr. Piotrowski's hand. There were three cars in the driveway, and with careful placement they managed to get all the clothing and shoes into them. Scott and Mr. Piotrowski took a seat on the front porch and watched the ladies depart. "Wow," was all that Scott could say. "No kidding," said a somewhat shocked Mr. Piotrowski. He looked up at the sun and made a decision. "Scott, take the rest of the week off from this and concentrate on your job at Mendoza's. We've gotten a lot of work done, and I don't want you to get burned out. I'll see you bright and early on Sunday." "Are you sure Mr. Piotrowski?" Scott asked. "I am. Relax a bit and then we'll get cracking on Sunday." "Yes, sir, see you then," Scott grabbed his bag and headed for Broken Creek. ------- Chapter 5 Friday, June 16, 2006 Friday at Mendoza's Engine Center started out like normal until the shop foreman announced that there would be a meeting of all employees from both shops in the big loading bay before lunch. There was a lot of confusion in the air as the employees began to gather. Scott overheard one fabrication shop employee telling another, "Just like my last job, they called us all in for the bad news." Everybody got quiet as the two foremen walked in. They were quickly followed by Mr. Mendoza and the office staff. Mr. Mendoza jumped up on a small stack of wooden pallets so that people could see him. "Can everybody hear me?" he asked. There were murmurs of assent. "Okay, good. I know things have been tight lately since we had to cut some hours. It means a lot to me, and the company, that you stuck through these hard times. It's nice to come before you and have some good news. Thanks to some terrific work by the front office staff, I can announce that we won the overhaul and maintenance contract for Trans-Pecos Gas. That's all their fleet vehicles for three years!" There was an explosion of exclamations and spontaneous hand clapping. "That's right, a three year contract. That means stability for the company, and not just for the engine center. I fully anticipate a lot of cross over to the fabrication shop." The mood in the loading bay had completely turned around. The men were exchanging smiles and slaps on the back. Mr. Mendoza continued explaining the kind of work that they expected with the contract, and then announced a couple of promotions within the company. Finally, "I've got one last announcement. Rico Lopez came to us over a year ago and has turned out to be one of the fab shop's most reliable employees. I made a promise to him. If Rico would get his GED then we would pay for him to attend the advanced welding school in Midland." Mr. Mendoza held up a piece of paper, "This is Rico's GED transcript, which means that he'll be headed to Midland in August. Congratulations Rico! If you want to find out about professional training classes or schools, talk to your supervisor or shop foreman. The better trained you are, the better product that Mendoza's turns out. Last thing, I swear, lunch is on the company today!" There were more cheers. "Enjoy it folks, we've earned it," and with that Mr. Mendoza jumped down. He walked through the crowd shaking hands and exchanging greetings. Scott thought that he looked like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Rico caught Scott's attention and waved him over. "How about that, gringo?" "Congratulations, Rico, I knew you would pass," Scott replied. He was really happy for Rico. Rico lowered his voice, "And how did your own test go?" Scott held his thumb up and winked. Rico took a last look at Scott and said, "Try to stay out of jail." On Saturday, after his shift at Mendoza's, Scott was riding back to the ranch. The temperature was flirting with the century mark. He hadn't seen any sign of Mr. Piotrowski on the previous two days, so he was surprised to see him sitting on his front porch, waving. Scott waved back and stopped. "How are you Mr. Piotrowski?" "It's hotter than blazes, but I'm doing fine Scott. Thanks for asking. I've got some good news," he said. "I stopped by Meritt's this morning and had the cute waitress help me with the computer." Scott was trying to figure out which waitress was the 'cute' one. Maybe Mr. Piotrowski had different standards than a fourteen year old because he was drawing a blank. "The costume jewelry has seven bids!" he announced. "Hey, that's great Mr. Piotrowski. You were careful with your password and remembered to log off right?" "Yes, yes, I was very careful." "Just checking." "No, you're right. It's something I'll have to be careful about. I won't keep you, but wanted to share the news. What do you have planned for tomorrow?" he asked. "I want to try and get all of the windows washed," Scott said. "I like it. Then off you go, I'll see you first thing." Sunday morning dawned, and it looked like it was going be another scorcher. Scott had been up early and finished his few summertime chores. He grabbed a quick breakfast with Mrs. Delgado, and then jumped on his bike. Mr. Piotrowski was waiting for Scott. They moved buckets and sponges around to the side of the house, and hooked up a longer water hose. Scott mixed some of the window washing concentrate with water in one of the buckets. Then he stepped back to consider the task. "Mr. Piotrowski, we need a ladder. We really should do the second floor windows first. Do you have an extension ladder?" "You're right, I should have thought of that. There are a couple of ladders in the storage building. Look toward the back on the side closest to the house and you should see them." Scott went through the side door and turned on the light switch. The lights flickered and snapped on. He finally spotted the ladders in the back corner. Getting to them was another question all together. He moved some boxes out of the way, and started clearing a path. The air in the storage building was absolutely still. He started to sweat. The heat in the building was already stifling; by afternoon it was going to be intolerable. Scott finally got near the corner, but was blocked by a big pile covered with a dusty green tarp. He pulled the tarp back and found a jumble. There were several boxes of different sizes. Some items were wrapped in a thick ply plastic that had turned yellow with age. Other objects were wrapped in what looked like old oily rags. There was another tarp wrapped around something low on the floor. Scott moved the first box and tried to make some space. The second box had its base and corners reinforced with strips of wood. There was something heavy in it. He slid it over. He moved some smaller items and pulled the corner of the second tarp back. He was staring at two, chromed wire spoke wheels. Looking again he started to realize what was spread out around him. He grabbed the plastic sheeting and pulled it back to find the front forks of a small motorcycle. Digging further he found the seat, its vinyl had turned brittle and cracked from the heat. Another box held a headlight. The bike's frame was propped up against the wall wrapped in a blanket. He found the tank covered in plastic and a layer of old cloth. He turned it upright. 'Yamaha' stared back at him from the side of the tank. "What's taking you so long in there?" Mr. Piotrowski's voice was muted in the still air. He slowly picked his way through the path that Scott had made. "I had to move some things, look," he said excitedly pointing at the disassembled motorcycle. "Hmmm," Mr. Piotrowski grumbled. "Can you hand me the end of the ladder? We can carry it out and get started on those windows that you were so eager to tackle." "Yes, sir." The two carried the ladder around to where the buckets were set up. Mr. Piotrowski ran the ladder extension up, and Scott helped him place it beside the second story window. "You be careful going up and down this ladder. Watch that you don't let the rungs get wet with soap or they'll be slicker than cow shit. If you can't reach something, come back down and we'll move the ladder. You hear me?" "Yes, sir, safety first." They spent all of the morning, and an hour after lunch, washing windows. Sitting quietly in the kitchen afterwards drinking a glass of ice water, Scott was trying to figure out what was bothering Mr. Piotrowski. Mr. Piotrowski coughed to get his attention, "Scott, about that motorcycle you found?" "Yes, sir?" "That was something that I was saving for my ... son," he explained. "Oh." "What I was thinking about was that we still haven't agreed on how much I was going to pay you. So, if you'd be interested, how about I trade you the motorcycle and some other incidentals in exchange for your labor?" Scott took a breath, "Are you sure Mr. Piotrowski, I wouldn't want to—" "Scott, I've thought about it. I'd like to see that bike go to somebody who could appreciate it. I think that somebody is you. Am I right?" "Oh, yes, sir. I mean it's what I've been working so hard for. Can you tell me anymore about it? All I know is that it was an older model Yamaha, but that's all I could see." "It's a 1976 Yamaha RD 200. They were a great little two-stroke bike, air cooled with twin exhausts. Six speed. It had a front drum brake, but I converted it to a disk brake. It's much better behaved that way, trust me. You know, I've forgotten how much work had been done to that little bike. A word of warning. It's going to take a ton of time and effort to get it back to running condition. It's hasn't been started in over twenty-five years. Plus, it's in several different piles. Another thing, you'll have to work on it on your own time." Scott quickly agreed, "Not a problem. Thank you, Mr. Piotrowski." He was thrilled. A two hundred cubic centimeter engine was well within the 250 cc size limit that the state of Texas required for young riders. Whatever it cost to get this bike running again, mentally crossing his fingers, it would have to be less than what he'd planned to spend on a modern bike. No matter how old, he thought that the road bike would be more civilized than the street legal 125 cc dirt bikes that he had been considering. Scott was so excited that he hadn't realized that Mr. Piotrowski was still speaking. He replayed the last several minutes back in his head. This was interesting. Mr. Piotrowski wanted to remodel the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms, and put an office upstairs in one of the unused rooms. He had just been asked a question; did he know anybody who could do the work? Scott focused, "I can ask around." "I'd appreciate it. Why don't we move that pile of motorcycle bits over to the stall where I'd been parking the panel truck? I'm going to leave it outside since I'm using it so much now," Mr. Piotrowski said. Together they moved the lighter boxes and bits down to the stall. Scott cleared out a wider path. With more space and the help of a dolly, they moved the front end, the reinforced box holding the engine, and the frame. Mr. Piotrowski wiped the sweat from his eyes and declared, "I may be too old for much more of that nonsense." "You shouldn't overdo it," Scott said concerned. "Have you been colluding with those women from the auxiliary?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Never mind, those women don't collude, they command." They shared a smile. "We're going to have to do something about this building. There's not enough room to work in here, and it's too damn hot." Mr. Piotrowski walked over to the hose by the back door of the house. He turned on the faucet while they both took drinks from the hose and splashed water on their faces. "We need a tent," he announced. "Huh?" "Come on, we need something to trade," Mr. Piotrowski said. He moved quickly to the storage building with Scott close on his heels. Inside he made his way to a section that Scott had not been in yet. Mr. Piotrowski was muttering to himself, "No. Not that. Where is that durned thing. Ah ha!" He pulled down a box with a grunt and set it gently on the floor. "Need to find some spare tubes," he announced. "Open up some of those boxes for me." Scott was completely confused, and it must have shown on his face. "Vacuum tubes, son," said Mr. Piotrowski. He rummaged through a nearby box that was open and pulled out a small object and handed it to him. "That, my young friend, is a vacuum tube. They ran the world before the transistor or semiconductor." Scott examined the object. It was a glass tube. The glass had a silvery sheen to it, and the 'nipple' end was blackened. There was a metal structure inside the glass, and it had plugs on the flat end. He turned to Mr. Piotrowski with a quizzical look. "That one is burnt out. We need to find some spares." Scott moved to open some of the smaller boxes. "Don't you have a pocket knife?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "No, sir." "Good grief, every boy should have a pocket knife." Mr. Piotrowski walked to another shelf and dug around. He unwrapped a small box, and brought over a knife and opened it. It had horn style grips and two blades which Mr. Piotrowski tested with his thumb. "I'll teach you how to sharpen this later. Always cut away from yourself, never toward you." Mr. Piotrowski pointed to a scar at the base of his index finger. "I got that when I was about eleven years old because I hadn't learned that lesson." "I'll be careful. Thanks, Mr. Piotrowski!" "It's just an old pocket knife. That's what we call an incidental by the way. Besides, you'll need it." Incidental was another word that Scott liked. He found a box full of vacuum tubes packed in individual cardboard boxes, and then carried the mystery box into the kitchen for Mr. Piotrowski. It weighed about thirty pounds he guessed. It turned out to hold a radio, but not one that he had ever seen the likes of. It was covered with a pretty, burl wood veneer. Offset from the center it had had a large round glass covered golden dial. It looked elegant, and had the word 'Silvertone' printed at the center. The case was more like a piece of furniture than a radio. Mr. Piotrowski fiddled with the knobs, but the radio was dead. He took the back loose and showed Scott the vacuum tubes. He pulled one that was burnt out and found a replacement. He plugged it in, turned the radio on and it crackled to life. "We're in business. Tomorrow we go trading." Mr. Piotrowski told him that he didn't have to show up until 11:00 a.m. on Monday. They were going to go to town. Scott spent a leisurely Monday morning reading. He had enjoyed a quiet breakfast with Mrs. Delgado before returning to his room. The school district, and the public library, had a summer reading program. Most of his peers wouldn't finish the reading list, or would wait until the last week of summer vacation to start, Scott planned to finish in a couple of weeks. ------- Mr. Piotrowski was driving the sedan today. He explained that they were going to see an old friend of his. On the east side of Fort Stockton they pulled into the parking lot of a building that Scott had seen before, but had never been in. The long metal building stood alone in an empty, dusty lot. It was the Veterans of Foreign Wars post. The VFW was a social center for the older set in Fort Stockton. They had dances, and let people rent out the hall. This afternoon there were only a few cars parked in the lot. Scott carried the radio in its box while Mr. Piotrowski pushed his way through the front door. A man stood up from a table where a group was playing dominos, "Good grief, look who it is. Sergeant Piotrowski, as I live and breathe, I thought when you paid for that lifetime membership that we might see you more than once a decade." Mr. Piotrowski pointed to a table and told Scott to set the box down there. Then he went to shake hands with the men. "Who is this young fellow, Alex?" asked one of them. "That's Scott MacIntyre, he's working for me this summer." "So it's true, you are going back into business?" asked the first man. "I'm clearing out my building that much is true. Let me jaw at you a bit about something." Mr. Piotrowski turned back to Scott, "Saddle up to the bar and order a root beer, it's on me." Scott went up to the bar. There were two older men there nursing early afternoon beers. They were watching a tiny television mounted above the bar. The bartender leaned over and asked, "What'll you have young man?" "Root beer, please." "Ah, excellent choice. This was a particularly good vintage with a full and robust flavor." The bartender reached into a cooler and took out a large glass mug that was frosted over. He walked to the end of the bar and pulled a tap that dispensed a foamy brown liquid. Putting a paper coaster on the bar top he set the mug down, and with a wave of his hand invited Scott to try the concoction. Scott took one tentative drink, and then he took a long deep pull from the mug. "Good?" inquired the bartender "Yes, sir," replied Scott as he wiped the foam from his lip. "That's really good." "Now, you stick to root beer so you don't end up like these two," he indicated the men watching the television. One of them looked over and saluted the bartender with a rude finger. Scott was draining the mug when Mr. Piotrowski approached the bar. "How much?" he asked. "On the house, Alex. Don't be such a stranger. We'd like to see you around here, and you can bring this young man back with you. We need a little life in this place." Scott carried the radio out to a truck in the parking lot under the supervision of the man that Mr. Piotrowski been talking with. The man waved and went back into the VFW building. Mr. Piotrowski was rubbing his hands together, "Yes, sir, that's what I call a good trade. Is there anywhere in town that you'd like to go to while we're here?" "Could we go to the library?" It was just a couple of blocks east of the VFW. At the library Mr. Piotrowski headed for the public computers while Scott went to the vocational section. He was looking for motorcycle repair manuals. Thumbing through the small section he found one volume on vintage two-stroke motorcycles of the 1970s, he grabbed it. He went to the catalog computer and spent several minutes searching. It looked like he was going to have to order a manual for the Yamaha. Maybe he could get one through the engine repair center. Scott checked out the book, and found a very excited Mr. Piotrowski at the computers. "Scott, we sold the costume jewelry." He lowered his voice and looked around at the other library patrons, "For a hundred and twenty-eight dollars!" "No kidding? That's terrific Mr. Piotrowski. We should get it boxed up and shipped out this afternoon." "I was thinking the same thing. What do you have there?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "A book on two-stroke motorcycles." "Ah." After a quick trip to the house to take the jewelry box to the post office at Meritt's, Mr. Piotrowski gave him the rest of the day off. They would start clearing out the storage building the next day he told him. The next morning Scott was very eager to get to Mr. Piotrowski's. When he pedaled up to the house there was a big extended cab pickup truck with an empty flat bed trailer parked in the driveway. Scott followed the sound of voices to the back of the house. A group of men were erecting a large open sided tent set at a right angle to the storage building. It was going to run along the back side of the gravel driveway. The house, the storage building, and the tent formed three sides of a box. Mr. Piotrowski saw him and shouted, "Morning." "You traded an old radio for all of this?" Scott asked. "I traded something somebody wanted for the use of this tent for as long as I need it," explained Mr. Piotrowski. "It's eighteen by thirty foot. The way I see this working is that we'll move items from the building to the tent where we'll inventory it. We'll have shade, and some fresh air. Then we can sort out what to sell in the yard sale, and what to sell online. How does that strike you?" Scott could see that Mr. Piotrowski was getting excited about their progress, "Gosh Mr. Piotrowski, I can't see a better way of doing it." Then he remembered something else, "Before I forget, I asked Jorge about contractors. He said to tell you to 'call Billy' and you'd know who that was." "Jorge told me to call Billy?" Mr. Piotrowski's voice sounded odd. "Yes, sir." Mr. Piotrowski grunted, "We'll see." The men had finished putting up the tent, and were driving tie downs into the hard Texas soil to run guy-lines to. After tying the lines off they asked Mr. Piotrowski to inspect the tent. He tried to give them some money, but they insisted that they had been taken care of. The men unloaded a couple of dollies; a furniture dolly and an appliance dolly, and drove off. Mr. Piotrowski was nodding, "That was an excellent trade." Scott spent the next two days moving boxes from the first two sections of the storage building out to the tent. Surrounding these two sections were large steel shelves that were filled with every imaginable item. They needed the floor space just to get to the shelves. Mr. Piotrowski wasn't worried about leaving the items under the tent. There was little theft in Pecos County. Besides as he liked to tell Scott, he was still pretty good with a scattergun. On Wednesday afternoon Mr. Piotrowski told Scott that he didn't need him until Sunday, but if he wanted to stop by after working at Mendoza's then he was more than welcome to tinker on the motorcycle. Scott agreed, as Mr. Piotrowski knew he would. Work at Mendoza's seemed to drag by. Scott had to shake himself mentally. He was fortunate to have one job, let alone two. He got back into the right mindset and the day passed faster. Working in the small engine department with Noah was educational. He hoped some of what he was learning would transfer to the motorcycle. He asked Noah how to go about making a personal purchase through the company. "What do you want to buy?" Noah asked. "I need manuals for a 1976 Yamaha motorcycle." "So you got one, that's great. Talk to the front office. You'll get an employee discount." Scott was in the front office while the ladies looked up the right manuals for him on the computer when Mr. Mendoza walked in. "Scotty, what are you up to today?" asked Mr. Mendoza. "He's ordering some motorcycle manuals with his employee discount," explained one of the ladies. "You bought a motorcycle?" asked Mr. Mendoza. Scott explained about the trade that he worked with Mr. Piotrowski, and about the condition of the motorcycle. "That sounds like a good summer project. I'll tell you what, why don't you bring the motor in to the shop and Noah can help you get it ready to run. We'll consider it part of your training," offered Mr. Mendoza. "Really? That would be great. I really appreciate it sir." "Think nothing of it. I have fond memories of an old Yamaha I had back in the day. Those are fun motorcycles, as long as you're safe." "Don't worry Mr. Mendoza. I think I'm getting that lecture, I mean 'reminder' from everybody. Judge Upcott is very insistent on the subject. Since he's the one who's going to sign off on my hardship license after I complete the safety course, I'm taking it very seriously." "That's good to hear. At least you have a good head on your shoulders, maybe it will keep you from doing anything too dangerous," he said. "By the way, Eddie says to say hello. Connie and the girls will be back from my brother's place the second week of July, but the boys are staying until August. She's going to want to feed you, so I expect I'll being seeing you for supper from time to time." "Yes, sir," Scott said. Mrs. Mendoza was a fine cook. He liked eating with the family, but without Eddie there it might be a little strange. After work Scott hustled to get to Mr. Piotrowski's so that he could get started on the bike. There was a note on the back door explaining that Mr. Piotrowski had gone to town, and that the carriage door was unlocked. Scott took a notebook from his backpack and started to inventory parts. He unwrapped each item and tried to lay it out in an organized fashion. It was all there, from what he could tell, a complete motorcycle. All he had to do was to put it back together and get it running. This was going to be a huge job. Starting a new page he began writing down all the things that he was going to have to replace. The rubber grips on the pegs, kick starter, and handlebars had all dried and rotted. He needed new tires, light bulbs, brake cable, spark plugs, filters, gaskets, seals. Whew. Did he need to rebuild the front forks? The seat he could live with, maybe he'd put some duct tape over the cracks. The good news was there was no rust or corrosion that he could see. He'd have to find somebody to tune and balance the spoke wheels. Noah at the engine center would at least help him with the motor and transmission. Once he had the manuals, he should be able to get this all back together in time for his birthday in January. It was starting to get dark so Scott threw a tarp back over the spread out bike, closed the door, and headed back to the ranch. Mr. Piotrowski hadn't returned yet. At work the next day, Noah was helping Scott fill out an order form for the parts that he would need. Noah suggested a few things that Scott hadn't even considered. The shop foreman interrupted them. Scott explained about the motorcycle and what they were doing. The foreman suggested that he move the whole thing to the shop. That way he'd clear out more space for Mr. Piotrowski. Scott wasn't sure if the foreman wanted to help him get the motorcycle running, or help speed along the eventual yard sale that the entire Fort Stockton area seemed to be waiting on. The days were starting to pass by in a blur. Tuesday found Scott surrounded by piles of boxes. The inventory had been progressing nicely. He had stopped being amazed at the variety of things they were clearing out. The box immediately in front of Scott had what he had just described on paper as, 'Door knobs, various, antique brass?' "Scott, let's grab some lunch. How about I treat you to a sandwich at Meritt's? We can check the computer too," Mr. Piotrowski's head was poking through a space in the boxes. "Is it lunch already?" Scott looked at his watch, tapping the face. It still read 10:30. "Your watch broke?" "Yes, sir, I guess it finally wore out," Scott wrote a note on the cardboard box lid, secured the pen to the clipboard and stood up. He stepped out from the cage of boxes and looked around for Mr. Piotrowski. Mr. Piotrowski was coming out of the storage building with a box in his hands. "Here you go. With the place nearly cleared out I can finally find some things. We'll call this another incidental," he said handing Scott the box. The box was labeled 'Omega' and had the Greek symbol printed boldly above the text. Scott opened the box and there was another tightly fitted into the first. It was red with gold highlights and looked very fancy. He took that box out and opened it. Inside was a big silvery steel watch on a flexible bracelet. "It's a watch," Scott said simply, looking at it. "I bought a bunch of those from a fellow in Houston too many years ago to even think about. Here, let's see how much we'll have to adjust it to get it to fit," Mr. Piotrowski said. With his big hands he slid the watch over Scott's hand. It looked huge on his arm, "Come into the kitchen, I'm going to have to take some links out." Scott sat in the kitchen holding the watch carefully in his hands while Mr. Piotrowski poked through a box of small tools. The watch had three buttons on the side. The face of the watch looked amazing to Scott. It had three little sub dials with tiny number and hash marks. Printed in delicate letters above the hands were the words 'Omega Speedmaster Professional.' It was the back of the watch that caused Scott to gasp. He pointed at it. 'The First Watch Worn on the Moon. Flight Qualified by NASA for All Manned Space Missions.' Mr. Piotrowski just chuckled, "Marketing, Scott. I think the early astronauts wore the same kind in space. Companies advertised even the slimmest connection to the space race, so all the watches of this type have that stamped into the back. People were space crazy back then. It was bigger than the Super Bowl, World Series, and Christmas all combined. Too bad that's all gone. I think we were better off many ways then. We had hope for the future. If we could put a man on the moon, what couldn't we do?" He took the watch from Scott's hands and removed several links with a special tool. "Try it now." Scott closed the clasp and shook his wrist, "It fits Mr. Piotrowski." "Alright then, I'll put these links in a baggie and you keep them in the box. When you get bigger you can add them back in." The large watch gleamed and he couldn't stop staring at it. The head of the watch was almost bigger than his wrist. "You might want to set the time and wind it," Mr. Piotrowski chided gently. They looked over the manual and Scott set the time. He wound the watch. The third 'sweep' hand wasn't moving. It pointed straight up at twelve. That's when Scott noticed one of the hands on of the sub dials was moving. That must be the second hand. He needed to read the manual more carefully. "Let's go get us a burger and a shake," Mr. Piotrowski said as he stood up. That night at the bunkhouse Scott put the big red Omega watch box next to his postcard from Eddie. He went to sleep wondering if life could get any better. The next morning he was hard at it again. The only major things left in the storage building were the shelves, and a collection of old furniture in the next to last bay. There were piles of boxes all over the gravel parking area behind the house. Each was covered by a tarp. The big open sided tent had all manner of things crammed under it. They didn't worry about rain. Pecos County got less than thirteen inches of it in an average year. "Scott, where's your watch?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. Scott blushed bright red and stared at his shoes. He mumbled something. "Speak up boy, I can't hear you." "Mr. Piotrowski, sir, I uh ... I've never owned anything that nice," he said in a rush. "I don't want to get it scratched up so I ... left it on my shelf in the box." "Well, good grief. You stand there and don't move, I'll be right back," Mr. Piotrowski walked briskly to the storage building. He returned just a minute later. "Put this watch on, and you wear it every day now you hear? You can ... you can wear the other watch on special occasions when you dress up," Mr. Piotrowski said gruffly. "The G.I.'s wore these in World War II. They made millions of them so they're nothing special. I've got a whole box of them." This watch was much simpler. It had a brownish green fabric band, one button and a plain, yet very functional dial. There was only one word on the dial and it read 'Elgin.' The back of the watch was stamped with 'Type A-11' and a bunch of numbers. At the top it said 'A.F. U.S. Army.' Scott wound it, set the time, and placed the band over his wrist. "There you go. You've got just about everything that a man needs now; a good watch and a pocket knife." "What else do I need," Scott asked curiously. "In a few more years and you'll probably have it figured out," Mr. Piotrowski replied with a smile. In the afternoon, Mr. Piotrowski laid out his plan for the next week. The yard sale would be held the next Friday and Saturday. It was the last day of June and the first of July. "Do you think Mr. Mendoza will let you take the week off? I'd really like you to be here for the sale." "He might, I'll ask," replied Scott. Mr. Piotrowski went on to explain that the auxiliary was going to help. The ladies were going to set up an area to sell homemade desserts and lemonade. Some of them would also help collect money. Scott wondered what else Mr. Piotrowski was talking to the 'ladies' auxiliary' about. "What we need to get are a bunch of tables. I'll either rent them from the VFW or the school," Mr. Piotrowski explained. "I even put a notice in the paper. Not that we'll need it given the way these old gossips have been talking about this deal. Now, is there anything that you can think of that we still need to do?" Scott pondered for a bit, "The only thing I can think of is what are you going to ask for all this?" Mr. Piotrowski explained, "Once we get the tables set up and everything laid out, I'll walk through and put prices on it all. What I want to do is sell all of the heavy stuff here. Anything left over, along with a few things that I'm holding back, we can sell online." Scott could see that Mr. Piotrowski was excited. He couldn't keep the smile from his face either. It was going to be a really interesting week. First thing Thursday morning, Scott found the engine center foreman and asked what he needed to do to get the next week off. The foreman scratched his chin, and told him to go see Mr. Mendoza. Scott found Mr. Mendoza in the front office. He explained what he needed. Mr. Mendoza stopped and checked something on his secretary's computer. "Did you know that since you came to work that you've never had a sick day, or been docked for being late? I think we can give you a few days off in service to the community. I think this yard sale may be an unofficial county holiday. Now, have you been keeping an eye out for me, spot anything good?" Scott rubbed his head, "Well ... there's not anything engine related. There are a lot of tools, but I don't know if that interests you. There is some nice china that Mrs. Mendoza might like. Some of it has a real pretty pattern. There are some old dolls the girls might be interested in. I think we've got three boxes of them with extra clothes and things like that, but maybe they're too old to play with dolls?" Scott asked. Mr. Mendoza replied, "There are some full grown girls who still like dolls." "I don't know what Eddie and the guys would like. Hey, there is a box of old Army watches like this one," he said showing the watch on his arm to Mr. Mendoza. Mr. Mendoza looked carefully at his watch, "My father had one just like that. I might want one for myself," he said softly. "Why don't you stop by on Wednesday or Thursday before the sale? If you help set up tables you can get an early look before anyone else does," Scott said with an innocent look. Mr. Mendoza slapped Scott on the shoulder good naturedly, "Have you ever read Tom Sawyer?" Scott went back to the small engine corner and was cleaning a carburetor when Noah dropped a piece of paper next to him. "Your parts are in," he announced. "Let's make sure you got everything." They had already moved the disassembled bike to the shop. Noah was leaning on a hand truck stacked with boxes. Scott knelt down and checked his list off against the boxes. "It's all here. I guess we can park this in the corner. I won't be able to get to it until the week after next. They're giving me time off so I can help with Mr. Piotrowski's yard sale. You should try and stop by Noah. There will be a lot to see. Noah had an interesting look on his face, "I might do that if I have time." The next week was a crazy dash to the finish. Scott and Mr. Piotrowski made three trips in the panel truck to pick up tables. The ladies of the women's auxiliary descended en masse on the Piotrowski house. Scott thought the entire membership had shown up. Even Mrs. Delgado was present directing ladies to their individual tasks. By Wednesday all of the tables were set up. Slowly, order emerged out of chaos. The table tops were full and larger items were stashed under the tables. The storage building had been swept out. There were more items on the shelves inside, but they had been catalogued. The men who had originally set up the tent came out and set up some sun shades, and dropped off a load of lawn chairs. Scott pounded stakes in by the road side and stapled up signs announcing the yard sale, '8:00 a.m. Friday and Saturday till Dusk. Cash sales only.' read the sign. Mr. Mendoza did stop by on Thursday, but missed out on helping organize the sale. He did leave with a couple of boxes and a big smile on his face. Scott and Mr. Piotrowski were pretty wiped out as the sun started to set. They spread out tarps over the tables, and sat down in a couple of lawn chairs to rest. "Scott, go and get a good night's sleep. Be here early though, let's say 5:30 a.m.? I'll bet you dollars to donuts that some early birds will be here by 6:30 or 7:00 a.m. at the latest." Scott yawned, "Yes, sir, I'll see you in the morning." He hopped on his bicycle and set off for the ranch. Friday morning, June 30, 2006 It was dark as Scott pedaled up the driveway. There were lights on in the house. When did the curtains go back up? Scott knocked on the kitchen door. Mr. Piotrowski opened it. He was wearing overalls over a nice white shirt. In one hand he held a straw hat. "Good morning, Scott. What do you think? I'm going for the distinguished farmer look today," Mr. Piotrowski asked. "You look fine sir. The hat is a good touch," he replied. "Who put the curtains up? I would have helped." "A couple of ladies from the auxiliary were very insistent," he replied. Scott gave Mr. Piotrowski a look. Mr. Piotrowski just shook his finger at Scott, "No comments from you young man." He turned on the outside flood lights and started toward the storage building, "Follow me, I need you to help me with something before anybody else gets here." Scott was curious, but held his tongue and followed along. Mr. Piotrowski unlocked the side door, and turned the lights on. The building looked entirely different than it had a few short weeks ago. The floors were clear of clutter and had been swept clean. The shelves were organized, and Scott could see that price tags had been affixed to boxes and individual items while he was gone. Against the wall toward the middle of the building was a section of cabinets that had been closed and locked. They held things that Mr. Piotrowski wanted to sell online. Mr. Piotrowski closed the door behind them. He walked to the corner where Scott had first discovered the motorcycle. The side wall had a few shelves and several enclosed wooden cabinets by the door. "Help me clear off these side shelves. Let's move these things over to that empty shelf," he was pointing to a section deeper into the building. There wasn't much to move. "So Scott, tell me how you hide something in plain sight?" "I suppose you make it look like something else? Or maybe you distract people, I don't really know, why?" This conversation hit a little too close to home. "What do you see here?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Empty shelves, cabinets, the side door, the floor ... there's not much here." "Exactly, and since there's nothing here your attention is drawn to these other shelves, right?" "Yes, sir." "Good," Mr. Piotrowski rubbed his hands together. "I'll explain after the yard sale. Now, let me show you what I plan to be doing all day." Scott was completely confused but he followed Mr. Piotrowski outside. He had a comfortable chair set up by a small round table next to the kitchen steps. A large umbrella shade had been erected that covered both the chair and table. "I plan to sit here for most of the day. I'm going to let the ladies from the auxiliary run the money collection. Since you know where everything is, I'd like you to be my floater. Wander around, keep an eye on people. Answer questions when you can. If you need a final word on something, come see me. Help folks take things out to their cars, that sort of thing. Sound good to you?" "Yes, sir. You think we'll be busy?" Scott asked. "You wait and see. Now before people start showing up, I want you to check that all the doors and windows are locked in the house. Get some rope, or some tape, and block off the stairs on the front porch. People will try to buy the shutters off the side of the house if we let them." Scott checked inside and found everything secure. He grabbed some rope and tied off the stairs. Then he took some poster board and made a sign pointing to the back of the house and hung it over the rope. He opened up all the doors on the storage building, and plugged in two large box fans they had borrowed from Mr. Mendoza. The fans would help blow fresh air through the building while people were browsing. Scott pulled all the tarps and covers from the tables and put them away. He walked up and down the rows of tables adjusting boxes and making sure all the price tags were visible. Mr. Piotrowski called to him, "Scott, turn off those lights and come and sit down. We've done all we can. It's time to relax for a bit." "Yes, sir," Scott answered. He grabbed a lawn chair and brought it over to where Mr. Piotrowski was seated. They sat in the cool darkness and watched the horizon brighten. The sun finally broke over the land. "That's always worth taking the time for isn't it?" commented Mr. Piotrowski. "I believe so," Scott replied. They enjoyed the early morning silence and watched the sky change brilliant colors. A few minute past 6:30 a.m., several carloads of ladies arrived. They moved with a purpose. First they set up their own tables, and began setting out cakes and plates of cookies or other sweets. Scott was volunteered to help fill several large drink coolers with water. The water they would dispense for free in little paper cones. The sale of baked goods, and lemonade went to fund the various public works that the ladies' auxiliary prided itself in. Mr. Piotrowski got everybody's attention. He explained where he would be, and how much he appreciated all the help that the auxiliary had been. Dickering was fine he insisted. His rule of thumb was, "When in doubt, sell. When you have questions I want you to find my assistant. He cataloged this entire sale and knows where everything is. So he's the man to see if you need help." The ladies all turned and looked at Scott. He swallowed and gave a little wave. Mr. Piotrowski walked back over to his seat, sat down, and closed his eyes. Scott was running all over the place. The ladies figured out that since they had their own gofer that he should be put to work. The first customer showed up just after 7:00 a.m. At first it was just a trickle of people, but two hours later it was crowded. Scott could barely keep up. At that moment he was holding a box full of ceramic salt and pepper shakers so that a tiny lady could look inside the box. "Young man. Is that one dollar for the box, or per shaker?" she asked. "That's one dollar per item, ma'am," he replied. "Will you take five dollars for six?" she shrewdly asked. Scott pretended to think it over. "Yes, ma'am, this lady will take your money," he indicated one of the auxiliary ladies hovering nearby. "Hold this steady while I pick out my six," she instructed. "Yes, ma'am." He had seen a few people that he knew. A teacher from middle school had stopped by and said hello. A few rows over he could see a couple of kids from school following their parents around. They had successfully avoided each other so far. The furniture dolly didn't like rolling down the gravel driveway. Scott had put out apple crates to block the driveway from the road. He moved them so a truck could back up into the driveway to load two large blanket chests. Two cars tried to take advantage of an easy parking space and pulled in to block the truck. It was a circus getting them to back out. Cars and trucks were parked up and down the shoulders of the county road. It might have been more traffic than the road saw in an entire year. Scott was putting the apple crates back across the driveway entrance when two high school girls walked up. He noticed that they were wearing tiny shorts and very tight halter tops. "Hey, is there anything we might like?" asked one. Scott stared at them. "Can you talk?" asked the other. Scott fumbled for words, "There's lemonade if you're thirsty?" The girls laughed and walked up the drive way while he looked for a rock to crawl under. Scott sat with Mr. Piotrowski and ate some lunch. He had a cheese sandwich and a banana along with a tall glass of iced tea. They had a polite, but vigorous disagreement about the subject of tea. Mr. Piotrowski, like a lot of southerners, liked sweet iced tea. Sweet tea in Texas, and the rest of the south as he understood it, was sickeningly sweet. If Scott was going to drink tea he preferred it plain. Hot tea was another argument entirely. Neither of them liked it. "These sun shades were a real good idea, Mr. Piotrowski." "I wish I could say that I thought of it. It was the ladies' auxiliary that suggested them, but you're right, it was a fine idea. After lunch I want you to go around and pull boxes out from under the tables and restock." Scott started to get up. "After lunch, Scott. Sit down here with me a while and relax. These people aren't going anywhere fast." There had to be thirty people browsing through the tables or wandering in and out of the storage building. Scott was straightening up a table that looked like a small tornado had passed it by when somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and saw an older gentleman waiting patiently. "I'm told you're the man to see if I'm looking for something specific?" the man asked. "Yes, sir, what can I help you find?" "I'm looking for wood carving tools," he explained. Scott sorted through the inventory in his mind, "Yes, sir. Do you see the lady with the yellow hat?" "That's my wife." "It's a lovely hat, sir," he cleared his throat. "Right past the table she's at we had a box of wood carving tools. I believe there were some draw blades and a set of chisels. There were also some tools with funny half round handles, kind of like a door knob," Scott explained. "Palm tools, I'd really like to see them," the man proclaimed. "Let's go take a look and see if they're still there," Scott walked him over to the right table. The box was under the table, and wasn't completely empty. Later, Scott was refilling the water coolers, and adding more ice to them, when he spotted Mr. Rewcastle browsing at a table. Everybody really is at this yard sale, he realized. Mr. Rewcastle must have seen him, but they didn't speak. The afternoon passed in a blur and before Scott knew it the auxiliary ladies were shooing people away telling them to come back tomorrow. The first day of the yard sale had been successful beyond anything that Scott could have imagined. He went and checked on the storage building. Even with the fans it was very uncomfortable inside. Looking around he guessed that twenty percent of the shelves had been cleared. The plan was to move material from the building to restock the outdoor tables. Scott started moving boxes. Outside Mr. Piotrowski was trying to give some money to the ladies' auxiliary. They refused to accept it saying that they had made more than they expected with the bake sale. They were going home to make more goods for Saturday's rush. Scott and Mr. Piotrowski spent a half hour restocking the tables and straightening up. Scott picked up trash and moved a couple of full trash bags out behind the storage building so that they couldn't be seen. He grabbed another bag to go check the roadway where the cars had been parked. He walked up and down both sides of the road, but was pleased to see that there was little, if any trash. He found Mr. Piotrowski counting cash and marking the total down in a little notebook. He put the cash into a box and sat back with a sigh. "Scotty my friend, we did pretty darn good today, and we're going to do it all over again tomorrow. I think it may be even busier if you can believe that. Today was the warm up." "Is there anything else I can do, Mr. Piotrowski?" he asked. "Take this," he said handing him fifty dollars. "Go and get a good night's sleep and I'll see you at the same time tomorrow morning." "What's this?" Scott asked. "Call it a bonus. A little cash never hurt. We'll call it an incidental if you prefer. Now go on. Get out of here and get some sleep. I need you wide eyed and bushy tailed tomorrow." Scott arrived back the ranch and was almost too tired to make himself a sandwich. He ate quickly and walked to the bunkhouse. He added the money that Mr. Piotrowski had given him to his lockbox. Sprawling out on the bed Scott thought he'd grab a shower and maybe read a bit. His internal clock woke him up at 4:45 am. He'd fallen asleep in his clothes. Was I really that tired? Scott took a quick shower and got dressed. Breakfast was a cold tortilla wrapped around a chunk of cheese. It wasn't the healthiest thing, but he was in a hurry. Mr. Piotrowski was right. Saturday was crazy. The first customer rolled in at 6:30 a.m. before the auxiliary was even set up. The ladies completely sold out of baked goods before noon. By late afternoon the yard sale tables were looking pretty well picked over. Most of the people hanging around now were doing more socializing than buying. There were still a few lookers when a man pulled up in a truck pulling a large trailer. The man introduced himself to Mr. Piotrowski and they started dickering. Mr. Piotrowski called Scott over, "This gentleman is going to walk around and put blue stickers on the items that he wants. I want you to mark it off on your inventory, and then bring it to me." "Yes, sir." Mr. Piotrowski spoke in a lower voice, "He's a dealer out of Odessa." "How do you think he heard about the yard sale?" Scott asked. "No idea. You better catch up to him. He might run out of stickers." Scott followed the man for thirty minutes as he checked each table, and under the big tent. He had to scramble to keep up with him. Finally the man stopped. "Damn, I wish I had gotten here yesterday. Hey kid, is there anything else left?" Scott pointed at the storage building and the man's eyes lit up. There wasn't anybody in the hot building. The dealer quickly walked around checking each of the shelves. Despite the heat they had done better with the items in the building than Scott thought they would. There was still a lot of inventory in here. There were door hinges, decorative scroll work, drawer pulls, door knobs, sconces, and the list went on and on. There was an entire row of fireplace ironworks. Not many people used a fireplace in West Texas more than a few times each winter. One of Scott's favorite pieces was a big cast iron fireplace box with a fancy animal motif. They still had several boxes of vacuum tubes. There were two shelves stacked with Bakelite radios. How long was it going to take to sell this online? Could they even sell it all? The dealer stood in the middle of the building looking from end to end. "I'll take it," he said. "Excuse me?" "I'll take it all. I want it all. How much?" the dealer said. Holy cow. "Let me go and get Mr. Piotrowski for you, sir." Scott dragged a very amused Mr. Piotrowski to the storage building. Before he went and haggled with the dealer he told Scott to go round up a couple of assistants, "Offer them twenty dollars or whatever it will take to help load up the man's trailer." Scott stood out in the driveway but didn't see anybody that he knew. He did spot a Hispanic family with three high school aged boys wandering around. He walked over. In Spanish he asked, "Excuse me, sir. My name is Scott MacIntyre. I was wondering if your sons might like to earn a little extra spending money?" He explained that the man with that big trailer had made a very large purchase and if they were willing to help they could earn some quick cash. The man replied in English, "I'm Enrique Gomez, these are my sons Fernando, George, and José. How much would you pay each of them?" "How does twenty dollars a man sound? I don't think it would take more than an hour with all of their help." "You can count me in for twenty dollars a man if you make me a good deal on these chairs that my wife is looking at." His wife was looking at grouping of five, well worn chairs. The stiles on several of the chairs were loose and they needed some serious attention. The table that went with them had sold on Friday. Scott checked the inventory in his head. With the table the grouping had been priced at eighty-five dollars. He was tempted to give the chairs away, but this was a proud family and Scott did not want to insult them. "Mr. Gomez, does twenty-five dollars sound like a fair price to you?" They had a deal. "Why don't you go load your purchases and meet me back here?" Scott went and checked in the storage building. The dealer from Odessa had a big wad of bills in his hand and was counting them out to Mr. Piotrowski. "Sir, I found four helpers. If he can back his trailer into the driveway we can get started," Scott explained. The dealer waved him over and pulled off four twenties from his roll, "Give these to your helpers. Then come guide me in as I back the truck up." Scott found the Gomezes and they nodded politely. He explained that they were going to load all of the contents from the shelves in the storage building, as well as any items outside that were marked with a blue sticker. Mr. Gomez took charge of his boys and had them combing through the tables for the blue sticker items. Scott went and helped the dealer back his truck into the driveway. The tires crunched on the gravel and Scott held up his hands and shouted, "You're good!" The brake lights snapped off and the man turned off the truck. He threw open the doors of the trailer and stood to one side. It took fifty hard minutes to get the trailer loaded. The Gomezes were good workers. They hustled and never complained. The dealer locked up his trailer and took off. He was a happy man. The Gomezes and Scott were standing by one of the ice water coolers drinking from Dixie cups. They were all soaked with sweat and still breathing heavily. Scott took the cash from his pocket and paid each of the boys. Then with a ten of his own he paid Mr. Gomez thirty dollars. The family thanked him profusely and left. It gave him a weird feeling. It wasn't his money but he was happy to help the family, and they had certainly earned it. The auxiliary ladies were starting to clear off their table and fold up their chairs. Scott pitched in to help. Not long after, Mr. Piotrowski and Scott were standing in the middle of the driveway looking at what remained of the yard sale. The storage building had been completely cleaned out. What was left might only cover two tables after they consolidated it. They started folding up tables and stacking them by the tent. The remaining inventory they moved into the building. Mr. Piotrowski stopped, "You know what? I should have tried to sell all of these danged shelving units. Maybe I'll list them in the paper. Let's go sit down and rest a spell." They were sitting under the umbrella shade drinking some ice water. After two days of noisy chaos it was peaceful just to sit down and enjoy the quiet. "Scott, I couldn't have done this without you. You've really impressed me these last few weeks." He reached into his pocket and said, "Take this. You've earned it." Scott shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and took the money. "I was happy to help Mr. Piotrowski," he counted the money and gaped at Mr. Piotrowski. "This is a hundred and ten dollars." "I saw you give Mr. Gomez an extra ten. It was good of you to give the father more than his boys." "It's still a hundred dollars!" "Hush, you earned it. You're not questioning me are you?" Mr. Piotrowski gave him a stern look. "I guess if you say so, Mr. Piotrowski." Scott thought for a moment, "The yard sale sure was something to see though." "It was wasn't it?" Mr. Piotrowski replied. "In case you were wondering, I still have a lot of work for you. I want you to take Sunday off. Relax, goof off, or whatever you want to do. Anything but work. We'll get back to it on Monday. I want to get these unsold items listed online and see if we can get rid of them. Otherwise we might take a trip to the dump." "Sir, what about the tables and the tent?" "I'll call and have the boys come and get the tent and sun shades. I bet if I ask real nicely I can get them to haul the tables back to town for me," replied Mr. Piotrowski. Scott thought that Mr. Piotrowski could probably talk most people into doing anything he wanted. An evening breeze was kicking up. It felt nice after the heat of the day. "Mr. Piotrowski, the yard sale is over." "Yes," he smirked. "Everybody is gone," Scott observed. "That they are," Mr. Piotrowski replied. "You said you'd show me something after the yard sale was over." "Did I say that?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Mr. Piotrowski!" Mr. Piotrowski was laughing, "You should see the look on your face. It's been itching at you all this time hasn't it? Well come on." Mr. Piotrowski stopped him outside the side door to the storage building, "I want you to take a close look at this wall." Then he stepped through the doorway. Scott looked at the exterior wall. He let his eyes cheat, but didn't see anything unusual. He followed Mr. Piotrowski. Immediately inside the door were the two large wooden cabinets with their fronts closed and latched. Then there was steel shelving stretching to the corner and wrapping all around the interior of the building. There were a few aisles of now empty shelves that had delineated the different bays. Mr. Piotrowski closed the side door and watched Scott. Scott frowned at him and walked down the side wall and back. He shrugged his shoulders. A big grin lit up Mr. Piotrowski's face, "Hiding something in plain sight." He waved his hands around. Scott shook his head. Mr. Piotrowski moved to the second cabinet. He unlatched the doors and pulled them back. The shallow shelves were empty and the door shelves were empty as well. He looked at Scott and then closed the doors again and latched them. The he reached his hand between the two cabinets and Scott heard two other latches being released. Mr. Piotrowski swung the entire face of the cabinet open on hidden hinges. How did I miss this? Mr. Piotrowski stood back and let Scott look. Inside the cabinet was a man sized steel door. It was a safe door Scott realized. It was painted a dark green color and had a big dial with a separate handle. He took mercy on Scott and started to explain, "Verna wouldn't let me keep this in the house. So when I built onto the original garage I made a few modifications. This exterior wall is over two feet thick. The safe is set back into a reinforced pocket in the wall and the wood cabinet is built around the front of the safe. This other cabinet and the big steel shelves are just here for camouflage. At least it started out that way. Mr. Piotrowski spun the dial three times in opposite directions going through a combination. Then he pulled the handle up with a heavy 'chunk' and swung the door open. It was a gun safe. One side held rifles and a couple of shotguns. The other side had a series of shelves. "Hand guns," Mr. Piotrowski explained as he closed the safe back up and spun the dial. Then he swung the false cabinet face back into place. He showed Scott the hidden latches. "Can you shoot?" he asked. "No, sir, I've never had the chance," Scott replied. "I think we'll have time this summer to teach you. That is if you'd like to learn?" "Yes, sir, I think I'd like that." "Good. Every Texan should know how to shoot. You are a Texan aren't you?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. Thoughts raced through Scott's head. Never talk about the past. "Yes, sir, I'm a native Texan." "Well then, it's my solemn duty to teach a fellow Texan about guns. And Scott? Not a word about my safe to anyone, you hear me?" He mimed locking his mouth with a key. "Yes, sir. Not a word," Scott repeated the gesture back to him and threw away the imaginary key. He knew about keeping secrets. "Now go on. Get out of here and I'll see you Monday." By the time Scott biked back to the ranch he was exhausted. He looked at the money in his lock box and was trying to decide if he should keep that much on hand, or put it into his savings account. There was a soft, hesitant knocking at the bunkhouse door. Quickly locking up the box he shoved it back onto the shelf and closed the closet door. He walked out of his room and opened the bunkhouse door. Standing there was one of the young scouts. The boy was fidgeting nervously and wouldn't look up. Scott didn't know what this about, but he invited the boy in. "Your name is Phillip isn't it?" "Yeah," the boy answered his voice nearly a whisper. "Phillip, is there a problem?" Scott asked. "You know how we're not supposed to rat on ranchers?" he voice was quivering. Crap, "Yes. Is there something that you need to talk about?" The boy began explaining. This is not good. There was an exception to the 'never rat' rule. If a rancher was trying to hurt another rancher then you let somebody know. There was the occasional bully and grab ass between ranchers. Scott couldn't help but overhear some of that through the years. Unfortunately, this was a case of something darker. The ranch wasn't a live in residence for emotionally disturbed or abused children. Those children needed more care and were sent to specialized foster families or facilities. Scott knew that kids with those kinds of problems sometimes acted out against other children. You learned a thing or two about the uglier side of human nature after a decade in the foster system, even at the isolated Broken Creek Boys Ranch. This new junior that Phillip was describing must have slipped through the screening. Fortunately Phillip hadn't been harmed. He had managed to escape the older boy, but he was scared. Scott went and got his big book on the Plains Indians. The book had lots of pictures, and he gave it to the boy to flip through. He told him to stay in the bunkhouse until either he or Mr. Rewcastle came for him. Scott went to the scout bunkhouse, and checked on the other younger kids. They were all present, and were very curious about what was up with Phillip. Scott told them that he was taking care of it, and that they were to stay in the bunkhouse. Next, Scott went to the junior bunkhouse. The three juniors that he already knew were in the common area trying to play a game of cards. Mostly they were just waiting for something to happen. Scott nodded to them. "Which room is the new guy in?" he asked. The boys pointed. "Do me a favor. Take a couple of those board games over to the scout bunkhouse, and keep those guys busy for a while?" The boys pulled a couple of games out of the closet and hustled out of the bunkhouse. Scott went and knocked on the bedroom door, waited and then went on in. The junior boy was curled up on a bed. He turned and saw Scott and immediately started crying. Double crap. Scott pulled up a chair and sat and talked quietly to the boy for a while. Eventually he stopped crying and listened to what Scott was saying. Scott got up and told him to wait there for a minute. He went into the common bathroom and got a hand towel and wetted a wash cloth. He took them back into the bedroom and told the boy to wash his face off. "Come on," he said. "We'll go see Mr. Rewcastle and then everything will be better, okay?" Scott was careful not to touch the boy, but walked beside him to the Rewcastle house. He sat him down in the kitchen with a glass of milk. Then he went to the foot of the stairs that led up to the Rewcastle bedroom and private quarters. He knocked loudly on the banister. Mr. Rewcastle came to the top of the stairs and asked what was going on. "We have a problem, sir." Mr. Rewcastle scurried down the stairs. Scott indicated the boy in the kitchen with his hand and they moved down the hallway toward the office for privacy. Scott explained what the problem was. Mr. Rewcastle turned to open his office door. He said, "I'll call the county and see if they can come and take him tonight. What else have you done?" Scott explained that he had the little boy stashed in his bunkhouse, and the rest of the boys were over with the younger scouts playing board games. Mr. Rewcastle nodded his approval, "Put the older boy in my office, then go back and keep the younger one company until I can get this taken care of. On second thought, it's getting late. Do this instead. Gather his things and bring them here. Then send the boys to bed. Have the other scout bunk with you tonight unless I come and get him." "Yes, sir." That may have been more words than he and Mr. Rewcastle had exchanged in three years. Scott took the boy to the office and told him that everything would be okay. It wouldn't really, but what else could he say? Scott stopped in the kitchen. He grabbed a couple of bags of tortilla chips, and a box of fruit juice containers and put them in a large bowl. There was no way these kids were just going to fall asleep now. He stopped at the scout bunkhouse and told the juniors that they could return to their bunkhouse for the night. He divvied up the loot between the kids, saving some for his charge. He told them not to stuff themselves sick. They weren't usually allowed food in the bunkhouses, but Scott figured that this was a night for exceptions. He hustled back to his bunkhouse. He gave Phillip some juice, and opened his room. Scott told the boy that he could sleep on his bed if he wanted. He pulled a sleeping bag out of the storage closet and laid it down on the floor next to his desk. Phillip sat on the bed and looked around at Scott's room. "Is that boy going to be in trouble?" he asked. Scott replied, "They're going to take him someplace where they can help him. I'll be right back okay?" "Okay." Scott went to the junior bunkhouse and had the new kid's roommate help him pack a bag. There wasn't much, just some clothing and shoes. He took the bag to the house and set it by the office door. By the time he got back to his room, Phillip was fast asleep. Scott crawled into the sleeping bag but was awake for a long time. He wasn't able to go to sleep until he heard a car arrive, and then leave shortly after, taking the troubled boy away. Sunday morning, 4:45 a.m., Scott opened his eyes. It took a second to remember why he was in the sleeping bag. Phillip was snoring softly in Scott's bunk. Scott got up silently and went and did his chores. He moved four, fifty pound bags of feed pellets from the feed locker to the barn. The ranch had a big rolling cart that three or four boys normally used to help move the heavy bags. Scott lifted them over his shoulder and carried them. It was faster. There was no one awake to wonder why a fourteen year old boy was lifting more than a third of his body weight with such ease. The horses complained when he entered the barn. They calmed down as soon as they realized who it was. Scott checked and saw that he didn't need to bring any new hay down. He sat down and listened to the horses shuffling in their stalls. He wondered how the day was going to play out. Scott went back and took a shower and then dressed. He grabbed a book from his shelf and went out into the common area to read. He left the door open so that Phillip could see him when he woke up. He had checked another book off of his summer reading list when he started to hear the rest of the ranch getting up. He went and shook Phillip's shoulder gently, "Hey buddy, it's time to get up." A sleepy Phillip sat up and rubbed his eyes. "You can wash up in the bathroom and then we'll go get some breakfast. How does that sound?" "I'm hungry," Phillip replied. "Alright, wash up and we'll go see what Mrs. Delgado has made for breakfast." Phillip jumped off the bed and ran to get cleaned up. At least he was full of energy this morning. Mrs. Delgado gave Scott a sad smile when she saw him escort Phillip into the kitchen. Phillip went over and sat with his fellow scouts who immediately launched into a whispered interrogation. "Mijo, I heard you had a long night." "It wasn't so bad, Abuela." "Is the little one okay?" "I think so. Nothing ... unfortunate happened to him, but he got a good scare." She gave him a quick hug, "I'm so proud of you, and for how you helped Mr. Piotrowski. All the ladies of the auxiliary want to take you home with them." "There's only one girl for me, Abuela," Scott reached past her and stole a hot piece of bacon from a plate that she was putting together. She slapped at his hand, "It won't be long before all the girls in Fort Stockton are chasing you." Scott blushed. "I don't think so. They already chase Jorge. So they won't have time to chase me." He scooted out of range before she could hit him. "Go eat you cheeky little monkey." Scott ate his breakfast ignoring the occasional glances from the other boys. He knew he was a subject of much speculation around the ranch. Last night's activities only increased their curiosity. He spoke Spanish with Mrs. Delgado. He had two jobs. He was usually gone, his chores done before anybody else at the ranch was awake. And as the boys were always amazed to learn, he'd been a resident since he was six years old. He looked up when the boys stopped whispering. Mr. Rewcastle was standing at the doorway. Scott recognized the county family services supervisor next to him. It looked like she had brought a couple of counselors with her. Mr. Rewcastle spoke to Mrs. Delgado briefly, then left and escorted the group of visitors to his office. Mrs. Delgado told the boys to finish eating, but to wait in the kitchen. Phillip was trying to get Scott's attention, "What are they here for?" he asked. The other boys looked at him waiting for the answer. Scott set his orange juice down and replied, "They're going to ask each of us if we're okay, and if anything happened. Just tell the truth. It will probably take most of the morning." The other boys shrugged. They had all been through the system. Phillip whispered, "Am I in trouble?" Scott answered back, "No, little dude. You did the right thing. They just want to make sure that everybody is okay." The interviews did take all morning. They saved the best for last. Scott sat in the office and looked at the county supervisor. They were both waiting for the counselor to start. He put on his polite, but disinterested face. They went through all of the pro forma questions. Finally she stopped walking around her big question. "You didn't notice any behavior that disturbed you?" asked the counselor. "No," he replied. "You didn't notice a potential juvenile predator in your midst?" she asked. What kind of question was that? "I'm not a psychiatrist, or a counselor," he twisted the emphasis on the last word. "You're working a summer job, so you've not been here to really notice have you?" she asked with just a bit of nastiness in her voice. "I'm a resident here. I'm not employed to—" The supervisor put her hand on the table and stopped the interview. "Thank you for your time Mr. MacIntyre. We'll talk again if we need you. You can rejoin the other boys now," the supervisor said. Scott left and walked down the hall. Behind him he could hear the supervisor, "What were you doing? You never talk to a foster kid like that..." Scott kept walking. After a while the county people left. They took Phillip with them. Mr. Rewcastle came in and dismissed the boys to the bunkhouses. He asked Scott to hang back for a bit. "Thank you," Mr. Rewcastle said. Scott looked at him. He hadn't done anything for Mr. Rewcastle, he'd done it all for the boys. Scott gave a brief nod of the head and left. ------- Chapter 6 Monday, July 3, 2006 Scott sat at Mr. Piotrowski's breakfast table nibbling on a piece of toast. The place seemed empty without all the hustle and bustle of the yard sale. Mr. Piotrowski was on the phone having a very terse conversation with "Billy" about some work he wanted done at the house. He hung the phone up and sat down. Mr. Piotrowski did not look happy. "I pulled a few things out of the cabinets yesterday that I'd like to get listed online. Can you take photos of everything left in the storage building?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "We should have enough room on the memory card." Scott said. "It might take a while to get it all photographed and labeled. Will you write the descriptions again?" Mr. Piotrowski waved his hand in acknowledgement, "You don't want to write them for me?" "I only know what some of that stuff is because you told me." "Alright, get started and I'll catch up to you in a couple of minutes." Scott opened the storage building. His steps were muffled in the still air. It was early morning and the building was already swelteringly hot. The morning farm report said that it might hit 105F by mid-afternoon. There was better light outside. Scott put a blanket down on the gravel driveway to use as a background for the photos. It looked like they had enough boxes to ship everything, if it sold. While Scott sorted and photographed the remaining inventory, Mr. Piotrowski went back and forth between the storage building and the kitchen jotting down notes and descriptions of each item. Scott looked up when Mr. Piotrowski walked past him holding a box that he hadn't seen before. "When you're finished come and look at what I have here," Mr. Piotrowski called over his shoulder as he went to the kitchen door. Scott stretched and stood up. He entered the kitchen and sat down at the table. Mr. Piotrowski had the contents of the box carefully spread out on a soft towel. "Go ahead, pick one up." Scott picked one of the objects up in his hand and examined it. "What are they?" he asked, running his finger over the smooth surface and intricate carvings. "They're called 'netsuke'," Mr. Piotrowski pronounced the strange word, "nets-keh." He pointed to a grouping of funny little animals and figures with fat bellies, "The buttery colored ones are carved from ivory. This one is made from a hardwood of some kind." He held up a tiny frog carving the size of a half dollar coin. "I'm not sure what this one is made of. I guess it could be lacquer that gives it this reddish color." Scott carefully picked up and examined more of the strange little objects. There were bizarre heads, various animals, dragons, and little carvings of two or three connected characters with laughing faces. Almost all the objects all had a couple of worn holes in them. "Is this supposed to be Buddha?" he asked Mr. Piotrowski, showing him one of the netsuke. "Probably. I brought this back from Japan. After Korea, our unit spent more than two months there waiting to be shipped home. In old Japan they used netsuke to hold knots tight on external pockets worn over their clothing. You would think they could have sown pockets into their robes, but they didn't." Scott tried to picture it. Mr. Piotrowski picked up an old article from a magazine and smoothed it out on the table. The article was about netsuke and even had some photographs. The pictures showed the same types of objects as those that were spread out across the kitchen table, and in similar styles. "Verna hated them, said I'd wasted good money. I don't know, but I've always liked them. Do you think I should try and sell them on the internet?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. Scott was reading the article, "They're really old, right?" "Supposed to be." "Maybe we should contact a museum. Talk to somebody who knows about this kind of thing." "That sounds like a good idea, but how would you go about doing it?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "I suppose we could take some photos and send them in an email. I can look around the internet for museums with Asian collections," Scott said thinking it through. Mr. Piotrowski retrieved the digital camera while Scott organized the netsuke. He'd counted twenty eight of the little carvings. Scott took the camera from Mr. Piotrowski and started to take a photo. Mr. Piotrowski interrupted him, "You need something for scale." He set a quarter down in the middle of the grouping. "There, everybody knows how big a quarter is. Finish up here and we'll go down to Meritt's for lunch. Then you can hop onto that internet of yours and do some magic." "Maybe we can get the cute waitress to help us," Scott commented dryly. "I am a recently widowed man," Mr. Piotrowski snapped. "Sorry Mr. Piotrowski, I didn't mean anything by it." "That's okay. I didn't mean to jump on you. I have to keep on living. I might even start 'going visiting.' You wouldn't believe what some of those auxiliary women suggested to me," Mr. Piotrowski had an odd look on his face. Closing his eyes briefly he continued, "but Verna was sick for a long time." "You must miss her an awful lot." "Oh, I do. This house ... well it's damned empty without her. We had a lot of good years together. There were some bad times, but we always got through them." They sat quietly each thinking about the past. "Now that's enough wool gathering. Let's get down to Meritt's." ------- Scott and Mr. Piotrowski were seated at the counter. Scott liked the red stools because you could spin around on them. The waitress asked him what he wanted to drink. "Do you have root beer?" "Sorry, honey. No root beer." She stood there and tossed her hair. She had a pencil tucked over one ear. The woman had to be in her forties. Scott glanced at Mr. Piotrowski. Was this supposed to be the cute one he had mentioned? "I'll take a limeade then." Mr. Piotrowski spoke up, "I haven't had limeade in ages. Put me down for one too." "Sure thing, sugar. I can have a couple of patty melts up in a few minutes," she hinted. Mr. Piotrowski looked at Scott and said, "Sounds good to us." The waitress made a note on their ticket and flounced off to take care of another customer. Mr. Piotrowski exchanged greetings with some other senior citizens. Scott was staring out the window when the glass doors banged open and one of the guys from Mendoza's engine center walked into the diner. He spotted Scott and momentarily froze. He gave him a nervous smile and spun around and left. "Friend of yours?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "He works over at Mendoza's, but I don't know what that was all about," Scott replied. The waitress set their fountain drinks down. They each got a tall glass with a lot of crushed ice and a straw. Scott took a sip. It was ice cold and had just the right balance of sweet and sour touched off by the carbonation. It was the perfect summertime refreshment. Mr. Piotrowski ended up having to pay for an extra hour on the computer. It was a lot of work, but they finally had all of their auctions entered. They spent the last twenty minutes tweaking the descriptions. "Scott, look up those museums you were thinking about. I'm going to walk over and visit with somebody and I'll be back. Oh, and find out what the best internet service is that I can get out at the house will you?" Mr. Piotrowski stood up and collected his notebook. "Should I include your phone number if one of the museums wants to contact you?" Scott asked. "I don't suppose it could hurt," Mr. Piotrowski replied as he walked away. Scott browsed the internet for a long time. There were so many interesting museums and he found himself easily distracted. He finally decided to email a museum in Dallas. There were few long shots that he also sent messages to. He attached pictures of the netsuke with each email. "You ready?" Mr. Piotrowski called to him. "I'm done here," Scott replied. "Hurry up, you can tell me about it in the car. We need to get back to the house to meet some folks." Scott explained the internet options available in this part of the county. "The satellite rig doesn't interest me. Should I choose the dial-up or the DSL?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "I think it depends on how much you see yourself using the internet. The dial-up is slow, but if you don't use the internet much it might be the best value. The only down side is that it will use up the phone line while you're on it. That's unless you get a second line put in?" Mr. Piotrowski said no, he didn't want a second line put in. Scott said, "Well, in that case, the DSL is fast, but not nearly as fast as the cable service you could get if you lived in town. The phone company has to come out and do the installation, but at least it would be all on the same bill. It's not my money Mr. Piotrowski, but I suppose I'd go with the DSL. You still need a computer though." "I may have lined up a good deal on a laptop computer. What do you think about that?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Is it from the same place as the camera?" "It is." "A laptop sounds like a good idea to me." Scott was on the phone with the phone company trying to arrange a date for the installation of DSL service when a truck pulled up into the driveway. "Your company's here," he shouted to Mr. Piotrowski. Mr. Piotrowski came down the stairs, "This particular company isn't here for a social call. You're about to meet my new contractor." He went to answer the back door. "Billy," Mr. Piotrowski said to the man standing in the doorway. "Mr. Piotrowski," the man replied stiffly. "You better come in and take a look at what I had in mind," Mr. Piotrowski stood aside and let the man in. He was followed by two more people. The two men followed Mr. Piotrowski into the house. The third person stood in the kitchen looking at Scott. Scott hung up the phone, "What are you doing here?" "I'd ask you the same thing I guess," Bo Mason said. "That's my dad, we're going to be doing some work on this house. Do you live here?" "What? No. I work for Mr. Piotrowski," Scott replied. He hadn't seen Bo since the end of school. "I thought you worked at Mendoza's?" "I do, this is my other job." "Two jobs? Man, I'm jealous. Hey can I get some water?" Bo asked. "Sure." Scott took down two glasses and got some ice from the freezer. He filled a glass and handed it to Bo. "So, do you like working for your dad?" "It's hard work, and I'm not getting paid this summer." "Why not?" "Dad paid for two weeks of football camp in San Antonio. It's a camp run by some old pro. It was good. Hot, but good. I think I'd rather have worked all summer and made some money instead. Contractors can make real dough when there's work." "I'm not sure what you're going to be doing here," Scott said. "I can tell you that," Bo replied. "It's a remodel of the bathrooms. Pulling out the old tub is the hardest part. We'll replace it with a walk-in shower and tub combo made just for this kind of job. We did the same thing at our house when my grandparents moved in. I guess old people can trip and fall trying to step into and out of a regular tub. The replacement unit has a waterproof door that you open and you step right in over a small riser. It also had these safety hand holds that we bolt into the wall studs. Hey, are you going to help?" "All Mr. Piotrowski told me is that I was going to be painting. I don't know about anything else." "I hadn't heard about any painting on this job," Bo sat down and drank his water. "So, why are your dad and Mr. Piotrowski so mad at each other?" Scott asked. Bo looked around to see if the adults were nearby, "You don't know?" "I don't know anything." "Come on, help me get some stuff from my dad's truck and I'll tell you." Scott followed Bo outside. Bo took a big book from the truck. "This has color samples and trim details Mr. Piotrowski can pick from," he explained. "You really don't know what this is about?" "I asked Jorge Delgado if he knew any contractors that might be good for Mr. Piotrowski. Jorge told me to tell Mr. Piotrowski to, 'Call Billy.' That's all I know." "Mr. Delgado recommended him? My dad wondered about that. You know about Mr. Piotrowski's son?" "Yeah?" "Well ... my dad and his son were friends in high school along with this other guy. They got into a lot of trouble over a fire they'd set. Mr. Piotrowski's son ran away, and the other guy disappeared. My dad got the tar whipped out of him by my granddad. He said it was the worst beating he ever took. You can bet I've never set any fires." "Oh," was all Scott could think to say. "My dad was real surprised to hear from him. Shocked I mean. Said he hadn't talked to Mr. Piotrowski in twenty-five years. My brothers and I all got the 'don't be an idiot and go around setting fires' speech growing up." "You boys out here?" a voice echoed out of the house. "We're here, Dad," Bo replied. "Bo, grab my book and bring it in." ------- Mr. Mason was pointing out some options to Mr. Piotrowski in the big book. "Bill, if that's the way you think I should go then that's fine by me," Mr. Piotrowski said. "Now I've got another thing that might interest you. My assistant over there is going to be doing some painting. What would you charge me to put up some scaffolding and paint the exterior of this house, using some of my labor there?" "Good worker?" asked Mr. Mason. "Bill, he's been a real fine worker." "I think we can find some work for both of the boys while we tackle the bathrooms. It won't take much to convert that one bedroom to an office, maybe a little paint and some trim. Most of what makes an office is how you fit it out, furniture wise," Mr. Mason offered. "When could you get started?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "How does Wednesday sound? We've got everything in stock so there's no reason to wait. Interior, we could have done next Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest. Painting, might take another week and a half." Mr. Piotrowski liked what he was hearing, "Let's go talk numbers." The Masons had left and Scott was helping Mr. Piotrowski put a new American flag on the pole bolted to the front porch. Scott listened as Mr. Piotrowski explained the dos and don'ts of handling the flag. "You don't leave it up outside unless there are lights illuminating the flag, and nothing makes me angrier than seeing somebody who's let their flag get tattered and torn. It's disrespectful." He went on about the proper way to display the flag and how it should be treated. "Do you have a flag?" Mr. Piotrowski asked him. "No, sir, I don't." "Follow me," Mr. Piotrowski went inside and took another package from a drawer and handed it to him. "Put this in your backpack. You can put it up in your room. Remember, the blue field with the stars, what we call the 'union' is always top left. It doesn't matter if you hang the flag vertically or horizontally. They used to teach flag etiquette in school." Scott thanked him and put the flag in his backpack. He'd never felt the urge to decorate any of his bunkhouse rooms before. The flag would make a nice change. "Now, what are you doing for the Fourth?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "I thought I'd come work sir." "On the Fourth of July? No, that won't do. You don't do anything in town?" "Well, the ranch usually takes the boys into town for the day. This year, with the burn ban in place, the town's not even going to set off fireworks," Scott explained. Mr. Piotrowski had a thoughtful look, "Want to go shooting?" "Could we?" "We sure could. It would be fitting for the day I think. Do I need to get permission from anybody at the ranch for you to shoot?" Scott suppressed a laugh, "No, sir. Not from the ranch, but you know ... you might want to call Judge Upcott and clear it with him." "Elijah Upcott? The county judge?" "Yes, sir. He's sort of my guardian," Scott explained. "Sort of your guardian?" Mr. Piotrowski repeated. "Yes, sir." Mr. Piotrowski was staring at him, "Scott, are you related to the judge?" "No, sir. It's just a state thing for paperwork and stuff. There's not much to it, really. We meet once a quarter and he signs things if I need it. He helped me open my bank account." "You meet once a quarter with the judge?" "We have lunch. We've done it ever since I came to Broken Creek." Mr. Piotrowski's eyebrow was threatening to climb off of his head and go into orbit, "You've had lunch with the county judge, four times a year, for ... ten years?" "I guess it will be nine years this January." "Scott, why don't you go outside and check the siding and trim, see what we might need to replace when it's time to paint. I'll call the judge." After ten minutes of Scott pretending to be busy, Mr. Piotrowski came outside. "We're not going shooting tomorrow. It will have to be next week, or later. On the other hand, we have been invited to a barbecue at the judge's place." "I've never been there," replied Scott. "That will make two of us then. Why don't you take off, and I'll see you back here tomorrow around eleven a.m." Scott had a bad night. It started out okay. The flag looked really great. He hung it on the wall right above the head of his bed. It brightened up what was otherwise a very dull room. Normally he dropped right off to sleep and awoke when he wanted. It was a skill that he'd had for as long as he could remember. He tried to fall asleep, but tossed and turned. The judge was the most important person in his life. His future depended on a good relationship with him. When he finally did fall asleep he had the old nightmare. In it he was trapped, buried alive ... and then the aliens came. 4th of July The ride to the judge's house was quiet. Mr. Piotrowski could tell that Scott was nervous. "Scott, you've known the judge a long time right?" "Yes, sir." "Then you know the most important person at this party. You're there as his invited guest. I'm just along for the ride, so really, I should be the one that's nervous." "I don't think anything can make you nervous, Mr. Piotrowski," Scott said. "Ha!" Mr. Piotrowski laughed. "Let me tell you. I was nervous as ... well I don't know what when I met Verna, and I think I was nervous every day in Korea. I've been nervous a lot in my life. The only advantage I have on you is about sixty years. Take this barbeque party. You've known the judge for nearly nine years and have had lunch with him four times a year, that's thirty-six meals. I doubt that few people besides his family could claim anything like that. Focus on that and forget the rest." "Yes, sir," Scott replied. He was trying to see things the way Mr. Piotrowski did. "Remember how you told me that you barely spoke in school? Is that some of the same thing do you think? You're nervous?" Scott mumbled, "I suppose." "What I guess is hard for any young person to understand is that everybody feels the way you do at some point. We're isolated inside of our own heads and don't know it." "Yes, sir." I don't think other people's heads work anything like mine, he thought. "Scott, you're the most well spoken and intelligent young man I might have ever known. I think it's that damn Broken Creek ranch that's not helped you any." That startled Scott. He'd never heard any adults discuss the ranch before, "You don't like the ranch?" "Verna and I had been living out there for about ten years when those Rewcastle people bought the old Broken Creek Ranch. When they started calling it a 'Boys Ranch, ' well, we all thought it was going to be like one of the big outfits. There are some real impressive live-in ranches over in San Angelo and up in Lubbock that have dormitories and schools, the works." Mr. Piotrowski was getting worked up, "What do the Rewcastles do instead? Nobody really seems to know. I sure as hell don't understand it. What do they offer you kids; three little bunkhouses and all the chores you can do? They don't school you, or offer any sort of activities. They depend on the Fort Stockton school system for that." Scott wasn't sure if he should stand up and cheer or bury his head. If Broken Creek was closed down he would be sent someplace where he wouldn't have near the freedoms he had now. Mr. Piotrowski took a deep breath, "And I'm going to tell you something that I probably shouldn't. Jorge and Luisa tried to adopt you and were told it wasn't possible. Hector and Connie Mendoza had tried to also and were told the same thing. I plan to ask that judge of yours why in the hell not." Scott wasn't sure he could breathe. He knew that the Mendozas had tried to arrange it so he could live with them years earlier. Eddie had told him that once. Jorge and Mrs. Delgado tried too? Adoption? He had never even considered it as a possibility. What should he say? "Mr. Piotrowski, I know it sounds kind of bad, but the ranch ... well it serves a purpose. Most of the boys aren't there for very long, way less than a year in most cases. Some of the boys are there because the court wants an alternative to juvy. Chores are good for the ranchers. Don't forget the horses. Taking care of horses teaches you all about responsibility. And well, you can learn a lot about ranch life there. Mrs. Delgado always takes good care of the little ones. Jorge keeps everybody's spirits up." "Scott, do you realize two things that you didn't mention? You didn't once mention the Rewcastles and you never mentioned yourself," Mr. Piotrowski said. "I'll tell you something else. I've never heard you refer to that place as home. You always say ranch. Most other people go home, but you go to 'the ranch.' The day you leave that place? That will probably be Luisa Delgado's last day at Broken Creek. I'm pretty sure you're the only reason she stays." Scott had no response for that so he changed the subject. "Mr. Piotrowski I don't want you to get angry with the judge. He's a good man and he's done a lot to help me. Besides, the Rewcastles and I have an understanding," Scott tried to explain. "And how exactly did you manage that?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. Scott thought about how he should reply, "Well, I do have lunch with the judge on a regular basis." Mr. Piotrowski and Scott shared a weak smile. "I'm not going to get angry, but I do want to have a word with the judge. Is that okay with you?" "Do you know Judge Upcott?" asked Scott. "I wouldn't call us friends exactly, but we've known each other on and off for nearly thirty years I'd say." Scott's head was spinning by the time they pulled up to the judge's house. It was a nice place and had a southwest ranch feel to it. Mr. Piotrowski got a bottle out of the trunk that Scott hadn't seen before. "This is a little peace offering for the judge. If we crack it open you may have to drive us home," he explained. It looked like Mr. Piotrowski had thought this out more than Scott had given him credit for. As they went up the walkway to the front door Mr. Piotrowski asked him if he had ever met the judge's wife. "No, sir, I never have." "Beatrice Upcott, Bea to her friends. I think you'll like her," Mr. Piotrowski said as he rang the doorbell. The door opened. "Alex Piotrowski, it's been too many years," exclaimed the woman. "Bea, it's good to see you," Mr. Piotrowski said as he held up the bottle. "Gift for Elijah." "Come in, come in. Don't you go and get Elijah drunk. Now you must be Scotty, am I right?" the woman gushed. She had that kind of breathy voice that tickled Scott's spine. Scott stammered, "Yes, ma'am." Bea Upcott was a tall, elegant woman of a certain age. What had temporarily locked up Scott's brain was that she was wearing an impossibly tight shirt over some of the largest breasts that he had ever seen. As she turned to lead them into the house, Mr. Piotrowski winked at Scott. Out on the patio was a gathering of a dozen people or so. Bea swept outside and called, "Elijah, look who's here." Mr. Piotrowski shook hands with the judge. "Maker's Mark, leave to it Alex to bring us some fine sipping whisky. Thank you for coming," the judge said as he examined the bottle. "Now you know a lot of these people Alex. From what I hear half the county was out at your place this last weekend. Go say hello and let me speak with my young friend here." The judge indicated that Scott should sit down. "Now how have you been? It looks like you landed in the roses as far as summertime employment goes." "I've been good." "Now don't go getting shy on me," the judge insisted. Were they ganging up on him? "It's been a great summer so far. I really like working for Mr. Piotrowski, and things are really hopping out at the engine center, but you're probably heard about that." "I did hear that Hector got a big contract. That's good news for the entire county. We need every job that we can get. Speaking of, have you learned anything interesting from your summer job?" "I have," Scott said. "I've learned a lot about buying and selling, and it doesn't always have to involve money." "I expect that's some of Alex's famous dickering at work am I right?" "Yes, sir." The judge leaned in, "I hear you have some news for me too?" "I found a motorcycle!" "So, it's true. Tell me all about it." The rumor mill must have been working overtime for the judge to have dug that nugget up. "It's an old 1976 Yamaha with only 200cc, and it's perfect. I mean it will be. Right now it's in several hundred pieces. I hope to have it running by January," Scott was getting excited just thinking about it. "That sounds like quite the project," the judge had an odd twinkle in his eye. "Now come on. You actually know somebody else at this party." Scott followed the judge over to a small group of men who were chatting with Mr. Piotrowski. "Walt, take a look at who we have here," the judge said. "My god, is that you, Scott?" the man said. Scott realized who it was, "Sheriff King?" "See!" the judge was practically crowing. "Even the boy knows what your title should be." Walter King had quit the sheriff's office a little over four years ago to, "Go make some money," as he put it. He had gone to work for one of the gas exploration companies that populated the West Texas region. "Walt's going to run for sheriff again in November," announced the judge. There was laughter and clapping. Walter King was a shoo-in for Sheriff. "Good grief, what have they been feeding you? You've sprung up on me," Walter King ruffled Scott's hair affectionately. "Elijah we better get some food into this one or who knows what might happen." There were appreciative noises as plates were passed out and the serious eating commenced under the sun shades on the large patio. Scott enjoyed listening to the adults laughing and exchanging stories. This was a group of people who clearly felt comfortable with each other. Mr. Piotrowski fit right in. The conversation ranged from the extraordinarily dry weather to county politics. After about a half hour of eating, the women and men drifted into two different camps. Judge Upcott got Walter King's attention, "Walt, I wonder if you could help out Alex and young Scott here. Alex wants to take the boy shooting and I thought that you might be able to get them in over at that nice range we built you folks not so many years ago." "Elijah, I'm not currently with the department and they might object." "Walt, you know that's just pure bunk. They'll be so damn happy to see you again, and by then you can be sure the word will be out, I'll bet they hand you the keys." Walter King shook his head. Mr. Piotrowski tried to object as well, "I thought we'd go to the public range, or if that was too crowded we'd try some land I know." Walter King grinned, "Alex, you know Elijah. He's not going to let this go. What day were you thinking about?" "I was going today until the judge made me a better offer. How about the Sunday after next?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Give me a call the Saturday before and I'll make sure we're good to go," agreed Walter. "Now what were you thinking of shooting?" Mr. Piotrowski sat back and rubbed his chin, "Good question. I thought I'd start him out on my .22 bolt action. You can't go wrong with a single shot .22 to learn on. Then I thought I might let him shoot a little .38 for some up close target practice." "Sounds like a solid plan," said the once and future sheriff. "Are you going to bring anything really fun out?" "What do you mean, Walt?" Mr. Piotrowski asked with a knowing look. "I seem to recall that you had a real fine match grade M14 at one time." "I've still got it. I suppose I could even be talked into bringing my Garand out. Now, what are you going to bring to the party?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "If you bring out the Garand then I guess I'll have to bring out my M1 Carbine." "Deal." Scott wasn't sure if they were having some sort of competition, some good natured fun, or perhaps both. The judge seemed satisfied so that was good. "Alex, come with me. I've got something in my office I think you'll appreciate," the judge led Mr. Piotrowski into the house. The sheriff looked at Scott who shrugged. "Scott, have you had a gun safety class yet?" he asked. "No, sir." "Then I'll be sure to get some reading material to you. I'm sure Mr. Piotrowski will be a good teacher, but you can never be too safe when it comes to firearms." "Yes, sir, safety first," Scott replied. "That's right." The ride back out to the house was quiet. Scott guessed that Mr. Piotrowski and the judge must have had a pretty serious conversation. "Scott, you know we could load up your bike and I could drop you off at the ranch," Mr. Piotrowski announced suddenly. "Oh I don't mind. I like the ride and it's good exercise. Besides, it doesn't take long." "Are you sure?" "Yes, sir," Scott replied. "Did ... everything go okay with the judge?" "He explained a few things to me. I don't think I've ever been told to mind my own damn business more effectively. If he hadn't assured me that it was in your best interest ... well I'd be writing to Austin, or Washington," Mr. Piotrowski said barely keeping his temper in check. Scott was sure glad to have Mr. Piotrowski in his corner. "The judge can be pretty persuasive when he wants to be," Scott said as Mr. Piotrowski turned into his driveway. "That, my young friend, is an understatement. I'll see you tomorrow. You'll get to see how a general contractor does things. I think you'll enjoy it." Scott grabbed a cold bottle of water from the kitchen before he mounted his bicycle. The thermometer was pegged at a 106F. There was no shade between the Piotrowski house and the ranch, just wide open sky and blacktop road. Scott had to ride on the gravel shoulder because the hot asphalt was a too spongy for his skinny tires. Scott was dragging as he walked toward the bunkhouse at Broken Creek. He heard a commotion and saw the foreman and Mrs. Rewcastle exchanging heated words. There was a lot of dramatic arm waving and hand gestures. He sped up and escaped to the safety of the bunkhouse. He took a long shower and collapsed into bed. This summer was not turning out to be anything like he had anticipated. Wednesday July 5, 2006 Scott liked demolition. He really liked it. If more contracting work was like this then he could really get into it. The scaffolding hadn't arrived yet so Scott and Bo got to help 'blow up' the bathrooms. They took everything out and started stripping the walls and flooring. Downstairs they were converting what was a half bath to a full bath by knocking out a closet to make more room. The most difficult part so far was the removal of the cast iron bathtub from the upstairs bath. The men carried the tub and Scott and Bo worked to clear out the debris left behind. When the day started Scott was a little miffed that all his hard work cleaning the house was going to be for naught. He was pleasantly surprised when the crew started putting down a heavy duty plastic covering over the floors and built temporary air locks that would block construction dust from the rest of the house. The Masons were professional contractors and proud of their work. They found some rot in the floor sheathing that was going to require a patch, but otherwise the house was in good structural condition according to one of the workers. Outside a truck delivered a dumpster to store the waste that their demolition was generating. The renovation was in full swing. Scott went upstairs and found Mr. Piotrowski and Bo's dad, Bill, having a discussion in the future office space. Mr. Mason had a sketch that he was showing to Mr. Piotrowski. "Scott, come take a look at this and tell me what you think," instructed Mr. Piotrowski. Scott grasped the idea of the sketch quickly and looked around the room, "It makes sense to me. It would sure make a nice office." The sketch showed what the office could look like if they took down the wall between the unused bedroom and the sewing room where they were standing. Mr. Piotrowski would lose a closet, but it would open up more space. It looked to be a fairly simple operation. The upstairs would still have the master bedroom and the spare by the stairs. Mr. Piotrowski agreed, "Bill, it's a smart suggestion. Let's do it." It only took fifteen minutes for Mr. Mason, and one of the other contractors, to tear out the old wallboard and cut out the studs of the false wall between the two rooms. If it wasn't for the hole in the plaster and the flooring you'd think the room was meant to be that way. Well, it did have two doors now. Scott wondered what they would do about that. Scott and Bo worked together to clean up the debris and load it into construction strength bags to be hauled down to the dumpster. Of course they did the hauling. After lunch another big truck arrived and started unloading the scaffolding. According to Bo they weren't going to set it up until Thursday or Friday. Scott realized he was going to be at Mendoza's for the next three days. He explained to Bo that he wouldn't get to the house until after three. "That's okay, we'll save some good stuff for you," said Bo. "Gee thanks." Mr. Piotrowski was listening to Mr. Mason's plan for the next day. They were at a standstill on the bathrooms until the plumber could get on site. He wasn't available until the following afternoon. Mr. Mason said they'd go ahead and get the office finished and then start setting up the scaffolding. "Scott, when are the phone people going to be here?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Week from Thursday was the soonest they could get out," he said. "DSL for the office," he explained for Mr. Mason's benefit. "That's what we have at our place. It's very solid," Mr. Mason replied. ------- It felt strange to be at Mendoza's the next day. The previous week off meant that this was the longest he had gone without being at his regular job. There was also something weird going on. People were acting very strangely. Had something gone wrong with the maintenance contract he wondered? The inventory system had been fully integrated into the shop's operation. He was kept busy all morning going from one department to the next doing pulls for parts or filling out restocking tickets. He wanted to sit and have a quiet lunch, but the ladies from the office dragged him over to the diner for a special treat. Scott got back to the shop floor to start his afternoon in the small engine department with Noah. It looked like half of the shop was late getting back from lunch. Mr. Mendoza was not going to be pleased. When he got to their corner of the shop, Noah was nowhere to be found. Scott checked the current work order, but it looked like Noah had already taken care of it. That's when he noticed that his parts and his engine were missing. He had started to look for them when Noah finally showed up. "Problem?" Noah asked. "Somebody moved my parts," Scott complained. "Oh that's right. I needed some space so I moved your stuff out to the loading bay. I'll help you move it back in," Noah offered. Scott followed Noah. If it was possible, there were even more people missing from the shop. Noah shoved Scott through the doorway into the loading bay and there was a big shout of, "Surprise!" He'd found all of the missing employees. What the hell is going on? Noah had a big grin on his face and was looking behind him. Scott turned around and found Mr. Mendoza, Jorge Delgado, and even Mr. Piotrowski standing together, all with big silly grins on their faces. Somebody shouted, "He doesn't have a clue!" Noah pushed him to the front of the loading bay and started to speak, "Scott, we all got together and did something for our favorite employee." Mr. Mendoza, Jorge, and Mr. Piotrowski moved aside and together pulled the cover off of a motorcycle. Scott stared at the motorcycle, over to the men, and back to the motorcycle. That's my motorcycle. He was completely dumfounded. It was beautiful. The chrome gleamed. The frame and starter cover had been freshly powder coated. The tank and side cover had a gorgeous blue paint job with silver highlights. He could see black and red contrasting pin striping around the Yamaha logo scallop. The bike had brand new tires on it. He hadn't even purchased new tires yet. Scott tried to get his voice to work, but nothing would come out. Mr. Mendoza walked over and gently knocked him on the head with his knuckles, "I think we broke him," he announced to laughter. "How did you ... when did you?" Scott finally managed to ask. Noah explained, "We've had two weeks. It's really a simple motorcycle. When the idea came up we had more volunteers to work on it than we had parts. Parts that you already purchased don't forget." He waved to different people as he spoke, "Mr. Mendoza called Mr. Piotrowski who told us everything that we needed to do to get this bike going again. I did the engine work. Mr. Mendoza took the wheels into Fort Stockton and got them tuned and new rubber mounted. It turns out that the fab shop has a painter, so those guys did all the prep work and painting of the tins. Another group got the frame powder coated. Jorge came in and did the electrical and plumbed everything. Several guys polished the chrome. We had a big party and put it all together. We've been hiding it for the last two days in case you dropped by." Scott was walking around the bike, running his hands over every part, "Did you buy a new seat?" "No, that was the shop supervisor's wife. She rebuilt the seat with new foam and covered it. Take a look at that heavy duty stitching. She does furniture upholstery and said the seat was no problem." Scott shook the foreman's hand and asked him to thank his wife for him. He started to shake everybody's hand. "Speech! Speech!" the shop guys, and even Mr. Piotrowski, were shouting. Noah Easterbrook and Rico Lopez practically threw Scott up onto a stack of pallets. Scott stood there and looked out at the gathered employees, his friends, and tried to keep his eyes from watering. He looked over at Mr. Piotrowski who gave him an encouraging look. Scott cleared his throat, "I don't know that I've ever had a happier day or a bigger surprise. So thank you. Please find me and tell me what you did so that I can thank you properly. I'll never forget this—" "Fire it up!" somebody shouted from the back. Other voices picked it up, "Come on, fire that sucker up." "Let's hear it!" shouted another. He jumped down and went over to the bike. Noah said in his ear, "Just hit the button, it will crank right up." Scott hit the starter. 'RING-ding-ding... ' the distinctive sound of a two-stroke engine echoed through the bay. He gave it a little gas and let it idle for a bit before shutting it down. People gathered around to admire the bike and offer Scott congratulations. Mr. Mendoza pulled him to the side, "We have a few more surprises and a couple of rules." He was given a full faced helmet that had been custom painted; it was red, with contrasting silver details and black and blue pinstripes as a mirror to the bike's paint job. They also presented him with a summer weight mesh jacket and pants, both with armor inserts, as well as a gift certificate for new riding boots and gloves. These were expensive gifts! Mr. Mendoza stopped him before he could object, "You're not allowed to complain about gifts. It's not polite." Scott didn't know what to say. Mr. Mendoza continued, "It doesn't make any sense to pay insurance and get this bike registered until you get your license in January. You cannot ride on public roadways, period. If you break this rule we'll take the motorcycle away. However, you can ride on private property. We're going to take you out to an old bull ring and let you get some practice, not today, but soon. It's a lot better to make mistakes on dirt than it is on pavement. You will wear a helmet when you ride, or we'll take the bike away. You will not go flying around in a t-shirt and flip flops. You will wear proper protective clothing, or we'll take the bike away. Any questions?" "No, sir." "Mr. Piotrowski is going to let you store the bike at his house. You can complete the classroom and book portion for your learner license now, but you can't take the test until you're fifteen. Understand?" "Yes, sir." "Okay, now go and talk to these people. They're as excited about this as you are," Mr. Mendoza said. Scott shook hands and thanked everyone that he could. People finally started trickling back to work. Mr. Piotrowski came over and slapped Scott on the back, "We surprised you good didn't we?" "I'm still not sure that this is real," he replied. The shock hadn't worn off. "It'll get very real when you pay for your bike insurance," remarked Mr. Piotrowski. "I've got the panel truck outside so we can load the bike up and let all these fine people get back doing what Hector pays them to do. How about it?" "Yes, sir, let's do it." Scott pushed the bike up a new lightweight aluminum ramp into the back of the panel truck. Mr. Piotrowski showed him how to tie the bike down so that it wouldn't fall over or shift. They stored the ramp. Scott put the helmet into a bag made for it, and set it and the clothing on the bench seat. "I'll see you in a few hours back at the house," said Mr. Piotrowski. Scott was deliriously happy. Noah finally had to tell him to stop thanking him, "Hey, you can pay me back by getting the deck of that walk behind mower cleaned so that we don't have plant crap all over my shop floor." That brought Scott's feet back to the ground. He managed to get through the shift with his emotions under control. Scott pedaled at near top speed on his way to Mr. Piotrowski's after finishing up at the engine center. They had the scaffolding about half erected when Scott showed up. He jumped off of his bicycle and went to find Bo. He found him upstairs with Mr. Mason in the new office. They had the ceiling plaster patched as well as the walls. The flooring still needed to be fixed, and the extra closet had been torn out. It looked like Mr. Piotrowski had opted for built in shelving to take its place. The extra door had been patched over, and the new doorway had been made wider. "Double doors," explained Bo when Scott asked about it. Mr. Mason and another man had wood flooring pieces laid out and were attempting to weave a patch into the floor where the old wall had stood. The more Scott learned, the more he realized that these men really were skilled craftsmen. They had a few minutes for a break so Scott took Bo over to the panel truck and had him help back the motorcycle out. Bo was impressed, "Are you going to ride to school?" "I can't really do anything until my birthday in January, but I haven't decided yet. I'll probably take the bus on most days. That's a long ride into town. Cross country is a fall sport so it doesn't help me until next year anyway." "Why not come out for football with Eddie and me?" asked Bo. "You could ride with Eddie's folks." "I don't think football is for me. Besides, I have to focus on my grades." It was partially true. Scott knew that contact sports were a bad idea for him. He needed an individual sport where he could control himself. Bo shrugged. He had tried. The contractors left for the day, and Mr. Piotrowski was going over the motorcycle controls with him. Together they read through the Texas motorcycle operator's manual and test that he would have to take in January. "It looks complicated now, but once you start riding you'll use all of these controls without even thinking about them," Mr. Piotrowski explained. "It's a little intimidating." "You're young, and young people will always be tempted to do dumb things. Dumb things on a motorcycle are bad news. You can control most of your own actions. You can't control the road conditions. Mostly, it's the other idiots that you have to look out for because they won't be looking for you." "What do you mean?" Scott asked. "Drivers in cars and trucks don't look for motorcycles. You're small and fast, and can surprise inattentive drivers. So you have to try and think for them. Put yourself in the best possible position to avoid their mistakes. If this were Houston or Dallas, or some other big city, there's no way I'd let you ride a motorcycle. Here in Pecos County we have a traffic jam if two cars stop at a stop sign. That doesn't mean you can relax though. Vigilance must be your watch word." "Yes, sir." "Don't get too worked up about it. After you get some riding time in, your comfort level will go up. Read these manuals over carefully. You need to know everything about your motorcycle, and you will. We've got plenty of time." "I still can't believe you all did this for me." "You're an easy person for people to do things for. Now, can you do me a favor tomorrow while you're at Meritt's Corner?" "Of course." "Check on our auctions?" Friday was a normal day for the most part. The shop seemed to be in a happy mood. The front office ladies wanted to know if their lunch time deception had worked. "I didn't have a clue," he assured them. They were very pleased with themselves. Scott and Noah had a quiet afternoon and cleared three new work tickets. Noah gave him another pile of engine manuals to read through. He was packing them away in his backpack when Mr. Mendoza found him. "Scott, just the man I was looking for. Connie and the girls are back from my brother's. She wants you to have dinner with us Saturday night." "Yes, sir, I'll be there. Six o'clock right?" "That's right." The contractors at Mr. Piotrowski's had nearly finished the interior renovations. The tub and shower walk-in units had been installed. The plumber had finished and was long gone. The only thing left was for the tile to go down and a few finishing touches. Bo said they'd be completely done with the inside by Monday afternoon. Until then Bo and Scott were on exterior paint prep duty. That meant scraping any loose paint and checking for wood rot. They scraped paint for two hours until Mr. Mason called an end to the work day. Saturday was an exact copy of Friday. Scott packed a clean t-shirt and jeans in his backpack for dinner with the Mendozas. After the Masons left for the day Scott took a shower in the downstairs bathroom. They had set the tile in the upstairs bath and it couldn't be walked on for 24 hours. The contractor would do the downstairs tile on Monday and the job would be complete. Mr. Piotrowski reminded him to wear his work boots and to bring a pair of thinner gloves for Sunday. He was going to get his first motorcycle lesson. That put a spring in his step as he headed toward his bike to ride the Mendoza's for dinner. Mrs. Mendoza fussed over him when she saw him and insisted on a hug, "You've been out in the sun a lot. I can't believe how dark you are, and your hair has gotten so light." Scott shrugged. He never thought about his appearance. As long as he was clean and his hair didn't get too long he was happy. Dinner was great and Scott was enjoying every bit of it. He'd been eating for several minutes when Mr. Mendoza coughed. Scott looked up. Mr. Mendoza tilted his head toward Mrs. Mendoza. She was staring at him as were the girls, Lilly who had just turned fourteen and Janie, or Janice as she preferred to be called now, who was a year younger. "Aren't you going to talk at all?" asked Mrs. Mendoza. What the heck was he supposed to say? "It's terrific, Mrs. Mendoza. I've really missed your cooking." Scott wasn't sure how to interpret the look he got. "How has your summer been? Do you like working for Mr. Piotrowski?" Scott put his fork down, "It's been a good summer, hot though, and Mr. Piotrowski is a real nice man." Scott returned to his enchilada and looked up again when he heard a small sound. Why is Mr. Mendoza smiling? Mrs. Mendoza was rubbing her temple with one hand. Why wasn't Eddie here? He was the talker. Inspired he tried, "I did get a post card from Eddie." Mrs. Mendoza gave him a little smile, "Isn't that nice. Are you looking forward to high school? Do you have any advice for the girls? Janice is going to be in 7th grade and Lilly's going to be in 8th." The girls were looking at Scott curiously. "Well ... Mr. Hunt for English is good. If you get Mrs. Green for history, she hates it if you're late. Avoid the lasagna and Salisbury steak. Don't eat the fried rabbit. Oh and watch out for anything with the word casserole in it. I usually only eat from the salad bar, it's safe. And yes, I'm looking forward to school." Mr. Mendoza was carefully studying his plate. "Thank you, Scott. I'm sure that will be handy advice for the girls," Mrs. Mendoza folded her napkin and placed it carefully by her plate. "Yes, ma'am. Great enchiladas," Scott dove back into his plate. Mr. Mendoza walked Scott to the door after dinner. "Connie means well. She's gotten it in her head that you need more socialization." Socialization? "I go to school with a lot of kids, and I get good grades. The state sends somebody once a year to make sure my head is okay. I don't think I have any problem integrating with the community or my peers." Mr. Mendoza held Scott's bicycle so he could put on his backpack. "What I think she means is that she wants you to interact more with ... members of the opposite sex." "What!" "Scott, she's not saying that there's anything wrong with you. She just thinks it would help you to talk more, and maybe we both do. Face it, if somebody didn't speak directly to you then you probably wouldn't say a word all day long. Would you?" "I talk to people!" "I know you do, bud, but I think she means at school. Wouldn't you like to go on dates, or go out with friends?" Scott bit back his first couple of responses, "You know that I'm never going to be like Eddie. He's my best friend, but we're very different. As for those other things," he pointed toward the ranch. "There are just some things that I won't do until I leave that place. That's only a few years away. I think I'll be okay until then." Mr. Mendoza was quiet. "What are you going to do when you leave?" It was Scott's turn to smile, "Things that I want do." Later, at the bunkhouse Scott read the motorcycle manuals and committed them to memory. In his mind he built a diagram of the motorcycle and its systems; the automatic oiler, the clutch, the brakes, how it all worked together. Since Noah had been giving him manuals to read he had started to do this with different engines and their systems. From what he understood of human memory and thinking processes it didn't appear that other people could see visual representations in their mind's eye. He had read about synesthesia on the internet, but that didn't begin to approach what he had experienced lately. Scott put his study materials away and relaxed on his bed. He couldn't stay mad at Mrs. Mendoza. She wanted to help him in her own way. He hoped that she wouldn't rock the boat here at Broken Creek, or cause him problems he hadn't anticipated. Sunday was fun. Mr. Mendoza met Scott and Mr. Piotrowski and they rode together in the panel truck out to an old dirt track bull ring located not far from Fort Stockton. As a racing venue it had failed, but for their purposes it was perfect. The dirt surface was packed hard. Several guys from work showed up with dirt bikes. Everybody had suggestions and tips for riding. Low speed turns and loose dirt proved to be big challenges. Fortunately the small 200 cc bike only weighed around three hundred pounds. Mr. Mendoza showed him the proper way to pick up a motorcycle if it was lying on its side. The technique didn't require that Scott show any unusual strength. The worst part was actually laying the bike over. Scott didn't want to scratch it up, but every other rider there understood. Mr. Mendoza also told him that his wife had promised to ease up on her campaign to 'fix' him. Scott was appreciative. He took the opportunity to ask the riders about the best type of motorcycle boots to get. They suggested that he get a low three quarter boot that covered his ankles, but could still pass for regular footwear. Mr. Piotrowski had a lot of fun too. He told Scott what skills he wanted him to practice and then graded him, with input from the riders. "It's too bad we can't go on the big test track," he said and everybody agreed. Fort Stockton was home to one of the largest tire test tracks in the world. It has miles of private highways and roadways and could simulate many different conditions. Unfortunately, it was closed to the public. The isolation of Pecos County was one reason it was located there. They called it quits by mid-afternoon and everybody loaded up and went home. On the ride back, Mr. Piotrowski asked Scott what he was thinking about. "Fuel mileage," he answered. "This bike holds just over three gallons. According to the manual I should get over fifty miles per gallon with easy riding. I figure that it's thirty-five miles from your house to the high school. That's four to five one way trips. I'm thinking about fuel costs and how often I'll have to hit a gas station." "That's well thought out. Hector, what do you think about that fifty miles per gallon number?" Mr. Mendoza knew where he was going, "Scott, I think what Alex is getting at is that those numbers are probably an average for street and highway riding. Most of your mileage is going to be highway miles. I wouldn't be surprised to see you get something closer to sixty mpg. You'll have to keep an accurate fuel log once you start making the ride to town. Of course if you hit the throttle heavily you're going to eat into those numbers in a big way." At the house they parked the motorcycle in the storage building. Mr. Mendoza left and Scott took the opportunity to clean up around the house. He grabbed a trash bag and went around picking after the contractors. Outside he tried his best to pick up debris from the painting tarps. Scott tied up the bags and placed them in the dumpster. The truck was supposed to come retrieve the dumpster during the week. Mr. Piotrowski found him, "Scott, I was very pleased with your progress today. All you need now is experience and you'll be a good rider." "Thank you, sir." "Why don't you head back and I'll see you tomorrow? We'll have those auctions finishing up too. So we'll have to check on that." "See you tomorrow." This had been a strange week and Scott needed the bike ride back to the ranch to think. The motorcycle surprise and today's lesson had been tops. It was the conversation with Mr. Mendoza that he wanted to think about. He had changed a lot in the last year, but more so in the last couple of months. Maybe this is what growing up was all about? He'd always had a firm conviction that everything that he had gone through was just preparation for what was to come. The future didn't scare him. If he could survive a madman, and the California desert, then nothing else was going to stop him. Scott rode up to the Broken Creek gate and dismounted. He was preoccupied as he bent over to un-wrap the chain from the post. There was a quiet rustle from the tall grass nearby so he turned to see what it was. A large dog emerged from the brush and sat down across from him. The dog was big. It appeared to be some sort of German shepherd mix, but with a cream and golden brown coat. The coat was matted with thistles and burrs. This dog has been running around in the country for a while. He didn't know anybody within ten or fifteen miles with a shepherd. It had probably been abandoned by some city idiot. The dog sat there panting, looking at him. There wasn't any sign of aggression or threatening behavior so Scott spoke in a low voice, "Hey there buddy. What brings you all the way out here?" The dog cocked its head. Scott slowly dug into his backpack and took out an energy bar and a bottle of water. He broke off a piece of the energy bar and tossed it toward the dog's feet. The dog moved and snatched the treat from the air and swallowed it with a snap. He sat back down and wagged his tail. Here goes nothing. Scott poured some water into his palm and held it out to the dog. The dog moved toward him and lapped the water from his hand. Scott cupped his hand and slowly poured water into it as the dog drank quickly. The sun was starting to go down and he needed to make a decision. Dogs weren't allowed on the ranch, but he couldn't leave the dog out here and the county would take days to come get him. "Can you behave?" The dog sat up and woofed. "You're going to have to listen to me or we'll both be in trouble." The dog put his paw up to shake. "Well somebody has trained you. Come on and stay quiet." Scott opened the gate and pushed his bicycle through. He motioned for the dog to follow him. The dog jumped through the gap and sat by his bike. Scott rode slowly and the dog trotted along beside him. When he came to the rise above the ranch buildings he looked to see if anybody was outside. He didn't see anyone. "Okay, we're going straight to my room, don't go running off." The dog started to edge toward the barn as Scott rode by it. He made a clicking sound with his mouth and the dog returned to his side. At the bunkhouse Scott opened the door and hustled the dog inside. He grabbed a bowl from the closet and filled it with water. He put the dog in his room and put the bowl down. "You stay here and I'll go try to find some food for you." Scott went to the kitchen and found some roast beef scraps in the refrigerator. What else can a dog eat? He went to the pantry and poured some cereal into a big plastic bag. He made a short stop at the barn to grab an old horse brush and comb that nobody would miss. The dog was waiting patiently for him when he returned. He looked very interested in what Scott put down on an old plate. "Well go on." The dog stood up and quickly cleared the plate. He sat back and licked his chops appreciatively. Scott put some more water in the bowl and put the last of the beef scraps down. The dog made quick work of the scraps and then took a quick drink of water. He shook himself and lay down. Scott pulled out his desk chair and sat down. He dragged the trash can closer to him, and took out the comb and brush. He grabbed a pair of scissors from his desk drawer. "Come here. Let's try and get those burrs and mats out of your coat." The dog sat right beside him. He started to work on the mats, trying to split them. He teased them with the comb and worked them loose as carefully as he could. Some of the burrs he cut out carefully after getting the comb's teeth between the burr and the dog's hide. He didn't want to accidentally cut the dog. "What you really need is a bath, but we can't do that here." The dog had a nylon collar that was frayed and bleached white from the sun. He couldn't get it unbuckled so he took the scissors and cut it. The dog really enjoyed being brushed and sat his head on Scott's leg. Scott spotted something on the old collar lying on the floor. He leaned over and picked it up. There was a tarnished metal band clamped around the nylon. He rubbed his thumb over the metal to try and read what it said. Maybe they could find the dog's owner. He wet his shirt tail with a bit of spit and rubbed the metal band and brought it close to his eyes. 'San Bernardino County, CA, Animal Clinic, 12–11–1997.' There was a registration number stamped under the date. Scott didn't see it as he slipped out of the chair and fell unconscious to the floor. Scott woke up to a wet, rough tongue licking him. He checked his watch. It was 5:45 a.m. He was unsteady as he sat up. The dog sat and watched him. He went and got fresh water and put the cereal out for the dog. "Shower," he croaked. Scott stood under the shower. He had a terrible headache and his brain seemed too large for his skull. The questions about the dog, where it came from, and why ... he shoved all of that into a tight corner of his brain and tried to ignore it. He dried off and put on clean clothes. "We're going to Mr. Piotrowski's. You need to be on your best behavior, and stay quiet." Scott stopped at the barn, making the dog wait outside, and found an old piece of halter to use as a collar. With some rope he had a makeshift dog lead. "Okay, I'm going to ride slowly and you trot along beside me. If you want to take a break just slow down." He didn't question their ability to communicate. They arrived at Mr. Piotrowski's a little later than usual, but not by much. Scott knocked on the back door. "Good morning, sir. I've got a bit of a problem here." Mr. Piotrowski stepped out from the kitchen, "Who do you have there?" The dog walked over and presented his paw. "He's well trained at least," he said as he shook the paw and carefully examined the dog. "I found him last night. Somebody abandoned him out here. His coat was in terrible shape and it took me forever to get him cleaned up. What he really needs is a bath, and probably a visit to the vet." "Do you want to keep him?" "I can't. No pets at the ranch. Do you like dogs?" he asked hopefully. Mr. Piotrowski thought about it, "I used to keep dogs. I'll tell you what. After the crew gets here we'll take a trip into Fort Stockton and see if he's registered with the vet. If he is, we can return him to where he belongs. If not, we'll see what the vet says. If there aren't any problems I'll consider it." "Thank you, sir." "Have you fed him this morning?" "I gave him some cereal and water." "Why don't you walk him around the side yard and see if he has any business. I think I've got some turkey scraps I could feed him if he's hungry." They ate breakfast while the dog stretched out quietly on the doormat and watched them. The Masons eventually arrived and Scott and Mr. Piotrowski got ready to go to town. "That's a good looking dog, what is he do you think?" Mr. Mason wondered. "Looks like some sort of shepherd mix, maybe the vet will be able to tell us," Mr. Piotrowski replied. "We'll be back after lunch. Is that a problem, Bill?" "Not at all. We'll be done with the downstairs tile by lunch. We'll do some touch up and then get the plastic out of there. I expect that we'll start sanding the siding this afternoon." They loaded the dog into the sedan and headed into Fort Stockton. ------- Chapter 7 Veterinary Clinic, Fort Stockton, July 10, 2006 "Come on back Mr. Piotrowski. Wanda says you found him out near the Broken Creek Ranch?" the veterinarian was looking at the patient information sheet that Scott and Mr. Piotrowski had filled out. "My assistant, Scott, found him out there." "You've fed him some meat scraps, and cereal." "That's right." "Let's take a look," the vet carefully ran his hand under the dog's head and down his flank. "He seems to be very calm, good disposition. I'm going to lift him up on the table for a closer look." The vet put one arm around the dog's chest and the other behind the rear legs and lifted him up. "He's a big one alright," the vet took a handheld device with a display screen and ran it over the dog's shoulder blades and around his flanks. "He doesn't have a chip." The vet explained, "Everybody uses them these days. The microchip is the size of a grain of rice that is inserted under the skin. It's a transponder that contains a code we can use to identify the animal. He's not a dog we've seen here at the clinic." The vet checked the dog's teeth and gave him a very thorough examination. "He's in excellent shape for having been abandoned. He needs to gain some weight. I can't tell you his exact age, but from the teeth and his general condition I would say that he is less than two years old." Scott tried not to think about the collar with its 1997 date, or the thousand miles between California and Pecos County. "What kind of shepherd mix would you say he is?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "A good one I think. The black mask and ears with the tawny, almost cream color coat tells us you've got some sort of Belgian Shepherd. He a little bigger than the Malinois, but his coloring is spot on for it. Also his temperament is unusual. For a young shepherd he's very well behaved. They're usually a little more rambunctious." "A good dog?" "For the right owner? A very good dog." The vet turned to Scott "You did a very fine job of getting the mats and burrs out of his coat. Those can be tricky. What he needs is a bath and some proper dog food. Are you going to take him home, or does he need to go over to the pound?" Scott looked at Mr. Piotrowski who answered, "What else does he need?" "If you're going to take him? Shots, and you should think about having him neutered. If you really wanted to know about his breeding I could send a simple DNA test in for you. Plus, you're going to have to give him a name. I can chip him right now for you, and if you let me know what you end up naming him I can update our records." "Give him the shots and chip him. I think we'll wait on the neutering, and the breeding doesn't really matter to me. Can you recommend some shampoo and the best kind of dog food for his size and age?" "I'll write all of that down for you, Mr. Piotrowski." After the vet's office they drove to the farm supply store. Like a lot of farm stores it had a little bit of everything. Mr. Piotrowski was clearly a dog lover; he bought two heavy duty stainless steel food and water bowls, a dog pad, a big doggie bed, shampoo and a grooming brush, new collar, dog lead, and a package of rawhide chew treats. A store employee loaded two large food bags of a brand recommended by the vet into the back of the vehicle. They headed out of town to Meritt's Corner. The only comment Mr. Piotrowski made about the whirlwind shopping trip was, "I might have to put the dog on the payroll." They tossed names around; Zeus, Apollo, Thor, Chief, Elvis, and so on. None seemed to fit. "I think we'll have to see him do something and that will tell us his name," Mr. Piotrowski decided. Scott agreed. In the parking lot of Meritt's, Scott put the shot tags on the new collar and buckled it around the dog's neck. He whispered into his ear as he checked the fit, "You've got a good thing here. Don't go screwing it up. If you don't behave you might end up getting clipped by that veterinarian." The dog 'woofed' quietly. "Do you want him on the lead?" "Let's try it and see how he handles it." Scott clipped the lead on and handed it to Mr. Piotrowski, "I can check the auctions. Do you want to re-list the items that don't sell?" "Let me think about it. It might be best to scrap it all. I don't know if we could find anybody local to take the stuff. I'll give it some thought. For now, the beast and I are going to take a walk and get better acquainted." "Yes, sir." Mr. Piotrowski and the dog escorted Scott to the front door of Meritt's. A young couple came through the doorway chasing a small girl. She saw the dog and made straight for him. With sticky hands she was petting and stroking the big shepherd while excitedly shouting, "Doggie!" The mother's eyes got real wide, and the father rushed over to rescue the girl. The dog, for his part, sat there amused at the entire exchange. The mother took a wet wipe from her purse and was trying to clean the little girl's sticky fingers which now were coated in dog hair. The dad apologized profusely. Mr. Piotrowski and Scott both breathed a sigh of relief, "No harm. No foul." They bid the girl's family good bye. "I think we have a name for this beast. I'm going to call him 'Job, ' as in 'the patience of.' We'll spell it 'Jobe' so that ditzy girl at the clinic doesn't get too confused. What do you think, does it fit?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. Scott tried it out in his head, "I like it. It's a bit unusual." "I think that makes it official. Jobe and I are going for a walk." Scott went in and got the day's password for the computer and checked their auctions. A few items had done very well, but most had only one or two bids and sold for the minimum. About twenty items got no bids at all. Scott opened the email account and found messages. Almost all were from the auctions. It looked like the majority of the bid winners were quick to make payment. There was one unsigned message from an address he didn't recognize. It had to be from one of the places that he had sent the netsuke (nets-keh) inquiries to. Whoever it was wanted more pictures of the bottoms of several different pieces, and close-ups of any symbols or signatures. It was a brief message. He printed out all of the winning auctions with bidder addresses for those that had already paid. They could ship those items right out. Scott found Mr. Piotrowski outside conversing with a couple of grey haired ladies. Jobe sat beside him watching quietly. "Do you want to get something to go from the diner?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "No, sir, can we just grab a sandwich at the house? We've got a bunch of items that we can box up and ship out. Plus I need to take some more photos of the netsuke." He explained about the email and Mr. Piotrowski agreed that it couldn't hurt to put forth the extra effort to comply with the mystery correspondent's wishes. Scott handed the stack of printouts over. Mr. Piotrowski seemed pleased that they had managed to sell so much of the remaining inventory. At the house the crew was busy sanding. There were five guys up on the scaffolding. Mr. Mason waved and said that he was ready to do the inspection of the interior work. "Let me get this dog set up and then I'm all yours." "You know we could install a pet door in back if you wanted?" said Mr. Mason. "Wouldn't it be more like a pet garage door?" Mr. Mason held up his hands, "It would only need to be so big. They make a kit that we can install in a half hour. It's weatherproof." "Let's see how Jobe gets along here and then we'll decide. Scott, why don't you look around and see what you can find to make an outdoor shelter for him?" Mr. Piotrowski went inside to arrange the dog dishes and pet beds while Scott tracked down Bo. "Do you want to help me build a dog house?" Scott asked. "Sure." They found some lumber and plywood in the storage building and stacked it outside. They were trying to figure out what to build when one of the contractors came over and offered his assistance. He helped them build a professional looking 'lean to' dog house against the storage building. It faced the back door and would give Jobe a good view. It had a pitched roof with a wood floor and a large doorway. "All you need now is some felt paper, a few shingles, and the roof will be water tight," the contractor observed. "If you wanted you could even paint it to match the house." Scott liked it, "That's a great idea, and I know where we can get the roofing materials. The Mendozas reroofed their house last year and they stored the extra shingles out at the shop." Bo and the contractor had to get back to paint prep, so Scott went to find Mr. Piotrowski. He was in his easy chair in the television room. Jobe was curled up on his new bed next to the chair. It would have been a cozy scene if it wasn't for the noise of the contractors outside. "We built a really nice dog house." "I'll take a look at it later. I think I'm going to rest here for a while. Why don't you go take a look at the work they did upstairs?" Scott peeked into the downstairs bathroom. There was a sign taped over the doorway that said 'Stay out until noon Tuesday.' The tile looked great. The upstairs bathroom was ready for business. The office had brand new dark oak double doors. Inside, the walls had a fresh coat of paint and the contractors had added a chair rail detail around the room. It was a nice touch that dressed the room up. All Mr. Piotrowski needed now was some furniture. He checked in with him, "I think they did a terrific job. Are you happy with it?" "I am. Bill Mason and his crew do first rate work. What else do you have to do this afternoon?" "Box up the winning bids that have already been paid for, and take new photos of the netsuke." "Do you need any help?" "No, sir, I think I can handle it." Scott checked, and double checked, each box. He taped each shut, and neatly printed the addresses by hand and applied the labels. It didn't take long to load the panel truck. Over the next few days they should be able to ship the rest of the items provided that the payments cleared. Their online auction adventure was almost over. The contractors were cleaning up. Bo said they would be painting from here on out. Mr. Piotrowski came outside. He had Jobe on the lead, "We're going for a walk. I want to let Jobe get familiar with the property." He stopped to examine the dog house, "Boys, you did a fine job on this lean-to. I'm impressed." "We had help." "It's still a fine job. Solid construction." Jobe sniffed around and poked his head inside. It looked like it had his seal of approval. Scott went into the kitchen to retrieve the box of netsuke and the camera. He put a dish towel down and sorted through the carvings. Only ten of the twenty-eight netsuke had any kind of signature or mark that he could find. He took several different pictures of the signed carvings. He took detail photos of the rest. There were nearly a hundred photos by the time he was done. After Mr. Piotrowski returned from walking Jobe they made a quick trip to Meritt's. The postal people helped unload the panel truck and got the boxes processed. Scott talked Mr. Piotrowski into parking by the engine center for a short stop. Mr. Mendoza told Scott to take whatever he wanted for the dog house. A sheet of felt paper and a half-dozen three tab shingles were all they needed. "What next?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "I need to email these photos and check to see if any more people paid for their auction items. Shouldn't take me more than fifteen minutes." "Sounds like a plan. I'm going to grab a cup of coffee, and we'll wait for you." The first thing that Scott had to do was to send all the photos he had taken to their mystery correspondent. There were too many images for one message, so he broke the response up into four separate messages. Hopefully that wouldn't flood their mailbox, but he or she did ask for them. Scott checked the email account and found five more payment confirmations. On a whim he decided to search other auction listings to see if he could figure out why some of their items hadn't sold. He got quickly distracted and ended up searching for all sorts of random items. It wasn't just a saying; you really could find anything online. Curious, he entered another search term. "Mr. Piotrowski!" "Good grief, Scott. What's the matter?" "You have to come see, hurry!" "I can only move so fast. There's no need to rush." "Look! Sit here." Jobe nosed around in the little computer room. He didn't find anything interesting to smell so he sat down to see what all the fuss was about. "Scott, what exactly am I looking at? Take a deep breath first." "I wanted to try to find out if there was anything different that we could do with our unsuccessful auction items, but I didn't find anything. Then I sort of got ... distracted. There's just so much to look at. So look, I searched for the watch you gave me." Scott clicked the mouse to back out of the auction he was on and revealed a page of similar watches. "Now isn't that interesting?" Mr. Piotrowski said in amazement. "Interesting?" he switched to another tab to show a page that explained all about the moon watches. "Mr. Piotrowski you should sell the watch. From what it says here it's a rare, vintage example, and it's in perfect condition. I bet you could sell it for ... three, maybe four thousand dollars if we go by these prices! I can't keep it when you're trying to sell all of this other stuff. It's not fair to you." Mr. Piotrowski logged the session off and pushed himself away from the computer desk. "Let's go back to the house while I tell you a little something about value." Jobe was sitting between them in the truck, enjoying the view. Mr. Piotrowski organized his thoughts, "Scott, I appreciate that you want me to take the watch back and sell it. You're right. Those are incredible prices. However, I gave that to you as a gift and you're going to keep it." "But—" "But nothing. Now let me talk. Almost forty years ago I bought that watch along with some other items from a man who was going broke. I didn't pay much for it. The watch sat in a box for all of those years, and I never once thought about it. Its value is that I could give it to you. You're not going to sell it are you?" "I would never sell it, Mr. Piotrowski." "There you go. What is the value of the watch to you?" He thought about it, "That you gave it to me." "So the value to each of us is something that you cannot put a price tag on." Scott squirmed in his seat, "You should still think about selling it. It's a lot of money. You gave me a nice Army watch to wear every day." Mr. Piotrowski rubbed Jobe's ears, "Your heart's in the right place, but a gift is a gift. Besides I didn't have the yard sale or put those items on auction to make money. Don't get me wrong, that was a very nice bonus. The important thing was to empty out the storage building and to get my house in order after Verna's passing. I don't know if you can understand that." "You're not planning on ... going anywhere are you?" "Don't you worry about that because I'm planning to stick around for a long time. After all, who else is going to look after this beast?" That night in his room, Scott took the moon watch from the display box and put it into a soft cloth bag with a draw string. He secured the bag in his lock box and returned it to the shelf in his closet. He closed his eyes and felt the coolness of his pillow. There was a lot to think about. He almost owned a motorcycle. In January he could register it and it would be official. With his own transportation there would be more options open to him, and there was a watch in his closet that was probably worth more than two years of his paychecks. The one thought that he couldn't avoid was about the dog collar that he'd also hidden. The collar was dated the day after he'd left San Bernardino County almost nine years ago. It was impossible for Jobe to be less than two years old like the vet said, but have a 1997 ID tag from a San Bernardino animal shelter located over a thousand miles away. Jobe didn't make any sense, but the dog's appearance couldn't be random coincidence. What did it mean? I need to sleep. Ever since he had woken up on the floor his head had felt like it was too big. ------- Painting was therapeutic Scott learned. It didn't require a lot of thought. You put new paint on your brush and transformed your section of house siding from dull to fresh. Then you repeated the process. Mr. Piotrowski had decided on a color change. The house was now going to be a pale cream, with ice white trim, and dark reddish brown shutters. Scott thought it was going to be a very handsome house when they were finished. They painted for two days, and they were ahead of schedule when Scott had to report for his Thursday shift at Mendoza's. By the time he got back to Mr. Piotrowski's that afternoon the painters were finished. Bo was cleaning brushes out behind the house. "You guys are finished already?" "Yeah, we're finished. We'll come back tomorrow and tear down the rest of the scaffolding. Did you like what we did with the dog house?" He did, somebody had added faux trim and shutters to the side of the lean-to, and they'd painted the entire thing in the same colors as the house. "Did you do all of that, Bo?" "I thought you guys would get a kick out of it." "It looks really good." "What are you doing for the rest of the summer?" Bo asked. "I don't know. Work for Mr. Piotrowski I hope." "I can't promise anything, but Dad's needed extra laborers lately. The guys all agreed that you were a good worker, so we might have something for you later if you're interested. There's next summer to think about too." "Hey thanks. I could use the extra work, but I don't know about next summer. That's a long ways away." "No sweat man. I enjoyed working with you. Don't be such a stranger when school starts okay?" "You got it." Scott helped Bo load the painting supplies into the back of the Mason's truck. Mr. Piotrowski cut him loose for the rest of the afternoon after showing him what the phone company had done for the DSL installation. Scott spent the majority of Friday morning searching the shop for a box of valve seals that inventory said they had, but nobody could find. He finally found it under a bench in the electrical section. No one claimed knowledge of how it had gotten there. The afternoon went smoothly, and Noah asked him what his plans were for the fall. Noah explained, "I'd like you to work with me, but our small engine business gets really slow in winter. I usually only put a couple afternoons in on it, and spend the rest of my time doing rebuilds on the big trucks." "I don't know what I'll be doing this fall. I guess I'll go back to washing parts and cleaning the floors, or whatever Mr. Mendoza tells me he needs done." "I doubt that. I bet he has something else in mind for you," Noah said with conviction. Scott was unlocking his bicycle when Mr. Piotrowski drove up in the panel truck and surprised him. He leaned out the window and shouted, "Put the bike in the back. We need to run into town." Scott put the bike in the back, closed the rear door from the inside and climbed over the bench seat. Scott buckled his seat belt as Mr. Piotrowski watched with amusement. "Where's Jobe?" "Left him at the house. We'll see if he tears the place apart while I'm gone." "So what are we doing in town?" "That my young friend is a very good question. What can you tell me about the emails you sent out about the netsuke?" "I searched for museums with Asian collections and tried to pick a few that seemed ... I'm not sure how to describe it. I guess I picked ones that seemed more serious? The closest one was that place in Dallas. Is there some sort of problem?" "No, I don't think it's a problem. What about that email and the photos you sent?" Mr. Piotrowski looked at him. "That? I'm not sure who it was from since there wasn't a name associated with the account. The address wasn't from any of the museums. I think it was somebody's private email address, or maybe it was one they created just for the purpose of contacting us. You don't think somebody is up to something shady do you?" "I don't think so. What can you tell me about the Field Museum?" "It's in Chicago," oh that's brilliant, Scott thought, "and it's really big. That's about all I know about it, Mr. Piotrowski." "I should tell you about my morning then," Mr. Piotrowski said. "I got a fascinating phone call from a man who said he was with the Field Museum. I believe he might be the guy that you sent those photos to because he seemed to know a lot about our little carvings." "No kidding?" "No kidding. In fact, he likes them so much that he wants to fly down here and see them on Monday." "Really?" was all Scott could think to say. "That was pretty much the same thought that I had." "So what are we going to do in town?" "We're going to stop and see somebody I think you'll enjoy meeting." Riding in a one ton truck built in 1959 with the windows down was not exactly 'quiet, ' but they rode the rest of the way deep in thought. In Fort Stockton Mr. Piotrowski parked in front of a building located in a professional center near the courthouse. A sign on the door read, 'Black & Black: Attorneys At Law.' Scott wondered why it was 'at law?' why not 'of law' or 'in law?' Where there other kinds of attorneys who were 'at' something else? Mr. Piotrowski walked right up to the receptionist. She was an older lady who greeted him by name. "Alex, she's expecting you." From an office down the hall Scott heard a cheery voice call out, "Come on back." Scott followed Mr. Piotrowski into a nice, professional looking office. The voice belonged to the most exotic woman he had ever seen. She had golden brown skin and short black hair. Her eyes had a slightly Asian shape, but what really caught his attention was her smile. She had the whitest teeth, and her lips glistened with a touch of dark, blood red lipstick. He was transfixed. Mr. Piotrowski introduced them, "I'd like you to meet my friend, Scott MacIntyre. Scott, this is my friend and lawyer, Honour Black." She was looking at him. He watched with absolute fascination as she licked the corner of her mouth. Good god, is she teasing me? "Go ahead, you can ask. Everybody wants to," she said. You better focus, he thought, or she is going to think you are a complete idiot. "Does your name ever cause problems in court?" "Oh!" she laughed and covered her mouth. Good grief, even her laugh was exotic. "That's a first. Usually it's 'where are you from?' or 'how did you end up here?', but I like your question better. You can blame my father for the name. I did get teased about it in law school; 'your honor, Honour, ' and that sort of thing. It's not been a problem in court." "I think it's a beautiful name," remarked Mr. Piotrowski. "You are an old charmer, Alex, and your young friend is delightful. Now, to business. You said you needed legal advice, so what can I do for you?" Mr. Piotrowski explained about the Japanese artifacts, the phone call from the Field Museum, and the impending visit. He took a folded cloth handkerchief from his pocket and revealed one of the small carvings which he set on her desk. "This is a netsuke? Is that singular or plural?" she asked. Mr. Piotrowski turned to Scott, so he answered, "It can be both, ma'am." "Very interesting. Alex, would you mind if Joseph sits in on this meeting? He may specialize in criminal cases, but he's very strong on contract law." "Not at all, Honour, I trust your judgment." Mrs. Black's husband joined them shortly. Scott thought he looked like a lawyer should. He had perfect hair and features, and wore a fancy suit. If you were in trouble this was the kind of man you wanted standing next to you in court. Scott felt chagrined when he realized that he was like everybody else, at least on one account. He found himself wondering what these two were doing in a tiny place like Fort Stockton. Mr. Black listened as Honour summarized the meeting so far. "The Field Museum? I visited it many times when I was an undergrad at Northwestern. They're flying here Monday? Mr. Piotrowski, I can only say that these people must be very keen for your collection. If Honour agrees, I think we should have the meeting here. We have a room that would suit perfectly." "Oh, I agree, Joseph," Honour replied. Mr. Piotrowski was on board, "There is one issue that I should mention. Some of the pieces are ivory. I know that there are laws about buying and selling ivory." "We'll have to research that. You're right. There are laws about selling ivory, but I think owning it is okay before certain dates. You brought these carvings into the country in 1952? Would you have any documentation that might prove that?" Mr. Black asked. "I have the original handwritten receipt from the gentleman I purchased the netsuke from. I can't remember if it has a date on it or not. Scott, do you know?" "No, sir, I haven't seen it." Mr. Black leaned forward eagerly, "Please bring it with you on Monday. It could be extremely important for establishing the provenance of the pieces." Honour raised a good point, "You don't actually know if they're interested in purchasing the collection. They might want you to loan it to the museum for display. That said, the speed and eagerness they're showing would tend to argue for an acquisition as opposed to a loan." Mr. Piotrowski smiled, "Then we'll play it by ear. With my lawyers on the case I can rest easy. Can you think of anything else I need to prepare for this meeting?" "Alex, the only thing else I can think to ask is if you're ready to part with your collection?" "It's been hidden away for fifty years. I like the idea that people, especially young people, would be able to see it," he replied. "Then we'll see you on Monday." Outside in the truck, Mr. Piotrowski gave Scott a look, "What did you think of my lawyer?" "She's something!" Scott replied. "She sure is," Mr. Piotrowski agreed. The next stop surprised Scott. They drove to an auto dealership that was located by the middle school. A couple of younger dealers flocked to Mr. Piotrowski, but he just waved them aside. He was here to see their boss he explained. A middle aged man who smiled too easily came outside and shook hands with Mr. Piotrowski. "Mr. Piotrowski, I'm so glad to see you. My father mentioned you might be by. I've got that truck if you'd like to look at it?" "Earl," was all that Mr. Piotrowski said by way of acknowledgement. They walked over to a pickup truck. "Scott, what do you think?" Scott looked at Mr. Piotrowski and then at the truck, "This truck?" "Yep." Yikes. "It's ... different." They were standing in front of a bright silver Dodge Ram 2500 extended cab pickup truck. These three-quarter ton Rams were nice looking trucks, but this particular example was awful. It had a big brush guard, and large, fake 'big rig' style vertical exhaust pipes behind the cab, all of it chromed. Surprisingly it had only been lifted a few inches and had large, but not obnoxious tires. Worst of all were the garish purple and yellow flame decals running down the length of the truck. Some sort of intricate sticker covered the back window. Scott wasn't sure what it was supposed to depict but he could see lots of roses and thorns. There was a pair of chrome balls hanging from the rear hitch. "What can I do to put you into this truck?" asked the dealer. Mr. Piotrowski looked thoughtful. Scott recognized that he was in dicker mode. "How many miles?" he asked. "It only has eighty-two hundred miles on it. The guy that bought it didn't make any payments so we took possession of it since he financed it through us." "It's damn ugly." "That, I cannot argue, Mr. Piotrowski. Under all of that is a real fine truck; Laramie package 4x4, the 5.9 Cummins turbo-diesel, automatic, tow package. The interior's in great shape. I think he ran out of money before he could screw that up." "And it's been sitting here on your lot for four and half months," Mr. Piotrowski added. The dealer was not pleased about that. "What can I do to make you happy, Mr. Piotrowski?" "Earl, if I have to tell you that then you're worse off than your father suspects. I'm here to do him a favor. Get rid of all of that crap. Rip that chromed monstrosity off the front end. Put it wherever you're going to stick those ridiculous pipes. The flame decals should come right off and your body department can buff out the paint. Get that rear window re-tinted to stock, and take those damned chrome nuts off the back of the hitch!" Earl looked at the ground and then back up, "Yes, sir." Scott wondered if the car dealer was going to cry. "Earl, if you listened to your father I wouldn't be here. He ran this dealership for a lot of years and did real well for you boys. I'm going to hand you what I'm willing to pay for this truck, after you get it back to stock condition. If you can live with that, give me a call." Mr. Piotrowski handed Earl a folded piece of paper. The dealer opened it and sighed. Mr. Piotrowski turned to walk away, but only made it a few steps before the dealer called after him. Scott saw the glimmer of a smile before Mr. Piotrowski turned back around. They were riding back to the house in the old truck. "I can't believe you're buying a new truck. What are you going to do with this one? I thought you loved this thing." "Scott, when I bought this truck I paid about thirty-two cents a gallon for regular. This truck is heavy, and it drinks gasoline. She is a great old truck, but that diesel is a better truck. It will get twenty miles per gallon highway, maybe sixteen mpg city." Waving at the inside of the panel truck, "Plus, how about a little air conditioning and some comfortable seats? The sedan has air conditioning, but can't haul anything. I'm going to get rid of them both and have one vehicle that combines the best of both worlds." "Who's going buy the truck?" "I talked to a guy in San Antonio that builds fancy hot rods. This old Apache is high on his list of vehicles that he wants to customize. Earl doesn't know it yet, but their car hauler is going to carry the panel truck down to San Antonio next week. I'm helping his dad teach him a lesson about the car business that he should have learned a long time ago." Scott felt a little stunned. Mr. Piotrowski had been busy. When he made a decision he sure didn't fool around. The house looked great. All the scaffolding had been taken away and the dumpster removed. The new paint job and color really made the house pop. A crisp American flag was fluttering in the breeze from the front porch. "The new paint sure makes the house look nice, Mr. Piotrowski." "It really does. You all did a fine job. I think the only thing left on my 'to fix' list now is to get some new gravel out here for the driveway." Jobe was very happy to see them. Scott and Mr. Piotrowski looked around, but couldn't find any evidence of misbehavior. "Scott, take Jobe for a walk will you? I need to pay some bills and balance my checkbook." Scott didn't put Jobe on a lead. He figured that the dog was smart enough to know where his next meal was coming from. Jobe had a lot of things he needed to inspect around the property. He made Scott laugh when he chased up a pair of quail from the tall grass. He found something on the ground that he ate with a snap. Scott looked around but couldn't find any evidence of what it had been, "Jobe, you better behave or Mr. Piotrowski is likely to trade you in for a couple of cute poodles." He swore that the dog was laughing at him. Jobe was enjoying himself. There was a lot to investigate and the humans were very entertaining. Scott put out fresh water for Jobe, and got himself a glass of ice water. Jobe made a production of inspecting the dog mat and then flopped down. They both watched Mr. Piotrowski do his checkbook. "Verna used to do this. She kept all of the bills and I never had to worry about it. I've had to get more organized to try and keep up with it all. Next week we'll buy a desk for the office, and maybe a filing cabinet. We might even have a new truck to haul it in." Mr. Piotrowski got up and got himself a glass of water. "Now, what's bothering you?" Was Mr. Piotrowski psychic? Scott kept a careful check on his expression. It was a habit that lot of foster kids learned, "We finished with the yard sale, and there's only a few things left on auction. The house is finished. Are you going to need me for much longer?" "I thought it might be something like that. Would you like to keep working for me?" "Yes, sir, very much so." "Good, because I've got things for you to do. I might start doing a little trading and selling. Not a lot, but every now and then if I find things that interest me. You can help me with that. Sound good?" "Yes, sir." "I'm not a young man anymore and it strikes me that I could use a strong fellow like you for chores around the house. I'd like to learn how to use the computer a little better. Heck, I might even ask you to help keep me organized. Now, when does school start back up?" Scott hadn't thought about school, "August 21st. We have freshman orientation the week before." "We'll work up a schedule together. For now we'll keep it kind of loose. I could see you stopping by two or three times a week depending on what I needed, and I'll pay you." Scott thought about it, "If I'm going to keep the motorcycle here we could figure part of that as my storage fee." "I can see that we're going to need to have a serious talk about the art of dickering. You're not supposed to talk yourself into less money. How about we call storage a perk of the job?" "If you say so." "Great! Then I'd say that you're done for today. In fact, why don't you take Saturday afternoon off too? Be here around eight a.m. on Sunday. We can drive into town and get breakfast. Then we'll go meet the sheriff out at the range. You're still up for that right?" "I'm looking forward to it." "Me too. I'll see you Sunday." Sunday at the Range, July 16, 2006 Jobe had a new doggie door to use. Mr. Mason had come out and installed it on Saturday. The big shepherd had taken to it immediately. Scott filled Jobe's inside and outside water bowls, and told him to behave while they were gone. Mr. Piotrowski drove the sedan. They met Walter King in town for breakfast tacos, and then drove out to the range. Scott was excited. He had read all of the safety booklets and training materials for handgun and rifle shooting. The sheriff had dropped a pile of them off for him. They made an interesting addition to his bookshelf. Mr. Piotrowski and the sheriff parked their vehicles in front of an air conditioned building, and Scott helped unload the trunk. Mr. Piotrowski had two padded rifle bags and a hard case for another. He had a couple of other bags that contained ammunition and some hand guns. The sheriff unloaded several bags from his truck that looked vaguely military. The range was nothing like he expected. The area was well groomed and looked very professional. Walkways lined with crushed white gravel stretched to different portions of the range. He could see long rows of permanent structures that provided shade for shooters. There were benches for each shooting lane under the shade. Muted pops of gunfire were coming from a section of the range he couldn't see. Making their way inside Scott looked around curiously. It was like some sort of club house combined with a shooting supply store. There were glass cases displaying several different hand guns. Racks of rifles were displayed on the wall behind the cases. There was a nice area to sit down and relax. In the back he could see what looked like a classroom. One corner of the building displayed 'tactical' clothing and bags. Tactical apparently meant stout fabrics in khaki and beige colors, with lots of extra pockets. Walter King was shaking hands with several men, including the current Pecos County Sheriff. News of Walt's run for office had been out for a couple of weeks. The word around town was that the sitting sheriff was so delighted at the news he refused to run against his good friend. Walt would be the new sheriff come November. Scott was sent to the training room with a younger deputy sheriff where he had to take a written safety and general knowledge test. It was easy and he breezed through it. Afterwards he had to answer questions from the deputy as well as Mr. King and Mr. Piotrowski. They called it an oral board. "What's the most important safety lesson?" asked the deputy sheriff at the end of the questioning. The three men then had a polite argument about what was most important. Finally the deputy conceded and tried again, "Okay, what are the most important safety lessons that you've learned?" Scott ticked them off on his fingers, "Never point the gun at something I'm not prepared to shoot. Keep my finger off of the trigger until I'm ready to shoot. Treat every gun as if it were loaded." "Not bad," replied Walter. "I might amend that first one to say that you never point your weapon at someone unless you are prepared to kill them." "Let's hope he never has to do that," Mr. Piotrowski said with some emphasis. "Agreed," echoed the two law enforcement officers. "I'll throw my own variation out," offered Mr. Piotrowski. "Firearms have many different kinds of safeties, but the most important one is found between your ears. Do you understand me?" "Yes, sir." "What do you think, Walt? Is he ready to shoot?" "He has a solid grasp on the operating principles, and I think he did very nicely on the safety portion. He's ready. Let's go put a few downrange." Scott got the grand tour before they went over to the rifle range. Walter King gave him a running commentary, "We call these individual sections 'bays' and they're bermed on three sides by twenty-five feet of earth. This allows us to run simultaneous live fire training sessions in each of the three bays. The bays are forty-five yards deep, but we set up most of our targets at fifteen yards or under. It's within that range where you're most likely to engage a suspect with a pistol. They walked down to the rifle range. "Alex, I think you'll appreciate this. We have a six hundred yard range and a thousand yard range. We can setup at two hundred, three hundred, or five hundred yards on either side," the sheriff said. "It's the distances you learn to shoot at in the Corps," Mr. Piotrowski explained to Scott. "We're going to start out a little closer for you." The deputy helped Sheriff King drag a bench rest over, and Mr. Piotrowski put a rifle case down on it. The rest of the bags they stacked up under the shelter. The deputy carried a target stand out to the twenty five foot mark. Mr. Piotrowski waited to unzip the gun case until the deputy returned to the firing line. Sheriff King took out three sets of ear protectors. The deputy already had his around his neck. "Alex, you'll like these and they beat the heck out of ear plugs or the old style headsets." He handed one to Mr. Piotrowski, "These little microphones allow us to speak normally and hear each other, but the electronics block out any noise spikes when a weapon is fired." "I've seen them in the Rifleman magazines, but have never used them," he put them around his neck and nodded at Scott to do the same. Mr. Piotrowski held out a .22 round for Scott to examine. He sat him down on the bench and they went over the operation of the bolt action rifle to review the classroom instruction. "Walk me through what you're going to do." The deputy and the sheriff were watching closely. Scott took hold of the rifle, "I keep control of the muzzle making sure it's pointing in a safe direction. My finger is off of the trigger. I pull the bolt back and inspect the breech. The weapon is unloaded. I place a round in the breech." He mimed the action with an imaginary cartridge. "I close the bolt and place the butt stock firmly against my shoulder. I push the safety off and get a sight picture. My index finger is against the trigger guard. I have a firm, but not overly tight grip on the rifle. I place my finger on the trigger, release a breath and pull the trigger in a smooth, controlled motion." "BANG!" shouted Sheriff King. Scott jumped a little, but kept control of the rifle. "What did he do wrong, Deputy?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "He forgot to check to see if the range was clear before addressing the weapon." "That's right," replied the sheriff. "Otherwise, that was an outstanding recitation." "Live ammo time. Put your headphones on. Load one round and fire when ready," instructed Mr. Piotrowski. Scott made a visible show of checking the range. He loaded a round and took aim. The .22 had a crisp snap when it went off, but was otherwise very gentle. Scott was pleased to see a hole where he had been aiming at the top of the bull's eye on the target. "Nice shot! Why don't you fire ten rounds at your own pace? Fire when ready." Scott checked the range again and proceeded to fire his ten rounds one by one. The next round he put right beside the first. That got everybody's attention so Scott was careful to spread the next nine rounds around a little more. "I think we've got a shooter on our hands," exclaimed the sheriff. "Unload and show clear," instructed Mr. Piotrowski. Scott ejected the last round and inspected the breech. "Leave the bolt back. We'll walk down and look at your target." The sheriff stopped him before he started toward the target, "With just us here we know that the range is safe, but you check anyway. Never be complacent when it comes to firearms. On a public range you have to be extremely careful. You want somebody to loudly announce that the range is 'cold.' Nobody should be handling their weapons as you or anybody else walk down range. Keep an eye peeled. You never know when some knucklehead who hasn't been paying attention might come along and start dicking around." The men stood and examined Scott's target. They complimented him on his trigger control. They moved the target out to the fifty foot mark, and returned to the firing line. Mr. Piotrowski told him to fire twenty rounds at his own pace. The three men stood back far enough to give him the illusion of solitude, but Scott knew that they were watching him closely. He fired his twenty rounds. He was careful to spread them around, but not wildly so. After Scott proved himself with the .22 rifle, they let him take a crack at some serious hardware that the sheriff and Mr. Piotrowski brought along. The M1 Carbine, .30 caliber, and the M1 Garand, .30-06 caliber, were World War II era weapons that saw use in Korea, and even some limited action in Vietnam. The more modern Vietnam era, match grade M14, 7.62mm, was fun to shoot. It had a twenty round box magazine which meant that you got to shoot for a while if you spaced out your rounds. The carbine was light and easy to shoot, and he could see why it was popular. The Garand was the type weapon that Mr. Piotrowski had lugged around Korea when he was a mortar squad leader. It was heavy and had a big kick. There was an amazing sense of camaraderie on the firing range. It was like being accepted into a an exclusive club. They trusted him with an activity that demanded respect, and the men admired his growing skill. His skill was a subject that Scott fretted over. He had to make sure that he was not too skilled with the weapons. While he was shooting the bigger rifles at longer distances, Mr. Piotrowski and the sheriff took turns using a spotting scope to help correct his aim. Scott didn't need the spotting scope because his vision allowed him to see exactly where his rounds were hitting. He got to shoot from each of the distances. His superior vision and motor control meant that the rounds went where he wanted. They were shooting from five hundred yards when the sheriff mentioned that Olympic shooters could shoot between their heartbeats, so he tried it. He took a deep breath and let his mind focus. He took another breath and unshackled his senses. Scott could count the ridges on the trigger as his finger rested against it. The wind was calm at the shooting position, but the dry grass was waving down range. There was a light breeze, but he didn't think it would impact the bullet's trajectory at this distance. There was a bullet hole on the left side of the target, outside of the bull's eye and he decided to put a round next to it. Scott listened to his heart waiting to find the space between the beats. He concentrated on the stillness until the drumbeat of his heart surprised him. He waited until the next space and reveled in the emptiness of it. He examined the target leisurely, and checked the position of the men watching him. Off to his right was a fly. He was fascinated to watch its wings almost frozen. How long would it take to flap? He pulled the trigger and time sped back up. Down range another bullet hole appeared next to the one he had selected. The edges of the two holes barely overlapped. "Good shot, Scott. You were just an inch left of the bull's eye," called Mr. Piotrowski. The day at the range had been a lot of fun. Scott wasn't sure that he'd ever use those skills, but he understood the enjoyment that people found in target shooting. More important was the time spent with Mr. Piotrowski and Sheriff King. They had accepted him as an equal in an activity that they clearly put a lot of stock in. It wasn't about the guns or the firepower. He realized it was the responsibility that they represented. As they were leaving the deputy sheriff gave him a khaki baseball cap with a Pecos County Sheriff's patch on it. He had something new for his shelf. He fell asleep easily that night. Monday morning Scott enjoyed breakfast with Mrs. Delgado. She was catching him up on the ranch gossip. "Mijo, Mrs. Rewcastle asked me a very strange question last week." "What was that, Abluela?" "She wondered if you might want to take over some of the foreman's duties? She thought it could be something you would be interested in doing as a full time job some day." Scott put his spoon down, "You're joking?" "I swear I'm not," she insisted. "That's crazy! I have no interest in the foreman's job. You can tell that to anybody who asks. I really hope the foreman hasn't heard this nonsense." "Good!" answered Mrs. Delgado. "This place..." she said it with such venom it surprised Scott. She stopped suddenly and covered her mouth and looked around. "They're upstairs, besides they wouldn't have understood you," Scott assured her. "Of course you would know," she said. Oh shit! Had he just screwed up? "You were always so observant. Watching everyone and never talking. Mijo, you don't know how happy it makes me to see you doing so wonderfully in school and making friends. Mr. Piotrowski says you've been an incredible help to him this summer. Did you know that he called to thank me for sending you to him?" Scott blushed, the praise embarrassed him. He was also relieved that Mrs. Delgado didn't think that he was weird for knowing where the Rewcastles were in the house. He needed to be more careful. "So, what are you doing today?" she asked. "We're going into town for a meeting." "You will have to tell me more," she insisted. "Abuela, it's a business matter. I know it won't stay secret for long in Fort Stockton, but I think we at least have to attempt to keep it a private matter for a few hours," he teased her. "Fine, I won't share any good secrets with you," she pouted. "That's okay, Abuela, I already know your mole (mo-lay) recipe. All other secrets pale in comparison." "Mijo!" she was laughing. "Go now and have your secret business meeting, but first put on a nicer shirt." He didn't think that there was anything wrong with his t-shirt, but he went back to the bunkhouse and got a nicer shirt anyway. Jobe met him on the road as he got close to the house. He was very energized and barked happily at him. Scott parked his bicycle next to the kitchen, and went in with Jobe while warning him to watch for traffic on the road. "Morning, Scott." "You're all dressed up!" he replied. He had never seen Mr. Piotrowski wearing anything other than jeans or overalls. This morning he was wearing a brown suit with a bright red tie. There was a small gold Marine Corps pin in the button hole of his lapel. "I haven't worn a monkey suit since Verna's funeral. I figured if I was going to wear one then I'd wear the brightest tie I owned. Does it look okay?" "It looks fine to me, but I'm not really a judge of that kind of thing." "Well it will have to do. Take a look at what I found this morning. It's the original box the netsuke were packed in," Mr. Piotrowski said. It was an old wooden box darkened with age. Down the lid ran a string of vertical characters. Scott knew the writing form was called Kanji. Mr. Piotrowski told him to pick it up. "It's so light. What kind of wood is this?" Scott asked. "I have no idea. It must be some species unique to the Japanese islands. Look at the construction. Those joints are still tight after all of these years. I even found the ribbon the box was tied up with. Isn't that an interesting pattern?" "You should put the netsuke back in this box. I bet the museum people would really like that. Did you find the receipt?" Scott asked. "Right here," Mr. Piotrowski patted a small envelop. "I like the idea about the netsuke in the original box. Pack it carefully and use a lot of cushioning." ------- Mr. Piotrowski parked the sedan in front of the Black & Black office. He had already checked his watch several times. They sat in the car for several minutes. Finally, Mr. Piotrowski unbuckled his seatbelt and got out. "No sense waiting out here. We might as well go inside," he announced. The receptionist and the Blacks were waiting for them when they entered. The receptionist took Scott to the back where the meeting room was. There was a long table with a clean white cloth in the center. He set the box down on the cloth. The receptionist fussed and fixed a carafe of water. Finally she decided that the room met her standards. Joseph Black was in Honour's office going over some paperwork with Mr. Piotrowski. Honour took Scott by the arm and led him to some chairs in the waiting area. "The museum people called. They'll be here shortly," she informed him. "I thought we should get better acquainted." Huh? Honour Black was impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt and black skirt. Scott found himself distracted by her high heels. The undersides were bright red and he wondered why. She has great legs, he thought. "Tell me a little bit about yourself," she insisted. "Uh ... what do you want to know?" "I understand that you live at the Broken Creek Boys Ranch. Tell me about that." "It's a live-in residential ranch for boys. They have horses. We have between ten and fourteen boys there at any given time. There's not much to it," he replied. "And how long have you lived there?" "I guess it will be nine years this January." "Nine years? How old are you?" That had thrown her. "Fourteen. I'll be a freshman in high school this term." "What about your family? Parents?" she inquired. "Don't have any, my parents died in an accident." "Where were they from?" "I don't really know," he lied again. "I see," she said thoughtfully. She was pretty good at this. Scott had years of experience at being interrogated by experts. This was the first one who had ever done it with a smile and a subtle caress of his arm. She knows the effect she has and isn't afraid to use it, he realized. He was impressed. Every time she had touched him his brain had threatened to rebel. A rental car pulled up outside and Honour called to her husband, "Joseph, they're here." Mr. Piotrowski and Mr. Black emerged from the office and took up positions by the receptionist's desk. Scott went to stand by Mr. Piotrowski. Three people came through the front door. A distinguished looking Japanese man with gray hair introduced himself when Mr. Piotrowski stepped forward. "Mr. Piotrowski, it's a pleasure to meet you at last. I'm Michael Yoshida from the Field Museum's Asian Collections Department, we spoke on the phone. This is my assistant Miss Makepeace, and Mr. Whitmore who represents the museum trust." Mr. Yoshida's accent was pure American. Miss Makepeace was a college aged girl, and Scott bet that Mr. Whitmore was a lawyer. The Blacks and Mr. Whitmore were sizing each other up professional to professional. Mr. Piotrowski introduced the opposition, "This is my assistant, Scott MacIntyre, and my lawyer Honour Black and her partner, Joseph Black." The lawyers exchanged handshakes. "If you would like to come this way?" Mrs. Black indicated with a hand. Mr. Yoshida's eyes glinted in anticipation when he spotted the box on the conference table. His assistant wasn't as good at covering her excitement. "I see that you have the original presentation box. You didn't mention that over the phone. Very interesting," commented Mr. Yoshida. "It's a 'tomobako' or presentation box," the assistant whispered to the museum's lawyer. Mr. Whitmore's eyes showed no reaction. "May I?" asked Mr. Yoshida. "Of course," replied Mr. Piotrowski. Everybody found a seat at the conference table while Mr. Yoshida and Miss Makepeace removed a set of elaborate magnifying glasses and a big, expensive camera from a case. They both put on white gloves and gingerly opened the box. Mr. Yoshida set the lid aside and carefully made some notes from the writing on the lid. Miss Makepeace unwrapped the netsuke and organizing them on a piece of padded cloth. She reached into the box and took out the ribbon and handed it to Mr. Yoshida. He examined it with interest. He placed the ribbon on the lid and took several pictures. His assistant was examining the carvings with a magnifying glass that had a bright light built into it. She muttered something to herself and carefully handed the magnifying glass and carving to her boss. He looked at it and nodded, setting the carving aside. They continued their examination for another ten minutes. It was very quiet in the conference room. The two experts sorted the carvings to some pattern only known to them. Mr. Yoshida sat back in his chair and gathered his thoughts. His assistant looked at him carefully. Mr. Piotrowski interrupted the rhythm of whatever scene was playing out by handing Mr. Yoshida the envelope. Mr. Yoshida looked at it curiously. He opened it and slid out the receipt. "This is exceptional," he exclaimed and showed it to his assistant. He ran a hand through his graying hair, "I have to tell you Mr. Piotrowski that I can't recall ever seeing a collection of this quality appear out of nowhere. Serious netsuke collectors outside of Japan are a fairly small bunch. They are passionate and well known in certain circles." "Mr. Yoshida, I wouldn't call myself a collector of netsuke," he replied. "Never-the-less, this is an impressive collection, an important collection." Mr. Yoshida pointed to the carvings that he had set aside, "You have ten signed pieces. Four of these are by a very well known artist. The others we can research. The unsigned carvings are of very high quality, and the lack of a signature takes nothing away from them. With the receipt and presentation box we should be able to learn more about the original collector." He paused, and looked at the museum's lawyer, "I feel that I must tell you that if you were to take this collection to auction ... you might realize a much larger sale price." Scott looked at the museum's lawyer. His only visible reaction was a slight tightening of the mouth. "So, you are interested in an acquisition?" inquired Honour. Mr. Yoshida looked at his compatriots, "Yes, most certainly if Mr. Piotrowski is amenable to the idea." Mr. Black stood up and suggested, "Why don't we move to Honour's office and discuss some details?" Mr. Piotrowski, Mr. Yoshida, and the lawyers walked down the hall to Honour's office leaving Miss Makepeace and Scott in the conference room with the netsuke. She started taking pictures of each of the individual carvings. Scott got up and stretched his legs, "Miss, would you like a glass of water?" "Aren't you polite? Yes, I would love a glass of water." Scott went over to the small table that held a pitcher of water and several glasses. He poured two and brought one over to the young lady. "I'm Lauren. Are you Mr. Piotrowski's grandson?" "Me? No, I just work for Mr. Piotrowski," he replied. "Really? So what's your role in all of this?" she asked. "Not much. I emailed the museum if that's what you mean?" "You did? What made you choose the Field Museum?" "I liked your web site?" She laughed, "Well you made an excellent choice. Doctor Yoshida is one of the best in the field. Your Mr. Piotrowski is a very lucky man. Would you like to know more about these?" she asked. He nodded. Lauren gave him a very detailed lecture on netsuke and the different styles represented by the collection. These were mostly 19th century examples, the peak period for netsuke, but some might date as far back as the 16th century. She indentified the carvings by their materials; ivory, hardwood, bone, lacquer, coral, and one that she somehow knew was made from a sperm whale tooth. The museum had a good sized collection she told him, but this acquisition would probably put it into another league all together. She was very passionate about it. Scott wondered about her job, "Do you fly all over finding things for the museum?" "Not usually. This morning was very exciting. We flew on a private jet provided by one of the museum's trustees. Have you ever been on an airplane?" she asked. "Yes." "Oh." Why would she be disappointed that I had been on an airplane, he wondered? Scott saw the lawyer, Mr. Whitmore, step out of Honour's office and walk down the hallway to make a private call. He chose not to listen in. The lawyer returned to the office after a few minutes. Lauren Makepeace organized the carvings into two rows and was making detailed notes on each piece. The meeting in the office finally came to an end. Mr. Yoshida walked into the conference room and nodded at her. She made an excited little sound and went out to their car. She returned with a large aluminum case and a blanket. The case was put onto the conference table and she popped several chunky latches to open it. The inside of the case was lined with foam cushioning. There were slits in the material. Mr. Yoshida and Miss Makepeace wrapped each carving in a piece of what looked like silk fabric. Next they slid the wrapped netsuke into individual plastic pouches which they gently inserted into the slits of the cushioning material. They repeated the action twenty eight times before closing and locking the case. They wrapped the box up in the blanket. Their business was concluded. Each shook Scott's hand. They went to Honour's office where they shook hands with Mr. Piotrowski, and as quickly as that, they were gone. Scott walked down to the office and found Mr. Piotrowski looking a little pale. He ran to get him a glass of water. "Are you okay?" Scott asked with concern. Mr. Piotrowski sat down and took a long drink from the glass, "I'm okay, Scott. I guess I'm just shocked at how ... sudden this all was." Honour and Joseph Black had strange looks on their faces too. "Let's go home and feed the dog," Mr. Piotrowski announced. "Is everything okay?" Scott asked as they walked to the car. "I've never been a part of something like that. I'm glad that Honour and Joseph were on my side. Let that be a lesson to you, have professional representation for any kind of legal matter. Tell me what you thought of the museum people?" Scott buckled his seat belt and thought about it, "The lawyer was interesting. He watched everything, but never said a word. I think museum acquisitions might be a pretty interesting job. What did you think?" Mr. Piotrowski started the car. "The lawyer certainly had a lot to say in the office. That was where he was in charge and Mr. Yoshida was the quiet one. I don't know if acquisitions are like that very often, but you're right it might be pretty interesting." Jobe was thrilled to have company. Mr. Piotrowski went and sat in his reclining chair and turned the television on. Scott cleaned and took out the trash. Mr. Piotrowski had fallen asleep so he left a note. Before he left he took Jobe gently by the ears and told him to keep an eye on Mr. Piotrowski. He still looked a little shaky. Tuesday was an easy day. Mr. Piotrowski still seemed a little down, and Scott was worried about him. The vehicles needed cleaning so Scott washed and waxed the sedan. He also vacuumed out the panel truck, but Mr. Piotrowski said it wasn't worth washing. Scott had almost forgotten it was going away at the end of the week. Jobe enjoyed the day until it was decided that he need a bath. He tried to duck in through the pet door, but Scott grabbed him by the collar and made him wait outside. "Oh behave, you'll look so much nicer after I get you cleaned up," Scott told him. 'Woof.' "Everybody's a critic." Mr. Piotrowski retreated to the shelter of the kitchen for the duration of the bath. Scott filled a large galvanized tub and managed to get Jobe into it and gave him a good shampooing. The dog did not appreciate the rinsing and drying process. Scott let him run around a bit to get completely dry and then took him into the kitchen. Mr. Piotrowski told Jobe what a good boy he was and how nicely he smelled. Jobe's tail was beating a rhythm and he looked unbearably pleased with himself. "You'd think it was his idea to look at him," grumbled Scott. "Jobe knows when to get on the winning side. Scott, you have a pair of shorts and tennis shoes don't you?" "Uh, sure?" "Why don't you wear them tomorrow? I've got something I want to try out," replied Mr. Piotrowski mysteriously. The next morning Scott did his ranch chores and rode over to Mr. Piotrowski's. Mr. Piotrowski and Jobe were waiting for him when he arrived. Scott dismounted and tried to figure out what was going on. Mr. Piotrowski was wearing a pair of ancient sweat pants with high topped canvas sneakers. His sweatshirt said "MARINES" across the chest, and he was wearing a whistle around his neck. "Physical fitness!" Mr. Piotrowski announced. Oh good grief, "Yes, sir?" "Scott, I think I've come up with a new way to help you overcome your shyness. You've been really helpful to me. It's time I repaid the favor." "Mr. Piotrowski—" "No need to thank me. I feel like it's my duty. You're a fine young man, and I'm proud to call you a friend." There is no way out of this one, "Thank you, Mr. Piotrowski." "Excellent!" he clapped his hands together, and Jobe barked supportively. "Now, being physically fit means different things to different people. What I know is how the Marine Corps trained me. It's worked for the Corps for over two hundred years, so it ought to work for you. Now let me get a look at you." He gave him the 'turn around' motion with his finger. Scott raised his arms and turned slowly around. "You told me you ran cross country in school. I don't know much about that, but running is running. You have strong legs. That's obviously from all of the bike riding you do. Make a muscle like this." Mr. Piotrowski flexed his biceps. Scott repeated the gesture feeling a little foolish. "I know you're strong, but you're what I call scrawny strong. We need to balance your upper body strength with your lower body strength. I know two exercises for that; pushups and pull-ups. Before we get to that you need to run. A lap around the property line should measure roughly a mile and a half. Can you do it?" Scott shrugged, "That's pretty much what cross country is, Mr. Piotrowski; running over open terrain. Your property line might be a little rougher than normal, but I think it will be okay. The distance is actually a little short, but I haven't run since school. Should I start now?" "Hop to it. I'm going to look for something that I can turn into a pull-up bar. Take Jobe with you, he might like the run." "Yes, sir." Scott was glad that he'd worn his cross trainers this morning. He appreciated what Mr. Piotrowski wanted to do. His personal theory on physical fitness was not to draw attention to himself. Maybe it was time for a change? If he was known to be in good physical shape then some of his abilities might be better explained away if he slipped up. It was worth thinking about, and running was a great way to get some thinking done. Jobe seemed to grasp the concept right away, although he did get easily distracted along the way. Scott completed the circuit and started walking when he got back to the house. "I'm going to cool down for a bit," he called to Mr. Piotrowski, who waved in acknowledgement. Jobe had been a good running partner, but the cool down walk didn't interest him. He ran back to Mr. Piotrowski and his water dish. "How was the run?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Not bad. I think I should work back up to a longer distance," Scott hated lying to Mr. Piotrowski of all people. "Let's see you do some pushups." Scott assumed the pushup position and started popping them off. Mr. Piotrowski stopped him and corrected his form. "I want to see a smooth, clean motion. Pause between each push up. Keep your butt down and your back straight. Don't bow those knees." "Yes, sir." Scott did twenty and then made a production of the last two, collapsing in 'exhaustion.' "Not bad, not bad at all," exclaimed Mr. Piotrowski. "I want you to work up to fifty pushups a day. Now let's take a look at this temporary pull up bar." Mr. Piotrowski had a piece of pipe placed loosely over two rafters. There was a ladder nearby. "You didn't go up the ladder did you? That's what you have me for. What if you had gotten hurt?" asked Scott. "What's done is done. How many pull-ups do you think you can do?" "No idea, let's find out." Scott was still a little miffed at Mr. Piotrowski taking a risk on a ladder like that. He jumped, grabbed the bar and started to pull himself up. "That's a chin-up. It's a good exercise. Turn your hands around to do a pull-up." Scott did as instructed, and 'struggled' to do four pull-ups. It was a little more difficult with the bar being loose. "Outstanding!" Mr. Piotrowski was pleased. Scott shook out his arms. "These are exercises that you could do at ho ... the ranch. If you do pushups regularly you'll never lack for strength." "If you say so, I'll work at it." "Now, all we need is a heavy bag," Mr. Piotrowski said thoughtfully. "A what?" "A punching bag is also called a heavy bag." "I don't want to hit anybody." "I don't want you to hit anybody either. It's a great workout for your arms and shoulders. Come on into the house, I've got something to show you." It was nice and cool in the house and Scott got a drink. Mr. Piotrowski went upstairs and brought down a shoebox. It was filled with photos. He searched and pulled out a couple. "That's me in 1949." The small black and white pictures showed a very young and extremely fit Mr. Piotrowski in typical boxing poses. He was wearing trunks that said "Marines" around the waistband and his hands were wrapped in tape. The look on his face showed that he meant business. "I wouldn't have wanted to mess with you! Were you a good boxer?" "I was strong, and could take a punch. What I didn't have was hand speed. We had regular Friday Night Smokers, that's what we called organized bouts between Marines. I did okay, but was never good enough to fight at the division level." Mr. Piotrowski pulled out more photos from the box and they talked about what it was like to be a young marine, and then a little bit about Korea. Mr. Piotrowski didn't tell war stories, but he did tell stories about the men he had served with and funny things that happened. He put the photos away and took them back upstairs. When he came downstairs he announced that they needed to run into town, but first he was going to give Scott a chance to do something that he had promised him earlier in the summer. Scott couldn't think of what that could be. Mr. Piotrowski had an old duffle bag that they were going to use for the heavy bag. He had Scott fill a heavy, double lined trash bag with about forty pounds of sandy soil. They tied off the plastic and packed it tightly in the bottom of the duffle bag. Next they added a piece of 'egg crate' style bed padding to line the inside of the bag with. "You can pack these with old clothing, but we got rid of all of that. I have an idea I want to try out. Stick this in the panel truck for me." Instead of heading directly into town Mr. Piotrowski drove over to a nearby farm and pulled onto one of the farm's dirt roads. He turned off the ignition and told Scott to trade places with him. "Seriously?" "I told you that you'd get a chance to drive this old thing. Since the truck is leaving on Friday this is your last chance." Mr. Piotrowski walked around to the passenger side and Scott scooted over behind the wheel. Getting the timing of the clutch down was more difficult than it looked, but he eventually got a handle on it. They kept the truck in first gear and trundled around the dirt roads. Back out on the main road with Mr. Piotrowski behind the wheel, he suggested that the farm might be a good place to run the motorcycle as long as they didn't abuse the farmer's generosity. In town they parked behind the hardware store. Mr. Piotrowski's friend had hooked him up with the camera and a nice used laptop. Scott wondered what they were getting this time. The store employee met them on the loading dock, and showed Mr. Piotrowski a stack of blue insulation batting. "This is made from shredded blue jeans. It's an environmentally friendly insulation that didn't sell well. We can have all the material from this broken bundle. Since you can stuff a heavy bag with old clothing, I thought why not give this a try?" Scott got the duffle bag out of the truck and they stuffed sections of shredded blue jeans into the bag. "Pack it as tightly as you can," instructed Mr. Piotrowski. Scott put the bag on its side and used his foot to compact the batting, and Mr. Piotrowski tied the top of the bag shut. They stood it up and gave it a few test slaps and kicks. "Not bad," Mr. Piotrowski declared. "Grab an extra bat to take with us. This bag is sure to settle some after we hang it." Whether he wanted to or not, Scott was learning how to box. Mr. Piotrowski showed him how to throw a punch, and where the power came from. He taught him how to hit the bag, not push it. Combinations, jabs, and hooks became part of a new dialog between them. Jobe loved to watch Scott work the heavy bag. On Friday, Mr. Piotrowski picked him up from Mendoza's in the new Dodge. The truck had been completely transformed and he was proud to show it off. The truck gleamed in the sun. The dealership had removed all of the garish flame decals, and the paint looked great. All the silly chrome add-ons had been removed, and the rear window had a nice dark tint instead of the weird mural that had been there. It was a tall step to climb into the truck. Scott asked Mr. Piotrowski if it gave him any problems. Mr. Piotrowski pointed out the side runners and showed him how to grab the hand hold and pull himself in. "Wow, this is great!" "It is nice. Think you can find us something on the satellite radio?" Scott flipped through the thick vehicle manual until he understood how the radio functioned and found a classic country station. "Let's go pick up Jobe and go for a ride," suggested Mr. Piotrowski. "Did you drive this truck before you bought it?" "I test drove the 2005 year model when they were new. I was going to buy one, but that's when Verna got sick. I saved a heck of a lot by buying this white elephant from that idiot at the dealership. In fact this is a nicer truck with the Laramie trim package." "Was it expensive?" "I've never paid more for a vehicle. In fact I paid more for the truck than I did for my first house. Fortunately, our little adventure with the netsuke was very helpful." They picked up Jobe and he sat in the back with his head peeking between the two front seats. The truck met with his approval. Mr. Piotrowski drove for an hour, it was a comfortable ride. They talked without having to shout and enjoyed the modern seating and powerful air conditioner. The next two weeks were a mix of pleasure and work. Mr. Piotrowski was serious about physical conditioning and introduced Scott to new exercises. Flutter kicks sounded easy, but even his body core was tested by them. It convinced him to take it seriously. Scott talked to Rico in the fabrication shop who welded up some bars that could be bolted to the rafter in his bedroom. It had horizontal bar with a pair of horns in the middle that he could use to do pull-ups from a different arm position. He didn't bother to ask for permission. He borrowed some tools and bolted the bars to the rafter. It was unlikely that anybody at Broken Creek would ever notice. August meant time for another quarterly meeting with Judge Upcott. Scott called his clerk from Mr. Piotrowski's house to see what date would be best. He was surprised to be put right through to the judge. "Scott, I'm glad you called. What do you think about something different for our lunch? There's a new place up in Imperial, and I have some business there Wednesday afternoon. Do you think Alex, Mr. Piotrowski, would mind driving you up and joining us? I think it might be nice. Would you ask him for me?" "Sure, can you hold for a minute?" Scott ran to ask Mr. Piotrowski. "Sounds fine, let me talk to him." The day arrived and it was time to head to Imperial. The drive was fun in the new truck. They left Jobe at the house. Scott had a great time fiddling with the satellite radio and the navigation screen. "You really like that old country music don't you?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "I do." "Who's your favorite singer?" Scott thought about it, "I'd have to say ... Charlie Pride. His voice is really pure." "He's good alright. Favorite song?" "That's a tough one. If I had to pick I'd either say 'Kiss an Angel Good Morning' or 'Does My Ring Hurt Your Finger'." "Now that's a strange choice. Why does that last one appeal to you?" "The lyric, he sounds so sad when he sings it. What about you, who's your favorite singer?" Mr. Piotrowski paused before replying, "Verna and I were very fond of Alison Krauss. We'd hope to go see her in concert with her Union Station band over in El Paso, but never got the chance." "I'm not familiar with her," Scott replied. "She's a little more contemporary than the time capsule you live in over at that damned ranch. Sorry, I shouldn't talk like that around you. Maybe we can find an album you'd be able to listen to." "I'd like that." They finally arrived at Imperial and were looking for the restaurant. They were in the right spot, but Scott didn't see anything that looked like a place to eat. There wasn't much around so he finally spotted the judge's truck. "There he is," Scott pointed. The truck was parked in front of what looked like a regular, two story house. There were a lot of vehicles parked in front of it. Mr. Piotrowski parked next to the judge, who got out of his vehicle when they pulled in. "Now that's a sharp looking truck, Alex. Hello, Scott." "Thank you, Elijah. It's was good of you to invite me. What do we have here?" Mr. Piotrowski asked waving at the house. "I think you're going to like this. The lady who owns this place converted the downstairs into restaurant style seating," the judge explained. He put a hand on Scott's shoulder, "Now I know you have your heart set on chicken fried steak, but I'm told they serve a hamburger here that will 'blow your mind' as the kids say. Interested?" "I'm game if you are, Judge." "That's my boy." They were greeted by a young hostess at the entryway who seated them in what had once been the living room. Scott could see more tables in a side dining room. The place was cramped, but it had charm. The judge ordered for him; 'Jalapeno deluxe burger with a side of fries.' Mr. Piotrowski ordered the fried catfish with collard greens. Scott's mouth dropped open when the waitress set his burger down. It covered the entire plate. They had to bring a separate plate for the hand cut french-fries. The hamburger patty was huge, over three quarters of a pound and it was smothered in cheese, onions, mushrooms, and of course jalapenos. "I can't even pick it up!" exclaimed Scott to a delighted Judge Upcott. The judge grinned and picked up a knife and fork and started to attack his own burger. He took a bite and smacked his lips, "Oh that's good. I think they'll give us a take home bag. I could probably eat off of this thing for a day or two." Mr. Piotrowski tucked into his catfish. Lunch with the judge and Mr. Piotrowski was really interesting. The men seemed to have arrived at some sort of agreement. Scott hoped that they might become friends. The judge kept to his standard practice and quizzed Scott on what he had been up to since their previous meeting. Mr. Piotrowski listened quietly. The judge was particularly interested in the motorcycle training and his day at the range. Scott knew that the judge had probably already received a full report on that from the sheriff. When Scott mentioned the new physical fitness regime, the judge became particularly animated. "Alex, that was an excellent idea. I don't know why I hadn't thought of it myself. Would he benefit from a weight bench do you think?" "I believe he would, but I don't think it would fit in at the ranch do you?" "I suspect you're right. Let's work something out?" "Sounds good to me, Elijah." Scott knew that a weight bench would soon show up at the house, probably next to the heavy bag out in the storage building. On Friday Mr. Mendoza told him that he was expected for dinner Saturday night. Eddie and his brothers were due back from their summer up in the northern part of the county. Scott couldn't wait to see his friend again. After work on Saturday, Scott stopped at Mr. Piotrowski's to take Jobe for a walk. There was a weight bench and set of weights in the storage building near where the heavy bag was hanging. Mr. Piotrowski explained, "This is here for your use, and we'll talk about the proper way to lift weights. I want you to promise that you'll never try to bench press any serious weight without somebody to spot you." "I promise." "There's a lot that you can do without a spotter, but the bench press can be dangerous." "Yes, sir." The walk with Jobe was relaxing and before too much longer it was time to head to the Mendoza's. Scott knocked on the door and heard, "He's here," echo through the house. He could hear Eddie thumping down the stairs and then the door opened. "Holy crap, what happened to you?" Scott exclaimed. Eddie blushed, and waved him inside. Mrs. Mendoza made a big fuss and had them stand against the wall so that she could take a picture. "How tall are you?" Scott demanded. "A little over five foot, ten inches," Eddie replied. "You grew four inches over the summer?" "I guess I hit a growth spurt," Eddie replied sheepishly. "You guess? They're going to make you go out for the basketball team." Eddie groaned. He hated basketball for reasons that Scott wasn't clear about. He was strictly a baseball or football guy. "What about you? You've added some weight. Did you start working out or something?" Eddie wanted to know. "Just some calisthenics, it's no big deal." "Well it shows. Are you reconsidering football?" "I'm not going to play football. Mr. Piotrowski convinced me that I should get in better shape." "Mr. Piotrowski?" "Uh yeah, I've been working for him this summer." Mrs. Mendoza called them in for supper. Mr. Mendoza said grace and everybody started digging to the delicious food that she had prepared. Scott thought about it and set his fork down, "Mrs. Mendoza, I like the way you've fixed your hair. It was very nice of you to invite me for supper, thank you." Eddie looked at him like he'd lost his mind. Mrs. Mendoza was surprised, but covered it and delicately wiped her mouth with a napkin, "Thank you, Scott. I'm glad somebody noticed. I had it fixed special at the salon today. And it's always nice to have a gentleman to dinner. So, you're very welcome." Eddie was still staring at him when Mr. Mendoza interrupted and asked Eddie if he was looking forward to school. After dinner Mr. Mendoza didn't say anything, he just clapped him on the shoulder approvingly. ------- Chapter 8 Monday, August 14, 2006 Mr. Piotrowski had found a nice office set at an estate sale, and had arranged to have it delivered. The two brothers who delivered the furniture had a good deal going. Call them from anywhere in the county and they'd show up with a truck and move your stuff. The laptop looked a little lonely on the desk all by itself. Scott had convinced Mr. Piotrowski that he'd be better off with an external mouse instead of trying to manipulate the touch pad. His fingers were a little too beat up and arthritic for the delicate manipulations required by the pad. "I think you need a plant or something," observed Scott. Mr. Piotrowski was trying out the chair while Jobe sniffed the desk and side table. A two drawer file cabinet came with the set. "A plant might be nice, but what I really need is a printer and a fax machine. We might have to go to Odessa to find a decent printer. Plus, I'm going to have to buy another dog bed for the office." Jobe was being spoiled. "Mr. Piotrowski, this is the internet age. We can bring almost anything directly to you." Scott turned the laptop around and did some quick searching. "Look at this. These are called multifunction printers. They print, copy, scan, and fax. It's all rolled into one device. If we buy from this place they include 'free' shipping and don't charge any sales tax." "I like the idea of that," replied Mr. Piotrowski. "What's the difference between ink jet and laser?" Scott explained the pros and cons as he understood them. "I don't see why I'd need color. You pick out the best one and order it." He spent an hour reading multifunction printer reviews before he finally decided on one that was on sale. Scott liked that the retailer told you if a reviewer had purchased the item from them or not. He added a nice power strip with a surge protector to the order. The remainder of the morning was spent organizing the filing cabinet. The bottom drawer was for Mr. Piotrowski's personal papers, and the top drawer was for business. Scott labeled folders for Mr. Piotrowski and sorted through their old auction sales. Jobe barked from downstairs. "That's probably Eddie," Scott said and ran downstairs. "Invite him to lunch if he wants," Mr. Piotrowski called after him. Eddie was standing over by the motorcycle. Scott had pushed it out of the storage building. He wasn't sure if he wanted Eddie to see the heavy bag and weight set. "This is so cool!" Eddie said by way of greeting. "Hey, Eddie, yeah it is pretty great." "Dad was telling me how all the guys at the shop pitched in. He said that he'd never seen them so excited to work on a project." "They surprised the heck out of me, and saved me six months of work. Not to mention that they did a better job than I ever could have. Let me start it up." Scott leaned over and pressed the starter button. Eddie loved it when he gave it some gas. "Want to go for a ride?" Scott asked. Eddie shook his head, "I wish I could, but my mom would kill me if she found out. I asked if I could get a motorcycle too. She said two words, 'hell' and 'no.' Did you know she made my dad get rid of his motorcycle when they started dating?" "Yeah, he mentioned it. Look, I'll ride it around the driveway and then shut it off. You can sit on it if you want. I don't think she could complain about that." Scott rode slowly down the drive and did a tricky slow speed turn to ride back up to the storage building. He shut it down and told Eddie to take a seat. He pointed out the basic functions of the bike and tried to explain how the hand clutch and shifting with your foot worked. "It's more complicated to describe than it is to actually do it. Eddie?" Eddie was trying to crawl off of the motorcycle and had a terrified look on his face. "Eddie, what's wrong?" "Dog! Big Dog!" he exclaimed as he scrambled off of the motorcycle. Scott turned around and saw Jobe trotting toward them. His ears were perked up, and he obviously intended to meet the new guy and see what was going on. Scott went over and grabbed Jobe by the collar and told him to sit. "Shhhh, you're making Eddie nervous. Don't make any sudden moves or bark, okay?" he whispered to Jobe. He'd had no idea that Eddie was scared of dogs. "Eddie, this is Jobe. He's a real nice dog. He won't hurt you or anything. Jobe, this is my friend Eddie." Jobe sat there panting at Eddie. Eddie was keeping the motorcycle between himself and the dog. This might take a while. "Jobe is a Belgian Shepherd that somebody abandoned out here. See how he has a dark muzzle and ears? They call that a mask. The dark mask and the light color of his coat are one way you can identify his breed according to the vet. I found him earlier this summer. Mr. Piotrowski took him to the clinic and he got all of his shots. He even has a computer chip between his shoulder blades, under his skin. Any vet can run an electronic reader over and it will tell him the dog's ID number. It's kind of like the handheld inventory guns we have at the shop." Eddie had stopped shaking, but he wasn't coming any closer. "Watch this," Scott said. "Jobe, shake hands." Jobe held up his paw. "Jobe, lie down." Jobe stretched out on the gravel driveway. It didn't look comfortable. "Sit up, boy." Job sat up. "Good boy! See how well trained he is? Would you like to meet him?" "I guess so," Eddie was less than enthusiastic. Scott kept a hold of Jobe's collar and walked over to the motorcycle. He stopped just out of reach of Eddie. Jobe sat next to Scott. "Okay Eddie, here's what I want you to do. Take your hand and hold it out, but below the dog's head. Dogs don't like it when strangers put their hands above their heads to try and pet them. It's a dominance thing. You can reach and pet his chest or stroke the fur, okay?" Eddie stuck out his hand, "Like this?" "Yeah, just like that. See that's not so bad right?" Eddie gave him a nervous look as he stroked Jobe's coat. "Okay take your hand and rub the bottom of his chin, and then roll your hand into a loose fist and hold it in front of him." Jobe gave Eddie's a hand a big lick. "That's wet!" Eddie exclaimed wiping his hand on his jeans. Scott walked Jobe around a bit still holding onto his collar, "You want to try?" "No thanks, I think that's enough for one day," replied Eddie. "Okay." Scott went and put Jobe into the house and told him to stay until Eddie was gone. Eddie explained that he had been bitten badly when he was little. Dogs had been a problem for him ever since. "I'm sorry Eddie. If I had known I would have warned you, or I could have brought the bike over to your place." "It's okay, you didn't know. Besides, maybe it's time I tried to get over my fear." "You should come running with us. Jobe likes to tag along; he's a lot of fun." "Run? No thanks, man." "Hey mister football player, those two-a-day practices are going to kill you if you don't get your wind back. You've only got a week. Might as well be a week ahead of anybody else who didn't work out over the summer." "I'll think about it," said Eddie. "Come look at something," Scott pushed the bike back into the storage building and showed Eddie the weight bench and heavy bag. "I thought you weren't working out?" Eddie accused. "I haven't started lifting yet. I just got the weights. I have been working the bag and doing pull-ups and calisthenics," he jumped and grabbed the duplicate set of the bars that Rico had made and did a couple of quick pull-ups. Eddie took a playful punch at the heavy bag and shook his hand ruefully. Scott showed him how to make a good fist and the correct way to hit the bag. "Usually I wrap my knuckles before doing that." "Are you going to beat people up this year or what?" Eddie asked. "Me? No way. It's a good workout though. See how it builds the shoulders and arms? Can you show me some stuff on the weights?" They goofed around and Eddie showed him some good exercises to do with the weight set. They did some bench presses, clean and jerk, squats. They put some weights on the dumbbell and curling bars. Eddie tried a few pull-ups. He wanted to get a set of bars, so Scott told him to ask Rico about it when he got back from welding school. "You really like that Rico guy?" Eddie asked. "Rico? Yeah he's good people. He was young like us and fell in with some of the wrong crowd. He's really turned himself around. Got his GED, and now your dad's paying for him to attend that fancy welding school. You could tell the football team about these pull-up bars. They're probably better than anything they can buy, and cheaper. You and Rico could go into business together." "Yeah sure, man." Eddie complained, but he showed up early Tuesday morning to go running with Scott and Jobe. Wednesday was freshman orientation at the high school. They would get their fall schedules and learn where their classrooms were and that sort of thing. Scott was at Eddie's bright and early. Mrs. Mendoza was going to drive them to town. They were in the kitchen where Eddie was telling him how gross it was to remove old toilets from abandoned houses. Mrs. Mendoza came into the kitchen and got a good look at them. "Scott, have you been shopping for school clothes yet?" she asked. "Me? No ma'am." Scott never worried about clothes. He didn't particularly care what he wore as long as it fit. Mrs. Delgado ordered a lot of the boys' clothing at the ranch from catalogs. The ranch got a discount through the state. Some things like coats came from the Goodwill store in town. She came over and was tugging on his t-shirt and jeans, "These are getting too tight. You'll come with us this afternoon. I have to buy Eddie new pants and shirts." Scott looked over at Eddie who reached down and tugged at his jeans. Scott saw what he meant. Eddie's old jeans were 'highwaters' since he'd gotten his growth spurt. They were easily an inch above his ankles. Eddie was wearing cowboy boots to try and cover the fact. "I'll call Luisa and have her meet us in town," Mrs. Mendoza announced. Eddie told Scott, "Better go along with it. There's nothing you can do when she gets like this." At the high school there were signs posted directing students to the gymnasium. The bleachers had been pulled out for seating. Scott and Eddie found a seat and started looking around. They heard a shout and saw Bo heading their direction. He was trailed by a couple of football players. Eddie and Bo did the ritual greeting. Everybody was amazed at how tall Eddie had gotten over the summer. "Scott, we've got a painting job coming up in two weeks if you're still interested?" Bo said as he sat down. "Count me in." "What's this?" asked Eddie. Bo explained about the work his dad's contracting crew had done at Mr. Piotrowski's. The school principal tapped on the podium microphone to get everybody's attention, "Good morning, I'm Principal Reynolds. I want to officially welcome the freshman class to Fort Stockton High School. A squad of cheerleaders ran out from a side door and did a tumbling run down the length of the floor. They gathered around the podium and led the students in a cheer. Let's hear it for the future senior class of 2010!" The students stood up and screamed. Scott tried not to roll his eyes. Eddie shouted into his ear, "School spirit, buddy!" The principal's speech wasn't terribly long. He concentrated on the dress code and rules. High school was different he kept reminding them. After his speech students were directed to lines organized in alphabetical order. They had to collect their official schedules, locker assignment, rules package, and check that all their forms had been signed correctly. Eddie, Scott, and Bo's last names all started with the same letter so they were in the same line. Eddie and Bo were waiting for Scott so they could go find their lockers. Scott took his packet from the teacher manning the desk. He looked at his schedule, and then took a closer look. "This is wrong," he said. "Excuse me?" said the teacher. "My schedule is wrong," Scott repeated. "Are you sure?" "Yes." "Well you need to go down to the other side and get in line to see one of the counselors," the teacher informed him. "Guys, you better go on without me. I have to get this sorted out." "What's the problem?" asked Eddie. "They've got me in the wrong algebra class and another class I didn't sign up for. I'll get it straightened out." "Okay, we'll catch up to you later then," replied Eddie as he and Bo went off to find their lockers. Scott went and stood in the new line. Eventually it was his turn. The bored school counselor had a fake smile, "Name please?" "MacIntyre, Scott Wayne," he replied in an equally bored tone. "What's the problem?" "My schedule is wrong. It has me down for Algebra I instead of Algebra II, and Speech instead of Geometry." "I don't see how that can be, are you sure?" Scott sighed. He retrieved his wallet and removed a folded piece of paper. He had kept a copy of the schedule that he had filled out with the help of his middle school guidance counselor that spring. He showed it to the high school counselor. She examined it skeptically, "I'll have to go check on this." Scott waited for five minutes. The counselor returned. "The math teacher has declined to change your schedule," she announced. "Declined? What is the teacher's name? Does he know that I have a recommendation from my eighth grade math teacher? Or that I maxed out on the math portion of the assessment tests. More importantly, does he know that I've already taken algebra? I got an 'A.' There's a reason we take those assessment tests isn't there?" "I'm sure he must know that," she said imperiously. "Who do I appeal to?" he asked. "Your parents can call the office." "My parents are dead." That was always a great foster kid line, and it flustered her, "Then your guardian can call the office." "I'd rather not bother the judge with this sort of thing." She stared at him. "Wait here." She returned with the school principal in tow. "I'm Principal Reynolds. What seems to be the problem?" "Scott MacIntyre, sir. The problem is that I've already taken algebra, and somebody replaced my geometry elective with speech class. I had straight 'A's' in middle school, and my math assessment scores were maxed out. My old algebra teacher even included his endorsement for advanced classes in with my schedule application." The principal blinked. "Well, that's quite a speech. Mr. Channing is the freshman math teacher and has good reasons for his choices. He believes two math classes are too much for a freshman." "I've already taken algebra. Am I supposed to twiddle my thumbs all semester?" "Watch your tone young man. What I will do is put you in a geometry class. I'm afraid you're stuck with speech. We want our students to have fun at Fort Stockton High." "I'm not here to have fun. I'm here to get an education and graduate," Scott insisted. The principal just stared at him. He took the schedule and made a hand notation and then gave it back. Scott now had Geometry instead of Algebra I, but was stuck with speech. Shit! Scott's bad mood continued through lunch. Eddie was sympathetic, but he couldn't understand why Scott wanted to take two math classes in addition to his advanced placement prep classes. After lunch Scott got Mrs. Mendoza to stop at his bank. He went in and withdrew a hundred dollars since he was going to have to buy school clothes. Mrs. Mendoza drove them over the clothing outlet store where they met Mrs. Delgado. Eddie's mom dragged him off into the depths of the store. Scott went to the clearance rack and was trying to find some shirts. "Mijo, what are you doing?" asked Mrs. Delgado. Scott showed her his money, "Trying to find some shirts." "Oh sweetie, put that away and save it for something else. It wouldn't buy much anyway. I have money from the ranch budget that we use to buy clothing for you boys. I'll pick out some things." How could you spend two hours shopping for clothing? Scott wanted to know. He ended up with three polo style shirts, two new pairs of jeans, assorted socks and underwear, and a new pair of brown shoes. Scott 'got his mad out' on the heavy bag at Mr. Piotrowski's that evening. He worked things over in his head and ended up doing four circuits of the property. Jobe kept up for the first one, but got bored and went to sit with Mr. Piotrowski in the house. He tried to tell himself that he could survive the first four months of high school. January would be here soon enough and then he'd get his hardship license. At least he had a job. Mr. Piotrowski had offered him fifty dollars a week to do general chores. Scott thought it was too much, but Mr. Piotrowski had insisted. Scott's hours would be flexible, and it was too good a deal to pass up. He'd asked Mr. Mendoza to cut his hours to eight a week at the shop. Scott would work Wednesday afternoons and Saturdays at the shop. The rest of the week he'd work for Mr. Piotrowski. Scott had only made a little over thirteen hundred dollars for the summer. It was about half what he had originally counted on. The trade off was that he came away with a motorcycle six months ahead of schedule, and had experienced the most personally rewarding period of his life. It had been worth it. First Day of School, Monday August 21st, 2006 Scott was up at 5:30 a.m. This was his wake up time during the school year. He rushed through his chores, and then threw himself into his new workout regime. Calisthenics he would do at the ranch. Everything else he would do at Mr. Piotrowski's. This year, instead of catching a ride with the Mendozas he was riding his bike to Mr. Piotrowski's where he'd make breakfast or do some quick chores. Then he'd ride the rest of the way to Meritt's Corner. He'd chain the bike up at the shop. The first day of school had always filled him with dread. It was everything that he hated; chaos and crowds of people. This year was different. It was now just something to be endured. The hallways were incredibly crowded compared to middle school, but then again the high school had about twice the student population with over six hundred enrolled. First period was Geometry with Mr. Channing, the math teacher who had torpedoed his schedule. He was not an inspiring teacher. Homework, they were told, would be randomly selected problems from the back of each chapter. Scott was used to burnouts working in foster care. This was the first one he had encountered in the public school system. French was next, and he thought he might like it. Classroom participation was a key component of the class, but it didn't bother him like it once had. Third and fourth period were okay. They were his only two classes with Eddie; English II and Cultural Geography. The salad bar at lunch might be the best thing about high school. It was a big improvement over the offerings at the middle school. Scott found a seat with Eddie and Bo. The other football players looked at him, and then ignored him. He could live with that. He had the mandatory health class right after lunch and sat next to Bo, it was their only class together. One of the football coaches taught the class. It was not going to be an intellectual challenge. At least it was only a semester long. After Christmas break it would become an art class. Biology for sixth period looked to be interesting. The teacher was enthusiastic at least. His most personally challenging class was seventh period speech. It was the class that should have been Algebra II. They were going to learn the art of public speaking. For the last official period of the day he had athletics. If you were a school athlete you got one of two periods. First period athletics was for ball sports, the premier sports of high school. Last period athletics was for all the other sports. If you weren't on an athletic team you took PE during one of the other periods. Coach Zell ran the high school cross country program, in addition to being an assistant weight lifting coach, and the girls' junior varsity volleyball coach. Simply put, he was a busy man. The cross country team had five students, and they pretty much trained on their own. The coach was very straight forward, "Finish your assigned workout, or run distance, and the rest of the time is yours. If you abuse this privilege I'll have your ass. You can study or do whatever except leave campus early." "I could really use the extra time to study, Coach. Could I have a pass to the library?" Scott asked. "Library, why not? This has to be renewed every two weeks which is stupid. I'm filling out ... six and the extras will be in my cubby hole here in the office so grab them as needed. See me when you run out, but don't screw with me or you will regret it." "I hear you loud and clear, Coach." Coach Zell did try and get Scott to go out for the weight lifting team, but he politely declined. The bus to Meritt's Corner left at four. If he could pad some time by finishing cross country training early it would really help. He might be able to squeeze in twenty minutes of homework or studying. The library pass was a golden ticket." The first week of school settled into a routine. Geometry was beyond boring. Mr. Channing picked random problems from the textbook for the homework assignment. You could do the other problems for extra credit. So really you ended up doing the whole section. For the weekend they were given a review from the chapter. For the first time that he could remember, Scott put off doing homework. On Sunday night he finally sat down at his desk. He flipped through the text book. It was mind numbingly boring. Do the homework, he told himself. No, do all of the homework, the thought popped into his head. Scott got up and raided the storage closet for supplies. He took three different pads of paper and several different pencils. The school supplies at the ranch were a wide assortment of the cheapest available. He lined the pads up across his desk. The different pencils he put down by each pad. After he found his compass and protractor, he started doing his homework. He did the next chapter and the chapter after that. Every few exercises he switched pads, but he switched pencils every exercise by selecting them at random. Everything he needed to know was right there in the textbook. He went into a zone and time passed. Scott rubbed his eyes. It was 5:30 a.m. and he had finished the textbook. He had a pile of convincingly different homework assignments. With a pencil he dated the current assignment and put it into his backpack. The others he stacked neatly and put them into a folder that he stashed in the closet. Scott took a shower and did his regular workout. He did not feel tired. All day he kept expecting to have to pay for the sleep deficit, but it never came. In the library he read a book on sleep disorders. It was dangerous to go without sleep for long periods of time. He needed to think about this. An unintended consequence of his homework marathon was that geometry class became unbearable. Scott needed some way of dealing with it. He hadn't really experimented with his differences since he was very young. The parameters had been set and he stayed within them. Working with Noah over the summer had revealed a new capability when he read the small engine manuals given to him. He discovered that he could generate wire frame models in his mind by recalling clear images of schematics and wiring diagrams. He could move them about on any axis, or change his point of view within the image. When he started studying the motorcycle manuals all those disparate facts coalesced and formed detailed images in his mind's eye. With a thought he could recall them. He needed to determine the parameters of his own mind. Maybe he could research it in the library without raising any attention. The high point of the week was when Bo confirmed that the painting job was on for the weekend. "Where is it anyway?" Scott asked. "You know the United Methodist Church? It's out by you." It wasn't really. It was located about halfway between Meritt's and town. That was nearly twenty-two miles from the ranch. Bo continued, "The crew has been sanding and scraping all week long. We're going to paint right through the weekend. The church is having services in town temporarily, so we can paint on Sunday with no problem. It's an easy job, all white. We'll probably get trim duty. Dad wants to work sunup till sundown." "I'll be there. Thanks for remembering me." "Yeah no problem," Bo replied. Scott told Mr. Piotrowski that he had a one off painting job for the weekend with the Masons and would make up his hours during the week. Saturday morning Scott was up early. He calculated that it was at least an hour and a half bike ride to the church. He packed extra water along with a couple of oranges and a few power bars. It was the furthest that he'd ridden on the bicycle. He slowed down when he passed Meritt's Corner to be safe, but there wasn't any traffic. The twenty four hour diner was open, but it looked empty. He made it to the church in an hour and ten minutes, and hadn't had to do anything extra human to achieve that time. Bo saw him, "You rode your bicycle? I thought you'd get somebody to drop you off. Sheesh, how long did it take?" "Right about an hour. It's no big deal. I like the morning ride, and its good training for cross country." "You're crazy." Mr. Mason had several dozen donuts for the crew to eat. It was a much bigger group than he had seen before. Bo told him that's because his dad's personal crew had done the work at Mr. Piotrowski's. For this job he had gotten all of his crews together. "Are you afraid of heights?" asked Bo. "I don't think so." "We'll find out today. That crew with the rigging is doing the steeple. We're going to be painting the sanctuary's exterior trim and the underside of the eves. We'll be up about thirty feet. Notice that we're using a different kind of scaffolding. This is bolted right to the building, so it's very stable. It was hot against the building. The early September sun still packed the heat of summer, and the light glared off of the white church siding. The morning flew by. The two boys were about to start on the more intricate face of the sanctuary when they took lunch. "You don't even notice the height after a while do you?" asked Bo. "It's not that bad, but I wouldn't want to be up on the steeple. Those guys installing that copper flashing right below the finial are crazy." They watched the men. They were taking lunch on the side of the steeple while hanging in their harnesses. "Yeah, but they make good money," said Bo. "They're earning it." After lunch their return to the sanctuary eves was delayed after they were tasked with taping off the stained glass window over the main entryway. They finally managed it with Bo on one level of the scaffolding and Scott on the level below. They laid out long sheets of construction plastic and taped it down. The two worked well together. As dusk was approaching they were at the back of the sanctuary building hurrying to finish the eves. Scott's neck had a crick in it from looking up all day long. The section they were in was a bit of an oddity. The church had been added to over the years and they were in a pocket corner where a newer Sunday school building butted up to the back of the sanctuary at a strange angle. Mr. Mason came around the corner and yelled up at them to hurry up. His voice echoed off the side of the building. "Almost done, Dad. About ten more minutes," shouted Bo. The boys finished. Scott put his brushes and rollers in a bucket and was ready to get down. Bo urged him to hurry up and started singing "We are the champions!" He turned and stepped on the handle of a trim roller he'd accidentally dropped. Bo's foot shot out from under him and he banged his back and shoulder painfully against the rail. The end of the rail popped out of the corner post clamp, and Bo went tumbling over. Scott had already started moving to grab Bo when he slipped. When Bo tumbled out into the air Scott made one desperate grab for him. He slammed belly first to the scaffold walkway. He had a hold of the back of the walkway, the building side, with his left hand. In his right hand he held Bo's wrist. Bo was dangling there in open space. Scott looked down and swore that all he could see were the two black circles of Bo's giant pupils staring up into the sky. The rail from the scaffolding had buried itself in the grass below like a lawn dart. "Bo," Scott's voice was suddenly very dry. "Bo, grab something with your other hand. Snap out of it ... come on Bo!" Bo blinked and shook his head. He grabbed a steel cross brace with his other hand and scrambled to wrap his legs around the nearest post. "Okay, I'm going to pull you up. Don't let go." Scott crawled forward and got his other hand on Bo's collar and dragged up until his chest was resting on the flooring. He reached and grabbed Bo's jeans and pulled him the rest of the way onto the scaffolding. They both lay there breathing heavily. Bo leaned to the side and was sick. Scott almost joined him. He stood up and pulled Bo to his feet. They eased their way past the bad section of scaffolding and got down as quickly as they could. Bo gulped several glasses of Gatorade from a cooler and wiped his face. His shirt was soaked with sour sweat and he'd pissed himself. He was in shock. "Bo, why don't you sit down? You have a change of clothes in the truck?" Bo nodded. Nobody had seen their near disaster. Scott slipped past the men who were cleaning brushes and preparing to leave for the day. He found the Mason's truck and spotted Bo's gym bag. "There's a bathroom inside," Scott handed Bo a roll of heavy duty hand towels they used to clean up paint spills. "I'll wait here." Bo came out about five minutes later. He still had a haunted look on his face, and his hair was all wet. "Scott—" "I won't mention it if you don't. We have to tell your dad about that bad railing though. That's not good." "Yeah," Bo raised his arm and pointed at his wrist. "I think you might have broken my arm." The wrist had a red, angry mark around it. You could almost make out the outline of Scott's fingers. Scott took Bo's wrist and manipulated it carefully. "No broken bones, but you're going to have a hell of a bruise. Could be some soft tissue damage. Get the football trainer to treat you. Wrap it and all that stuff," he announced. "How do you know that?" Bo asked. "Boys ranch. Lots of horsing around, some of it literal horsing around. You learn a bit of first aid; broken bones, sprains, that sort of thing." "Yeah, okay," Bo was starting to feel the adrenal crash. Scott dug out an energy bar and an orange from his bottomless backpack, "Eat one or both of these. It will help you feel better." They walked over to Bo's dad. "Mr. Mason, a section of the top railing on the back side of the building popped off. Bad clamp or something. Gave us a pretty good scare," Scott explained. "Son of a..." Mr. Mason bit off the final word. "Alejandro, get your ass over here! We've got to go inspect the damn scaffolding. Who worked the west side of the sanctuary?" Mr. Mason was off in a rush. Contractors' heads swung around at the raised voices, and they hurried to go see what the commotion was about. Bo sat in the open door of the truck and ate the orange. Mr. Mason called all the contractors together after he returned from inspecting the broken railing, "Nobody goes up on the scaffolding until every clamp and connection is re-inspected tomorrow. Everybody above the second tier will wear fall restraints." Some of the men grumbled, "Cut that shit out. I've been too slack on that. I shouldn't have to mention that it was my son up there today. We might even do a full safety stand down while the scaffolding is re-inspected. Go home, I'll see you tomorrow." Scott thought that most of the men appreciated the safety consciousness of their boss despite the grumbling about the fall restraints. He knew that he had a fresh appreciation for them, and planned to be wearing one tomorrow. Bo stood up and took his dad by the arm, "Can we put Scott's bike in the back of the truck and give him a ride to Mr. Piotrowski's." "He rode his bike here? I didn't know that. Of course we'll give Scott a ride." The next morning Scott was making good time on his bike headed toward the church when he spotted Mr. Piotrowski's truck ahead of him, idling at the side of the road by the house. When he pedaled up beside the truck, Mr. Piotrowski lowered the driver's side window and told him to put the bike in the back of his truck. He was giving him a ride to the job site. "You don't have to do that, sir. I hate for you to get out this early on my account." "It's not an option. You're a valued employee, and I don't want you on your bike riding that far in the dark. Besides, Bill Mason called me late last night and asked if I would drive you. I don't mind, you know that I get up this early anyway. How do you feel about breakfast at Meritt's?" Scott had never been in Meritt's when it was completely empty. They sat at the counter, and a very chipper waitress took their order and gave Mr. Piotrowski some coffee. "You're early for the farm crowd," she commented. Mr. Piotrowski ordered biscuits and gravy for both of them. Biscuits and gravy at Meritt's consisted of a giant buttermilk biscuit cut in half and smothered in sausage gravy. They used a spicy sausage and the meal stuck to your ribs. At the job site, Scott looked around for Bo. Mr. Mason saw him and waved him over. "Bo's not here today. His wrist is in a soft cast and he's got a broken rib from falling against the railing. He told his mom and me about what happened, the truth." "I'm sorry, Mr. Mason." "Sorry? Don't be son. You saved my boy's life. That's not something I'm likely to forget." Scott shifted uncomfortably. "The incident also woke me up about job site safety. You're not going to be doing any more high work. There's still plenty to do around here. Today I want you with the spray crew. You're going to be feeding paint and gasoline to the pump, and doing whatever else they need." "Yes, sir." "And if my wife shows up, don't run. She's planning to give you a hug. I think you're safe though since she'll be home fussing over Bo." Mrs. Mason was a tiny woman that he had heard described as a firecracker. At any sporting event that Bo was competing in you could hear her voice above all others. He wasn't sure he wanted to be in her sights. Working with the spray crew was easy. He fed paint to the machine, and ran errands for the crew. At the end of the day Mr. Mason paid him a hundred and twenty dollars for the weekend. That was better than an entire week's worth of wages for him. Monday's experiment in geometry class was a failure. He tried to visualize the lesson in his mind, but discovered that something boring in class was even more boring inside his head. At lunch he finally saw Bo and asked him how he was doing. "My ribs really hurt. It wasn't until later that I realized I'd cracked them. I'm being held out of practice for at least a week, maybe two." "I wondered where you were during practice this morning. What the heck happened to you?" demanded Eddie as he set his tray down. "He got banged up on the job site this weekend," replied Scott. Eddie asked, "I bet coach was mad." Bo was already a starter on the junior varsity football team. He was a guaranteed starter on varsity next year. September meant Friday night football. Scott was not the biggest big football booster, but he liked seeing his friends play and the Mendozas enjoyed having him along for home games. Football also meant another peculiarity of high school life, the pep rally. On game day, football players wore their jerseys over their school clothes so they would stand out in the hallways and classrooms. The school band would march in procession through the hallways, or the drum line would perform in front of school before classes started. Sometimes the band would burst into the lunch room and give impromptu concerts. Fall Fridays were strange that way. During the season the final period on Fridays was devoted to the pep rally. Even the most cynical of students was excited to skip their final class. Nobody was allowed to leave campus so the entire school would gather in the gymnasium. Football players would stand on the gym floor accepting the accolades of their fellow students seated in the bleachers. Cheerleaders would lead the crowd in raucous cheers. Fort Stockton High's school mascot, a guy in a panther costume, would run out and destroy a paper-mache version of that week's opposing mascot. The captains of the football team would promise to annihilate their opponent, while the head football coach would give a rousing speech pointing out the latest football heroics. Football really is king in Texas. No other sport got even a fraction of that kind of attention. Scott's exploration of his abilities was slow going. In the library he'd read everything that he could find about the subject of mental abilities or powers. After some very embarrassing experiments he concluded that he had no paranormal abilities. What he could not find was any explanation for what he could do. There was nothing in the academic or medical literature that explained it. There were autistic savants that could do incredible things, but his abilities didn't seem to match up with theirs. The closest he'd come was reading science fiction, but he dismissed all of those explanations as implausible. His life had been a puzzle piece that didn't fit so why should his mind be any different? The breakthrough came when he combined his memory trick with the visualization skill. If he scanned books, but didn't 'read' them then he could recall the contents at his leisure. Unlike in the novels he'd read, flipping or fanning through a book didn't work. He ended up with only snapshots of partial pages, worthless for his needs. Instead it was like photocopying a book. He had to lay each page flat and look at it. The next trick was to use this ability in geometry without being caught. An early meditation attempt in a middle school class had been disastrous. A zombie in the classroom was not subtle, and at the time it had only added to his 'monk' persona. He'd ended up being sent to the hospital to check to see if he was suffering from seizures. The trick that Scott decided on was like a tiny computer application. A portion of his mind would monitor the classroom and notify him if anything required his attention. He could read a book he'd memorized at the library and let the task run in the background of his mind. It required a little tweaking the first time that Mr. Channing called on him in class, but he got better at it. He spent his time in the library consuming books. He'd attracted the attention of one of the librarians with his unusual title selection and interlibrary loan requests. Scott noticed that she was watching him, so he took extra precautions. She finally addressed him one day as he was scanning a book. "What, exactly, are you doing?" she asked. He marked his place and turned to her. "It's a new academic prep technique. Look for words that you don't recognize. Then you go and look them up." "You're an unusual boy." "I like to read. This is a good place for that don't you think?" he asked. She sniffed and returned to her own business. He'd keep an eye out for her. He dragged into the bunkhouse late that afternoon. He was still the only boy in the senior bunkhouse. The junior and scout houses were nearly at full capacity. If felt like ages since he'd spent any time with Jorge, he promised himself that he would change that. Walking into his room he noticed that somebody had been there. Everything was slightly out of place. Another person might not have noticed, but he could see that each of his books had been thumbed through. His desk had also been rifled through. He sprang for the closet and snatched his lock box down. There were scratches around the lock. He got his key and unlocked it. Scott carefully examined the contents, they hadn't been disturbed. This search of his room hadn't been done by another rancher. It was too subtle for that. Mr. Rewcastle or Mrs. Rewcastle? he wondered. Why not both? Dammit! A secure place for his lockbox was required. Scott sat down and thought about it. If he put it somewhere at Mr. Piotrowski's then all of his eggs would be in one basket. A new baseboard cache was out because the box was too big. He looked around his room. Up. Scott jumped and grabbed the pull-up bar. He pulled himself up onto the rafter and crouched there. He duck walked to where the ridge board met the exterior wall. Where the roof stringers, ridge board, and exterior wall met, the wall sheathing had been cut to fit around this complex joining. The work had created a small pocket. He slid his hand into it and felt around. He jumped down and got his lock box, and then scrambled back up on the rafter like a monkey. He stood up and shoved the box into the pocket. Back down on the floor he examined the ceiling and saw no evidence of the box. He got a small flashlight but still couldn't see it. He pulled himself up on the pull-up bar to take a look. The only thing he noticed was the footprints on the rafter. He went to get a dust cloth and removed the evidence. Dinner with the boys and the Rewcastles was typical. They didn't look particularly guilty. Turn about was fair play he guessed. He wondered why he was in this damned place, to use Mr. Piotrowski's words. He barely slept there. The only reason anybody would miss him is if his chores went undone. Aside from a few hiccups, September had been a pretty good month. At least it had been until Eddie dropped an anvil on him. The grace period that Mr. Mendoza had given Scott and Eddie to get settled into the routine of high school was over. Scott was only working Wednesdays and Saturdays at the shop. It had started to feel like a job. He liked the people, but it was his time with Jobe and Mr. Piotrowski that he really looked forward to. Without them he wasn't sure he could survive high school. The two boys were sweeping the engine center floor and there was something obviously on Eddie's mind. "Scott, what are you doing for homecoming?" "What do you mean?" "Are you going to the dance?" Eddie asked. Why was Eddie so nervous? "Are you kidding? I'm not even going to the parade. What about you?" "Uh ... you know Amy Strickland?" "Sure." "I'm sort of taking her to homecoming," he confessed. "Oh, okay, cool. Congratulations I guess?" "Here's the thing. You're going to homecoming too." "Yeah, I don't think so." "Look, the only way mom is letting me go is if I get a date for Lilly. So you gotta go!" "Eddie, your sister is an eighth grader. What the heck would I do at homecoming? Is this some plan of your mother's? I swear Eddie—" "Hey, have I ever asked you for anything? It's not like my sister's some troll. Just take her to the dance for me, please?" Eddie was begging. Well shit. October, two weeks before homecoming Scott's weekend had been strange, and the next two weeks weren't looking any different. When he explained how Eddie had trapped him into going to homecoming, Mr. Piotrowski told him he should have seen it coming. During lunch on Monday, Eddie reminded him that homecoming was only two weeks away. "I know, Eddie." "You two have dates?" Bo asked puzzled. "Eddie has a date. I'm being blackmailed," replied Scott. Eddie hit him with a dinner roll. That afternoon the cross country team was running a four mile course. The only other freshman on the team was Rene Keebler. She had run track in middle school, but switched to cross country and volley ball for high school. She explained all of this as they ran. The Keebler house had a cat and two baby sisters. Her dad ran the city finance department. "You don't talk much," she observed after she ran out of things to tell him. "I do talk, but I like to think while I run," he explained. "So I'm bothering you?" she pouted. "No, I don't mind listening to you." They ran for a few more minutes in silence. "Are you going to homecoming?" she asked. Is there a big sign on my head? "I got roped into it by Eddie Mendoza. He can't go unless his sister goes, so I'm some sort of sacrificial appeasement to his mother." "Oh," now she was really pouting. "I had kind of hoped—" You have got to be kidding me. "Hey, do you know Bo Mason?" he interrupted. "Yeah?" "If he asked, would you be interested in going to homecoming with him?" Scott inquired. Rene stopped running. Scott ran back to her and jogged in place, "What's wrong?" She started to cry. "Was it something I said?" She wiped her face with her sleeve and took off running. Scott ran to catch up with her. "Stay away from me!" she shouted. Scott stayed on her heels as she tried to set a killer pace for the next half mile. "I'm better at this than you are, so I can keep this pace all day long. You might as well tell me what's wrong," Scott told her. Rene was breathing heavily, "I ... worked up ... the courage ... to ... ask ... you to homecoming," She finally stopped running, and bent over trying to catch her breath, "and instead you offer to set me up with one of your friends!" "Bo's a great guy," Scott protested. "He's a star athlete!" "I know!" she wailed. "So will you go to homecoming with him or not?" "Yes. If he asks," she sniffed. Then she started walking around and her lip began to quiver. "What's wrong now?" Scott asked. "I've got a cramp in my side." "Put your arms above your head and walk it off. We'll walk back to the gym." "Do you really think Bo will ask me to homecoming?" she asked hopefully. Scott sighed. He showered and hurried to find Bo before he left school. He spotted him walking down the main hallway. "Bo!" Scott called to him. "What's up?" "Hey. Ah, do you have a date for homecoming?" Scott asked. "Why does Eddie have another sister?" "You know he does, but she's only in seventh grade," Scott replied. "No, I don't have a date. Who would I ask anyway?" "So you'd go if you had a date?" "Yeah," Bo answered hesitantly. "I am all kind of banged up and stuff though." "It's two weeks away. I bet you have your soft cast off by then. You know Rene Keebler? Ran track last year, and is on the cross country team this year?" "She's the short little brunette with the big..." Bo held his hands out in front of his chest. Scott thought about it. They were nice, but he didn't think they were big, "She's friends with that red headed girl, Molly or whatever her name is." "Yeah that's Rene Keebler alright. Why? She'd go out with me?" "We ran together today and it came up. She'd say 'yes' if you asked. Do you know her number?" Scott wondered. Bo looked thoughtful, "I can get it. Where do you think she is now?" "She's a girl. She's probably still in the shower." "I think I'll go hang out over by the gym," Bo said. The next day outside of English class Eddie hit him in the back of the head, "Hey, what's this I hear about you finding Bo a date for homecoming?" "What did you do that for?" Scott complained. "Because you found time to get Bo a date, but still haven't called my sister about homecoming," Eddie explained as if he was slow. "Wait, why do I have to call your sister? Wasn't this was all arranged?" "Oh man, don't you know anything about girls?" Eddie asked. Scott looked at his best friend, and seriously tried to figure out how he'd gotten himself into this mess. "Hello? We're talking about me here. Boys Ranch. No girls. No sisters. Remember?" Eddie had the grace to look momentarily embarrassed, "Ah, poor baby. You're not playing the little orphan Scotty card are you?" Scott threw his hands up in mock surrender, "Tell me what I have to do?" "Tonight, dinner at my house," Eddie replied. "You can ask her then." "You are so going to owe me." "Hey, I'm letting you go out with my sister. I think you're going to owe me." "Eddie. I don't think I've ever had a conversation with Lilly, not once." "Don't worry about that," Eddie said as they went in to find their seats. "Yeah I know, she's a Mendoza which means she's going to do all of the talking anyway," Scott mumbled as he sat down. "Hey wait a minute!" Their teacher yelled, "Mr. Mendoza, please stop hitting your classmate." Bo and Rene were very pleased with the way things had turned out. In fact, Bo confided to him that they were going to go on a test date. Scott didn't think that he should ask what would happen if the test date was a failure. Later that afternoon Scott took Jobe for a walk and tried to explain to him how insane his life had become. The dog was an attentive listener. " ... I mean I like girls and all. But good grief, don't you think my life is complicated enough? It's not like I can go on any dates. What would I do, invite them to dinner at the Ranch? 'Excuse me Mrs. Rewcastle, would you please pass the potatoes to my date?' And there's no way that I'm going out with a Mendoza sister. That just has disaster written all over it." Jobe barked. "What do you have to worry about? At least Mr. Piotrowski is letting you keep your balls. You should be happy." In the house Mr. Piotrowski told him to sit down and to catch him up on the news from school. Scott explained about the latest homecoming drama. "My friend, you're going to have to bite the bullet. At least you can go on your first date and not have to worry about any pressure. You've known Lilly for years," Mr. Piotrowski told him. "I don't know that this counts as a first date." "Trust me. It's a first date," Mr. Piotrowski informed him with a smile. "It's not like I've ever talked to her except to say hello. I really don't want to date the sister of my best friend. I don't think that's a good idea at all." "That's probably for the best, but don't get so wound up about the dating thing. You're going out on one date with friends. That could lead to dating, but don't put the cart before the horse." "I think it's going to lead everybody to the crazy house. You should hear Eddie. All he can talk about is 'Amy said this' or 'Amy did that.' He's blackmailing me into going out with his sister. That's not rational. Bo Mason just sits around and grins – at nothing!" "It's only going to get worse," said Mr. Piotrowski. "You're not helping." "By the way," said Mr. Piotrowski. "I'm thinking of going to Alpine on Sunday. Is that a problem if you go with me?" "You mean because it's out of the county? I wouldn't think so, but you should check with the judge." "I'll do that. Shouldn't you be leaving for Eddie's?" he asked. "Yes." "Chop. Chop. Get a move on it. You've got a homecoming date to arrange." "Yes, Mr. Piotrowski." "Don't look so glum," he replied. Scott rode to the Mendoza house. He parked his bike, walked up the steps and knocked on the door. He heard a mad scramble inside. The front door was thrown open by Janice, the youngest Mendoza. "Please come in," she said demurely. Scott walked in and found the entire clan in the living room. Mr. Mendoza was in his chair. Mrs. Mendoza was perched on the edge of the couch. Eddie and his older brothers were hanging around in the back of the room. Standing front and center was Lilly Mendoza. Her sister Janice went over and sat by her mother. Scott looked at Mr. Mendoza who just gave him a blank look in return. Eddie was making 'go on' motions with his hand. He cleared his throat, "Lilly, I wondered—" "Oh yes!" she exclaimed and rushed over to her mother. The ladies launched into a long and detailed discussion about dresses and matching colors. Scott looked around the room and tried to figure out what had happened. Mr. Mendoza came over and put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Let's go to the kitchen." Eddie and his brothers escaped to the safety of the back yard. "Scott, I'm going to tell you a secret about the Mendoza women. You cannot stand against them. They are one of life's mysterious forces, and when they decide something it's best to get out of the way and let it happen." "Yes, sir." "Now, don't you have something to tell me?" "Uh ... I'll treat Lilly ... nicely. I would never, uh, you know. Very respectful. No intentions of ... anything." Scott gulped. "I see," was all that Mr. Mendoza said. "Sir, honest it wasn't even my idea. I'm only doing this as a favor to Eddie." "Scott." "Yes, sir?" "It's probably best that you never refer to it as 'only doing a favor' in the future. If the ladies heard that things could get messy." "Yes, sir." "Now, we're going to go back out into the living room, and you are going to do your best not to look like a man on death row. Read me?" "Loud and clear, sir." Mrs. Mendoza gave Scott a big hug when they returned to the living room. "I'm so happy. You're going to have such a wonderful time. I can't wait to take you and Eddie shopping for new suits." What? "Connie, let the poor boy breathe," Mr. Mendoza said as he sat down. Dinner was awkward. Eddie started treating him a little bit differently, and Scott couldn't puzzle out why. Mrs. Mendoza went on and on. She even talked about her first homecoming dance which hadn't involved Mr. Mendoza. Janice stared at him like he was some sort of specimen, but Lilly barely even looked at him. Scott returned to the ranch. He still hadn't had a conversation with his homecoming date. Wednesday at the engine center was tense. Eddie was practically hostile to him. Scott finally had enough and confronted him. "What's your problem, man? Are you pissed at me for something?" "You're going out with my sister," Eddie replied angrily. "Because you asked me to!" "I know, it's making me mad." "Hey, I don't even want to go out with her so you have nothing to worry about," Scott told him. "What! Is my sister not good enough for you?" "Would you make up your mind?" "Sorry, I don't know what's gotten into me," Eddie sat down and rubbed his head. "I've been kind of an ass lately." "You want to come over and hit the heavy bag with me?" Scott asked. "Why?" "I beat the crap out of that thing and it always makes me feel better afterwards." "Maybe I should. I don't know why I'm so crazy lately." "Testosterone," Scott explained. "What?" "Eddie, haven't you been paying attention in health class? They say our bodies are swimming in the stuff now. Puberty and all that." "Can I do leg kicks on the bag?" "I guess so. Do you know how to do a leg kick?" "I've seen them do it on TV," Eddie said. "Maybe just stick to punches for now." The heavy bag seemed to help Eddie. They had some very vigorous workouts over the next couple of days and Eddie returned to normal. At least as normal as Eddie could be only a week away from homecoming. Scott hoped it lived up to Eddie's expectations. At work Saturday morning he was informed that Jorge and Mrs. Delgado were coming to take him shopping for homecoming clothes. Mrs. Mendoza had discovered that Eddie could now fit into one of his older brothers' suits so he wouldn't be going. Mr. Mendoza told him not to worry about the missed hours. Scott didn't agree. He needed all the hours that he could get working his reduced schedule at the shop. Jorge was driving Mrs. Delgado's station wagon. He honked the horn, and Scott climbed into the back seat. "So, big date next weekend," Jorge said. "Yeah, I guess," replied Scott. "Uh oh. Tell Jorge what's wrong." Scott looked over the seat at Jorge and Mrs. Delgado. She was very close friends with Mrs. Mendoza and nothing he said would stay secret. "It's nothing bad. Eddie couldn't go on a date to homecoming unless Lilly got asked to go. So I agreed as a favor to Eddie," he looked at Mrs. Delgado as he spoke. Jorge reached over and turned off the radio, "I can't say I'm surprised, are you Luisa?" Mrs. Delgado sighed and turned around to look at Scott, "Connie sometimes gets a little too involved for her own good. If it's something you really don't want to do then I can speak to her and get her to back off." "Please don't do that. Eddie's set on going, and I think Lilly is really excited about it. I don't want to cause any trouble, but I don't want anybody to expect whatever it is that they're expecting." Jorge spoke up, "Sometimes we make sacrifices for our friends. The important thing is that you don't let Lilly feel like she's some sort of consolation prize. She's a sweet girl." "She's a very sweet girl, and cute too, but I understand if you feel that you were manipulated," said Mrs. Delgado. "I don't want people to get mad, or to start crying. I've learned I don't like it when girls cry." "Mijo, you made a girl cry?" Mrs. Delgado asked. "I didn't make her cry. She wanted to ask me to homecoming, but when I told her about the thing with Lilly she started crying." "What did you do?" asked Mrs. Delgado softly. "I set her up with Bo, and he's taking her to homecoming." The Delgados looked at each other. "Scotty. A girl cried because she couldn't ask you out, and you set her up with one of your friends?" Jorge asked. "It seemed like the thing to do. Bo didn't have a date, and Rene, that's her name, needed one. They were supposed to have gone on a date last night, so I hope it all worked out." Jorge snorted and turned the radio back on. Mrs. Delgado gave him an odd look before she turned back around in her seat. They were at the same clothing store where he had gotten his school clothes. Jorge pleaded the need for a new hammer, or something, and scurried down the block to the hardware store. Mrs. Delgado dragged Scott into the store. She was browsing through the limited selection of suit jackets. After picking a few jackets she pulled him over to a bank of mirrors. She draped a jacket over his shoulder and stood back to check something. It was a mystery to him. "You know that's not going to fit in a year," Scott grumbled. "You've growing up so quickly," she squeezed his arm. "Don't worry it will get handed down to another rancher some day." She put a different jacket over his shoulder. "I can't believe how big you've gotten lately. It seems like only yesterday that you were a skinny little boy," she dug a tissue out of her purse and blew her nose. "I'm still pretty short, Abuela. You've seen Eddie. He grew four inches over the summer." Mrs. Delgado helped him to put on one of the jackets. She smoothed out the fabric over his shoulders and clutched both of his arms, "Don't worry about that. You can't see it yet, but I think you're going to be taller than Eddie. Your arms and shoulders have really started to fill out." She squeezed. "You got so much sun this summer. I can't believe how tan you are. And your hair, those curls are almost bleached white," she ran her fingers through his hair. "You need a haircut, but not until after homecoming. I don't want you having a buzz cut in your pictures. You'll make a handsome couple. Your beautiful blue eyes and her dark hair," Mrs. Delgado sighed. Scott glanced at the mirror, he barely recognized the person staring back. "Oh don't be nervous. You'll have a wonderful time," she swatted him on the butt. Thoughts were swirling around in Scott's head. "Mijo, are you okay?" "I think I need to sit down." The sales lady came over to see if everything was alright. "Nerves," she announced. "I see it every year. The girls are worse. I wouldn't work in that dress shop for anything. You should see what some of those little hussies try to order. In my day a girl dressed respectably." "I need to use the restroom," he announced. He splashed cold water on his face and stared in the mirror. Was it his father's face, he wondered? His only memory of his parents, other than the terrible ones he tried to forget, was of a photo he'd been given after his release from the hospital. It had been in October, nine years ago exactly, he realized. The marshal hadn't let him keep the photo. Were his father's eyes blue like his? He couldn't remember. He shut down the questions, and the emotions which threatened to overwhelm him, and returned to the sales floor. "Feeling better now?" Mrs. Delgado asked concerned. He took a deep breath, "I guess so. I felt a little shaky there for a bit. Maybe it was something I ate?" "I've never known you to get sick," she commented. Mrs. Delgado selected a light grey suit and bought him a new white dress shirt, socks, and a pair of black dress shoes. She would pick the suit up after the alterations were complete. Mrs. Mendoza would select a tie and a pocket square to match Lilly's dress. "What's a pocket square?" he asked as they made their way back out into the bright sun shine of downtown Fort Stockton. "It's a handkerchief that is tucked into the breast pocket of your suit jacket. Sometimes the color matches your tie, or compliments the overall outfit," she explained. "I don't think boys wear outfits, Abulela." "You're feeling better then?" "Yes, ma'am." Jorge saw them and hurried to open the car door for his wife. He looked at Scott's clammy skin and asked, "Was it that bad?" Scott ignored him and climbed into the back seat and closed the door. He felt like lying down. Mrs. Delgado had a furtive conversation with Jorge. The ride back to Meritt's Corner was quiet. Jorge was the first to speak. "Scott." "Yes, Jorge?" "Do you have any questions? Is there anything either of us can help you with? I still remember my first school dance." "Well ... Bo mentioned corsages. Where am I supposed to get one of those from, and do you know how much they cost?" "I can take care of that for you if you like?" said Mrs. Delgado. "Please, that would be very helpful. Be sure and tell me how much I owe you." The Delgados dropped Scott off at the engine center. He buried himself in work for the remainder of his shift. He had trouble falling asleep that night, and he had the old nightmare. Sunday morning found him making scrambled eggs. Jobe was watching him closely. Mr. Piotrowski had started to slip back into some bad habits with a lot of frying, so Scott had taken over breakfast duties. He slid the scrambled eggs onto a plate, and took some bread from the toaster. He tested a bit of egg to see if it had cooled off. He flicked it toward Jobe, and it never hit the floor. "People food is bad for you, but we both know you're spoiled rotten." "No sausage this morning?" asked Mr. Piotrowski as he came into the kitchen. "We're having toast and scrambled eggs. Jobe gave the eggs his seal of approval in case you were wondering. If we had some salsa I could make breakfast tacos next time." "Mrs. Delgado was a good teacher. These are fine eggs, nice and fluffy," he said as he dug into his food. "Are we taking Jobe with us to Alpine?" Scott asked. Jobe looked up expectantly. "Why not, let's hit the road." The drive to Alpine took over an hour, and the terrain became more interesting the further they drove. It was Scott's first time out of Pecos County since the day he'd arrived, and he looked around curiously. Alpine was smaller than Fort Stockton. What made Alpine different, among other things, was that it was home to a small state university campus. Alpine was the only city in Brewster County, the state's largest, with a population of around nine thousand for an area larger than Connecticut, or Rhode Island and Delaware combined. Mr. Piotrowski promised that they could stop in the city on their way back. He drove out of town for ten minutes until he turned onto a long dirt and gravel road that meandered back into the hills. Eventually they came to a house with an adjacent machine shop. "Do they have dogs?" Scott asked. "No, but keep Jobe on the lead. This fellow can be a bit paranoid. Not that it's a bad thing normally, but he's a bit different than most folks." Mr. Piotrowski got out of the truck, "Harvey! Harvey, you old goat it's me, Alex Piotrowski!" Scott got out and held tightly to Jobe's lead. The dog whined and looked toward the machine shop. A man emerged from the doorway of the shop. He shouldered a shotgun when he spotted Mr. Piotrowski. "Sorry, Alex. I didn't recognize you in that fancy truck. When did you get that?" "I got it a couple of months ago. Now put that scattergun away before you hurt somebody. Let me introduce my friend, Scott MacIntyre, and my dog, Jobe. Scott, this is an old friend of mine, Harvey Peterson." "New truck and a dog? You've been a busy man since we last met. Come on back into the shop and I'll get you a cool drink." The shop reminded Scott of what Mr. Piotrowski's storage building had looked like. There was stuff everywhere. The man opened an old style refrigerator and offered Mr. Piotrowski a beer. "I better not. You have a coke for the boy?" "I've got some cokes, and I can even set out some water for the beast of yours. That's a good looking dog. You working him?" "Coke will be fine." Scott helped Mr. Peterson fill up a bowl of water for Jobe. He took a couple of dog treats out of his pocket and fed them to the voracious animal. Mr. Piotrowski took a drink from the cold soda and sighed, "That's good. Scott found the dog. If you can believe it, some idiot abandoned him out in the county. He's not had any police or military training." "That's a shame. Those Belgians make a fine working dog," commented Mr. Peterson as he took a package from the back of his work bench. He unfolded the heavy cloth and handed it to Mr. Piotrowski. Scott could see that it was a pistol. Mr. Piotrowski held it up, and pulled the slide back. He checked to see that it was unloaded and dropped the slide. Examining the pistol closely he said, "Fine work, Harvey. Looks like you got all of the gouges out of it, and this beavertail went in nicely." He passed the pistol over to Scott who took hold of it respectfully. Mr. Peterson gave Mr. Piotrowski a questioning look. "Scott here is a real fine rifle shot, Harvey. We took him out to the sheriff's range, and he passed his basic skills test with flying colors. With a little more practice I think he'll be a crack pistol shot." "We could take him out back if you wanted?" Mr. Peterson offered. "That sounds like a plan, Harvey." Mr. Peterson went and found another gun and some ammo. They left Jobe inside, and walked out the back of the shop to an outdoor range set up not a hundred feet from Mr. Peterson's back door. It wasn't anything like the nice range where he'd shot at last time. The firing line was marked by a rusted out, fifty-five gallon drum shot full of holes. The target end of the pistol range was a stand that looked like it had been made from an old swing set. There were round steel plates hanging from the top bar. There wasn't a backstop, just the dry, desert scrub hills and low peaks that the area was famous for. "What you have there is an Officer's Model 1911 pistol. It's got a shorter barrel than the standard model, and only takes six or seven rounds depending on your magazine. It fires the .45 caliber round and has a decent kick to it," Mr. Piotrowski informed him. "Why is it black?" "That's what we call a Parkerized finish," explained Mr. Peterson. "Alex bought it off of a guy, was it over a year ago already? It had been treated pretty rough. I polished out the gouges and nicks, but the Parkerizing is a good durable finish. The matte black covers a multitude of sins, but not on my guns. Another benefit is that it's a lower profile visually for a carry weapon than a highly polished example." "You do the best work this side of the state you old goat. Scott, take a look at those wood grips. He made those himself. Best fitting aftermarket grips I've ever seen on a 1911. That's why he has such a backlog of work orders," said Mr. Piotrowski. "I'd have picked this up in the spring if I could have." "You had other worries, Alex." Shooting steel targets was a lot of fun. Scott could have spent the entire afternoon on Mr. Peterson's homemade target range. Jobe on the other hand, was more than happy when they finished. Scott let him off the lead while he did his business. On the drive back into Alpine, Mr. Piotrowski explained that his friend had retired from the Army as a sergeant major and probably knew more about guns than their inventors. "You can pay a pretty penny for his custom guns. Now, what would you like to do in Alpine?" "Could we stop by the college?" Scott asked. "I don't see why not. Is there anything in particular that you want to do there?" "Yes, sir, I want to run by the registrar's office and pick up some brochures and things like that. I'd like to get an idea of what it takes to be a college student." Mr. Piotrowski and Jobe sat on a bench outside of the main building. Scott ran in and found a table with brochures on admissions, financing, and a course catalog. They listened to music the entire way back to Fort Stockton. Monday was a school holiday, Columbus Day, and Scott planned to spend it on his motorcycle. The cross country circuit around the Piotrowski property had become a decent path and he wanted to ride it. The Yamaha was a road bike, but it was light weight. He figured that if he could handle this circuit, then he'd have the patience for most road conditions. It was approaching noon, when Scott saw Mr. Mendoza and Eddie standing outside the house talking to Mr. Piotrowski. He shut off the bike and took off his helmet. "Your riding has really improved. You're handling those low speed turns like you've been doing this for years. I'm impressed, Scott," said Mr. Mendoza. "Thanks, I've been working at it. What's up?" Eddie motioned him over, "Mom's decided that we need dance lessons." "Nobody said anything about dancing." "It's called the homecoming dance you dope!" Eddie said in disbelief. "Yeah, but it's not mandatory or anything. What's wrong with sitting and talking and stuff? There'd be a lot less fighting if people talked more." "My mother may end up killing you, after she kills me. I'm pretty sure the dancing thing isn't optional. We're going to practice after dinner." Scott looked at Mr. Mendoza and remembered their little talk. "Okay." Dinner at the Mendoza's was over much too quickly. In the living room, furniture had been pushed against the walls, and the rug had been rolled up. "Okay!" Mrs. Mendoza clapped her hands together, "Hector, turn on the music. Something slow please. That's good. Lilly, you're with your father. Eddie, you're with me. Scott, you're with Janice for this first round." The new couples moved toward each other. Scott looked at Janice who was beaming happily while prancing around from foot to foot. "Boys, take your partner's gently by the hips or waist. Girls, hands to your partner's shoulders. Scott, she's not going to break. Now, turn slowly and sway to the beat." Janice's good mood was infectious, but Scott's discomfort at holding the younger girl didn't fade. He could see that Eddie was focused on the floor trying desperately not to step on his mother's feet. Mr. Mendoza and Lilly seemed to be having a good time. The song ended and they all stopped dancing. "Not bad, not bad at all. All you need is practice," announced Mrs. Mendoza. "That's it?" asked Scott. "These days, that's all the kids do. There aren't any formal steps any more, unless you're going to two-step? As for fast dancing leave me out of it. Mostly you kids jump around and act like you're having convulsions." "Mom!" protested Lilly. "Come on, Mom," demanded Janice. "Oh alright. Hector, put on something that's not too terribly obnoxious. Now, just move as you feel the music. Scott, move your feet. There you go. You've actually got some rhythm, I'm impressed. Eddie. Eddie! If you do that at homecoming your partner is going to die of embarrassment." Eddie was flopping around unusually. He smiled and kept at it. Janice was the most enthusiastic of the group and seemed to have boundless energy. Mr. Mendoza changed the music and played some disco to try and get Mrs. Mendoza to dance with him. The kids stopped to watch as Mr. Mendoza really put on some funky moves. There was a lot of good cheer and laughter. "Kids, this is why your mother fell in love with me," he shouted as he spun about. "That's not the story you tell my mother," replied Mrs. Mendoza. Scott went back to the ranch. At least he didn't have to worry about that portion of homecoming any longer. The shortened school week seemed to be filled with nothing but drama. In some ways, Scott was glad that his date had been arranged. Bo was the happiest of their group. His date with Rene had been terrific he claimed. She had even joined their lunch table. It looked like they would soon be one of the new freshman couples. Eddie was a different story. He moped for two days over some fight that he had with Amy. He refused to go into detail. The heavy bag at Mr. Piotrowski's got a good workout. Friday finally arrived, and the buzz at school had reached a fevered pitch. Scott was going back to the ranch after school. He didn't have much to do. He would ride over to the Mendoza's and change there. The plan then was to drive into town and pick up Eddie's date, Amy. They'd meet Bo and Rene at the stadium. After the game was over they'd all walk to the gymnasium and check in for the dance. Mr. Mendoza would pick them afterwards at 11:30 p.m. At the ranch Scott took a shower and laid out his clothing for the evening. He kept the suit jacket on the hanger with the plastic bag over it. He could hold it as he rode to the Mendoza's. He packed his shoes and good socks in his backpack. He got his lockbox down and took out the fancy Omega watch. Scott set the time and wound it up. He put it on his wrist. With everything back in place he put on his backpack, and slung the suit jacket over his shoulder. He pushed his bike over to the kitchen door and went inside. Scott opened the refrigerator and took out the box with the corsage in it that Mrs. Delgado had picked out for him. "Mijo, what do you think you're doing?" Mrs. Delgado demanded. "I thought I'd get an early start and head over to the Mendoza's," he replied. She was exasperated. "Go and change into your suit. I'm driving you over there. Now put that back," she pointed at the corsage. The younger boys in the kitchen helping her prepare the meal watched the exchange in rapt fascination. Scott went back to his room and got changed. How was he supposed to get back to the ranch after homecoming? He went back to the kitchen. The entire ranch population was there. The Rewcastles got their look and left. The rest of the boys, and even the foreman, were looking at him like they had never seen him before. Mrs. Delgado fussed with his tie, "Who taught you to tie this?" He'd looked up several articles on the internet. Even with illustrations and his super powered brain he couldn't get it exactly right. Mrs. Delgado took the corsage from the refrigerator and opened it to show him, "This is going to match Lilly's dress beautifully." That tidbit of information set the boys off. They whispered back and forth, "He's got a date!" Scott walked his bike over to Mrs. Delgado's station wagon and put it in the back. "Be careful of your suit!" Mrs. Delgado insisted. Jorge was at the Mendoza house and greeted Mrs. Delgado with a kiss. Eddie was nervous and kept tugging at his collar. Lilly looked pretty, and much older in her dress while Janice pretended not to be jealous of her sister. Scott solved the corsage dilemma by asking Mrs. Mendoza to pin it on Lilly for him. They were finally ready. Scott didn't know that he'd have to spend the next ten minutes posing for photos. Mr. Mendoza eventually put a stop to it, "It's time to hit the road folks." They repeated the same photo agony at Amy's house. Her parents might have even been worse. They got to the school and Mr. Mendoza parked. They all got out and looked around. Students and parents were doing the same all over the parking lot. Mr. Mendoza pulled Eddie and Scott aside for a quick chat. "Eddie, remember be respectful to your date. Scott, have a good time and keep an eye on my little girl." "Yes, sir" the boys answered in unison. Mr. Mendoza got back in his car and left. Eddie and Amy took off to go and find Bo and Rene. Scott stood there with Lilly, and tried to decide what to do next. "You don't have to worry about anything," announced Lilly. "Why's that?" Scott asked absently. "I know this wasn't your idea because it was mine," she explained. "Huh?" "I get to go to the high school homecoming dance with a cute freshman. It's driving all my middle school girlfriends crazy." "So, we're doing this to improve your social standing in middle school?" "Yes," she replied with complete honesty. "Wow, I'm not sure what to say. I guess that's okay with me. You know I don't want to date you or anything like that right?" "I know." "How do you know that?" "Mom says you're introverted because your social development has been stunted by living at the boys ranch. You've never gotten over whatever trauma it was that brought you here, and we're never to ask about it," she explained. "What else does she say?" Scott asked curiously. "She says that you're incredibly smart. Mrs. Delgado told her that you tested at the near genius level when the school district first assessed you." This conversation with Lilly had been incredibly illuminating. "What else do you know?" he wondered. "Nothing else that I'm going to share with you. Now, what does Mrs. Delgado say about me? Mom says that she's your advisor on all things female," Lilly inquired. I guess that's true, "Well, she said you're really cute." "And what do you think?" she asked demurely. Scott wasn't sure that this eighth grade mercenary should be able to pull off the demure look, but she did, "I guess you are pretty cute." "Good. Now let's go find a seat. I want to make sure everybody can see us," she instructed. Scott had the sudden thought that Mr. Mendoza had probably gone through something like this twenty years before with Mrs. Mendoza. The football game was a good one for the Fort Stockton Panthers. At half time the homecoming court was announced. Bo and Rene were having a great time. Eddie seemed a little stiff around Amy, but she had a smile on her face. At one point Lilly instructed Scott to put his arm around her when she spotted some of her friends. After the game they walked over to the gym and checked in for the dance. You had to stay at least an hour before you were allowed to leave. They danced several times, but only one slow dance. Eddie proved to be very entertaining on the dance floor. Scott couldn't tell by Amy's look whether she was horrified, or fascinated. For one dance Scott switched partners with Bo. Rene hugged him and thanked him for setting her up with his friend. The only hiccup was when somebody bumped Scott pretty hard. He turned to see Nazario Guzman. He was a senior that everybody called 'Guz.' Guzman was repeating his senior year, and had a reputation as a small time thug. He tried to give a hard gangster stare, but Scott ignored him. Lilly wanted to leave. She informed him that most of the eighth grade, at least the important members, would be hanging out at a pizza place down on the main drag. They needed to make an appearance. It was less than a mile, so it was a short but pleasant walk in the fall air. They passed a big homecoming party that a bunch of older residents were having. They waved and exchanged greetings, "Go Panthers!" they heard a lot. A half block from the pizza shop they passed a small bar. A group of drunks came stumbling out of the doorway. The men spotted Lilly and started making crude comments. One big drunk in particular did most of the talking. "Hey little chica, want to come for a ride on my pony? I'll tear you up girl. Make a believer out of you. You'll never fuck another Mexican ever again," he slurred. Scott put himself between Lilly and the men. He turned, and in a hard voice said, "Lilly, run to the pizza place. Go now!" She hesitated, but the look on his face sent her running. The men shouted filthy things after her. "What are you going to do boy, defend the little Mexican bitch's honor? You got a pretty mouth, I'd fuck you," the man spat. "With your tiny dick? I wouldn't feel it," Scott replied. "You little shit!" the man tried to come after him but his buddies held him back. "I'll skull fuck you, you little asswipe." Scott clenched his fists and felt his adrenaline pumping, "You're a big scary man aren't you? Picking on kids. What's the matter, mommy's pimp taking too big of a cut these days?" Scott wanted to clasp his hands over his mouth to keep any more words from coming out. The man went insane with rage, and his friends were shouting abuse when a spotlight lit up the area. "Knock it off!" a voice over the police cruiser's loudspeaker commanded. The men turned and retreated, shouting threats and obscenities. "You okay, son?" asked the officer as he rolled down his window. "Yes, sir, just some drunks. I'm headed over to the pizza place." "Best you stay there for a while," replied the cop as he drove off toward where the drunks had gone. Scott walked to the pizza place, and met Lilly and an older man who came out the front door. She rushed to his side. "Are you okay?" she asked, her eyes were shiny. "I'm fine." "I called the police," said the man. "I think it's okay. That police cruiser chased them off, but thanks anyway." They went in and sat at a booth. Lilly loudly proclaimed, "My hero!" and kissed him on both cheeks. He felt his face get hot, and heads turned to look at him. They sat and drank cold sodas and had a couple of slices of pizza. Lilly had definitely gotten the attention that she had set out for. "I don't think that we should mention this to your father," Scott said. "Are you crazy? I wasn't even supposed to leave the dance," Lilly exclaimed. "Lilly!" "I'm sorry, I just wanted so badly for my friends to see me," she pouted. Do all girls do that pouting thing? "Lilly, have you ever thought that anyone that you have to impress that much isn't really a friend?" She considered it, and shrugged her shoulders. Middle school social dynamics clearly weren't his specialty. They left the pizza place, and Scott made sure that they took a different route back to the high school. He kept a careful eye out, but never spotted any of the men. Mr. Mendoza reclaimed them without incident and after dropping Amy off, they returned to the Mendoza house. Scott gave Lilly a very chaste peck on the lips much to Eddie's disgust. Lilly giggled and ran inside. Mr. Mendoza walked over and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Well, how did it go?" he asked. "I survived." "Now all you have to worry about is prom," Mr. Mendoza said with an evil grin. "Thank goodness I can't go until I'm a junior," Scott said gratefully. Scott undid his tie and found his bike propped up against the house. He rode slowly back to the ranch and crawled into bed. ------- Chapter 9 Saturday, October 14, 2006, day after homecoming Scott was relieved to put in a full shift at the engine center. It was a busy time as many trucks needed to be prepped for the coming winter months. After work he rode to Mr. Piotrowski's. He was eager to give him a full report about his Friday evening. He met an excited Jobe at the end of the driveway. "I just saw you two days ago you crazy mutt." They play wrestled in the yard, before Scott brushed himself off and headed inside. Mr. Piotrowski gave him a raised eyebrow. "You have grass in your hair," he observed. Scott ran his hand over his hair and plucked out a few stubborn pieces. "How has your Saturday been?" "Slow. We've been waiting to hear about your date," Mr. Piotrowski leaned over to brush something out of Jobe's coat. "Did you have a good time?" "I guess so. It was certainly interesting. That Lilly is something else. She planned the whole thing, or so she claims. I think I believe her. What I really wanted to tell you is what happened downtown." "Downtown?" "Lilly wanted to show off in front of some of the eighth graders. The whole homecoming thing was a campaign to make her friends jealous. She's a little scary that way. Anyway, we left the dance to walk to a pizza place by the gas station. There's a small bar up the block with a red door—" "I know it, it's always been trouble. You kids didn't try and go in there did you?" "No, nothing like that. We were walking by when a group of noisy drunks came stumbling out of the bar. They were shouting some awful things at Lilly, so I sent her on ahead to the pizza place. I wasn't sure what I was thinking. I just wanted to keep them away from her. Give her enough time to get away." Mr. Piotrowski stood up, "You weren't hurt?" "No, sir, they never laid a hand on me. The one really drunk guy was held back by his friends. He was a big, scary looking dude though. A city cop drove by and put his spotlight on them. They took off after that. We shouldn't even have been there. Lilly wasn't supposed to leave the dance, but of course she didn't tell me until after the run in with those idiots. I decided it was best not to tell Mr. Mendoza." "That could have ended very badly for you. I need to think about this. Why don't you take Jobe for a walk," Mr. Piotrowski was frowning. Scott took Jobe outside and let the dog lead him. They were out for about thirty minutes before Scott decided it was time to head back. Mr. Piotrowski was waiting, "Scott, when I hung that heavy bag for you it was for exercise. I think the time has come to talk a little more about protecting yourself. You did a brave thing placing yourself between those men and the girl. Do you understand why it was dangerous?" "I have a pretty good idea," he replied. "I wonder if you do? You described three men, drunks. Booze makes some men violent. I think you know about what happens in families when there's heavy drinking involved?" "A little," there were lots of reasons to end up in foster care. "Some drunks really like knives, or what if they had pulled a gun on you?" What could he have done? Trying to protect Lilly meant that his responses were limited. On a public street, in full view of witnesses, would his advantages have even have helped him? Had he done the right thing? "I don't know." "Your instinct with Lilly was correct. Send her to safety, and put their attention on you. What did you do next?" I can't tell him that my mouth ran away from me, "I guess I froze." "What advantages did you have?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "I don't think I had any. I was outnumbered. They were bigger than me, and they might have had weapons like you said." "All true. I can think of two advantages, perhaps three. You were sober, and you are probably faster. You've also got a good head on your shoulders. With the proper training you wouldn't have made the same mistakes. It's time to teach you a thing or two about self defense. You also need to think about tactics." "What do you mean?" "Tactics are all about planning; being prepared to act in any given situation. You were outnumbered. The smart tactic was to retreat, but their actions might have forced you to make a different decision. We'll talk more about it." "I don't think I'm really a fighting type of person," Scott said honestly. "That's a good attitude to have. Unfortunately, the rest of the world might not agree with you. I'd rather you know how to protect yourself, agreed?" "Yes, sir." "We'll concentrate on two things; the physical, and the mental. For the mental I'll give you some old Marine Corps manuals to read. Maybe you could look up related texts in the library. I also want you to read about human anatomy. For the physical I think we're ahead of the curve, you've really gotten much stronger." Scott's education in hand to hand combat and tactical thinking began. He found that his life to date had been excellent preparation. He only needed to learn how it all tied together. Mr. Piotrowski first taught him how to fall, and to tumble and roll. The reasoning became clear when he told him they would study throws, which was explained as the art of taking your opponents' weight and momentum and using it for your own purposes. That would be followed by small joint manipulation, wrist locks, arm locks, choke holds, disabling punches, and hand strikes. He emphasized how dangerous these skills were. Mr. Piotrowski likened it to the handling of a gun. It was a responsibility Scott took seriously. His introduction to joint manipulation on Sunday was painful. Mr. Piotrowski grabbed Scott's thumb, twisted it back over his wrist and forced him to his knees with his arm uncomfortably extended behind and above him. Mr. Piotrowski then showed him how to turn that into a common police hold, with his wrist twisted painfully behind his back. "The police like to use words like 'pain compliance, ' but do you see how you can literally bend a man to your will?" "Yes, sir!" he gasped. Mr. Piotrowski released him, and Scott scrambled to his feet. "Make an impression?" he asked. "Definitely," Scott replied. Humbled, he shook his arm to get the feeling back into it. "Don't ever forget it. This isn't something you horse around with. You don't show Eddie these moves, and don't practice on anybody. You need years of training before you have the control needed to be an instructor. You understand?" "Very clearly." "What do you say to a Meritt's chocolate shake?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "I wouldn't turn it down, sir. It might be a tactical mistake," "Very funny." ------- The school week meant a return to normalcy. The next major objective was to make it to the holidays. Teachers cracked down on the students, and the student body hunkered down for the slog to Christmas break. Eddie's romance with Amy did not survive the week. Eddie would not talk about what broke them up, but he convinced his dad to buy him his own heavy bag. Bo and Rene were a couple, but thankfully not one of the obnoxious ones. Some of the new freshman couples continually pushed the boundaries of the school's 'no public displays of affection' rule. Rene informed Scott during a mid week cross country run that her new goal was to set him up with one of her friends. He threatened to break Bo's knees if she did. He explained in no uncertain terms that it wasn't something he was looking for. She said she'd back off, but Scott knew better. "So you're going to break my knees?" asked Bo during health class the next day. "You know I'm bigger than you right?" "Yeah, but I'm sneaky," Scott replied. "Ha!" "Just keep Rene out of my business if you can? Please?" "Yeah, I'll try," Bo didn't look like he thought that was possible either. On Thursday he was walking to speech class when somebody shoved him violently into a locker. Scott picked himself up to see what he was dealing with. It was Nazario Guzman, the idiot from the homecoming dance and a couple of other want-to-be thugs. "Watch where you're going, gringo," Guzman warned. "What's your problem?" Scott asked. "My problem is that no gringo like you should be touching any Latina girl." A crowd was forming. He was pissed about my homecoming date? "Guz', Lilly Mendoza would never go out with you. Can you even speak Spanish? That might hold back your membership back in the racial purity movement." Guzman's position was particularly stupid in a school split fifty-fifty between Anglos and Latinos. Half the couples in the school were mixed. Nobody cared as far as he knew. "I'll kick your ass, white boy!" Guzman growled. The crowd sensed blood now, and the hallway was blocked by students. "I don't think so," Scott replied calmly. Guzman's muscle didn't know what to think about that. This wasn't going according plan. The little freshman was supposed to be afraid. "Meet me after school. Any place your punk ass wants, and I'll wipe the floor with you," Guzman said nastily. People were shouting in the crowd, hoping to see a fight. "How about right here and right now? I'm not afraid. You're eighteen now aren't you? No more juvy for you. It's off to county lock-up the next time you get popped. How many times have you been arrested anyway? I'm a straight 'A' student. You've got what, forty pounds on me? I wonder how that's going to look?" Guzman was spitting mad, but his buddies had a firm grip on him. One of them must have had a brain cell because he was trying to push Guzman back down the hallway. One of the football coaches came wading through the students. "What's going on here!" he demanded. The crowd started to break up. "Ask him," Scott pointed at Guzman. "I've got to get to class." "Get out of here then," the coach instructed. He turned his focus to Guzman who hadn't been able to escape because of the crowd, "You three knuckleheads let me see your hands. What is it you three geniuses don't understand about 'zero tolerance' anyway?" The coach was taking them to the front office. Scott headed for class. Later, in the library, he switched from his normal studies to reading about military history and martial arts. He found the histories interesting. It looked like a lot of what they wrote about had already been covered more succinctly by the USMC Small Wars manual Mr. Piotrowski had given him. His copy had last been updated during the Second World War, but he found it fascinating reading. The martial arts books proved more problematic. It was the same issue that he had with the 'how to tie a tie' episode at homecoming. The illustrations showed him exactly what to do. He had followed the instructions to the letter, but the results had not been optimal. He had to actually practice the skills before he could fully assimilate them. Attending a martial arts school was out of the question. It wasn't feasible in tiny Fort Stockton. He couldn't spar with Mr. Piotrowski. Maybe all he really needed to do was to observe someone who knew what they were doing. News of his confrontation had already spread throughout the school. People were staring at him as he walked to the Meritt's Corner bus. Scott ignored it all. He spotted Eddie waiting for him. He knew that Eddie would demand a full debriefing, but he was making some weird furtive gestures. What is he doing? Scott stepped past a minivan waiting by the curb, and then saw what had Eddie in fits. It was Principal Reynolds. "Mr. MacIntyre." "Yes, sir?" "I understand you have to catch the bus to return home. You and your guardian will be in my office first thing in the morning where we will discuss your punishment for fighting in school. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, Principal Reynolds." "Get on your way then." Scott boarded the bus, and went to sit by Eddie. "Man, are you crazy? Fighting with Nazario Guzman? That guy's an animal," Eddie asked. He obviously hadn't heard about the reason for the confrontation. "We didn't actually fight." One of the other kids put his two cents in, "Did you hear what he was saying about your sister?" "Who was saying?" demanded Eddie. "Guzman." "Scott, what was Guz' saying about my sister?" "Just ignore it, Eddie, it was something about how she shouldn't go out with a gringo." "That piece of crap was talking about my sister?" Eddie's face was turning red. "My brothers will kick that pendejo's ass." Scott hadn't thought about it. He was right. Eddie's brothers; Robert a senior, and Tommy a junior, were popular school jocks. Scott rarely had any interactions with them since they were older. This incident was especially ironic since all of the Mendoza kids had anglicized names. Racial differences in Pecos County happened from time to time. Illegal immigration was always a hot topic, and the racial edges of that argument got pretty sharp. The schools were usually peaceful, neutral ground unless it was stirred up. Scott shook his head. Anything that Nazario Guzman was involved in was doomed to fail, "I don't think it's going to be necessary." "Are they going to kick you out?" asked Eddie. "I don't see how they can. There wasn't any actual fighting. The coach broke it up before anything happened. He took Guzman and his goons away, and let me go on to class." "What are you going to do about tomorrow morning?" It was a good question. "I guess I'll call the judge." It was the last thing that Scott wanted to do. He'd never had to call the judge to get him out of any trouble before. Scott and Eddie parted ways at Meritt's. Scott rode his bicycle to Mr. Piotrowski's, while Eddie went into the engine center. Scott told Mr. Piotrowski all about the confrontation, and his run with Principal Reynolds. Mr. Piotrowski quizzed him about some of the facts, and had him go over the confrontation from several different angles. "It sounds like you did what you could. You were blocked in. You turned your knowledge of your opponent into a tactical advantage. Now tell me, what if he had kicked your ass?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. Interesting question, "On paper the school has a zero tolerance policy toward fighting. We all know that some people are more equal than others. Star football players for example. Everybody knows Guzman was a juvenile delinquent, but now that he's eighteen the rules change. I'm a fourteen year old freshman with good grades. There's a considerable size and age difference between us. The facts, if I had been beaten up, would tend to favor me. I hope." "Well reasoned," Mr. Piotrowski offered, "but you didn't answer my question about getting your ass kicked." "Pain is a good teacher, or so the books say. I guess if I had gotten beaten up then I'd have learned a valuable lesson ... and I'd be sore." Scott sat back and ran the sequence of questions over again in his head. Mr. Piotrowski was a damn clever man. Aleksander Piotrowski; the retired gentleman of leisure, collector of the obscure, and warrior philosopher, Scott thought to himself. "What are you smiling about?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "I was just thinking how you could give any of my teacher's a run for their money." "Our Yankee cousins make that mistake all of the time. They hear the accent, or see redneck mannerisms and make all sorts of assumptions. Think of it as a tactical advantage my young apprentice." Was Mr. Piotrowski quoting the Star Wars movie that Eddie loved so much, he wondered? "I never had more than a high school education, and what the Corps taught me, but Verna taught me to love reading. After Jack died ... I tried to learn where I had gone wrong. It took me years to come to terms with the fact that he made his own choices. Second chances are rare." Mr. Piotrowski never talked about his son. Scott wasn't sure what to say. "You better call the judge," Mr. Piotrowski said quietly. "I'll call him now." "In that case, Jobe and I are going to get some air," Mr. Piotrowski said getting up. Scott was not looking forward to this. It was too late to catch him in the office, so he called the judge's home. His wife, Bernice Upcott, answered the phone. Scott explained who he was. "Of course, dear, hold on for just a minute," she replied. "Scott, what's wrong?" asked the judge when he picked up the phone seconds later. He explained about the confrontation in the school hallway, and the principal's instruction about Friday morning. The judge asked some of the same questions that Mr. Piotrowski had. "Okay, I think I've got a handle on it. Typical school bureaucrat; never use common sense when there's a policy that can do your thinking for you. You didn't hear me say that." "No, sir." "Where are you calling from anyway?" the judge asked. "Sir, I'm at Mr. Piotrowski's." "Let me speak to him please." "He'll have to call you back if it's alright. He's out walking the dog." "That would be fine. I'll see you at 8:00 a.m. sharp," the judge said in closing. "Thank you, sir. Sorry to have troubled you." "Scott, you've never been any trouble, and that is what's going to make tomorrow so much fun. Get a good night's sleep and don't worry about a thing." ------- His stomach was a little nervous, but he tried to eat a little breakfast anyway. Mrs. Delgado told him not to worry. If Mrs. Delgado knew, then everybody knew. She slicked down Scott's hair and told him he needed a haircut soon. The bus ride into town was quiet. Eddie was at early morning football practice, so he didn't have anyone to talk to. Scott pushed his way through the door into the school's front office. Judge Upcott, Sheriff King, and Honour Black all turned as he entered the office. "What's going on?" he asked. The judge replied, "I'm here as requested." The three stood there with very smug looks on their faces. Principal Reynolds, alerted to the visitors, came to see what the commotion was about. He looked curiously at the group of people. "Mr. MacIntyre, you're here on time. Is your guardian here?" Judge Upcott stepped forward, "Elijah Upcott, Principal Reynolds I presume? I am the boy's guardian in matters such as these." That startled the principal, "You are Scott MacIntyre's guardian?" "I am. Do you have a conference room where we can meet?" The principal cleared his throat, "Judge Upcott, your honor, I was unaware of that fact. My office is just back here, I think you'll find it comfortable." "No need for formal address, and I'm sure your office is perfectly serviceable, is there enough room for all of us?" "All of you? I'm afraid I don't understand," the puzzled principal replied. "Allow me to introduce the very capable Honour Black, of Black & Black: Attorneys at Law. She represents Mr. MacIntyre, and of course you know Sheriff King." I have a lawyer? Scott glanced at her and she winked at him. "Of course, Sheriff it's good to see you. Why are you here exactly?" Principal Reynolds was even more confused. "While I haven't officially been sworn in I do like to stay current on issues that concern the good citizens of Pecos County. I have a few facts relevant to the case at hand," replied the sheriff. The principal guided the group toward the conference room. Scott trailed behind. In their wake they left an office full of school secretaries who knew good gossip when they heard it. In the conference room Scott was seated between the judge and Honour. She leaned over and told him she would do all the speaking for him. Unless she said otherwise, he was to keep his mouth shut. She said it with a smile so all he could do was nod. The meeting went poorly for the principal. Scott couldn't tell if Principal Reynolds actually intended to punish him, or if the appearance of so much firepower on his behalf had simply made the man dig his heels in. The judge barely spoke. He let Honour do all they heavy lifting. She was relentless about the principal's inconsistencies in her examination of the facts. She insisted that Scott could not be suspended because he had not been fighting, and had committed no violation of school policy. It took a while before the principal finally conceded the point. The final blow came when the sheriff announced that Nazario Guzman had been arrested by the sheriff's department for procession of psilocybin mushrooms with intent to distribute, and a small quantity of cocaine. He was in county lockup awaiting his first of many court appearances. "I've asked the Fort Stockton police department if they would like to coordinate a search with both city and county drug dogs of school property on behalf of the school district. The Superintendent of Schools seemed eager to ensure the safety and well being of all district school children. I'm sure you'll agree that this scourge is something we all must stand vigilant against." The principal, to his credit, rapidly agreed. "Scott, what class are you missing right now?" the judge asked him. "Geometry," Scott answered as he looked carefully at the principal. "Why don't we step outside, while your principal and Honour iron out a few details?" Scott followed the judge and the sheriff outside. It was nice to get out of the conference room. He released a deep breath. He hadn't realized how tense he had been. "Walt, was it a good bust on this Guzman character?" the judge asked. "Elijah, I'm surprised at you. After you called last night I got in touch with a county detective to find out more about Mr. Guzman. He told me they'd arrested him earlier in the day. There's been a small group dealing coke to the gas field workers. They think they might be able to roll up the whole thing now." "I wasn't implying anything, Walt. Did you have a chance to think about what Alex Piotrowski mentioned to me?" What's this? "The department hasn't had a Youth Explorer program in a number of years. I thought we might give this young man a chance to be part of a pilot program." the sheriff replied. "I like it," replied the judge. The sheriff explained, "Scott, it's a program that exposes young people to law enforcement as a potential career. Explorers do things like help with paperwork, and work around the station. We haven't had an active program in years. Frankly we don't have the budget, or the people for it." "So I'm going to be an explorer?" "Not exactly, Mr. Piotrowski told the judge that he's been teaching you some basic self defense skills, but you needed somebody to spar with." "Alex has my full support," interjected the judge. The sheriff continued, "The department has a hand-to-hand training course scheduled three weeks from now. What would you think about attending? We could justify it with the department by calling it a pilot program." "Walt, I think it's a fine idea if Scott's interested," the judge said. "I might have to ask for some time off work, but I'd really like to go. What are the course dates, will it interfere with school?" Scott asked. The sheriff took out his phone and checked his schedule, "November 16th through the 18th. That's Thursday and Friday evening with a full day of training on Saturday, so no conflict with school." "I'm pretty sure I can get time off on the Saturday, but how will I get there and does it cost anything?" "We'll cover the cost, and your transportation issues." The judge was pleased and assured him that he had nothing to worry about. It would all be kosher. Honour came out the front door and pumped her fist in a sign of victory. "Can I have a moment with my client?" she asked. The judge and sheriff moved off to one side and let them have a bit of privacy. "How much do I owe you?" Scott asked, afraid that the answer would seriously dent his savings. She smiled, "A client who thinks about payment before I tell them how the verdict went. I could get to like that." Honour explained that it had all been taken care of. There would be no entries on his school record. She insisted that if he had any future troubles he was to call her immediately. "You don't owe me anything. I was retained on your behalf by Mr. Piotrowski, but don't you worry. I'm not going to charge him a dime either. I haven't had so much fun in ages. When you can defeat the forces of bureaucracy it is a victory for all that is good and decent." Weird. He believed her. She really did enjoy this. "Now somebody has to get back to class. Why don't the rest us of go decide who's paying for lunch later?" she announced to the men. ------- Scott bumped into Eddie before English class started. "You're still here!" "It's all taken care of. No expulsion, no mark in my records. All is forgiven," Scott explained. "What did Principal Reynolds say?" asked Eddie. "I have no idea. I wasn't even in the room. It's probably not important," he looked around to see who was nearby. He leaned over and whispered, "Listen, Guz' got arrested yesterday afternoon for drugs. He's going to be in county for a while." "No kidding?" "Yeah, so now would be a really bad time for anybody to have any weed in their lockers." "Oh!" Eddie realized what he meant. The school had a few potheads, but they didn't run in the same circles. The big excitement at school later that week was an inspection by the drug dogs. Even though word of Guz's arrest had eventually made its way through the school, a couple of lockers were still found with contraband in them. Apparently some of the more frequent consumers couldn't be motivated enough to move their stashes. Scott was not surprised when Molly O'Brien joined her girlfriend, Rene Keebler, at the group's lunch table. She was a pretty girl with straight red hair and green eyes. She had been perpetually sunburned since her family had moved here from the east coast the previous year. The eastern girl had gone completely country chic. She often wore boots, tight blue jeans, and loose oxford shirts over a tank top. Sometimes she wore a bandana around her neck. After school she could be frequently seen wearing a cowboy hat. Once they got past the awkwardness of Rene's attempted fix up, they actually had some interesting conversations. Scott liked to listen to her talk about big cities like Boston or New York. For her part Molly was horse crazy and wanted to know all about the ranch's stock, and how often he rode. She was shocked to hear him say that he rarely got on horseback anymore. "I'm too busy with school, and working two jobs. I see the horses every morning when I do chores, and I still muck out the stalls every now and then. I'd say that's enough horse time," he explained. She didn't agree. Molly's folks had purchased her a horse, but since they lived in town it was stabled at a nearby farm. She didn't get to see him nearly enough she complained. "What's your horse's name?" he asked politely. "Dancer!" she said with a breathy gush. ------- Scott's lessons with Mr. Piotrowski continued at a steady pace. He couldn't show Scott a full speed throw, but he walked him through the steps. They didn't do any ground work or wrestling, but Scott learned firsthand about all the different kinds of arm locks, wrist locks, and small joint manipulation. Mr. Piotrowski wasn't averse to making a lesson painful as a reminder. Scott couldn't help but wonder what kind of man Mr. Piotrowski was in his youth. He didn't think the few pictures he had seen gave the full story. He was not a man to be underestimated. Most of their practice was on defensive skills. Offensive skills would be something they would talk about over the next few weeks. Mr. Piotrowski wanted him to study up on human anatomy before they started trying to break a body down. "You need to know how the human body works. Don't just read about weak points; understand how it all works as a system." Medical literature was nothing new to Scott. He'd worked hard to read and understand a lot of it over the years seeking answers to his own body's mysteries. Now he approached it with an eye toward attacking the body; he studied the bones and joints, as well as the nervous and pulmonary systems. Scott found a book he really liked through inter library loan. It was by Bruce Lee, the late martial artist and movie star. In the book, Mr. Lee discussed his philosophy and approach to the martial arts. While Scott wasn't sure if he agreed with Lee's conclusions, one concept stood out to him. It was the idea of pattern free, or formless, fighting that appealed to Scott's sense of logic. Basically, it was the idea that you used whatever techniques it took to achieve your goal. You bound yourself to nothing. A fighter needed to free himself from patterns that held him back, or made his intentions too predictable. The idea made sense to him. It was nice to go for a long run and let it all maturate in his brain. Scott couldn't see himself as a violent person. Violence had defined his life, but what if his parents had been able to defend themselves? It was a lot to think about. In the morning he requested the third Saturday in November off so he could attend the sheriff department's training session. Mr. Mendoza's secretary told him not to worry about asking for time off, all he had to do was give them a little advance notice. He was a student working part-time and the company understood the need for flexibility. Her news made Scott feel better. He hadn't liked feeling as if he was taking advantage of Mr. Mendoza's good will. Scott didn't see Eddie until lunch. He was eating a sandwich while sitting on an old tractor out behind the fabrication shop when Eddie showed up with a big black eye. "What happened to you?" "Wrestling with my brothers. I caught a knee. Mom was so mad that she made Dad take down my heavy bag." "Ouch. Which brother was it?" Scott asked. "I'm not even sure. They're both blaming each other." "Remember the first time we saw this place?" "Yeah, and that old steam tractor?" said Eddie. They walked down the lot to take a look at it. Eddie was on the hunt for a new girlfriend, and listed the girls he had already considered and dismissed as they walked. Scott couldn't find any pattern to Eddie's selection process. "It looks a lot smaller than it used to," commented Eddie. Scott agreed with him. "Lilly told me to ask you to dinner tonight. Want to come?" "You know I never turn down your mom's cooking. Did Lilly mention why?" Scott asked. "She didn't, but I can guess. Something to do with Guzman. I'm sure it's spread to the middle school by now. Of course it could be because she's heard about Molly," Eddie punched Scott in the shoulder. "You want a matching black eye?" Scott said. Eddie just laughed. "There's nothing going on with Molly, and why would your sister even care? I'm telling you, you're going to have your hands full with her when she's in high school next year." "Don't remind me," groaned Eddie. At the Mendoza house it was apparent that the family had heard about Scott's run in with Guzman. Mr. Mendoza gave him a firm handshake and pat on the back. Eddie's brothers said they were keeping an eye out for Guzman, and told him to let them in on all the fun next time. Mrs. Mendoza gave him a long hug and a pat on the cheek. Scott tried to explain how nothing had really happened. Lilly interrupted to tell them about Nazario Guzman trying to start a fight at the homecoming dance, " ... but Scott just ignored him, like it wasn't even worth his time." "I didn't think anybody else noticed." Mrs. Mendoza spoke up, "What I want to know is what exactly this Nazario said from somebody who heard it firsthand. Well?" The Mendozas were all looking at him. Scott had already told Eddie, why hadn't he passed it along? Scott looked at Lilly and spoke, "It was something stupid about how he didn't think a gringo should go out with any Latinas." "What did you say back to him?" Mrs. Mendoza wanted to know. Scott felt his face get hot, "I said Lilly would never go out with him, and something about how he couldn't even speak Spanish." "You're darn right I wouldn't go out with that creep!" Lilly announced with her hands on her hips. Mr. Mendoza and Mrs. Mendoza smiled. "Scotty, your Spanish is better than mine and you know the kids barely speak it. My father always insisted we speak English growing up," Mr. Mendoza said. Mrs. Mendoza spoke up, "Luisa said that the first day you walked into the kitchen at the ranch she teased you with some Spanish. You spoke right back to her with such perfect diction it reminded her of the priest at church." Janice, the youngest Mendoza, said, "You must have learned it from your parents." She clasped her hands over her mouth and broke into tears. "I didn't mean to—" and she ran upstairs. The remaining Mendozas looked concerned, and checked Scott to see his reaction. "It's alright. Really, it doesn't bother me," Scott insisted. He knew Mrs. Mendoza had a family rule about the kids asking him about his past. "I swear she'll be the death of me," Mrs. Mendoza said. "I'll go talk to her." "Would you mind if I went?" Scott asked. Mrs. Mendoza looked at her husband. He shrugged. "Alright, I'll be in the kitchen if you need backup," she offered. Scott walked up the stairs. He knew the girls' bedrooms were down the hall opposite of Eddie and the boys, but he wasn't sure which one was Janice's. Their side of the house was foreign territory. He walked to the closed door and could hear sobbing inside. He knocked. "Go away!" she cried. "Janie, it's Scott," he announced. He turned the door knob, and told her he was coming in. She was wiping her face on her arm and her eyes were red. "Call me Janice," she insisted. "I always kind of liked 'Janie' it's a good nickname." "You think so?" "I do. Can I sit down?" he asked. "Yeah." "Look, I'm not mad because you asked the question." "Mom is going to whip my butt," she sniffled. "I don't think so. Can you keep a secret?" he asked seriously. "Yes?" she answered, confused. "I don't remember my parents very well. I don't know what they were really like, but I don't think they spoke Spanish." "You don't?" she was surprised. "Are you sure you can keep a secret?" "I can keep a secret," she insisted. "The secret is that I don't remember anything before the ... accident. I was only five at the time, but I've never been able to remember a thing. So the truth is I really don't know much at all." It wasn't that big a secret. He had told Eddie years ago. Scott was sure most of the adults knew, or at least knew a part of it. "Oh," she tried to process it. "Do ... do you remember the accident?" She was a curious one, "It's just the things before it that I can't remember. Why don't you wait a few minutes and then go downstairs. I don't think your mother is going to punish you." "You don't?" "I'm pretty sure," he replied. "Okay, and I guess you can call me Janie if you like." "Thanks," He walked back downstairs. Her parents were in the kitchen. Scott thought Mr. Mendoza had probably been cleaning the same dish the entire time he was upstairs. They looked at him. "She's okay, a little scared of her mother I think. I know because her mother has scared me a time or two." Mrs. Mendoza playfully hit him with her dish towel, "I'm sorry, Scotty. I've told those kids many times to never ask you about those things." Scott tried to figure out how to answer her. "I appreciate that. The memories and questions don't ever go away, but it's nice not to be constantly reminded of it. I understand her curiosity, so I hope you're not too hard on her." "You're growing up pretty fast," said Mr. Mendoza. "All of you kids are. Don't worry about Janice. I'll talk to her, and the dragon lady here will take it easy on her." "Oh you are in trouble now, Hector Mendoza," Mrs. Mendoza said with a joking pout. "Thank you for dinner," Scott said and went to head back to the ranch. Lilly met him outside, "Can I speak to you?" "Sure." "Thank you for what you said to that creep, and for looking out for Janice. You're making a habit out of being a hero. You know she has a crush on you." Scott sighed, he was making things worse. "I'll always look out for you guys. You're the closest thing to sisters I'm ever going to have." Lilly's head jerked in surprise, "Sisters?" "Are you okay with that?" Lilly was thinking it over and started nodding. "It could solve a lot of problems. I'll try to explain it to her. I think she's got it pretty bad." "Hey, you're pretty good at getting what you want," he said. "I am aren't I?" she acknowledged. "Can I hug my brother?" "Sure." 'Oomph' she gave him a tremendous hug, and then ran back inside the house. ------- Sunday was an easy day. Mr. Piotrowski didn't want to do any training. Instead they drove to the grocery store in town. Scott tried to get him to buy a little healthier food. Their next stop was at the farm store to pick up new supplies for Jobe. Scott was pushing the cart and went to grab a bag of rawhide chews when Mr. Piotrowski stopped him. "I read on the Internet..." Scott groaned. Mr. Piotrowski had taken to browsing the net with a passion. Some of the sites he looked at were a bit questionable. He apparently loved good conspiracy theories. He claimed that he didn't believe them. He just loved reading about them. Mr. Piotrowski would spend more time reading the comments on a newspaper article than he would the original article. They made him laugh, but he rarely left his own. Fortunately Scott had turned him onto a site or two where he could check the validity of the crazy chain mail claims he had started receiving. It turned out that a group of old veterans Mr. Piotrowski knew were also online and they traded the things back and forth. He was afraid to ask, "What did you read on the Internet?" "That rawhide bones might be bad for Jobe," Mr. Piotrowski explained. He didn't always appreciate Scott's skepticism about the things he learned on the Internet. "They burn the hair off those hides with lye, and other nasty chemicals. Plus, it's bad for his digestion." That doesn't sound so crazy, Scott decided. "What are you going to do about his chewing? He'll start eating the furniture without the rawhide." "I read about something that just might do the trick, and they've got some here." Mr. Piotrowski walked down the aisle and picked up a bag, he threw it to Scott. 'Bully Sticks' he read. The label said they were all natural and had no preservatives. "Looks okay to me." "Open it up and take one out," Mr. Piotrowski said mischievously. Playing along, Scott opened the bag and pulled out one of the long thin sticks. It had a funky odor and was obviously not a manufactured product. The tanned brown stick was about twelve inches in length. He turned it over and looked at one of the cut ends. The dried object had an anatomical structure that twigged something in his brain. He looked closer and then back at Mr. Piotrowski's grinning face. "It's not—" "It is." "Well, that's interesting," he stuck the stick back in the bag and discreetly tried to wipe his hands on his jeans. Mr. Piotrowski chuckled. "Come look at these," he indicated the display. There were several different varieties. Some were braided, while others were tied to look like a rawhide bone. "Makes you think doesn't it?" he said as he caught Scott unconsciously crossing his legs. Mr. Piotrowski explained a little too graphically, "It's a byproduct of the butchering process. Nothing goes to waste. The bull penis, or pizzle, is hung up and drained. Then it is stretched and dried. Cut it up, pop it into a bag and you've got a bully stick. It's genius really." Scott grimaced, "It's disturbing." "I bet Jobe loves them," Mr. Piotrowski replied. Jobe really did love them. He polished his first one off in a few hours. Monday October 23rd The temperature was hovering around the high 70s during the day, but in the evenings and early mornings it was in the low 50s or even the upper 40s. Scott started carrying a jacket with him. After his second period French class the teacher asked him to stay behind so she could speak with him. He thought she wanted to bug him about French Club again. "Scott, have you had French before?" "No, ma'am. They didn't offer it in middle school. Why? I study hard, it's why I get good grades if that's what you're asking." "Oh it's nothing like that. I know you're a good student. It's your accent." "My accent?" "You don't speak with an American accent. I do, and I've been studying the language since I was a little girl. My major in college was French Literature, which explains why I'm a secondary education teacher." She paused like he was supposed to laugh, but he didn't get the joke. "What I'm trying to say is that you don't have a discernible American accent when you speak. If anything, you sound like a copy of the audio tapes. In other words you sound French, but you're only a first year student." Wasn't that the point? How am I supposed to answer this? "Uh ... well it's sort of the same with my Spanish. I guess it's something I'm good at it ... mimicry or whatever." "How fluently do you speak Spanish?" she asked. "Completely," he answered. "And you're not of Hispanic descent?" "No, ma'am." "You might be a polyglot, someone who is gifted with the ability to learn and speak languages." "If you say so." She rubbed her forehead, "It's a good thing." "Yes, ma'am. Thank you. Can I go now? I need to get to English before I'm late." She sighed, "Go on." Before he knew it, it was Wednesday and which meant it was time to be tortured in speech class. The class hadn't been nearly as bad as he thought it might be, but he couldn't forget he should have been in Algebra II. Still, he tried his best in class. He didn't want to hurt his grade point average. The teacher was particularly enthusiastic about the exercise he had scheduled. The students would take turns reading from a book of famous speeches while their classmates stood in a circle around them attempting to 'break' them. The idea was to get the speaker to laugh or react. You failed the exercise if you lost your place in the speech. Scott had to admit it was a fun exercise. For his speech he tuned everybody out and started reading. The teacher had to tap him on the shoulder to get him to stop. "Very good Mr. MacIntyre, we'll make a public speaker out of you yet." After school Scott had his Wednesday shift at Mendoza's. The news there was that Mr. Mendoza was going to implement a random drug testing policy at the start of the New Year. Eddie explained it was so those who indulged would have time to make a choice. They could clean up for the urine test, or they could look for a new job. Eddie asked him what he thought about it. "I don't know. On one hand I'm all for personal freedom. What you do on your own time is your own business as long as it involves consenting adults and nobody gets hurt. I think that's what I believe anyway. On the other hand, there's a lot of dangerous equipment here at the shop. It's easy to get hurt, or to hurt somebody else. Your dad has every right to demand his employees be straight when they work here. It's got to be hard to be a good worker if you're all messed up. What do you think about it?" "Oh I agree with Dad. I don't think about things the way you do. I'll have to think about the personal freedom angle," Eddie replied. Scott finished his shift and declined the offer of a lift to the Mendoza house. He wanted to put in some time on the computer at Meritt's. Early in the evening he could be sure nobody would be peeking over his shoulder. He paid his five dollars and sat down. He researched languages and possible careers related to linguistics. There were some interesting possibilities, but none that really reached out and grabbed him. He spent the remainder of his time watching fight videos. Not videos of people fighting, well he watched a couple, but videos teaching various fight techniques. The combination of the work he had been doing with Mr. Piotrowski, his reading, and the video examples really helped him sort through what he thought might be useful, and what he didn't need to waste time on. He was surprised how late it was when he looked at the clock, and he'd gone over his time limit. He logged off and shut down the computer. Scott tried to pay the waitress another five dollars, but she told him that if he didn't tell anybody then she wouldn't either. Scott pulled on his lightweight motorcycle jacket and unlocked his bicycle. There was a lot of new information to think about. The ride was good, but it was getting darker. On the mountain bike he averaged about eighteen miles per hour on the straight road. It was a good speed, and he was about three minutes away from the gate to the ranch when he distinctly heard, "DANGER!" He didn't have time to think about it. Something that felt like a baseball bat slammed into his back. He lost control of the bike and went off the asphalt. His front tire hit the opposite side of a shallow ditch beside the road, and that launched him over the handlebars. He hit a wooden fence post, and his momentum flipped his body up over the post and onto the dirt on the other side. He landed face first and couldn't move. His mouth and nose were full of dirt and he could hear a loud buzzing sound in his ears. He tried to cough, but gagged. He expelled a mouthful of blood. It was all horribly familiar. His entire body hurt, and he closed his eyes. ------- He couldn't move. No matter which direction he looked all he could see was bright white light. A soothing voice burbled in the background. He was floating in mid-air, and the voice called to him as the light faded, "You are going to live little human." Was he dreaming again, or what it a memory? ------- Scott coughed and blinked. He thought he saw a ball of blood roll away from him. He wondered if he was seeing things. There was a rich copper taste in his mouth, and his body was in extreme pain. He blinked again, and his enhanced vision transformed the darkness into pseudo-daylight revealing the muted colors of the terrain around him. He could hear footsteps running toward him in the distance. He rolled to his side and looked down at his chest. A fist sized hole was rapidly closing. The feeling in his lower extremities was returning as the damage to his spine was repaired. Rapid healing he could comprehend, he had seen it before with minor things like cuts or scrapes. The fragments of bone shifting back into place did not make sense, what mechanism could possibly cause that? He couldn't deny it since he could feel the pieces of his spine, and sternum shifting. There was pain, but he set it aside. Somebody had shot him. He played the last few seconds over in his mind. The impact had come from behind. That meant that he'd biked past the shooter unaware of his presence. There were two sets of footsteps; a shooter and a spotter? Camouflaged? They meant to kill him. He had to move. They were either coming to finish the job, or verify that they had succeeded. He shed the backpack and jacket, and moved. Two men came crashing through the brush, and turned on a flashlight. They were wearing hunting coveralls and ponchos. Scott looked at the rifle. It had a crude, homemade silencer attached to the barrel. There was a large, bulky device attached to the rifle; a second generation Russian night vision scope. He didn't question how he recognized it. "Go back and pick up the bike, I'll grab the little shit's body," the larger figure ordered. Scott watched the two men separate. The big man raised his rifle and prepared to fire. He stopped, and then kicked Scott's jacket. Scott had thrown it over his backpack before he'd moved to a new position. "Shit, the kid's gone!" The other man ran over, "What do you mean he's gone? You killed the little bastard. There's blood everywhere." The large man put the rifle scope to his eye and started scanning. It wouldn't help him. The field of vision was too narrow. Scott crept up undetected behind the smaller man. Like a viper he struck. He took the man by the neck and choked him out without making a sound. He lowered the unconscious man to the ground, and quickly checked to see if he was still breathing. He wasn't sure if he'd killed him or not. The larger man was ahead of him. Scott moved silently. The same move wouldn't work on the taller man. He kicked the back of the big man's knee and simultaneously pulled him backwards to the ground. It was violent and blindingly fast. He rolled him into a choke hold. The big man was pawing at Scott's arms, but could do nothing against the steel strength holding him. Scott rendered him unconscious, resisting the temptation to snap his neck. He'd dealt with two of the three drunken assholes from the bar. Where was the third? He took a quick glance around, but could see or hear nothing else. He checked the first man, still unconscious. He checked the big man. Unconscious, but he had something useful; a handful of zip ties in a side pocket. Scott bound the man's wrists behind him, and then bound the elbows together for insurance. You could break a zip tie if you knew how, but with the elbows bound you couldn't get the leverage the move required. He repeated the process on the other man. What to do now? He stood there and thought. There were two extra zip ties. He bound their ankles. They had a vehicle out there somewhere. The insects were loud. He focused. He heard the ticking of a cooling engine. He approached the area carefully. There was no one inside the cheap little sport utility vehicle. He started the engine, and drove quickly to where he'd gone off of the road. He had no need for lights. Driving was a bit tricky since he hadn't had much practice at it. Power steering was handy, but the power brakes were very touchy. The only other four wheeled vehicle he had driven was Mr. Piotrowski's panel truck. He pushed the fencepost he had hit all the way to the ground, and walked to where the men were still unconscious. The little man showed signs of coming around. He tore the sleeves off a shirt he found in the SUV and used them to fashion a gag for each man. The time for subtlety was over. He put the small man over his shoulder, and threw him into the back of the vehicle. He did the same with the larger man. Scott retrieved his bicycle, straightened the handlebars and put it in the back seat. He scanned the area looking for any clues about what had happened here. He'd almost forgotten the rifle. He picked it up and stashed it in the back seat. He retrieved his backpack and jacket. The area where he had bled out had changed. He scooped up a handful of the sand. His blood was turning to powder. He looked at his chest. The edges of the exit wound had completely healed except for a red mark. He brushed the front of his shirt and more blood powdered and drifted away in the breeze. He took a large piece of brush and wiped away the men's tracks along with his own. He set the fence post up and then pounded it into the post hole. It would do. He made a quick search of the vehicle. The back seat had a bag. Inside were a couple of ski masks and some burglary tools, in addition to a knife and a cheap revolver. There was a six pack of beer in the foot well. He checked the front and found a paper bag under the driver's side seat. Inside was a zip lock bag packed with the stems and caps of dried mushrooms. They were hallucinogenic, psilocybin mushrooms. There was a bundle of cash, and two smaller, tightly double bound baggies. One baggie contained finely powdered cocaine, and the other had chunks of compressed cocaine. There was an unmarked pill bottle. He opened it, Xanax, every tweaker's come down of choice. Scott had read a lot about drug culture over the years, it was a subject he wanted to understand for the most personal of reasons. Rolling around on the dash was a small plastic 'bullet' with a crank on the side. It was loaded with a small amount of cocaine. These morons had been driving around taking short snorts of coke to liven up their evening. He sat back and tried to think about his choices. Law enforcement was not an option. There was no possible way to explain away the conflicting facts and evidence. He closed his eyes and listened to the small man struggle. The big man was still out cold. Scott reached up and popped the cover off the overhead light. He removed the bulb and tossed it out the door. He walked to the back of the vehicle, stopping along the way to grab a few things. The smaller man panicked when he touched him. Scott could see his eyes rolling back and forth searching for his assailant in the dark. He was still confused and not completely conscious. Scott slipped the gag down, hooked the man's cheek and shoved two mushroom stems into his mouth. Scott clamped his hand over the man's jaw and held it closed for a minute. He did not allow the man to chew or swallow. He tightened the gag and pulled one of the ski caps down over the man's eyes, turned so that he could not see out of the crudely cut eye holes. He repeated the process for the big man, but he still showed no signs of regaining consciousness. Scott started the vehicle. He turned it around and drove past the ranch, and into the night. There was no traffic so he kept the vehicle's lights off. He didn't know where he was going. The smaller man was in distress, the effects of the mushrooms were kicking in. He must have driven for twenty minutes before he finally slowed down. He hadn't been out this direction very many times. This land had belonged to a family that had gone bankrupt. The estate had been mired in litigation for years as different creditors laid claim to it. Nobody lived anywhere near here. He pulled off of the blacktop and started to drive down a path charitably called a dirt road. After a half hour on the crude road he found what he was looking for. It was a small cliff face with a boulder fall. He parked the SUV and started to set the scene. The area in front of the cliff would make an ideal camp site. He set out the six pack of beer. He took a couple of the cans and popped their tops. He poured one out onto the rocky soil, and set the rest on a rock. He dug out a small fire pit and stacked some small dry limbs together. He opened all the doors on the vehicle. The smaller man was rocking from side to side, but making no noise. The big man's body was twitching. He ignored them and did a more thorough search of the vehicle. There was a box of condoms in the glove box. He tore a couple off from the strip and scattered them over the front seat. He opened another one and tossed the wrapper onto the console. The condom he stuck in his pocket. Scott walked to the back of the truck and looked at the bound men. He took the smaller one firmly by the head and placed his thumb and middle finger around his throat. He cut off the blood flow to the man's brain and rendered him unconscious again. He hoisted him over his shoulder and took him to the rock face. He did the same with the larger man. Scott walked to the boulder fall and shifted some of the smaller rocks around. There was a hard stone shelf at the base of the cliff that transitioned to sand and dirt. He climbed up a short way and shifted a boulder that was the size of a reclining chair. He'd never moved anything nearly as massive before. It may have weighed half a ton. He moved a few smaller rocks out of the way. Then he shoved two of the larger boulders, and jumped back as they tumbled down into place. He searched both men removing their wallets and keys. He found a cell phone, smashed it and threw it into the rock fall. He cut the ties from the men and removed their gags and ski caps. He dragged them by the ankles to the rock fall. The big man he turned over on his belly. The smaller man he left face up. Scott lifted the edge of one of the bigger boulders listening to the grinding and crunching of the massive rocks, he didn't think about the impossible weight. Bracing the boulder against his shoulder, he slid the smaller man's leg underneath it, and let go. The man's leg was crushed between the boulder and the rock shelf. The big man's leg he cruelly trapped between the two boulders. His leg was suspended about two feet in the air, but his chest touched the ground. He went up onto the rock face and kicked a few smaller rocks down. He kicked some gravel loose and it started a small avalanche. One big rock hit the big man right between the shoulder blades and bounced off. Dust spread nicely over the scene. He climbed up and around the rock fall, leaving no trace. Scott returned to the truck and took two objects from the paper bag before he walked back to the men. He removed all but one round from the revolver. In the soil between the men he shoved the gun, barrel first, into the sand, and then he stuck the knife right next to it. The two weapons were within reach of either man. It was impossible to dig themselves out. He examined the camp site. He took the bag of mushrooms and weighed it down with the six-pack, minus its two open beers. One of the eight balls of cocaine he placed into an empty spot of the six-pack. The other he spilled onto the consol of the SUV. He cut out a couple of lines on the arm rest and left a tightly rolled twenty dollar bill in the seat. Walking back to the SUV's cargo area he took a jerry can and a length of plastic tubing he had spotted. He siphoned the remaining gasoline out of the gas tank onto the dry soil. When he could get no more out of the tank he shoved the jerry can over on its side. He went to the driver's side and turned the key in the ignition back to the lights and utility position. He turned the radio on and found a classic country station. He opened the wallets. He should at least learn the names of the two men who had tried to kill him. Vincente Guzman was the large man, and Anthony Martin the smaller man. Guzman? Did that explain how these men had learned his identity and location? It was a stretch, but considering the drugs ... there had to be a connection to Nazario Guzman. He tossed the wallets to the floorboards, with the cash still inside. Fingerprints, he thought. His were all over the vehicle, and the things he had touched. A new thought fired through his brain. He didn't have to worry about fingerprints. Why? He pressed his thumb against the glass of the driver's side door. He leaned in and exhaled softly. The condensation revealed ... nothing. How was that possible? Scott went and sat amongst the rocks, and waited. What did this make him? What was he? He had a lot of thinking to do. The truck sat there with the doors open and the radio playing. The camp site waited for a party to show up. The would-be murders were trapped under the boulder fall at the rock face. Scott looked at his watch. It was two in the morning. Freddy Fender sang the 'Before the Next Tear Drop Falls' on the radio, and it echoed eerily over the shallow canyon. Both men were awake now and struggling. The smaller man was whimpering. Scott wondered what decision they would make, and who would make it first? Scott put his jacket on and pulled on the backpack. There was a hole that ran clean through the backpack and both sides of the jacket. Charley Pride sang 'The Easy Part's Over Now' as Scott hoisted the bike over his shoulder and ran along the rocks beside the main trail. He eventually reached the road, and began pedaling back to the ranch. His thoughts warred with each other. He was justified. No, he was a monster. They deserved it, but he should have been merciful. The police could have handled it. He should face the consequences. What kind of person was he? What was he? What right did he have? He rode in silence. He stopped at a random spot and buried the improvised gags. In another spot he buried the zip tie pieces, and in yet another, the unused condom. The ski caps he'd left in the truck. Sometime after 3:00 a.m. he arrived back at the ranch. He made his way to the bunkhouse. It looked incredibly small to him. He stood in front of the mirror, and looked at the eyes that stared back at him. They didn't look guilty. What did a monster look like? He took off his clothes. The damaged shirt and jacket would have to be thrown away. Could he patch the backpack? Scott fingered the entry hole in the back of the shirt. He rubbed his finger back and forth over the edge, his mind was stuck back at the rock face camp site. His finger was warm. He looked down. The hole in the t-shirt was gone. He turned the shirt over and looked at the large exit hole the rifle round had made. The bullet had hit his spine and started to tumble. It tore a large swath through his heart muscle, and exited through the sternum. It was a classic kill shot. He brushed his fingers across the hole and watched as the edges blurred. The hole shrunk. Scott brought the cloth closer to his face. He tried to make out what was happening. The tips of his fingers and the cloth of the shirt blurred together. He stopped trying to understand it. He 'fixed' the motorcycle jacket and the backpack. What was left to do? The lockbox, he retrieved it. He unlocked it and put the bundle of drug money inside. There was no reason to count it now. He returned the box to its hiding spot. Finally, he took a cold shower and went to bed. He stared at the ceiling until it was time to do his chores. He was still only a fourteen year old boy, wasn't he? ------- Chapter 10 Broken Creek Boys Ranch, October 27, 2006 It was time to get up and do his chores. Scott got up reluctantly, and splashed cold water on his face. He didn't look in the mirror. The t-shirt was where he had left it. He picked it up and examined it. The bullet holes were still closed over. He balled the t-shirt up and threw it toward the trashcan. Scott didn't want to wear it again. He went to the equipment shed and found a screwdriver. The brake handles on his mountain bike needed to be adjusted because of the crash. There were some new scratches on the frame, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. He left the ranch and rode slowly past last night's ambush site. There was nothing to see. Unless you had been here you would never know what had happened. Nobody had come to investigate. The two men had planned ahead. A light was on in the Mendoza house when he rode by. Scott pedaled for a few more minutes before he braked to a hard stop. He jumped off the bicycle and ran to the side of the road where he was violently sick. He knelt in the gravel until there was nothing left in his stomach. His eyes watered and his nose was running. Stomach muscles cramped from the dry heaves. Removing a bottle of water from his backpack he rinsed and spat to clear the taste from his mouth. He dug through his backpack. A spiral notebook from biology had been pierced by the bullet. He flipped through it in disgust. Jobe was sitting by the kitchen door when Scott rode up. His tail was wagging back and forth. At least the dog still liked him. Scott crouched down and gave Jobe a big hug and rubbed his ears. The dog licked his face, but Scott didn't mind. They went into the kitchen. He didn't feel like cooking, so he set out a couple of bowls of cereal. "No hot food this morning?" asked Mr. Piotrowski when he came downstairs. "No, sir, if that's okay?" "Pass the milk." They ate in silence while Jobe inspected his mat. He finally got comfortable and curled up. The kitchen was quiet except for the noise of their spoons. "Something on your mind this morning?" "Need to do a little thinking is all," Scott replied. "Anything that I can help with?" Mr. Piotrowski was concerned. "I need to work through a few things." 'Hmmm.' Mr. Piotrowski stood and put his bowl in the sink. "You know when I was about your age I used to do a lot of camping. There's a lot to be said for camping out under the stars. You ever been?" Scott looked up, "Once," he replied. "The first year I was at the ranch. It rained and it was pretty miserable. Mostly because Mr. Rewcastle didn't know what he was doing." "You could hike out to an old creek bed that runs behind this place. I always thought the ridge above it would be a good camping spot," Mr. Piotrowski offered. "By myself?" "Sure, it's the best thing if you have a lot of thinking to do." "When could I do it?" "Why not do it this Saturday after your shift at Mendoza's? You could leave from here and hike back sometime Sunday morning. I've been thinking about the catfish I had up in Imperial. Thought we might drive up there for Sunday lunch. How's that sound to you?" "Do I need to get permission from the land owner?" "That property behind me belongs to a holding company out of Nebraska. They won't mind. They've sent me a couple of letters recently asking if I wanted to buy them out." "Nebraska?" "It's changed hands a bunch of times. People buy things like that for investments. It was probably bundled in with some other properties. I doubt the last couple of owners have ever stepped foot in Pecos County." "I'll have to look for the tent at the ranch. I don't know if we even have it anymore." "Tell you what. While you're school today I'll dig up a few things. Are you up for it?" "Yes, I think I'd like to give it a try." "Excellent." Scott threw everything that had been damaged by the bullet into a dumpster at the school. He didn't need the notebooks, and he didn't want to mess around with 'fixing' anything. He went through his classes on autopilot. At lunch he ate his salad oblivious to those around him. "What's wrong with him?" Molly asked Eddie. "He's okay. This is one of his quiet moods. He does that sometimes. Watch this," Eddie punched Scott on the arm. "What?" "Scott, what are you doing?" "Thinking," he went back to his salad. "See, what did I tell you?" Eddie asked. "That's weird," said Molly. Scott ignored them. After biology class Scott borrowed a couple of Petri dishes and placed them in his backpack. "Bring them back when you're finished with them," his teacher insisted. She didn't care what he wanted them for. Coach Zell wanted the cross country team in the weight room. They did circuit training. Scott normally enjoyed the weight room because he got to use equipment he didn't have at Mr. Piotrowski's. With only five people on the team you didn't have to wait long to move on to another exercise. Coach Zell announced that they were going to finish the day by running the bleachers. It was tough way to close out the training session and everybody groaned. Scott threw himself into the task and ran the bleacher stairs with a vengeance. He was covered in sweat, but his body felt good. Maybe that's what he needed to do, work himself to exhaustion. Scott stood under the shower and his thoughts turned inward again. Less than twenty-four hours earlier he had been dying, face down in the dirt. He'd just finished lifting weights and running the bleachers of the football stadium like he was in the best shape of his life. I really am a freak. He left the gym and rode the bus back to Meritt's Corner in blissful silence. Mr. Piotrowski was outside and had the tail gate down on the truck when Scott biked up. He called him over. "I got a heck of a deal on this stuff." "I thought you were going to look around for some old camping gear?" "And I did, I found a good bargain." "I mean here at the house." "Never mind about that," Mr. Piotrowski said. He was excited to show Scott all the camping supplies he'd purchased. He showed him how the mess kit fit together. Scott examined the rigid frame backpack, and the two man pup tent with interest. They laid all the items out and went over them. Mr. Piotrowski explained that he needed to know how use it all, and be able to repack everything. That way he could concentrate on camping, and not be worried about his equipment. It made sense. "Let's try it out here in the back. Set it all up like you would at your camp site." Scott assembled the tent with Mr. Piotrowski standing back and giving advice. The tent had fiberglass poles and went up pretty easily. "You need to stake it down. You don't want to be chasing your tent when the wind kicks up." Scott was trying to pound the stakes in with his boots when Mr. Piotrowski handed him a small hatchet. "Use the head of this to drive those stakes in. With that synthetic handle it weighs less than two pounds. We'll have to weigh all this equipment to see what kind of load you'll have." Jobe tested out the tent while Scott built a pit and tried to start a fire with a magnesium fire starter. "That's for emergencies. Use one of these 'strike anywhere' matches instead. Or maybe I should get you a lighter?" Mr. Piotrowski was rubbing his chin. He had the 'I need to go shopping' look on his face. After trying everything out and listening to some of Mr. Piotrowski's stories, they tore the campsite down. They repacked it all, and weighed it on the bathroom scale. The tent, mess kit, hatchet, medical kit, and sleeping bag came in at eleven pounds. The rest of the weight would be food and water. Since he was just going for one night and not that far, he didn't need much. Mr. Piotrowski helped him pack the camping pack and had him try it on. "Even if you're only going to be hiking for a few miles you want to be comfortable. Jump up and down a few times. There you go. That will help settle everything in. How does it feel?" "It's good. I like it." "Let's go sit in the kitchen. I've got an old survey map that shows this area. I'll point out where I think you ought to camp out." Mr. Piotrowski spread the map out and explained the legend and scale to him, and where he thought there might be a good camping site. "These contour lines show changes in elevation. See how the lines get tight right here? That's a steep change. It means you'd be climbing instead of walking. Look at this map and try to picture the route you'll be taking. Here's a flat area, and here's a high point. Can you see how this would form a hill? If you can make a picture in your mind with this information it will be a lot easier for you." If you only knew, he thought. Scott slowly ran his finger from the location of the house and traced a route to the camping site. "That's not bad. Find another one now. You always want to have a couple of options." They sat and examined the map for a while. Scott had an idea, "I'll be right back." He ran upstairs, retrieved the laptop, and brought it down to the kitchen. He pulled up a map of the area and flipped over to the satellite view. Mr. Piotrowski watched over his shoulder. "That's incredible. Look at the house, and there's the old sedan." Scott compared the survey map with the satellite pictures, and easily found the area Mr. Piotrowski had talked about. "I've got a very nice manual on land navigation that I want you to study. You feel up to a game?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. Scott spent the next hour learning how to use a compass and shoot bearings. Mr. Piotrowski had a big poncho he threw over Scott's head. He'd spin him around, and tell him to find a cardinal point on the compass. Jobe thought it was all great fun. He tripped the first time a map and grid system popped up in his field of vision. It was like a better version of the truck's navigation system, and it didn't interfere with what he was seeing. He wasn't doing it consciously, or at least he didn't think he was. He closed his eyes and in the blackness of his mind's eye he brought the map grid up again. Turning slowly in a circle he watched the compass heading change. He stopped and opened his eyes. He checked his head against the compass in his hand. The two matched. He dismissed the map overlay from his mind. "Think you've got the hang of it?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "I think I've got a good start anyway." "Outstanding. I'll give you those manuals. I think you should get a good night's sleep." Scott went back to the ranch. He found the foreman, and told him that he would be away Sunday morning. He volunteered to do extra chores to make up for it. "You know you really don't need to do these chores. I've got extra hands now. The Rewcastles assign those chores to keep the kids busy. I'd say you stay busy enough as it is." "I don't know what to say," Scott replied. He was a bit shocked. Not do chores? The foreman went on, "Luisa told me about old lady Rewcastle's scheming, and what you said. I'd take it as a personal favor if you let me handle the chores from now on. I've got a new guy on my crew, and extra work isn't going to harm him any. I'll still write chores down on your board like always. You can ignore them. If I ever need your help for something I'll come find you." Scott stuck out his hand. The foreman shook his hand and gave him a thump on the shoulder, "You're a good guy." Scott went to his room. He had so many things to think about, he felt overwhelmed. The camping trip was exactly the kind of thing he needed. He owed Mr. Piotrowski more than he could ever imagine. How did he always know the right thing to do? Scott envied him. The next morning he was halfway to the barn before he remembered that he didn't have any chores to do. What was he going to do with all the extra time? Back in his room he put his desk chair against the door handle. He rarely ever had visitors, but now would be a bad time. He took the two Petri dishes from his backpack, and got the fancy watch from the lockbox. He set out a paper towel, and removed the lid from one dish. He tested the blade of the pocket knife he'd recently sharpened, and cut into the heel of his hand. The bottom of the dish filled with blood. He started the timer on the watch and put the cover back on the dish. He used the paper towel to wipe the blood from his hand as he watched the cut close. After two minutes the blood began to solidify and break down into powder. Over the next few minutes the powder broke down even further until only watery condensation remained. He stopped the watch. It has taken a little over five minutes. Scott reached to take the lid off of the dish, but pulled his hand back in surprise. The glass dish was very warm, almost hot. This was going to be a huge problem at his next physical. There'd never been any indication of this happening before. What the hell am I going to do? He looked at the paper towel. It was still soaked in blood. Interesting. This time he repeated the experiment with both dishes. With one dish he concentrated and thought, blood sample, but the other dish he left alone. After five minutes he had one dish of sticky blood while the other was filled with hot vapor. He stored the Petri dishes in his closet. The boys were starting to move around in the other bunkhouses and he went to join them for breakfast. He rode past Mr. Piotrowski's place on his way to the engine center at Meritt's Corner. He waved to Jobe when he saw him sitting in the driveway. Scott kept his head down and worked straight through lunch. His coworkers were respectful of his mood. A little after 3:30 p.m. he arrived back at Mr. Piotrowski's. Scott checked his pack. He added four bottles of water, and a couple of packets of freeze dried food. Mr. Piotrowski tossed him a miniature bottle of Tabasco sauce. "Freeze dried eggs can be pretty bland. A dash or two of that Tabasco will cure most anything." He handed him a baggie of dog food and a collapsible water dish, "I think Jobe would like to go along." Scott shook his head and added a couple more bottles of water to his pack. He lifted it experimentally. "Not too heavy?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "No, it's fine." "I want you to promise me that you'll make camp before the sun starts to go down. Even if you haven't made it to the ridge, make camp anyway. I don't want you stumbling around in the dark." "I promise." "Find yourself a good walking stick. It will make the trip a little easier. Now, I got you a little present." "Mr. Piotrowski!" Scott protested. "Who else am I going to spoil?" he asked. Mr. Piotrowski handed him a small box. It was a Leatherman Skeletool. Scott took it out of the box and balanced it on his hand. It only weighed about five ounces. He admired the blade, and then folded the handle out into a pair of pliers. The multitool could come in very handy. "Notice that carabiner clip. You can attach it to your pack, or hang it from a belt loop." Scott folded the tool back into its compact shape and clipped it to a belt loop, "Thank you, it's great." "Okay, final check," announced Mr. Piotrowski. "Map?" Scott patted his pocket and pulled it up a little ways to show him. "Compass?" Scott tugged on the cord around his neck. "Water?" "Six bottles," he replied and held one up. "Food?" He showed him one of the freeze dried packages. "Take a little bit of beef jerky with you from the pantry. You might want to gnaw on something as you walk. Makes a good snack," Mr. Piotrowski suggested. "Almost forgot, you need a shovel." He handed him a small, collapsible shovel. "You're either going to have to dig a toilet, or pack it out. Personally, I'd go with the hole." Scott tried not to laugh, "Good idea." "You're wasting daylight. Let's get you out of here." Mr. Piotrowski helped him put on the backpack. Scott secured the waist strap, and tugged on his shoulder straps. It felt good. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. No later than ten o'clock." He was off with Jobe at his side. At the boundary of Mr. Piotrowski's property he stopped and flipped the lid up on his compass. He didn't think he could get lost, but what if the map in his head stopped working, or was wrong? The one thing he couldn't miss was the road. It was as straight as an arrow. No matter where he was, he could reverse course and eventually hit the road. The quiet of the hike relaxed him. It took a while, but eventually he found a good walking stick. Mr. Piotrowski was right again, it did make a big difference. Jobe was having a lot of fun. He'd curl off to investigate something, and then come bounding back to walk along with Scott for a while. A few more minutes and he'd be off again. The sun was just beginning to fade when Scott found a campsite he liked. He was on the ridge overlooking the ancient creek bed. This must have been a nice area back when it had water, he thought. He had the tent assembled, and the flaps pulled back. He put out some food and water for Jobe, who happily crunched away. He surrounded the fire pit with rocks, and disassembled his mess kit. The beef stew mix sounded good. It wasn't bad. Next time he promised that he'd bring a plastic spork instead of the aluminum one. He didn't care for the taste it left in his mouth. He leaned back against a comfortable rock and relaxed. The cool water bottle felt good when he held it to the side of his head. He took a deep drink. Jobe flopped down inside the tent with his head sticking out the flap. He let his mind drift back to the events of the previous night. Men had tried to kill him twice in nine years, almost exactly nine years apart. Was his strange healing ability the only reason he had survived the first time? Was he just some random freak of nature? A genetic ability should have meant that his parents had it too. If he did survive because he could heal ... why couldn't he remember? Shouldn't his brain have healed too? What about the strange dreams he had? He didn't come up with any answers. His actions in the early morning hours of Friday morning hadn't been exactly rational. Craig Carson had murdered Scott's family, and thought he had gotten away with it. When Carson learned Scott had survived, he killed other people attempting to locate him and finish the job. Had they ever captured Carson? Was he another killer out there waiting to take his shot? What about the two men at the rock face? He'd left living enemies behind him, but then again they thought they'd killed him. Who did they blame for their current situation? The two men could still free themselves if they were willing to sacrifice a limb. They were miles from civilization, and injured. There was a slim chance. If not, would they leave a final note? What did they think had happened to them? Was he evil for making them suffer? If he had just killed them outright was it any different? He couldn't reconcile the conflict in his head. He got angry, to hell with them - they got what they deserved! The fire had burned out. Scott looked up and gasped. The sky was amazing. He stretched out and put his hands behind his head and took in the stars. Jobe left the tent to lie next to him with his head on Scott's chest. The stars stretched from horizon to horizon. The Milky Way was center place in the night sky, displayed in all her glory. There was no light pollution out here in the county. He couldn't believe that city folks couldn't walk outside and see this. What had they traded for missing out on this view? Was it worth it? He watched the slow trail of a satellite moving in orbit. A grid popped up in his vision detailing orbits and other obscure bits of information on the visible stellar phenomena. Go away! I want to look. I don't need to understand it. The overlaid image faded away. Jobe sighed. Scott scratched his ears. They looked at the stars together. After a couple of hours he got up and climbed into his sleeping bag. He zipped the tent flap shut and told Jobe to get comfortable. He hadn't solved any great moral dilemmas. He could live with what he had done and who he was, whatever he was. At his normal wake up time he sat up, looked around, and then rolled back over. Eventually he got up when it was too bright to sleep any longer. His watch said it was after seven, he'd never slept so late before. Jobe was eager to get out of the tent and do his morning rounds. The October morning air was crisp. The condensation from their breath hung in the air. It had been cozy in the sleeping bag. Scott got the fire going again and read the directions for the scrambled 'eggs' in the packet. The picture looked good, but reality was a little different. The reconstituted eggs had a different texture than he was used to. He liberally applied the Tabasco sauce. Jobe crunched away at his breakfast. A golden eagle was scouting over the area. It was hunting for an early morning meal. Scott watched it for a while and wished it a good breakfast. The tent came down quickly and he repacked it. The mess kit cleaned up with a little water. He used the shovel to pack sand over the old fire pit. They left no trash behind. Jobe and Scott walked down to the old creek bed. There were a few agates here. Maybe he'd collect some on his next trip. The area around Alpine to their south was supposed to be the big place for rock hounds. Scott brushed some gravel aside, and an object caught his eye. He'd found an arrow head. Delighted, he picked it up. He dug out a water bottle and rinsed off the flint. It was a beautiful pinkish brown color. The base curved in and tapered away from the widest point of the shoulders. He showed it to Jobe who was disappointed that it wasn't something to eat. This object could be ancient. Maybe three thousand years ago, or even more, a boy like him might have knapped this point out. He held it up to the sun. The thin edges of the flint glowed with light. He tucked it into his pocket. "Come on Jobe, let's go home." When they got within site of the house, Jobe took off like a shot. Scott called after him, "I'm not running." Jobe stopped and looked back at him. He took off running again. Scott picked his pace up. Mr. Piotrowski came out of the house with Jobe at his heels. "I think he missed his nice warm bed," Scott shouted as he passed the storage building. "Good night?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "It was great! But I'm not so sure about freeze dried eggs." "They are an acquired taste. If you took a small cooler you could have fresh eggs and meat." "Maybe next time. Look what I found," Scott excitedly showed Mr. Piotrowski the arrow head. "Well how about that. Nice find. It wasn't part of a large site or anything was it?" he asked, concerned. Scott thought about it, 'I don't think so. It was down in the old creek bed." "That's good. If you ever find any sort of burial site, or anything like it, you should let the right people know. They'll send somebody from the state to examine the site. Theft of artifacts is serious business." "I won't get in trouble for this, will I?" "Not for one arrow head. It's a good find like I said. Keep it. Now, unpack your gear. You need to air out your sleeping bag, and wash your mess kit." "I washed it out this morning." "You need to really clean it with soap and hot water." "Yes, sir. Where should I store this stuff when I'm done?" "Why don't you put it in the closet of the bedroom by the stairs?" Good. That meant that Mr. Piotrowski had finally moved back into the master bedroom. It was about time. The bed in there would be more comfortable for him. They had lunch in Imperial. Scott ordered the catfish along with Mr. Piotrowski. He wasn't sure how he felt about collard greens. He liked spicy food, but the greens had a lot of garlic in them and the ham bits were salty. It was an interesting combination. Scott checked the Petri dish when he got back to the ranch. The blood had dried out, but it was still blood. He thought about the dish for a while. He looked at it and said, "Stop being blood." He walked out of his room and took a shower. When he returned, all that remained in the dish was condensation. He wiped the dishes out with a paper towel and put them back in his school backpack. The week passed without incident. Scott slowly regained his equilibrium, but still felt a little lost not having any chores to do. He checked the local newspaper's web site daily. There was no mention of anything odd happening out in the county. On Tuesday, November 6, 2006, Sheriff Walter King was reelected. There was never any doubt. There had been little change in the county political standings. Scott and Mr. Piotrowski were invited to a big celebratory party for the sheriff held at Judge Upcott's house. The libations were flowing freely. He got several pats on the head from very happy party goers. Bea Upcott crushed him in a hug that buried his face in her impressive cleavage. Scott was bright red when she was finished with him. The judge laughed. The party people were in high spirits. Scott and Mr. Piotrowski congratulated the sheriff. The sheriff was a little more circumspect. He put an arm around Scott's shoulder. "It's young men like this that are the future of Pecos County," he announced. "Hear, hear!" echoed the judge. If they only knew. They didn't stay for the entire party, just long enough to be polite and to congratulate the guest of honor. On the drive back to the house Mr. Piotrowski asked him what he thought about his first exposure to county politics. "I don't know about the political part, but the party seemed fun. I don't know any of the politicians. Everybody was in a good mood. The sheriff is a good man, and will do a good job for the county." "Scott, the judge and the sheriff are both elected. Trust me, they're politicians. They're good men, and that makes all the difference in the world. Men like Sheriff King and Judge Upcott serve because they think it's their duty to their fellow citizens. Be careful of the other kind." It was a short school week since they had Friday off for Veterans Day observances. Fort Stockton had a yearly parade. Mr. Piotrowski was going to ride on a float with a handful of other Korean War veterans. He asked if Scott wanted to help out with the parade. "Sure, what do I have to do?" Friday morning in downtown Fort Stockton was a fun place to be as the parade participants assembled. Scott and another boy were going to carry a long banner that read "Korean War Veterans" in front of the float with Mr. Piotrowski and a handful of other veterans. It was a small town float. That meant a flatbed trailer pulled by a small tractor. The flatbed was lined with bales of hay festooned with American flags. The float was augmented with a few girls who had been county fair beauty pageant contestants. It was an odd mix. The elderly veterans had chairs to sit in. They waved vigorously to the crowd that lined the downtown parade route. Scott saw a lot of people he knew from school. It was odd being in town like that, out of school but still knowing many people. He'd met more people this year than he had in the previous eight years of living in Pecos County. What would it be like to live in a big city like Dallas or Houston where you wouldn't know anybody? After the parade there was a big party at the VFW, and it was open to the public. There was a band playing on a stage, and in the parking lot a small fair was in full swing. There were booths selling all sorts of knick knacks, or you could play carnival games. They even had a few rides. Out in back of the building the VFW had a target range set up. For a dollar you could take ten shots with a .22 rifle at ten holes cut into a big piece of plywood. They'd put new paper over the holes for each shooter, and you had twenty seconds to shoot. Best shooter of the day won a prize. Scott got all ten in about fifteen seconds, and he didn't even cheat. Mr. Piotrowski found him and they had a dinner of fair food. Both had a hot corndog fresh from the fryer, and a quarter piece of buttered corn on the cob liberally coated with salt. Thank goodness it was on a stick or it would have been horribly messy. It was all topped off by a big glass of spicy apple cider. "What do you say to some funnel cake?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Come on, it's a fair. We can indulge ourselves." He talked him into it. They split a plate full of warm funnel cake topped with powdered sugar. Scott was cleaning his fingers with a wet nap when he heard his name being called over a loud speaker. "Scott MacIntyre to the side stage. Scott MacIntyre to the side stage," repeated the voice. Mr. Piotrowski and Scott went to find out what was going on. "There he is. Right over here young fellow," a friendly man said. The man had been one of the veterans operating the .22 target game. The man handed him a small, gold colored plastic medal, and a certificate that proclaimed him the winner of the game. It had his name, and the date. Scott grinned and showed it to Mr. Piotrowski. "That's not all. Come over here so we can get a picture for the paper." Scott stood next to the man while he handed him a soft sided rifle bag. It contained a brand new Ruger .22 Sporter rifle. The rifle had a handsome walnut stock. A flash went off, and the man shook his hand congratulating him. Mr. Piotrowski admired the rifle, and assured him that he could keep it at the house. Scott was stunned. He had never, ever, won anything in his life. What a prize! At work on Saturday he told Eddie about the rifle and invited him over Mr. Piotrowski's to shoot it. Eddie asked his dad for permission. To their surprise, Mr. Mendoza took the afternoon off and drove them over to Mr. Piotrowski's. The four of them had a great time out behind the storage building shooting the little .22. It had a ten round magazine and was wickedly accurate. The .22 was incredibly cheap to shoot. You could buy a brick of .22 ammunition from the farm supply store for around twenty dollars. A brick contained five hundred and fifty rounds of ammo. There was only one 'no' vote on the target shooting. Jobe was not fond of the rifle's noise and stayed inside. He definitely wasn't a hunting dog. Monday at lunch the mood was light. The redhead cowgirl, Molly, sat down with a suspicious grin on her face. She produced a special Sunday edition of the local weekly newspaper with a flourish, and handed Scott a pen. "I require your autograph," she informed him. "What?" "Your autograph, on your picture," she explained to him. Eddie and Bo crowded around. Eddie snatched the paper from Scott's hands and read aloud from the picture heading. "Fourteen year old Scott MacIntyre, a Fort Stockton High School Freshman, had the reflexes of a panther when he shot ten for ten, winning the target rifle competition at the VFW's Veterans Day community party." Bo teased, "We're going to have to start calling you John Wayne MacIntyre instead of Scotty Wayne." "Nobody calls me Scotty Wayne." Eddie piped up, "Mrs. Mathews did." "That was in third grade!" Scott protested. "It's true," Bo confirmed to the questioning Molly. "We had two Scotts in the class. Whatever happened to the other one?" "I think he moved to avoid Mrs. Mathews," Scott replied. "Duke!" Molly clapped her hands together. Scott didn't like the way Eddie and Bo were nodding. "Duke what?" asked Rene Keebler. Bo's girlfriend was late joining them for lunch. "The actor, John Wayne, was called 'Duke' by his friends. Scott's middle name is 'Wayne' and he shoots like John Wayne," she pointed the article out to Rene. "Oh goody, a nickname for Mr. Perfect," Rene joined in. "Mr. Perfect?" repeated Eddie. "That's what I call him. Straight 'A' grade point and he barely breaks a sweat no matter what distance we run. It's disgusting," she fake pouted. "A nickname is just the thing to bring him down a peg or two." "Duuuuke," Eddie and Bo chorused. Scott hoped it wouldn't catch on. The newspaper picture bothered him, but not for reasons any of his friends might suspect. There wasn't much of a chance of any wire service picking the picture up nationally. Even if they did, Scott didn't look anything like the five year old version of him had. At least he hoped not. He didn't think Craig Carson, wherever he was, was scouring obscure West Texas papers. On Wednesday Scott was surprised to be called to the front office over the school's intercom system. The students in his sixth period Biology class all turned to look at him. What trouble had he gotten into they wondered. Scott shrugged and gathered his books. He asked his teacher what the homework assignment was, and got the assigned reading before he headed to the office. Scott was surprised to find Sheriff King and a city of Fort Stockton police officer waiting for him. His heart rate spiked up, and his thoughts began to race. Was the jig up? They waved him into the principal's office. "Scott," the sheriff started. "Did you know your photo appeared in the paper over the weekend?" Scott felt a cold chill move up his spine, and he broke out into a sweat. He turned pale and looked for a seat. The sheriff was slow on the uptake. "Shit!" he exclaimed. Over their protests, the sheriff made the principal and the city police officer leave the office immediately. He told them to bring him back a soda or glass of water. "I'm sorry, Scott. That was just stupid on my part. I didn't even think. It's nothing from before. There's a problem, but it's here in Pecos County." Scott looked up. His stomach felt like it had tied itself in knots, "I don't understand?" There was a knock on the door. The sheriff opened it, and was handed a cold soda. He popped the top and gave it to Scott. "Drink, you need the sugar." Scott took a deep drink, and tried to figure out what sort of problem his picture in the local paper meant here in Pecos County. The two murderers out at the rock face already knew who it was they had tried to kill. Could it be the third man from the bar? "Are you okay?" "I'm alright." He wiped the sweat from his face. "Okay, I'm going to bring the other two back in." Scott took deep breaths, and tried to get his heart rate back under control. If this had been an interrogation room, he had just failed. He heard the sheriff tell a very convincing lie. "You know he lives at Broken Creek. Police officers delivered some terribly devastating news to him once. I think he must have had some sort of flash back. We'll go in and pretend that nothing happened. This is going to be difficult enough for him." The principal sat behind his desk, and the police officer stood next to the sheriff. He might have been mistaken, but he thought he saw a hint of sympathy in the principal's eyes. "Scott. The local newspaper received a death threat against you on Tuesday. It came from the county jail. The person who sent it was Nazario Guzman. Now we know that you two had a confrontation in mid-October. Have you been threatened by anyone since then?" the sheriff asked. Scott cleared his throat, "Nazario Guzman, that was just something stupid about the girl I took to the homecoming dance." The police officer asked, "Were you love rivals? Did you move in on his girl or something?" The sheriff looked up at the ceiling and shook his head slightly. Scott stared at the officer. Was he for real? "Nothing like that. My date was Lilly Mendoza, she's an eighth grader. I don't think she had even heard of Guzman until after the dance. It was a first date, ever, for both of us. Guzman was mouthing off about some kind of bullshit race purity thing." The school principal looked at him sharply. "Sorry, Principal Reynolds," Scott apologized for the profanity. "I think we can let it pass this time," he replied. "You've not heard from him at all. He hasn't written or anything?" asked the sheriff. "Not a thing." "The threat against you is very specific, and disturbing," the sheriff checked a piece of paper from his pocket. "He writes that you're already supposed to be dead, and that he's going to make sure of it this time." "That's appalling," stated the principal. "What we're going to do is have a reserve police officer stationed here at the school for the immediate future. At least until we can determine how serious the threat is," the city police officer stated. "Okay. Principal Reynolds, thank you for your time. I'm going to take Scott out of school for the remainder of the day. There are some people we need to stop and see," the sheriff said motioning for Scott to stand up. "Sheriff, would you mind if I had a minute with Mr. MacIntyre?" asked the principal. The sheriff looked at Scott, who gave him a small shrug. "Of course, we'll be waiting outside." Scott sat back down. The principal leaned over his desk, "We might not have gotten started off on the best foot. Mr. MacIntyre, I want you to know that I take the safety of the students here very seriously. If you have any problems, or see something that concerns you please come to the office and see me. Can you do that for me?" He believed him, "Yes, sir, thank you." "Okay then, we'll see you in school tomorrow. Hopefully we can put this dreadful mess behind us and concentrate on that education of yours." Scott left the office, and walked with the two officers to the parking lot. The two men shook hands, and promised to keep each other up to date. Scott climbed into the sheriff's truck. "Are you all right, Scotty?" "I guess so. Surprised more than anything," he answered. "Where are we going anyway?" "I think you need a little more firepower on your side. I called the judge this morning after the newspaper called me about the letter—" Scott interrupted, "Is it going to be in the paper?" The sheriff shook his head, "No, it's not. The judge called them, and they agreed that because of your age they really couldn't say much anyway. Besides, they like getting letters from the nutters. They don't want people to stop sending them in. Where was I?" "The judge," prompted Scott. "That's right. The judge said that I should take you to see an old friend." The sheriff parked in front of the Black & Black law offices. Well, Honour had said that if he was ever in trouble ... he hoped she had meant it. "Good morning, Sheriff King," the receptionist smiled broadly, "and hello again," she said when she spotted Scott. Joseph Black emerged from his office greeted the sheriff, "Sheriff King, it's a pleasure, and young Scott too. What brings you by this afternoon?" "Is Honour around?" asked the sheriff. "She's in court, can I be of assistance? Come back to my office and we'll talk." The sheriff laid out the situation for Mr. Black. Mr. Black spun around and typed something on his computer. "He's in county lockup now?" "Yes." "I've found the case number. He's been a bad boy. Let me type this up." Mr. Black banged away at the keyboard and sent something to the printer. He took several sheets from the printer, and grabbed his cell phone. "I'm sending Honour a text message. She can check it in court, even if she's in the middle of something. Isn't technology great? I'm going to run this past the front desk. She catches all of my typos." Mr. Black left the office and went to the reception area. The sheriff explained, "I think he's preparing a restraining order against Nazario Guzman." Mr. Black came back into the office. He was talking on the phone. " ... I've got it all printed up and we'll be right over. No, he's right here. Darling, he's fine. We'll be there in a couple," he hung up. "Sheriff, can you give me a lift over to the courthouse? We can get this filed right away. Honour's putting a bug in the clerk's ear, and we'll be in front of a judge this afternoon." "Let's roll," replied the sheriff. The courthouse was literally right around the corner. Scott wasn't sure why they bothered getting into the truck. Honour saw them and walked quickly over, her high heels clicked noisily on the marble floor. She insisted on checking him over, "You're okay? My god, I think you've gotten taller since the last time." She didn't even give him a chance to respond. Honour took the paperwork from her husband and examined it. She turned on her heel and stalked into the clerk's office. Scott wouldn't want to be standing in her way. Joseph Black said with some well deserved pride, "That's my wife." A minute later they were hustled into a courtroom. A judge Scott had never seen before was behind the bench. His clerk handed him some papers. The judge flipped through them. He looked up and saw the Sheriff of Pecos County and the two attorneys. He waved Honour forward and they had a brief legal discussion. He motioned her back to the table, banged his gavel on the desk and said, "So ordered." The paperwork was handed to the clerk. A red stamp was affixed with a case number along with the time and date. A copy was given to Honour. The judge was long gone. Just like that Scott had a restraining order prohibiting Nazario Guzman from contacting him or coming near him. Given that Guzman was in county jail, that didn't seem to be a problem. It was only a piece of paper. They didn't stop bullets. Out in the parking lot Honour Black turned to him, "You promised that you'd call if you got into any more trouble." She stuck her lower lip out just a tiny bit and Scott suddenly found it hard to breathe. "Darling, he came to the office first thing after hearing about the threat. Really," her husband smiled at Scott. He knew what she was doing. Honour was only slightly mollified. She tapped him on the nose with a perfectly manicured nail, "Next time. I want to hear about it first." In the truck on the way to drop him off at Meritt's Corner, the sheriff's only comment was, "That's some woman." Scott couldn't disagree. There were a lot of calls between Judge Upcott, Sheriff King, Mr. Mendoza, and Mr. Piotrowski. All promised to be vigilant. On Thursday and Friday evening he observed the hand to hand training seminar the sheriff's department put on. It was interesting, but a little anti climatic. The trainers were a couple of men from the San Antonio SWAT team. They were skilled instructors. The first two evenings were filled with computer slides and training videos, and a few walk-through demonstrations. They talked about negotiation, and conflict de-escalation tactics. Scott did enjoy the segments on how to read body language, and how to spot drug use in a suspect. Non-lethal response was a big buzz word the two trainers liked to toss around. Saturday was an all day series of contact drills. They did different scenarios. One that really opened his eyes was a drill where the officer was in a desperate, but losing struggle with a suspect who was trying to take the officer's gun away. The training officers had some horror stories on the subject. In the drill you got down on your hands and knees. The bad guy got on your back and had a hand on your heavy duty plastic training gun, which was in a real holster. Scott learned how you can't just pull an officer's gun out of the holster, even without a retention strap. You have to sort of push down first, and then draw the weapon back at an angle. It might slow the draw time down, but it was better than allowing a suspect to snatch your weapon. The other deputies, and even the trainers, accepted his presence without objection. It surprised him. He thought they might resent him taking up valuable training time. Instead, the officers were very helpful and offered many suggestions, and they did tell some pretty great stories. Law enforcement was a tough and dangerous job. The people who did it were honorable men and women. Scott didn't think he fit that category any longer. Self defense was an important tool in his arsenal. He would train to keep his skills sharp, but he didn't think it would become an obsession. He didn't want to spend his life on a knife-edge waiting for the next murder attempt. Being able to protect himself when required was one thing. Living day to day, consumed with the thought that his enemies lurked behind every tree? No. He had those nightmares when he was younger. He didn't want to live like that for the rest of his life. ------- Thanksgiving was the best he could remember. The meal was at Mrs. Mendoza's house. They had a full crew which included the Delgados, and Mr. Piotrowski. Extra food had been prepared and after the enormous lunch, Scott helped the Delgados take pies and plates over to the ranch for the boys. In mid December he had his final meeting for the year with Judge Upcott. It was a more somber meeting than usual. There had been no developments in the Nazario Guzman case. The judge had to keep his distance to avoid interfering with the case, but he was kept up to date by the sheriff. The judge gave Scott his normal cash gift along with a gift certificate to motorcycle safety school. The look on Scott's face was worth the small cost. Christmas vacation started, and as usual most of the residents at the Broken Creek Boys Ranch were paroled. Scott enjoyed the vacation and took the opportunity to relax and recharge. Christmas Day he spent with Mr. Piotrowski. Scott gave Jobe a rope toy to play with. He gave Mr. Piotrowski a pair of warm house slippers which he immediately put on. Scott got a heavier motorcycle jacket than his summer weight one, as well as a gift certificate for the second part of driver's education. He'd already finished the six hours of online study needed before he could apply for his learner's permit. There was another twenty-six hours of online instruction, and driving with a guardian after that. He couldn't imagine driving lessons with the judge, but time would tell. It had been a year of incredible change. He couldn't wait for the New Year. He would finally turn fifteen and could slowly begin to take control of his own destiny. That was the plan, just as long as nobody tried to kill him again, or the recent past didn't come back to haunt him. The ghosts of Christmas would have had a field day with him. Wednesday, December 27, 2006 It snowed two days after Christmas. Jobe was running around trying to catch snowflakes while Scott and Mr. Piotrowski watched from the porch. The snow had put a halt to their plans to drive into town and visit Mr. Piotrowski's insurance agent. Scott needed to get the motorcycle insured and registered. In two weeks he'd be able to walk into the Department of Public Safety office and obtain his learner's permit. It was the first of many steps required before he could obtain his hardship license. There were a lot of hoops to jump through, but Scott was determined not to complain about the process. "We'll go tomorrow. The truck's four wheel drive could handle it, but I'm not as young as I used to be. My reaction times have slowed a bit over the years," Mr. Piotrowski explained. "Really, it's fine, Mr. Piotrowski. You know I can't do anything before the tenth anyway. I can't even start the second part of the online courses without the learner's permit." "That's true. Now how many inches do you think we'll get?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "The farm report said we could get three or four. Part of me hopes we get a foot, and the rest of me hopes it goes away." Mr. Piotrowski grunted, "I'd like to see what Jobe would make of a foot of snow." "That could be funny," Scott replied. "I think I better leave early for dinner at the Mendoza's. It's probably going to be slow going." "I could give you a ride," offered Mr. Piotrowski. "No, that's alright. It will only be a little slower than normal. I'll stick to the center line. I don't think anybody else has even been down the road today." Scott pulled out onto the road. His tires squeaked on the fresh snow. So far there was only about an inch of accumulation. He was surprised that it wasn't harder to ride in the snow. He was a little slower, but it was fun and different. Riding in the snow wasn't something he wanted to do all of the time, and it would be treacherous on the motorcycle. He was still a few minutes from the Mendoza house when he started hearing shrieks of laughter. He pedaled up the driveway straight into the middle of a full scale snowball fight. Time out was called while Scott dismounted. His pants were wet from riding in the snow, but his upper half was dry thanks to the motorcycle jacket. "Scott's on our side," the Mendoza girls were chanting. Boys versus girls, that didn't seem fair. "I'm not sure I want to be on your side. How good of a snowball can you girls make?" Scott asked. Lilly and Janie each handed Scott snowballs for his inspection, 'Hmmm.' He weighed them in his hands and winked at the girls. He was the only one armed. Eddie and his two brothers were standing around catching their breaths. The girls quickly grabbed more snowballs and the fight was on. "Not fair!" shouted Eddie as he got plastered by snowballs. Mrs. Mendoza called everybody inside. Disarmament of the two sides was a carefully negotiated affair. Eventually both sides agreed to drop all ammunition at the same time. As Ronald Reagan said, "Trust, but verify." Mr. Mendoza had a spare pair of Eddie's sweatpants for Scott to put on while his own jeans went into the dryer. Dinner was a relaxed affair. Afterwards the girls took turns interrogating Scott about the ins and outs of obtaining a driver's license. Their two older brothers both had licenses, but they didn't have their own cars. Scott knew they spent all of their time focused on being the best student-athletes they could be. Extra money in the Mendoza family went toward college funds, not vehicles. Robert was the oldest, and he was being actively recruited to play baseball for several different schools. Eddie had told Scott that his brother was hoping to play for a school in Arizona, and Tommy wanted to follow in his footsteps. Eddie was a good ball player, but had his hopes pegged on an academic scholarship. Scott had no idea what the girls wanted to do. "Eddie, if you'd get your license you could take us places," Janie whined. "I couldn't until I'm sixteen. Scott's getting a hardship license," explained Eddie. "It's so unfair!" Janie grumped. "Janie!" Lilly exclaimed. "I meant that it's unfair that we can't live in town." It was an old argument. The girls hated living thirty miles outside of town. Scott understood why. There were very few things for them to do in the country, and no girls their age lived anywhere near. At least Eddie and his brothers had sports to keep them busy. The Mendoza girls didn't seem inclined that way. Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza exchanged a look. Mrs. Mendoza spoke up, "Girls, go to the living room." "Mom!" the girls groaned. "Now, please." "We're going to have a family meeting," Mr. Mendoza explained. "Scott, you're welcome to join us. This impacts you as well." Scott was curious and followed Eddie into the living room. The Mendoza children scrambled for the best seats available. Scott sat next to Eddie on the floor in front of the couch. Mr. Mendoza addressed the gathering, "We were going to save this until after the New Year, but I might as well tell you now. We're going to be moving." "To town," Mrs. Mendoza interjected into the shocked silence. Voices clamored across each other. "Really!" Lilly's eyes were wide with surprise. "You mean it?" asked Eddie. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" cheered Janie. The older boys were quiet, and looked thoughtful. "I made your mother a promise about living in town years ago. Now we're in a place where it finally makes sense. The business is stable, and you kids have gotten older. You don't need as much looking after as you once did." "What your father is trying to say is that I'm going back to work," Mrs. Mendoza explained. "What?" asked Eddie. "I'm going back to work at the bank. It's what I did before you kids came along." "Do we need the money?" asked a concerned Robert. "It doesn't hurt," replied his mother, "but I'm doing this for me. Don't worry. I'll be home when you kids get out of school." "When are we moving?" asked Lilly, the practical one. "The house we're buying still needs work. It will probably be the end of February before we can actually start to move," Mr. Mendoza explained. "What about Scott?" asked Janie. "Don't worry about me. I'll finally have somebody in town to come visit." Mrs. Mendoza gave him a grateful smile. Mr. Mendoza explained that he'd show them the house after church on Sunday. Scott was happy for the Mendozas. They were all chattering with excitement as he went to the laundry room to retrieve his pants from the dryer. He changed quickly and folded the sweat pants. Mr. Mendoza was waiting for him, "I didn't want to spring this on you. You know you're always welcome in our home." "As long as I'm invited to dinner I think you can count on me showing up." Scott left a very happy family. The ride back to the ranch was easier since it had finally stopped snowing. The wind was starting to blow the snow into larger drifts, and the temperature had dropped. It took a while for him to clear an area around the ranch gate so he could open it. The next morning a county salt truck had been by and the road was mostly clear. Even so, the ride to Mr. Piotrowski's was brisk and a little slick. Scott spent extra time making sure that the porch and steps were clear of snow. He put salt down, and made a path to the truck. The last thing he wanted for was Mr. Piotrowski to slip and fall. For breakfast he made hot oatmeal, and cut up a melon for extra flavor. Scott offered Jobe a piece, but he wasn't interested. "How was the road?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. He was bundled up and looked warm. Scott hoped he hadn't been chilled in the night. "Not bad, but it's going to warm up a little. If we waited I bet the roads will be completely clear," Scott replied. "Good thinking." Mr. Piotrowski had been giving him little driving related pop quizzes for weeks now. Sometimes he'd throw out a scenario and ask him describe his response. Waiting for better road conditions seemed like a sensible thing. They had lunch at the house, and then drove to Meritt's Corner. It was amazing how the snow made everything look different. Scott went into the post office and purchased a postal box. The lady at the counter was a little curious, but she had seen him working with Mr. Piotrowski over the summer. He had checked online and discovered there was no restriction against minors having their own post office box. From Meritt's they drove into Fort Stockton. The insurance office was located in the heart of downtown. Scott was glad to see they had done a good job of clearing the sidewalks. Inside the office Scott showed the insurance man the motorcycle's title and his identification cards. The man checked his computer and printed out a quote for basic liability coverage. "It's not much on a 1976 motorcycle under 250cc. I think you'll be pleased." Scott read the important line, 'Three hundred and thirty-five dollars per year' He swallowed. There were going to be expenses, he knew that. He would gladly pay it, but it was going to be the biggest amount of money he'd ever spent. Fortunately the big purchase of a motorcycle had been avoided thanks to Mr. Piotrowski, and he still had the cash he'd been saving for it. "Now you can pay monthly, or in one lump sum," explained the insurance man. "Do you take cash?" Scott asked. "I'd prefer a check," he replied. Scott looked at Mr. Piotrowski, "I'll have to visit the bank and come back if that's alright?" "I'll be here till five." They made the quick trip to the bank. Scott wasn't sure if he wanted a checking account, but he was going to have to get one. They sat at a little desk and waited for the account manager to finish his paperwork. Scott didn't rate personal attention from the branch manager like Mr. Piotrowski did. He wondered if this was the kind of work Mrs. Mendoza would be doing. Scott had a little over twenty-three hundred dollars in his savings account. There was three hundred dollars of emergency cash in his lock box, not counting the thirty-one hundred in drug dealer money. That money couldn't be deposited. He'd either hold onto it or find some way of using it for incidentals. After talking with Mr. Piotrowski, and the account manager, he agreed to transfer five hundred into the checking account. He had to maintain a minimum balance. The bank had a program for young depositors to help encourage good money management skills. If he had an overdraft the money would be pulled from his savings account to cover the shortage, and he got a discount on service fees. The account manager gave him some temporary checks. He used his new post office box for his address. They made a quick trip back to the insurance office where he wrote his first check in exchange for an insurance card. He paid the lump sum. The county tax office was next where Scott registered the motorcycle. It cost him thirty dollars for the motorcycle, and ten dollars to the county tax coffers. Scott and Mr. Piotrowski both sighed with relief after they were finished in town. "What do you want to do now?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "I'm not sure. Either hit the heavy bag, or do a little shooting. With the snow I should probably stick to the heavy bag." "I feel the same way after I pay my taxes every year," commented Mr. Piotrowski dryly. The New Year came and went without incident, and classes resumed on Tuesday, January 2nd, 2007. The post holiday let down was in full effect, and students moved between classes with a little less energy than normal. Scott and Eddie stood in the hallway before English. Eddie was very excited about moving to town, primarily because this opened up his potential dating pool, or so he claimed. Scott listened with great amusement as Eddie listed a new batch of girlfriend candidates. He had to ask, "Eddie, have you talked to all of these girls?" "Well, no," Eddie replied. "Then how do you know if they'll go out with you?" "I won't until I ask," he explained. "So how are you supposed to know if you like them or not?" Eddie looked at him, "If they go out with me, I'll like them." "Eddie, I worry about you sometimes." At lunch the rest of their friends were excited to hear about Eddie moving to town. Scott listened to the plans they were making. It sounded like Eddie was going to have a busy social life. Scott was finishing off an apple when Molly sat down and asked how his Christmas break had been. "Good. I got a lot done. How was yours?" She gushed about a new saddle she'd gotten, and all the time she'd been able to spend with her horse despite the snow. It was the first Christmas her family had spent in Texas. From her description it sounded like she had a really large family back east with lots of cousins and aunts and uncles. Scott tried to imagine what it would be like. She interrupted his day dreaming by whispering, "What do you think about Bo and Rene?" "What about them?" he asked in a low voice. "They're fighting," she said as if he was particularly dense. "They are?" "You don't know?" Scott looked at his friends. He thought he was a fairly good judge of people's moods. He couldn't see anything different about their behavior. Bo and Eddie were talking about parts of town using their hands and gesturing at a salt shaker on the table. Apparently it represented the high school on their imaginary map. Rene appeared interested in the discussion. Scott looked at Molly with a raised eyebrow, "It's the first I've heard of it." She squinted at him, "Bo hasn't said anything?" "No." "Boys!" she said dismissively. Molly got up to go sit by Rene. Scott and Bo's health class had turned into an art period after winter break. They sat a big table and tried to draw basic geometric shapes. Bo didn't mention anything to do with Rene, and Scott didn't ask. Because of the weather their entire athletics class was stuck inside. Coach Zell announced a free workout period. They could do what they wanted as long as they were active. Scott was looking at the weight room, but it was too crowded. Rene walked over to him. "I suppose you're talking Bo's side?" she accused. "Rene, taking his side about what?" "Boys!" she echoed Molly's earlier complaint, and ran over to join an impromptu volley ball game. Scott stood there and tried to figure out what caused a normally rational person to behave so oddly. "MacIntyre! Don't just stand there. Find something to do!" Coach Zell yelled. Scott was pretty sure that he wasn't going to understand the female of the species any time soon. He went in search of an activity. The stationary bikes were full. There was a basketball game at the other end of the gym, but it wasn't his favorite sport. Next to where he was standing was a peg board. It was probably as old as the gymnasium. He'd never used this particular apparatus, or seen many others try it, but it looked like a good challenge. It consisted of a large wooden board mounted securely to the wall. Holes were drilled in it at regular intervals all across the board. Pegs made from strong wooden dowels fit into the holes. The way the board worked was that you had to jump and grab the two pegs positioned, hopefully, at the lowest holes. You pulled a peg out and moved it to the next position, followed by the other peg. It was a tremendous upper body workout. You were supposed to let your legs hang free, and not use them to brace against the wall. Scott pulled himself up hand over hand, carefully moving the pegs each time, as he climbed six feet to the top of the board. He paused to let his muscles rest for a bit. His early morning pull up routine had really made a difference. With his strength and skills, it was still important to test himself. Next he traversed sideways to the other end of the board, and then lowered himself down peg by peg to the bottom position. He had done an inverse 'U' and it was a great workout. He dropped to the floor and felt the burn in his muscles. When he turned around Coach Zell and a couple of other coaches were starting at him in amazement, along with several guys from the wrestling team. "Holy crap, MacIntyre! I don't think we even have a senior who can complete that circuit. Let me see those arms," Coach Zell grabbed one of his arms and moved it around like he was a chicken on a butcher's block. "You must be working out on your own time. What have you been doing?" he asked. Did I just screw up? "Coach, it's nothing special. I do pull-ups and pushups every morning, and a little light lifting some afternoons. I run some," he didn't mention the heavy punching bag, "and I eat right." "There you go!" the wrestling coach said enthusiastically. "He's a freshman and he can put you all to shame for upper body strength. Pushups and pull-ups, what do I constantly tell you guys? Stop wasting your money on supplements and do some honest exercise. Okay, everybody hits the peg board today." Coach Zell looked him in eye and said, "I know you haven't had a piss test because you're not competing. You can expect a random screening test real soon, if only for my peace of mind. If you can't pass, tell me and you can drop from the cross country team with no questions asked." "Honest, coach. It won't be a problem." "Okay. Impressive display, Mr. MacIntyre. Why don't you run a few laps around the gym, and then go hit the showers?" "Sure thing, Coach." Scott took off at a steady pace, and one of the juniors from the wrestling team ran to catch up. "Hey, you're Scott right?" the boy asked. "Yeah?" "Daren Acuff, I'm on the varsity squad. You ever thought about coming out for wrestling?" "I think I'll stick to running, no offense." "None taken. Less competition for the JV squad, but if you change your mind let me know. Listen, I wanted to ask you about what kind of pull-up bar you use?" Scott explained about the custom made bar and the two positions that it allowed you to do pull-ups from. He asked, "Do you have any classes with Tommy Mendoza?" "Yeah I know Tommy, why?" "I'm friends with Tommy's brother, Eddie. The guy that made the bars works for their dad. I'll let Eddie know and if the guy can make another set he'll pass the word through Tommy." "Cool man. Any idea what they'd cost?" the wrestler asked. "Good question, but I couldn't see them being over twenty-five dollars." Daren thanked him and ran back to join the wrestling team. Scott ran ten more laps and wondered if he'd gotten himself into trouble. Body fluids were a problem as his experiments had shown. If his urine sample stayed intact ... would it show any abnormalities? How the heck was he going to test this out?" With football over for the season Eddie was riding the after school bus to Meritt's. "Hey, any idea what's up with Bo and Rene?" Scott asked his friend as he found a seat next to him. "No, why?" "Molly was giving me the third degree about some fight they were supposedly having. And Rene asked me if I was taking Bo's side." "Bo didn't say anything to me," Eddie replied. "To me either." "I wonder if that means Rene is going to be available?" asked Eddie. "That's so wrong. You can't violate the code like that." "The code?" "You can't go after a friend's girl, or ex girl. Even I know that one. It's wrong." "So I should take Molly off of my list?" Eddie asked with a smirk. "Hey!" Changing subjects he told Eddie about Daren Acuff, and his request for another set of pull-up bars. Eddie had a funny look on his face, and told him that he'd take care of it. "You know who Daren is right?" Eddie asked. "I guess not?" "Does the name Principal Acuff ring a bell?" Eddie said. She had been their middle school principal. "How did I miss that?" Scott wondered. Daren would have been in eighth grade while they were in sixth. "You didn't pay attention to anything past your books back then." Eddie was right. After dinner at the ranch that night Scott took three Dixie cups from the pantry, and went back to his bunkhouse. He locked the bathroom door. It took him a while before he felt like he could conduct the test. He urinated in one cup and thought, clean urine sample, one was his control sample, and for the third he thought, no evidence left behind. He placed each of the cups in the shower. Holding the warm, 'clean sample' cup he examined his urine. I cannot believe I'm doing this, he thought. The urine looked and smelled normal as far as he could tell. He couldn't observe anything that appeared to different between that and his control sample. The 'no evidence' cup was steaming and starting to boil. The lightweight cup began to bounce around. A strong aroma of urine spread as the liquid boiled away until nothing was left. He took the remaining samples and flushed them down the toilet. This required some more thought, so he sat at his desk and tried to put the pieces together. The normal waste elimination process hadn't caused any drama in the past. I even sound like a dork in my own head. The blood on the napkin from when he cut himself had apparently stayed blood because he hadn't been thinking about it. Was it simply a matter of will? He believed the napkin would soak up his blood, so it did. The waste he regularly eliminated was only an ordinary bodily process. It didn't require any thinking. He didn't get headaches, but this seemed like a good time for one. Coach Zell had said that he'd be taking a urine screening test sooner or later, but gave him the option to quit the team. Should he take the test and risk exposure, or quit the team and be branded a quitter? Perhaps even be accused of being a steroid user? He'd be better off finding out now whether or not he could pass a standard screening test. He decided that he had to know. Sleep was slow in coming that night. The next day Eddie told him that the supposedly big argument between Bo and Rene was over Christmas gifts. Rene gave Bo some bracelet that he didn't want to wear. For his part, Bo had gotten Rene a nice set of warm-ups emblazoned with a University of Texas Athletics label. Rene had professed her desire to attend UT, so it seemed like a well thought out gift to them. "Apparently Bo suggested that Rene return the bracelet and get her money back, and he'd be happy with a ball cap," Eddie explained "And that's what they're fighting about?" Scott asked. "Yeah, weird huh?" "I'm staying out of it." "Good idea," Eddie decided. "Maybe I should remove any of the crazy ones from my list." Scott thought about it, "I'm afraid they all might be crazy." During biology class he had one of those lightning bolt to the head moments which occur every great once in a while. The teacher had been discussing cell mitosis after fertilization, and the formation of the human zygote. The thought hit, and he sat straight up in his chair. Holy shit! It wasn't a possibility, even remotely, but it was a damned interesting question. If he impregnated someone ... the thought made him laugh and he had to refocus. If he got some girl pregnant what would happen if he willed his contribution to the pregnancy into nonexistence, or whatever it was that he did? What if his child was running around a playground and he got angry and wished the child away? Would half of the child's chromosomes suddenly start to tear themselves apart? He tried to imagine the horror of that. The more he thought about it, the more it sounded like a really stupid thing. Nobody, no matter how freakish and powerful, should be able to do such a thing under any logical system of existence. There was one other experiment that he still needed to conduct, but he was reluctant to take the steps needed for it. "Mr. MacIntyre, do you intend to join the rest of the class anytime soon?" his biology teacher asked. "Huh? Oh sure, sorry." His lab partner looked at him like he was crazy. He wasn't sure his lab partner was wrong. What if everybody was crazy, but they were better at hiding it? Most of the snow had gone by Friday. After finishing chores for Mr. Piotrowski he decided to go hiking. He packed a light backpack and grabbed his walking stick. Jobe wanted no part of this adventure and stayed home. After about forty-five minutes he found what he was looking for, a rabbit warren. He watched the rabbits for about a half an hour before returning to Mr. Piotrowski's. Saturday at the engine shop was busy. There was a lot of work that had built up over the holiday, and the snow hadn't helped any. At noon Rico Lopez from the fabrication shop stopped by, and asked Scott to come take a look at something. "Going to show me some fancy welding they taught you at school?" Scott asked as he followed Rico. "Nah, something better," replied Rico. They had obviously reconfigured this area of the shop for some kind of piece work, but he couldn't figure out what they were making. Rico spread his arms out and said, "Ta-dah!" "Okay, what am I looking at?" Scott asked. "Good grief, gringo, it was even your idea. They're jigs for welding sets of pull-up bars," he took a completed example from a nearby box and put it on a jig. "Eddie came to me and we researched it together with help from Mr. Mendoza. We found out that there is a demand for exercise equipment made in America. We've got a small test contract to produce these, along with some bent curl bars. Mr. Mendoza even hired an extra guy just for this production run. If it goes well, we could get a bigger order and have to expand even further. I'm now the quality control manager for this project." "That's great, I mean really great, Rico." "How about I fix you up with one of the new models? Look at how we're putting a nice rounded steel plug in the ends now. From here it goes to powder coating. They put on the hand grips, and out it goes to the distributor." "That's really slick, but I think I'll hold onto my 'Rico Lopez' original. Eddie really came to you?" "He sure did. Said you had an idea about selling them to the football team. We talked it over and one thing led to another. He's not a bad kid for being the boss's son." "I'm happy for you Rico. That's some of the best news I've heard in a while." Scott went to go find Eddie and give him grief for keeping all of this quiet. Eddie explained how at first he had only wanted to make some money for himself, and kick a little back to Rico. Rico showed him that it could help the company if it was a good idea. "I ended up making a little money selling some units to the football team. Dad says it's like a test market. Now we're selling a few to the guys on the wrestling team all because you were showing off in gym. Is it true you did a whole circuit on the peg board?" Eddie asked. "I didn't do a complete trip around. I did the up, over, and down circuit. You've been hitting the pull-up bar haven't you? I bet you could do it." "No way, we heard about it the next morning. We had one senior make it up and over, but he bailed on the down leg. I tried going up and back down. That's a killer." "Well I weigh less than you do. Gives me an advantage," Scott said. "Yeah, that's probably it." He was happy for Rico and Eddie. Eddie had made a contribution to the business. He could see how proud that made him. ------- Sunday morning after breakfast Scott told Mr. Piotrowski that he wanted to go rabbit hunting out on the back property. Mr. Piotrowski agreed, but had some restrictions, "Only shoot what we can eat. Do you think you can dress them in field? All you really have to do is get the gut tract out. We can skin them and part them out here, if that's what you really want to do?" "I'd like to try it at least." "Okay. You know not to shoot back toward the house or over the roadway. You'll be far enough away so it shouldn't be a problem, but always keep safety in mind. How do you plan to carry the .22?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Slung over my shoulder, unloaded," Scott answered. "Stay warm." Scott left through the kitchen door. It looked like Jobe planned to accompany him. "You do know I'm going to shoot this thing, right?" he asked the dog. Jobe ignored him and trotted alongside. Scott finally reached the place where he had seen the rabbits. He loaded the .22 rifle with one round and waited. Jobe took up a position a few feet away and watched. Scott was surprised the dog didn't go after the rabbits when they made their appearance. Spotting a straggler, he took aim and squeezed off a round. The rabbit took one hop and dropped. Scott slung the rifle and walked over to the rabbit was. The round had taken the rabbit right through the neck. Jobe whined and sat down. Taking a good look around to make sure nobody else was nearby, Scott knelt down on the cold ground and picked the rabbit up. He placed both hands over the wounds and concentrated on 'fixing' the rabbit. The rabbit's flesh heated up and the wounds closed, but the rabbit did not revive. He put his hand over the breast of the rabbit and pleaded with it to get up and run away. Nothing happened. He sat back on his heels, defeated. He had repaired it, at least cosmetically, but couldn't bring it back to life. The terrible little experiment was a failure. He had no problem hunting for food. Hunting purely for sport wasn't something he could see himself doing. "I'm not doing that again." Jobe walked over to the rabbit. He pinned it between his feet and started licking the rabbit's body. "I'm pretty sure that's not the way you eat one of those," he commented. Jobe gave the rabbit a little shake. Suddenly it opened its eyes, and took off like a shot. "I'll be damned! The little bastard must have been playing possum." Jobe looked very pleased with himself despite the loss of his dinner. "Can you imagine the story Mr. Rabbit is going to have to tell at the dinner table?" They headed back to the house. When Mr. Piotrowski asked him how it went he explained how he had seen one rabbit, but missed. January 10th, 2007, Scott's 15th birthday Scott's real birthday was a month earlier, but this was one January birthday that he was happy to have. He only wanted one thing. Mr. Piotrowski picked him up after school, and they went to the DMV to get his learner's permit. He passed the written test, and walked out of the building an hour later with the permit in his hands. He could now drive a car as long as he was in the presence of another licensed driver. With the permit he could finally take the motorcycle safety course. It was a two day class and he'd already preregistered for it. This weekend he'd check that milestone off. All he would have left to do was finish his driver's education self study course, and take the final tests at the DMV for both motor vehicle and motorcycle. Scott walked to the truck, but Mr. Piotrowski told him that he was getting in the wrong side. "I've always wanted my own chauffeur, so be a good man and drive us out to Meritt's Corner." "Yes, sir!" Driving the big truck was an experience. Once they'd left Fort Stockton there was barely any traffic and Scott relaxed. Mr. Piotrowski was a good instructor. He'd only yelled at him once, and he didn't seem to be stepping on too many imaginary brake pedals on his side of the truck. "You're doing okay. One thing I've noticed is that you're making too many small corrections of the wheel. Don't look at what's right in front of the truck, look further down the road. That's it. Smoothed you right out." After a half hour of straight road, Scott signaled and turned into the lot at Meritt's. He drove back to the engine center and parked. "Thanks, Mr. Piotrowski. I couldn't have done this without your help. I know it's going to be a pain to drive me back and forth from the class this weekend too." "Scott, I've got nothing but time, and I'm happy to help you get your training taken care of. You'll be a safer rider for it. Besides, I really do enjoy having a chauffeur." On general principle, Scott didn't celebrate his birthdays. It had been easy at the ranch, they might have a cake but no fuss was made. He liked it that way. His friends at the engine center had a different idea. There was a cake, and a lot of back slapping. "Don't be such a grump," said Eddie. "I'm not grumpy. I'm very happy in fact." "You hate parties." "That's true, but today nothing could get me down." Scott ate his cake and smiled. The next day he took his checkbook to school. He went to the front office and tried to sign up for the upcoming SAT college placement test. "You have to talk to the counselor first," explained the secretary. The school counselor was not his favorite person. Ms. Green had tried to talk him into taking the vocational education track of classes instead of advanced placement courses. He had nothing against vocational classes, but they weren't what he wanted. He knocked on her door, and went in when summoned. "They said I had to talk to you before I could sign up for the SAT." "Why on earth would you want to take that? We have the PSAT, the practice SAT, coming up next month. You can take it in class, and it's free." "It's my money and my time." "Mr. MacIntyre, I really think you need to take a more realistic approach to your education here at Fort Stockton High. You need solid fundamentals, and skills that will serve you once you graduate. Children in your position have such a tough time after they leave foster care, and I want you to have the best chance at the future." Scott stared at her, "Thanks for the pep talk, Ms. Green." He walked back to the front desk and took out his checkbook. "I make this out to the College Board, right?" ------- The motorcycle safety course made for a quick weekend. The class's motorcycles were different, but easy to ride. Scott's extensive practice really showed on the course. At the end of the second day the instructor signed off on his paperwork and wished him the best with a cheery, "Ride safe!" Scott dropped a copy off with his insurance agent. Supposedly the company would give him a break on his rates for taking the course. The next several weeks were going to be tricky. The self study course length was a minimum of twenty days with fourteen hours of behind the wheel instruction by your parent or guardian. Looking at his calendar, the earliest his final driver's test could be was February 5th, a Monday. He would have had to write another big check if not for the gift certificates. The judge and Mr. Piotrowski had been very generous in covering his driving and motorcycle training costs. The agreement for the driver's training was that the judge would pick Scott up from school and give him two hours of behind the wheel instruction each day. The online course work he'd do at Mr. Piotrowski's. Monday after school, Scott waited for the judge. He pulled up in a brand new champagne colored Lexus. The judge hopped out and threw him the keys. "Let's go!" "What happened to the old car?" "Traded it in. Like it?" "It's a great car. Are you sure you want me driving it?" "You've been driving that three quarter ton truck of Alex's. This thing will drive like a fighter plane in comparison. Now come on, let's go." Scott climbed in and adjusted the seat and mirrors. The judge pointed out a few of the important buttons. Before he knew it they were on the highway outside of town. "How far do you want me to drive?" he asked the judge. "All the way to Pecos and back," the judge replied. You'd think the city of Pecos would belong in Pecos County. Instead the city was actually the county seat for the immediately adjacent Reeves County. He'd been to Brewster County with Mr. Piotrowski, and now Reeves County with the judge. He could learn to like going to different places, and especially in the judge's fancy car. The small Lexus was a treat to drive. It was incredibly comfortable with bucket seats, and had very responsive handling. It was much too easy to speed in the swift coupe. Scott enjoyed his afternoons with the judge. They went driving every school day except Wednesday when he had his shift at Mendoza's. After the lesson on Friday they stopped in town to grab a bite to eat. The restaurant was a popular place for local law enforcement and they'd eaten there many times. A whispered conversation a few tables away caught Scott's attention, and he tuned in. " ... the investigation was at a complete standstill, until this morning," the first man was saying. "Well the dope case is finished either way. Our main suspects are dead. The coroner won't give a positive ID, but their wallets were in the vehicle," the second man put in. Scott snuck a look. There were two plain clothed Fort Stockton detectives, and a couple of uniformed officers at the table. "Who found them?" asked one of the uniforms. "A gas company crew out doing a survey." "Any idea what those two gene pool winners were doing out there?" "Not really. The scene is confusing as hell, and the bodies have been out there for several months exposed to the elements. The forensic boys will have to tell us how long for sure. It looks like they met up for a little prison love dope fest. When they got tight they tried to climb up the side of the cliff." "Those two losers were on the down low? I don't believe it," said one of the uniforms. "Seen it before," explained the other detective. "They learn to like it in prison. When they come out they continue it with their girls, willing or otherwise, or they hook up with another ex-con. The crazy part is that the SUV belongs to Guzman's sister. She's never reported it missing. The whole family was involved in this dope business up to their eyeballs." "So the rocks killed them?" Scott had trouble swallowing his bite of turkey club sandwich. "No, that's another weird twist. The coroner still has to do a full autopsy, but he said Guzman was shot in the back of the head. He's not sure what killed the other one. Too much of his body is missing. Damn coyotes were busy. Not sure why they didn't eat as much of Guzman, professional courtesy maybe." "Gee thanks," said one of the uniformed officers as he pushed his plate away. Scott's attention returned to his own table when Sheriff King sat down. "Walt, we got us a real fine driver here. You ready to give him a checkout on the motorcycle?" This was the first Scott had heard of the sheriff giving him any sort of checkout on his motorcycle skills. "Elijah, I'm looking forward to it if I have time." "Busy day?" asked the judge. The sheriff looked around, "Scott, you can't repeat anything of what you hear. Understand?" "Yes, sir." "We found what was left of Vincente Guzman and Anthony Martin out at the old Zepher place. One of the men is the uncle of your old friend Nazario Guzman," the sheriff explained for him. "Walt, what do you mean by what was left?" the judge wanted to know. "You finished eating, Elijah?" "I guess I am now," the judge covered his plate with his napkin. Scott copied him. "You must have signed some of the warrants, so you know what they were up to. The city and the county were running a joint operation to try and bust a drug ring dealing junk to the gas field workers, and some of the local cowboys. Guzman and Martin were right smack in the middle of it." "I remember that," the judge replied. The sheriff continued, "The city boys were all set to do a controlled buy when the two disappeared back at the end of October. It was assumed that they'd taken off for parts unknown." "The city out any money?" the judge asked. "No, they didn't complete the transaction. The thinking right now is that our two morons decided to party on the stash before the sale. Apparently they tried to climb up a cliff face, and ended up bringing a bunch of rocks down on them." "Damn." "Well it didn't kill them, just trapped them. The doc won't commit yet, but Martin might have been trying to cut himself free. Guzman was shot in the back of the head. It's probable that Martin did it, but the major parts of him are probably in a coyote den somewhere." Scott took a drink of water. "Here's where it gets interesting. There were two firearms out at the scene; a .38 revolver, which we think was used to kill Guzman, and a very interesting rifle. There were rumors about Guzman having done a few killings for pay. We're going to send the rifle to the feds to see if their lab can clean it up and get a useful test round through it." "What makes the rifle interesting?" the judge asked. "It has a Russian night scope on it, and a suppressor. When we put the details on the wire this morning the Texas Rangers came right back and wanted to confirm the caliber. They're hoping it's a break on a murder case out of El Paso." "I just had a thought," the judge said. Sheriff King looked at him, "Probably the same one I had." They both turned to look at Scott. He set his glass down, "What?" "Your friend, Nazario Guzman, in that death threat to the paper he said you were already supposed to be dead. What if he'd asked his uncle for a favor?" the sheriff said calmly. The judge responded, "We'll probably never know now. Good riddance." "If I could get past his lawyer I'd sure like to ask Nazario about it," the sheriff said stubbornly. "Good luck with that. Walt, I think we'll get out of here and get some fresh air." The ride out to Mr. Piotrowski's was quiet. As Scott was unbuckling his seatbelt in Mr. Piotrowski's driveway the judge stopped him, "I know the sheriff said some disturbing things, but I really need you to keep quiet about what he told me." "Judge, I won't say a word. In fact I'd just as soon forget the entire thing." "The sheriff and I have had decades of dealing with some pretty ugly things. You can't dwell on something like that." You have no idea. Scott waved as the judge backed out of the driveway. Jobe came running around the side of the house and gave him an enthusiastic greeting. He went looking for Mr. Piotrowski, and found him hanging up the phone. He looked pretty excited. "How was the driving lesson?" "Good," replied Scott. "Want to go to Chicago with me?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. ------- Chapter 11 Friday, January 19, 2007 Mr. Piotrowski hung up the phone, and asked Scott if he wanted to go to Chicago with him. "Chicago?" Scott asked. "That was the folks at the Field Museum. We've been invited to the opening of their new netsuke exhibit. I think it's an excuse to have a party, but they're calling it a fund raiser. They're going to cover our air fare and hotel expenses," explained Mr. Piotrowski. "That's cool! Uh, when is it?" Mr. Piotrowski made a note on the calendar hanging in the kitchen, "March 10th. We'd fly out Friday morning. The opening is on Saturday, and we can fly back Sunday. Want to go?" "Yes! Can I?" "You bet. I'll give the judge a call and see what sorts of permissions are required to take you out of state." Scott's excitement about going to see the Field Museum and a big city like Chicago collapsed. Taking a trip out of state to a big event wasn't exactly low profile. That had been a phrase the lady marshal repeated several times, "keep a low profile." Hell, he was only six when she told him all of that stuff, he grumbled to himself. Why was it his responsibility? Mr. Piotrowski interrupted his train of thought, "What do you have planned for this afternoon?" "I thought I should break out the vacuum cleaner. Jobe's beds need to be washed. The windows need cleaning too, but that can wait till Sunday." "Sounds like a lot of chores," commented Mr. Piotrowski. "It beats the heck out of shoveling horse manure. Besides, I have to earn my keep. These driving lessons are eating up a lot of my time." He got the ancient vacuum cleaner out of the closet and plugged it in. The thing might have weighed thirty pounds, but it still did a terrific job. Jobe hated the noise that machine made, and escaped outside. Scott thought about Chicago as he cleaned. When he was finished Scott rode back to the ranch, and dropped by the kitchen to visit with Mrs. Delgado. "Mijo!" she gave him a hug. "It feels like I hardly see you anymore. Look at you. You need another haircut. Why don't we go into town early tomorrow, and I'll drop you off at the engine center on my way back to the ranch?" "If you think I need one then it sounds good to me. Do you think I could drive?" he asked with a grin. "I suppose it would be good practice. You'll have to help me with breakfast for the boys before we leave." "Yes!" Scott pumped his fist. He'd always wanted to drive her station wagon. The next morning Scott helped fix a platter of breakfast tacos, and set them out covered by a tea towel so they'd stay warm. They loaded his bike in the back of the station wagon, and Mrs. Delgado handed him the keys with a smile at his eagerness to drive her car. She complimented his driving as they left the ranch. "I've been getting a lot of practice," he explained. "What about that motorcycle? Have you practiced riding it?" Mrs. Delgado asked. Scott knew she didn't approve of the two wheeled transportation, "I have been. The instructor at the safety course said I had really good control. On Sunday I'm going riding with Sheriff King if he has the time." "Sheriff King?" she asked. "It was something that the judge lined up. Everybody keeps reminding me to be safe. Between you, Mr. Piotrowski, and the Mendozas I think I'm covered. Trust me; I want to be a safe rider too!" She laughed, "Okay. Okay ... but you know I worry about you." Scott asked her what had been on his mind, "Have you ever been in a big city?" "Yes, why do you ask?" she wondered. He told her about Mr. Piotrowski inviting him go to Chicago. That required an explanation about the museum, and how Mr. Piotrowski was involved. "Alex Piotrowski has something that's going to be displayed in Chicago at a famous museum? What are these 'nets-keh' anyway?" "You mean the Fort Stockton rumor mill hasn't already filled you in?" he joked. "The rumor mill isn't as all knowing as you think," she replied. Scott glanced over at her. She waved a finger at him, "If you must know the rumor was that Alex was negotiating the sale of his property. Why else would he meet with that lady lawyer of his, and people from out of town?" An interesting twist on the available facts, he thought. Scott explained that the netsuke were old miniature carvings highly collected in Japan and around the world. Mr. Piotrowski had purchased them in Japan while waiting to be shipped home from the Korean War. "Little carvings?" she asked. Scott took his hand from the wheel and made a circle with his thumb and index finger, "About that big." "Who could have guessed? I've never heard that he collected anything oriental. Verna certainly never said anything about it. To answer your question, yes. I've been to a few big cities, but Houston was probably the biggest." "Did you like it?" he asked. "It was different." "That means you didn't like it." "Mijo, you should make up your own mind about these kinds of things." "Tell me one thing you didn't like about Houston, please." Mrs. Delgado thought about it, "I didn't like the humidity." "What do you mean?" "Houston is very humid. You know how the bathroom is after a hot shower? That's what Houston feels like. I suppose the people who live there get used to it. Mosquitoes ... they have terrible mosquitoes there too." "I don't think I'd like that," Scott replied. "A lot of people live there, too many. They must not mind too much. They also get hurricanes, and the traffic is terrible." "Anything else?" "It's ugly, and you can get very lost." "Is that all?" he asked. "You're teasing me," she said as she lightly slapped him on the knee. Scott parked in front of the barbershop, and left the engine running so Mrs. Delgado could go and visit with her friends. The bell on the door jingled as he entered. Scott saw a few familiar faces. A couple of men from the VFW said good morning to him. He took a seat and reached for a magazine when their interrupted conversation started back up again. The patrons of the barbershop were discussing the dead bodies found out in the county yesterday. He'd almost allowed himself to forget. "It's pure chance that anybody found them. Hell, they could have been out there for years," said one man. "They never did find that Jones girl," said another. "That's right," commented a third. Little Andrea Jones had gone missing when he was in grade school. He remembered there had been a huge manhunt, but she'd simply disappeared. Abducted, people said. That was over six years ago, he realized. The first man was talking, "Somebody's finally gonna buy that property if they had a gas survey done." "Gas company checking on the lease probably doesn't have a thing to do with a sale," commented one of the barbers. The men argued about it for a while before the conversation steered back around to the dead men. "Druggies," said an old rancher in disgust. "I heard they was having orgies out there," offered an older gentleman with a cane. "Now where on earth did you hear that?" responded another. The barber pointed to his chair and Scott took a seat. The man carefully taped a strip of crepe paper around his neck, and then draped a barber's cape over his chest and legs. He tightened the collar around his neck, adjusting the paper. Scott tried to keep his hands from moving around under the cape. He didn't like the feeling of the tight collar. It made it hard to swallow. "The same?" the barber asked. He nodded. The man quickly took his scissors and began cutting the hair around Scott's ears. There was a mechanical 'click' and the hair trimmer began to buzz loudly. The men in the barbershop continued to talk about the exciting news of the day. The mystery could fuel gossip in the county for the next six months. A new man came into the shop, and the conversation started all over again. The new man had heard juicy details from a friend, whose cousin was the neighbor of a city police officer. According to him one of the dead men was a major player in a gang that dealt drugs and ran prostitutes in El Paso and Juarez. The barber had finished with Scott's hair. He took a sharp straight razor and carefully shaved his neck. When he was finished he whisked the loose hair off him with a stiff brush. The barber removed the cape and paper from Scott's neck, and vigorously brushed his shoulders and neck again. Then he slapped some sort of aftershave on his neck. It had a pleasant odor and felt cool against his skin. The barber quickly took a small broom and cleaned the hair from around the chair before he told Scott to hop down. Scott was reaching for his wallet when he thought about the hair the barber was sweeping up. Oh crap, keep thinking it's hair, it's just hair. He knew hair was very flammable. Great, another weird experiment that I need to conduct, Scott realized. He paid for his haircut and left a two dollar tip. Outside he waited for Mrs. Delgado. When she pulled up he waved at her to stay behind the wheel. He climbed into the passenger side. "Did you hear the news?" Mrs. Delgado asked excitedly. "That's all they were talking about in the barbershop," Scott explained. She was disappointed. Mrs. Delgado wanted to talk about the most exciting news of the New Year. Scott obliged her and asked, "What have you heard?" She launched into a long explanation that was no more or less wild than what the men of the barbershop had come up with. "You can't believe what the paper says," she concluded and tapped a newspaper on the seat beside her for emphasis. He picked up the paper. It was a special edition since the paper normally came out only once a week. He read the article, but it was short on detail. The two men had not been identified, 'pending notification of next of kin, ' and the cause of death wouldn't be known until an autopsy had been completed. The newspaper did have a map showing the general location of where the bodies had been discovered. Scott folded the paper, and sat it back down on the seat. After Mrs. Delgado dropped Scott and his bike off at the engine center it was more of the same; lots of speculation and very few facts. Eddie wondered if they were 'human traffickers' or something along those lines. Scott shrugged his shoulders and mumbled innocuous comments. He was grateful to jump on the bike and head to Mr. Piotrowski's. Mr. Piotrowski had already heard about the dead men, and more importantly he had talked to Judge Upcott about Chicago. "Can we go?" Scott asked. "The judge says all I have to do is sign a few papers, and agree not to lose you between Texas and Illinois and we'll be good to go." "Alright!" "There's almost two months before we leave. We've got to try and find some appropriate clothing for a big time museum shindig." "We could ask Mrs. Mendoza about some dress clothes. She likes to shop a lot," Scott offered. "That's not a bad idea. Why don't you go on and get out of here? Don't forget that the sheriff is coming by tomorrow." Scott conducted new experiments back at the ranch with a few strands of hair and some nail clippings. Both substances are very similar biologically. Fingernails contained no DNA, like urine, he thought. The experiments further solidified his theory. As long as he didn't consciously think about it, his biological bits and pieces remained 'normal, ' unless he was injured. If that was the case then his body healed rapidly, and the evidence disappeared. It made a strange kind of sense. As far as fixing bullet holes with his fingers, and not leaving finger prints behind ... well that was hard to rationalize. Sunday afternoon Scott wore all of his motorcycle gear; winter weight jacket, reinforced pants, riding boots, helmet and gloves. He was standing nervously by his idling Yamaha as Sheriff King walked around inspecting him and the bike. The sheriff had ridden up shortly after lunch on a massive Honda Gold Wing motorcycle. Scott felt silly standing next to his little two-stroke 200cc bike compared against the nearly thousand pound six-cylinder touring bike. The sheriff had proudly shown it off. The Gold Wing had every bell and whistle; heated seats, and even a built in navigation system. "Scotty, this is a really a sharp looking bike. These old Yamaha two-strokers were real screamers. You've got all the right gear too. I thought we'd make a quick stop at Meritt's for gas, and then ride into town. I want you to have a chance to interact with traffic and experience a few intersections. They can be tricky. Remember, other drivers won't be looking for you so stay on your toes. Any questions so far?" "Do you want me in front, or behind you?" "Follow behind me in the staggered position. If we get separated in town meet me by the taqueria. After a trip through town we'll circle back and head here to Mr. Piotrowski's. Sound good?" "Sounds great, sheriff. I really appreciate you taking the time to do this on a Sunday." "It's my pleasure. Most of my riding buddies won't get back on two wheels until spring and I love to ride. You ready?" Scott reached down and felt the engine through his gloves. It felt good and warm, and sounded right to him, "I think it's warmed up. Let's ride!" The ride was fun. In town Scott was a little nervous, but following the big Honda was a treat. They swapped places a few times when the sheriff waved him on ahead. After nearly two hours of riding they made it back to Mr. Piotrowski's house. The sheriff was very complimentary about his riding skills, and promised a glowing report to the judge. Over the next couple of weeks Scott completed the driver's education home study course and all his behind the wheel hours. On Monday, February 5th, Scott and Mr. Piotrowski loaded the motorcycle into the back of the truck and went to town. Thanks to the judge he had the approval for the hardship license. Scott took both driving tests in the morning. He drove the truck for the first test, and rode the bike for the second test with Mr. Piotrowski and the examiner following along behind in the truck. Outside of the DMV after it was all over Mr. Piotrowski asked him what he was going to do next. "I've got to get a parking permit for the student parking lot," he held his temporary license in one hand, staring at it. "Then I'll say 'congratulations' on getting your driver's license. I know it's a big step for you." "Thanks, Mr. Piotrowski. I couldn't have done it without a lot of help, and from you especially." "You can pay me back by being a safe driver, and a safe rider. Okay?" Mr. Piotrowski said with a serious look on his face. "Yes, sir, safety first." Scott made the quick trip from the DMV to the high school. It felt pretty good to be riding by himself. He went ahead and parked in the student lot. Classes had already started. He walked to the front office to pay for his parking permit. He had to show his insurance and registration papers as well as his license. "Mr. MacIntyre, why aren't you in class?" asked Principal Reynolds as he walked into the office from the hallway. "Good morning, sir. I was at the DMV getting my license. As soon as I put this sticker on my bike I'll head straight to class." "Just a moment," the principal said as he walked over to a computer. He punched something in and looked at it carefully. "I guess we can let you slide today. According to your attendance record, you've never missed a day of class. That's going back all the way through middle school. I have to say I'm impressed. Let's not start any bad habits." Scott frowned. "Problem, Mr. MacIntyre?" "I'm going to have to miss a Friday in March to go out of town." "Be sure and let your teachers know. That way you can make up any missed assignments. If you hurry you can catch the start of third period." "Thank you, sir." This was sure a different side of Mr. Reynolds than he'd seen the first time they'd met. Scott went by his locker. His helmet was not going to fit. Why didn't I plan this better, he asked himself? The lockers at the gym were bigger. He went to see Coach Zell, and the coach gave him a spare locker to store his gear in. "Don't get banged up riding that crotch rocket," he said. "I expect you to compete next year. You better be careful." "I will, Coach. Thanks for the locker." The bell rang. He made it to his English class just in time. "Well?" asked Eddie. Scott gave him a thumbs-up. That afternoon in the library Scott took his time. He didn't have to hurry to catch the bus to Meritt's. Instead he read over the new SAT prep book the library had gotten in. He was taking the exam on Saturday. It would be another day missed at the engine center. His missed hours were becoming a problem. He was only working ten hours a week for Mr. Mendoza. Scott wondered how Mr. Mendoza would react if he found a new job? He went back by the gym and put on his riding gear. The ride to Mr. Piotrowski's gave him a lot of time to think. It wouldn't make sense to ride into town every day. He could park at Meritt's Corner and ride the bus just like he'd done with his bicycle. Mr. Piotrowski and Jobe were waiting for him when he pulled into the driveway. "That would be a long commute to make every day," Scott commented as he took off his helmet. "I imagine it would be," answered Mr. Piotrowski. "Any problems?" "The bike ran great. It's gotten smoother the more miles I've put on it. Coach Zell had to give me a locker in the gym so I could store my helmet and riding gear. I didn't think about it not fitting into my regular locker." "That was nice of him. Got something in the back of the truck I need you to unload for me." Scott walked over and looked into the back of the big Dodge. There were two steamer type trunks there. He pulled the tailgate down, and took hold of the first trunk. "Good grief, what's in this one?" he asked. "Not sure, bought them both unopened at an estate auction over in McCamey this afternoon. Young fella loaded them for me." "Where do you want it? "Storage building, please," Mr. Piotrowski unlocked the side door, and Scott carried the first trunk to a bench. The second trunk was lighter, and he set it on the floor next to the bench. Mr. Piotrowski found a screwdriver and a hammer and was approaching the steamer trunk. "What are you doing?" Scott asked. "Opening this thing up," replied Mr. Piotrowski. "Here, let me give it a try first. These are real simple locks on these things." He hunted around in a drawer and found a straight piece of metal to use as a probe, and bent a bit of wire into an 'L'. It took him about fifteen seconds to open the trunk. "Where did you learn to do that?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Read about it," he replied. 'What did you pay for this anyway?" There was nothing in the trunk but some old polyester dresses and half of an old encyclopedia set. That explained the weight. "I paid five dollars for both trunks. Nobody else wanted them." The lighter trunk proved more difficult to open, "Do you want to try and resell the trunks? Because I'm going to have to bust this lock open. The mechanism is rusted shut." "Be my guest," Mr. Piotrowski said as he handed him the screwdriver and hammer. The locked popped open easily. Inside were a lot of old newspapers, really old in fact, and a musty uniform complete with hat and shoes. The newspapers were from the First World War. Scott read with fascination about something called the Zimmermann Note which had caused great outrage in the state. The German government had promised to help Mexico retake territory in Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona if Mexico came in on the side of the Central Powers. Another paper had headlines about the hunt for Pancho Villa. This was Texas history come to life. Mr. Piotrowski looked at the papers with interest. "Do you remember any of this, Mr. Piotrowski?" Mr. Piotrowski gave him one of those looks, "It was a little before my time. I remember it from school of course. Back then it wasn't the First World War, just the Great War. I was ten years old when the Second World War started. It was only after that, that people decided that we needed to number our wars. I guess my war was too small. They tried to call Korea a 'Police Action' but I can't think of any police actions that required artillery." "Are you going to put these up for sale?" Scott asked. "I think I'll call the historical society and see if they're interested," said Mr. Piotrowski. "You know if they don't want them maybe one of the history teachers at the school might?" Scott suggested. "Not a bad idea. We have some options at least." Scott left and headed for the ranch, but he decided to stop by the Mendoza's first, and show off a little. The house seemed empty when he knocked on the door, but he could hear a radio and then somebody running down the stairs. The door was thrown open by a breathless Janie. "Hey! Was that your motorcycle I heard?" Scott pointed to the driveway. "Cool!" she exclaimed as she rushed over to the bike. "Careful, the pipes are hot," he warned. He pointed out the instruments, and all the work the people at the Mendoza shops had done. "Will you take me for a ride?" she asked. "Janie," he warned. "Where is everybody anyway?" "Oh, poo. My mother wouldn't find out. They've all gone to some home center in Midland to look at things for the house." "I'm not going to get either of us in trouble by doing something stupid. Here, you can sit on the bike and pretend you're riding, okay?" He helped her onto the bike, and kept it from falling over. "How is the house coming along?" Scott asked. "Great! I get to pick what color I want my room painted and everything." She made motorcycle noises as she pretended to ride the bike. Scott let her get back to her homework, and continued on to the ranch. He was careful riding over the cattle grate. He parked the motorcycle where the ranch employees parked their vehicles. The foreman came over and admired the bike. "These little bikes are great transportation, until it rains," the foreman said. "Yeah I'm not looking forward to that. I haven't picked up any rain gear yet," Scott replied. The foreman laughed, "You will." Mr. Rewcastle was waiting for him as he walked to the bunkhouse. "I didn't authorize you to have a vehicle young man." "That's okay, sir. The judge took care of everything. I've got my license and insurance so I'm good to go. Thanks for offering to help though," he said deliberately misinterpreting the man's words. Mr. Rewcastle tried to stare him down, but broke eye contact. "Don't scare the horses," he mumbled, and then turned on his heel back toward the house. The next day at school was strange. He'd ridden the motorcycle to Meritt's Corner and caught the bus to town. Walking the halls he noticed that some people seemed on edge, while other people were giddy with excitement. Had he missed something the day before while he was preoccupied with his license? Scott caught Eddie before English. "What's going on today?" "You don't know?" replied Eddie with a smirk. "Nobody tells me anything. Is it some juicy new details on those bodies?" "Nope." "You're not going to tell me?" Scott demanded. Eddie shook his head, "I'll bet you figure it out by lunch time." Molly sat next to him at lunch. Scott was trying to finish his salad so that he could start on his geography homework. "So, 'Duke, ' have any plans for next Friday?" she asked. His fork was halfway between the salad plate and his mouth. The use of the nickname coined by Molly could only mean trouble. He paused and looked at all of the faces at his table staring back at him, "Uh, why?" "Because I'm asking you to the Sadie Hawkins dance," she answered. A Sadie Hawkins dance was when the girls got to ask the boys to a dance in a reverse of normal tradition. He'd completely forgotten about it. Scott put his fork down, "What?" "Dance. Sadie Hawkins. I'm asking you," she explained slowly. "Oh. Okay I guess?" he replied. Molly glared at him, "You guess?" "Is everybody else going?" Scott wondered. That did not go over well. Molly explained what he was going to wear, and when they were going to meet before the dance. He never got the chance to start his homework. Bo walked with him to their art class. "Are you and Rene going to this thing?" Scott asked Bo. "You mean since she's talking to me again? Yeah we're going. Rene and Molly have some afternoon get together planned for this weekend. I think the idea is to introduce you to Molly's parents." "What? On which day?" Scott wanted to know. "Saturday." "Have fun without me. I can't make it," Scott told him. "You can't? Molly's going to be really disappointed," Bo said. "Then maybe she should have run it by me first. I could have told her that Saturday was no good. Why all the bother, it's only one dance?" "I think Molly sees it as something more. At least that's what Rene seems to be hinting at." Scott stopped walking and Bo had to double back, "That's all I need." Bo was curious, "I thought you liked Molly?" "Molly's okay." "So are you going to tell her you can't do the Saturday thing?" Bo asked. "I think I'll wait for her to ask me about it. Are you going to tell Rene?" "And have her get mad at me for something that you did? No thank you. I'll let you handle it," Bo decided. During cross country Scott managed to run solo and avoided Rene. On the bus back to Meritt's Eddie was giving Scott a hard time about Molly. "Is she going to make you wear cowboy boots?" Eddie wondered. "She didn't mention it. By the way, has somebody asked you yet?" Eddie explained that he had let several eligible girls know he was available. It was only a matter of time before one of them asked him. Jobe was very excited to see Scott when he got off of his motorcycle at Mr. Piotrowski's. There was a note inside the kitchen screen door. It read, 'Visiting a friend. Feed Jobe for me.' Scott used his own key to unlock the kitchen door. He put out fresh water and food for Jobe. "I'm going to change and hit the bag," he told the dog. He had used his Christmas money to purchase some open finger, padded gloves to use with the heavy bag. Scott put them on and went to work. They'd re-stuffed the bag a couple of times to get the weight and density right. Lately, he'd been mixing knee strikes and elbows in with his straight punches. He worked the bag until his arms were hanging limp, and his knees were cherry red from the contact. He took a quick shower and put his school clothes back on. Scott sat on the rear steps to take in the cool air. Jobe came out through the pet door and sat between his legs. "You need a good brushing. Stay right there," he ordered. Scott went into the house, and got a comb and a brush. He sat back down, and went to work on Jobe's coat. He was lost in thought staring out past the storage building when Jobe licked him on the face. "What am I thinking?" he responded to the dog. "I'm wondering if the rabbit I 'fixed' has any weird superpowers. Can you imagine it? What if he's crazy strong and really intelligent? At the rate those suckers breed ... I could have accidentally caused the downfall of the human race. They'll consume all of the food crops, and overthrow the government. Who knows where it could end?" He had weird thoughts like that from time to time. Jobe 'woofed' quietly. "I know. Scary thing to think about. Come on, I'm going to put you inside, and write a note for Mr. Piotrowski. You behave until Mr. P. gets back." Scott rode out of the driveway, and didn't notice Jobe come tearing out of the house. The big dog ran across the back field toward the direction of the rabbit warren. On Wednesday morning Scott had sliced up a grapefruit to split with Mr. Piotrowski, and had some whole wheat waffles in the toaster. Mr. Piotrowski was still in his pajamas when he came downstairs. "In your note you said you brushed Jobe?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Sure did." "You should see him this morning. Where's he hiding at? Go find him will you?" Scott checked around the house, but Jobe wasn't in his usual spots. He went outside and found Jobe hiding in his lean-to dog house. "Come out of there you silly dog." Jobe emerged from the dog house and Scott grabbed his collar. "What on earth have you gotten into?" he demanded. Jobe looked like he had been wrestling with a bush, and lost. Scott checked him over carefully to see if he had been hurt. His paws were fine, and he could find no sign of injury. "Didn't I tell you to stay out of trouble? I really don't want to smell like wet dog before school starts, but you desperately need a bath." Scott changed into some sweat pants and an old t-shirt. He got the brush and comb and went to work for a second time on Jobe's coat. He dragged the galvanized tub out from the storage building, and filled it with water. He mixed in some hot water from the tap inside so it would be warm. Mr. Piotrowski had gotten dressed, and came out to observe the bath from a safe distance. "It looks like he's been rolling in brush, or got into a fight. Have you seen any other dogs around?" Scott asked. "I haven't," answered Mr. Piotrowski. "You figure he's been meeting a girlfriend?" "I think you would have seen her if he did. At least he's not hurt. He actually looks a little embarrassed. Maybe he's learned his lesson?" Scott finished Jobe's bath, and toweled the dog dry as best he could. He took what Mr. Piotrowski called a 'whore's bath' by washing himself in the sink, and got redressed for school. At lunch Scott was eating an apple with one hand, and jotting down some ideas for the English paper that he had to write with the other when Molly sat down and tried to start a conversation. "So what do you like to do?" "Huh?" "Your hobbies. Things like that," Molly asked. "Molly, I've got a half hour for lunch. I'm trying to get some of my English homework done. Can we do this later, please?" "Do it after school like everybody else," she suggested. "I'm working at the engine center this afternoon. Look I really need to get this done. I'll see you later." He left Molly in the lunch room, and went and sat in the hallway outside of his art classroom until the bell rang. For Thursday's lunch Molly tried a different tactic. "Scott, do you have time to talk today?" she asked politely. Scott suppressed a sigh, and closed his text book, "Sure." "Hobbies?" she asked. Bo and Eddie were seated on the other side of the lunch table pretending not to listen. "I really don't have any," Scott replied. "You have to have something that you like to do," she insisted. "I like riding my motorcycle. Does that count as a hobby?" "It will do. Now, where were you born?" "What?" "Where did you and your parents live before Fort Stockton?" Molly pried. "Molly!" hissed Rene who had been late joining them for lunch. "I don't talk about my parents," Scott warned. "Well my parents are going to want to know a few details when they meet you on Saturday!" "Saturday? I can't meet your parents on Saturday." This wasn't going how Molly had planned. "Why not?" she huffed. "I already have plans." "So change them," she said as if it was a simple thing. "I can't," he explained. Molly was about to tell him why that wouldn't do when Rene grabbed her arm and hauled her girlfriend off to the ladies room. "What was that all about?" asked Eddie. "I think that was her attempt to get to know me." The girls returned from the bathroom, and pretended that everything was perfectly normal. Molly gave him a little smile that Scott didn't know how to interpret. Rene cornered him at the start of cross country before he could make his escape. "Are you sure you can't come Saturday?" "Yeah, sorry." "About earlier—" Rene started to explain. "Don't worry about it. I understand why she's curious. Let's just forget it, okay?" Rene agreed. The morning of Saturday, February 10th was a cold one. The thermometer in the kitchen at the ranch said it was only 34F degrees. Scott ate a full breakfast. The college admissions test was almost four hours in length, but the prep book said that with check-in and breaks between test sections it would be closer to five hours. He double checked that he had everything for the test. Mrs. Delgado waved when he passed her on the road into town. The parking lot at school was mostly empty. Scott made his way to the room where the testing was supposed to take place. It looked like there were thirty or so students milling around in the hallway. "What's going on?" he asked one of the students. "It's taking forever to get checked in," she replied. There were two proctors checking them in. One of them was his geometry teacher, Mr. Channing. Scott got into the other line. When he got to the table Mr. Channing asked him if he was supposed to be there. Scott ignored him and handed his admission ticket and school ID to the other proctor. Scott was glad he had packed water and snacks in his backpack. They got five minute breaks after every test segment, and a thirty minute break after every three segments. The biggest challenge of the test was boredom, and he had to pick which section to throw to keep his score down. During the half hour breaks students walked around and commiserated over questions they thought they got wrong. Scott left the test and rode to Mr. Piotrowski's. It had warmed up, and the ride was nice. Both Jobe and Mr. Piotrowski were out somewhere, so he continued on to the ranch. The test had tired him out, but he felt the need to do something. He stood in his room and decided it needed a good cleaning. Scott started with his book shelves. He put his small collection of personal items in the closet. He sorted through the books, and set aside some that he was going to give to the junior bunkhouse. It didn't take long to dust the small room. The American flag he carefully laid out on his bed, and brushed the dust and lint from it. With the flag back on the wall he took his knickknacks from the closet and put them back on the bookshelf. The objects didn't say much about him; a post card from Eddie, a ball cap from the sheriff's office, an arrowhead, and the Omega watch box. He put the old books in a box and took them over to the bunkhouse next door. He knocked and went on in. There were a couple of boys in the common area playing cards. "Got some books for you guys," he said by way of explanation. Some of the other boys came out from the bedrooms and looked through the books. "Are you going to give us rides on the motorbike?" asked one of the boys. The rest looked at him expectantly. Why not? "I'd have to find another helmet first, but sure I can give you guys rides around the ranch. We can try and do it next weekend when Mrs. Rewcastle is gone. Okay?" The boys excitedly agreed. Anything that was different at the ranch was a good break from the everyday monotony. Scott rode the Yamaha to school on Monday. Eddie wanted him to come by the new house after school, and Scott had readily agreed. Before their English class Eddie made sure Scott was coming to the house. "Draw me a map will you?" Scott replied. Eddie drew a quick map. He didn't use any street names. Fortunately Scott was able to match it up with the map in his head. "Hey, you're not far from the public pool," Scott commented. "I know! It's going to be a great summer." They were in a good mood when they headed to lunch. Eddie spotted Bo in the lunch line, and went to stand with him. Scott went over to the salad bar, and checked out the day's selection. He was building his lunch when Rene stopped him. "Were you in town Saturday?" "Yeah," Scott answered distractedly. "Molly saw you on your bike," Rene told him. "And?" he asked as he bit into a slice of radish. "You said you had plans. She's really mad." "I said I was busy Saturday, why is she mad?" he wanted to know. He walked over to an empty table and waved at Bo and Eddie as they emerged from the serving line. Rene followed and was trying to explain something to him, but he wasn't paying attention. "You're a fake!" announced Molly. "What?" "You, Scott MacIntyre, are a fraud," she said with her hands on her hips. "Molly?" Rene said with a worried look on her face. "What are you talking about?" asked Scott. "My dad and I did one of those online background checks on you. You're a fake. The name Scott Wayne MacIntyre didn't even exist until 1998. "Molly O'Brien!" Rene half shouted in horror. Eddie and Bo were staring at her in shock. "Oh don't give me that baloney." She turned and pointed at Scott, "Are your parents even dead? I bet they're in jail or something. That's why boys like you go into state care," she continued triumphantly. "Are you insane?" shouted Eddie. His friends were shouting back and forth. Scott stood slowly, and walked out of the lunch room. There was a buzzing in his ears, and he clenched his fists so tightly that he lost the feeling in his fingers. ------- Coach Zell touched him on the shoulder and startled him. He looked around. He was in the locker room at the gym. His helmet was in his lap. How long have I been sitting here? "Scott, are you okay?" "Coach? Yeah ... I'm okay. I was thinking about leaving school early today," he replied. "Want to talk about it?" the coach said as he sat next to him on the bench. "Not really. Somebody said something about my parents, and I wanted to get away for a while." "What did they say? Has somebody been bullying you?" the coach wanted to know. Scott hiccupped, "It was a girl who asked me to the Sadie Hawkins dance. She said my parents are in jail." Scott rubbed his eyes. "Is that true?" Coach Zell asked carefully. Scott gave a little laugh, "No. My parents died ... in an accident when I was little. I was with them when it happened." "That's terrible. I had absolutely no idea," the coach said. "Why would she say something like that?" "I don't know. She said her and her dad ran a background check on me." "A background check?" the coach was as confused as Scott was. "If you give me her name I'll go to talk to her. In fact, I think I should." "That's alright, Coach. I think I can work it out. I didn't know what to do there for a bit." "What do you do when you get mad?" asked the coach. "I've go hiking or camping, sometimes I read," he didn't think mentioning the punching bag was a good idea. The coach nodded encouragingly, "Those sound like good ideas. I used to go fishing when I got mad. You can't really stay too mad when you're fishing." "Where did you go fishing?" Scott asked curiously. Pecos County was not known for its water sports. "Oklahoma," answered the coach. "I grew up in a section in the northeast of the state that they call Green Country. There's a lot of water, and trees. Nothing like it here in West Texas." "That sounds really nice, Coach. How come you ended up here?" The coach smiled at the memory, "I thought I was going to be a star football player. The only school that would give me a scholarship was West Texas A&M up in the panhandle. It's a Division II school. Eventually I figured out that football was not in my future, but what I really liked was coaching. After bouncing around as an assistant coach I landed here." Scott tried to imagine Coach Zell as a young football player. "What class do you have next?" the coach asked. He looked at his watch, "Biology. I've missed my art class." The coach stood up, "I'll talk to the art teacher for you. Why don't you head on over to biology? Remember, I'm always available if you need to talk." Scott went through biology and speech in a daze. He found Rene waiting for him outside of the gym. He didn't particularly want to talk to her, but he had to be polite. When he got closer to her he could see that her eyes were red. "I'm so sorry—" she started. He held his hands up, "It's not your fault." She sniffled, "You're not mad at me?" "No. Can we not talk about it? I need to think. How about a good run instead?" "I'll get changed. Scott, I'm really sorry. She said some horrible things to you." They had a good four mile run, and Rene managed not to pester him with questions. Scott told her he'd see her tomorrow. Scott sat on the Yamaha waiting for it to warm up. He pulled out of the parking lot and made a quick decision. He rode over by the courthouse and parked. He walked into the law office and asked the receptionist if Mrs. Black could spare a few minutes for him. "I'll check," she replied. He took a seat, and absently looked at the magazines. "She can see you now," the receptionist said. She escorted him down the hallway, and opened the office door for him. "I always have time for my favorite client," Honour Black said rising from her chair to take his hand. He gave her hand a quick shake and sat down. "Now what can I do for you? You're not in trouble again are you?" she asked teasingly. "No, not the usual kind anyway." "Sounds serious," she replied. Scott took a breath, "Are you my lawyer, or Mr. Piotrowski's lawyer doing favors for a kid?" She considered him for a moment. "Do you have a dollar?" she asked. He looked through his wallet. He took a five dollar bill and handed it to her. She took it and put in her desk drawer, "There, you've just hired me. That means I'm your lawyer. Anything that you say to me is under the lawyer – client privilege. That means I can't tell anybody about it. Unless you're going to tell me that you're about to commit a crime. You're not going to start a crime spree are you?" "Not today." "So, what's on your mind?" she asked. "A girl asked me to the dance on Friday," he explained. Honour cocked her head at him. "I'm telling you so that you'll understand what happened. She asked me some questions about my family, but I didn't want to answer her. I don't ever talk about it, or them, do you understand?" Honour nodded. "Molly, that's her name, wanted me to meet her parents this last Saturday, but she didn't check to see if I was available. I wasn't. I spent five hours taking the SAT exam on Saturday, but I don't want anybody to know." "Why not?" she asked. "I don't know. I guess I like to keep things private?" he said hoping she understood. "She got mad supposedly because she saw me in town. It must have been when I was leaving the exam. Her and her dad did an online background check. Today at school she said some ... ugly things about how I was a fake, and my parents were probably in jail. Things like that." "What did you do?" Honour asked, concerned. "Me? I didn't do anything. Not to her or anything like that, no way." "Sorry, I'm used to clients who've done bad things. I have to ask so I know what to defend you from. That's one reason why I quit practicing criminal law and stick to civil law mostly; too many bad people." Honour stood up and poured him a glass of water. She walked around and sat in the chair next to him, handing him the glass, "If it's nothing like that then what can I help you with?" Scott took a drink and a deep breath as he put the glass down, "I'd like you to run a background check on me and tell me what it says. I have money to pay for it." Honour got up and went to a filing cabinet. She took out a file, sat down and opened it. "I've already had a background check done on you—" "What?" Scott said, alarmed. "—please let me finish. You know I'm Alex Piotrowski's lawyer. I'm very fond him. He was my first client in Fort Stockton. When he started spending a lot of time with a young man ... well I wanted to find out who you were. Can you understand why I might do that?" she asked. He rolled the idea around in his mind trying to find an answer he could live with, "You wanted to protect him?" "Exactly right. Would you like to know what we found?" "Yes, please." Honour began speaking in her professional court voice, "This report was compiled by an experienced investigator I trust. A change of name was filed with the court in January 1998. Scott Wayne MacIntyre is now your legal name. That's not uncommon, but what is odd is that there's no mention of the original name. All records, except the most basic, pertaining to you are sealed under court order. An order, by the way, signed by Judge Elijah Upcott. A replacement birth certificate in this new name was issued by the state. A social security number was applied for later that year. The date of birth on the certificate appears to be approximate, and the place of birth is Texas, exact city unknown." She paused, "My investigator says that the code used in the file sometimes refers to births that were unrecorded. That's been known to happen with homeless couples, or families that live in isolated communes, and in other unfortunate cases. Your biological parents, unnamed, are listed as deceased, death result of accident." Honour looked at him carefully checking for any reaction. "The investigator learned that the minor was reported to suffer from amnesia as the result of trauma. The investigator confirmed this story by examining a copy of your medical records, but they do not explain the cause of the trauma or the injuries observed at the time of your entry into care of the Broken Creek Boys Ranch. In his notes he wrote, 'something bad happened to this child.' He could find no record of an incident resulting in the fatalities of both parents with a surviving male child that could be matched to you for a period stretching back three years prior to the court order." She took a drink from her coffee cup, "You've been a resident at the ranch since December 1997. There are apparently no surviving family members to take you into care. Your school records indicate that you are extremely bright, well above average intelligence." Scott coughed, "Well, that seems very thorough." "Yes, you can bet it's much more thorough than anything your date and her father could have found with an online search." "Thank you for telling me. It's a comfort." "Is any of it true?" Honor asked. He thought about it, "You mean about the important parts? It's true that my parents are deceased, and it's true that I suffer from amnesia." "Would you like to tell me what this is really all about?" He was tempted, "Not today. Someday I might ask you to look into a few things for me." "What are you going to do about the girl?" she asked "It's not a crime to be curious. Her conclusions ... well, I try not to be an angry person. I'll decide the next time I see her. Hey, what about my change for that dollar?" Honor smiled, "I'll keep the rest as a contingency fee for the next time." Scott stood and thanked Honour for seeing him. He was on the road out of town when he remembered he was supposed to be stopping by the Mendoza's new house. It's not all about you, he thought. Scott found the house, and parked out of the way of the trucks. It looked like Mr. Mendoza had recruited a few people from the shop to help finishing painting the interior. They must have gotten the bulk of the remodeling finished early. He put a smile on his face and went to go face the music. Before he could make the front door he spotted Mrs. Mendoza headed toward him in full mother hen mode. She grabbed him into a tight hug, and the held his cheeks as she tried to peer into his eyes. He wasn't sure what she was looking for. "Are you alright? Where have you been? We were worried sick." "I'm alright Mrs. Mendoza. I spent a little time thinking about things." Lilly and her sister Janice were not far behind. "Who is this bitch anyway?" demanded Lilly. "Lillian Elaine Mendoza! We do not use that kind of language young lady," her mother said sternly. "Sorry, momma." "Now, Scotty, who is this little witch?" asked Mrs. Mendoza. She had her hands on her hips, and her daughters were copying her. "She's a girl at school who got the wrong idea about something. Why don't you show me this terrific house of yours?" "That's all you're going to say about it? Eddie told us what she said. The nerve of that girl. I've half a mind to call her parents," Mrs. Mendoza was getting hot. Fortunately he was rescued by Mr. Mendoza, "Just the man I wanted to see. Eddie the boys are in back and could use your help." "Men!" Mrs. Mendoza said disgustedly with echoing snorts by both girls. Scott gave Mr. Mendoza a grateful look, and escaped to the back of the house. Molly was a no show the next day at school. On Wednesday Scott knew she had returned when his friend at his lunch table all turned to look behind him. He turned to see if he was right. Molly was standing nearby, her lips were quivering and her eyes were red. "I just wanted ... I wanted to say ... I'm sorry," and she burst into tears. The lunchroom had turned to see the drama. Scott's friends were all offering their opinions. "She should be sorry." "Don't forgive her." "We don't need her around here." "Stop!" Scott stood up. "Sit," he pointed Molly toward a spot at the lunch table. "The rest of you sit down, and be quiet, please." Scott walked back and forth, and tried to put his thoughts together. Molly was still crying and blowing her nose. The lunch room returned to normal, disappointed that there wasn't going to be a big scene. "Molly, take a drink of water," he instructed. "Scott—" Rene started. Scott held up his hand for silence. "Okay. We're all friends here—" There were protests but Scott overrode them. "—and sometimes friends make mistakes. Molly made a big one." She blew her nose loudly. Scott continued, "We've all made mistakes. I know I have. Molly has tried to apologize for hers, right?" "Yes," she said miserably. "Okay. I accept her apology." "You do?" "I do. However, I think she needs to be punished," Scott said as Molly winced. The lunch table friends all looked at him curiously. "Molly's punishment is that she will take Eddie to the Sadie Hawkins dance. After that, I think we'll be square." "What!" both Molly and Eddie exclaimed. Bo looked at Scott like he was a mad genius. Rene stared first at Scott, and then at Molly and Eddie. "That's my ruling. Do you accept my punishment?" he asked. Molly looked at Eddie from her teary eyes, and said, "If I have to ... then yes, I accept." "Wait, why am I in the middle of this?" questioned Eddie. "Easy. You don't have a date to the dance, and it might be the only way to prevent the Mendoza girls from committing a homicide."' Bo snickered, and Rene elbowed him in the ribs. "What are you going to do?" asked Eddie. Scott thought for a second, "I'm going camping." Friday, day of the Sadie Hawkins Dance Things were still tense among Scott's friends. Rene was refusing to speak to Molly. Bo was trying to stay neutral, but supportive. Surprisingly, it was Eddie who was most nervous about the dance. Scott had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing when Eddie described his mother's reaction to the news about his date. At the start of fourth period a group of six student athletes were pulled from their classes to be randomly screened for illicit substances. Scott was the first to arrive at the office so he went first. The school nurse was there along with two individuals from a testing lab; a supervisor, and a monitor. They gave him a form to read over and had him sign it. He selected a collection jar from the tray the nurse held, and read off the number to the monitor. "Empty your pockets, please" said the bored monitor. Scott put his keys, wallet, and spare change into a basket. "Raise your shirt." He pulled his shirt up. They checked to see if he had anything hidden on him. "This way," said the monitor leading him to the bathroom. "Stand in the middle of the room, hands by your side." The monitor checked the stalls, and poured fluid from a container that he carried into each of the toilets, "Rinse your hands with water only, and then dry them." Scott did as instructed. "Okay, enter the stall and give your sample. You're aiming for that ninety milliliter mark." He opened the door and went into the stall. The water in the toilet had turned a bright neon-blue color. I can do this. It's just urine, he thought. "Everything alright in there?" asked the monitor. "Yeah, I just need a moment," he replied. Scott finished and put the cap back on the sample container. He exited the stall, and handed it to the monitor. The monitor held up a small device to the side of the container and took a reading. "What are you doing?" asked Scott. "Checking that the temperature is right." These people really take this seriously, he thought. They exited the bathroom, and the monitor handed the container to the supervisor. Scott had to wait while they took a small sample, and did another spot check. When they were done they sealed the container with tape and packaged it for shipment. Each of them had to sign the shipping kit. Finally they let him return to class. He managed to get through the rest of the day without any drama. At Mr. Piotrowski's he swept out the storage building. A couple of exterior lights had burnt out so he found the ladder and replaced the lights. He checked his watch. There was still plenty of time to hike to his camping spot. In the kitchen Scott loaded up a flexible cooler with a couple of eggs and some sausages. Mr. Piotrowski watched with interest. "Winter hasn't completely let go yet. Isn't it a little cool to be camping this early in the year?" he asked. "Weatherman says the low will be in the upper 40s. That fancy sleeping bag you bought will keep me nice and toasty." He mentioned that he'd also added a thermal barrier pad to his gear. Scott pointed out where he planned to camp on the map, "I don't have to be at the engine center until ten. I plan to be back here by 9:30 a.m. at the latest." "Are you talking Jobe with you?" "Not this time. I thought I'd leave him here with you. I have been thinking about asking Eddie and Bo to go with me when it gets warmer. Maybe camp for an entire weekend. What do you think?" "Sounds like a fine idea. You'll have to okay it with their folks though. Have a good hike, Jobe and I will be waiting for you when you get back," Mr. Piotrowski told him. Scott checked over his pack. When he was satisfied he put it on and headed out. He hiked for a couple of hours going farther than the last time. The temperature was dropping as the light started to fade. He made camp, and scavenged for wood. The moon was bright, and Scott built a larger fire than needed. The juniper brush he'd gathered burned quickly, but gave off a pleasant smell. The wood popped and crackled as it burned. It was nice just to be able to sit and think. The next three months would be crucial to his future plans. He tried to map out strategies to deal with the possible outcomes. After a while he cleared the thoughts from his mind and relaxed. He lost track of time watching the fire. After it died down he spread the coals out, and covered them with sand. He had plenty of firewood gathered for the morning. After one last check that the fire was completely out he zipped up the tent and got ready for the night. He laid out his old clothes so they'd air out, and climbed into the sleeping bag. The next morning was cold. When Scott unzipped the tent, and took a look around the land glistened with a covering of frost. He quickly built a fire. His breakfast of fresh eggs and sausage with a warm biscuit was one of the best he'd ever had. After breakfast he broke camp. He figured he had about an hour of exploration before he needed to head back. It was nearing nine o'clock when he finally came within sight of the house. Jobe barked and ran to meet him. "How was it?" called Mr. Piotrowski as Scott walked up to the house. "Colder than I thought it would be, but good. Fresh eggs made all the difference for breakfast." Scott hung up his sleeping bag, and cleaned all of his camping supplies. He took a quick shower, and got ready for work. As he was headed out the door, Mr. Piotrowski stopped him. "Scott, did you ask Mrs. Mendoza about shopping for Chicago?" "I knew there was something I was forgetting. Sorry Mr. Piotrowski. I'll get right on that." "It's three weeks away. We probably shouldn't wait much longer." "Yes, sir. I'll take care of it this afternoon. Do you think we could go Monday? It's Presidents' Day so I've got the day off from school." "Monday would work nicely." Scott started the Yamaha and let it warm up. It was a quick ride to Meritt's Corner. He waved to some of the fab shop guys as he parked. Last night's dance was on his mind as he went in search of Eddie. "Hey, how'd it go last night?" Eddie answered quickly, "Better than I thought it was going to. Things were a little tense at the O'Brien house, but Rene and Molly finally started talking to each other." "That's good." Eddie nodded in agreement, "Yeah, Bo and I were pretty worried, but it seems to have worked out. So, did you really go camping?" "Sure did. Got a little cool, but when I was in the sleeping bag I didn't even notice. This morning I cooked my breakfast over an open fire. There's something about cooking in the fresh air that seems to make everything taste better. You and Bo are going to have to go with me sometime. We could plan a hike. Do it over a weekend, and camp out for a night or two. You interested?" "Sounds like fun. What kind of gear would we need?" "Not much; good boots, sleeping bag, backpack, a few miscellaneous supplies, and a tent. The tent I have is two-man pup tent, but that would be pretty close quarters," Scott explained. Eddie was getting excited, "When could we go?" "That's a good question. Let's talk to Bo on Tuesday and see what he thinks. Maybe shoot for sometime in late March, or early April?" "It's a plan!" Eddie enthusiastically endorsed the idea. "Hey, what are you doing the rest of the weekend?" "Probably clothes shopping on Monday, otherwise not much. Why?" "Mom and dad want to try and finish moving into the new house. Think you could lend a hand? Maybe borrow Mr. P's truck?" Eddie asked. "Sure, let me ask him. I don't think he'll mind." "That would be great." "I'll go call him now." Scott thought about it and called Mrs. Delgado first. She agreed to help them go clothes shopping if Mr. Piotrowski would drive to Midland where there were more stores to choose from. She said Jorge would come with them. He called Mr. Piotrowski and asked if he minded the truck being volunteered for Sunday. He agreed and said he was happy to help out as long as he didn't have to lift anything. Scott assured him that they had plenty of bodies, just not enough trucks. "Mrs. Mendoza is going to be busy Monday getting the house settled, so I called Mrs. Delgado. She says if you're willing to go to Midland, both she and Jorge would go." "That's a great idea, Scott. I'll call Jorge and tell him it's a go. You need to see what Midland is like anyway since that's where we're going to fly out of." "What do you mean?" "I mean you're going to be driving when we leave for Chicago. Having a chauffeur means that I don't have to worry about traffic anymore." "Mr. Piotrowski, you drive all over the county when I'm in school." "True, but that's only because my driver isn't available." Early Sunday morning people were already up and moving around the Mendoza house when Scott rode by heading to Mr. Piotrowski's. Scott took care of Jobe, and fixed a quick breakfast. Mr. Piotrowski came downstairs and sat at the kitchen table. "So where is this house the Mendoza's are moving into?" Scott explained where it was in relation to the community pool. "I think I know which house that is if it's the one I'm thinking of. Nice place." He'd forgotten that Mr. Piotrowski used to live in town. On their way out the door, Mr. Piotrowski handed him the keys. "You're driving," he announced. Jobe jumped into the truck to go along with them. At the Mendoza house Scott leaned out the window and asked Robert Mendoza where he wanted him to park. "Can you back it straight in?" "Sure thing," he answered. "How's it look?" he asked Mr. Piotrowski. "You're good, just back up slowly." Scott looked over his shoulder and backed the big Dodge into the driveway. Robert held up his hand, and Scott stopped near the back of the house. He opened the door, and Jobe got out and began to investigate the area. Janie spotted Jobe and immediately came over, "What a beautiful dog! Is he yours?" "He's Mr. Piotrowski's. His name is, Jobe. Hold out your hand and let him smell you." Janie held out her hand, and Jobe gave it a quick lick. She laughed and started petting him. She was quickly joined by her sister, Lilly. They fussed over the big Belgian shepherd, and Jobe loved every minute of it. Eddie came out of the house with his parents. Mrs. Mendoza had a startled look on her face, and started to say something. Mr. Mendoza stopped her when Eddie shouted hello, and came over to greet Mr. Piotrowski. To his sisters Eddie said, "I see you've met Jobe. If you really like him I bet Mr. Piotrowski would let you give him a bath and everything." "Oh could we?" asked Janie. "He's teasing you," Lilly said. Mr. Piotrowski spoke up, "I'm sure that Scott would let you help him give Jobe a bath sometime if you came by the house." The girls were a little disappointed to realize that their chances would be gone once they finished moving into town. Mrs. Mendoza offered Mr. Piotrowski a cup of coffee, and they went to sit in the kitchen. Mr. Mendoza showed Scott what he wanted loaded on the Dodge; bed frames and headboards. With the help of several people from the shop they had the beds disassembled and carried downstairs. Mr. Mendoza showed the boys the best way to tie the load down. They loaded the mattresses on another truck, and it was time to make the first run into town. "Momma, can we go with Jobe, please?" begged Janie. "If it's alright with Mr. Piotrowski," answered her mother. "Connie, it's fine with me, but you should know that Scott's driving." "You be careful with my girls," Mrs. Mendoza told Scott. "Yes, ma'am." They got everybody into the truck. Scott turned around, and told the girls to buckle their seatbelts. "You'll want to be a little easier going over bumps when you're carrying cargo. This load doesn't weigh much, but you don't want to bounce it around and cause damage," Mr. Piotrowski cautioned him. The truck behind him pulled out and passed him on the road into town. Scott didn't think they were going to get there much faster so he kept to the speed limit. At the house they made quick work of unloading the truck. The girls gave Scott a tour of their house showing him the changes since his last visit. It was larger than the old house, but had one less bedroom. The older Mendoza boys were temporarily sharing a room since Robert would soon be leaving for college. The house did have a large game room, and Eddie said that they might be getting a pool table. The girls stayed at the house, so Eddie rode with them on the trip back. "Scott, can you stop at the house for me?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Of course," he replied. In the driveway Mr. Piotrowski opened the passenger door and called for Jobe. He walked around to the driver's side door, and Scott rolled the window down, "When you get finished moving, bring the truck back. I'm going to get off my feet for a while," Mr. Piotrowski informed him. "Mr. Piotrowski?" responded a confused Scott. "You're a safe driver, and I trust you. You don't need me to ride shotgun. We've got a full day ahead of us tomorrow so I'm going to take it easy." "Are you sure?" "Yes. I'll see you later this afternoon," and with that Mr. Piotrowski and Jobe walked to the back door and disappeared into the house. Eddie climbed from the back seat into the passenger seat. Scott backed out of the driveway and turned toward the Mendoza house. "I know you have your license, but it's strange without Mr. Piotrowski," Eddie observed. "Yeah, I know what you mean." "Are you worried?" Eddie asked. "I'm not worried, but I'd be a lot more comfortable if he was with us. The thing about driving is that no matter how safe you are you can't control what other drivers do. Wait till you have to sit through the driver's safety videos. Those things are horrible." They made three more trips back and forth before calling it done. Scott stopped at Meritt's, and used his debit card for the first time to fill up the big diesel. It was a shock after filling up the small three gallon tank on his motorcycle. He parked at Mr. Piotrowski's and set the alarm. On the kitchen table was an older style, open face motorcycle helmet and a note that read, 'Found a good deal on it earlier this week.' He went to check on Jobe and Mr. Piotrowski, and found them both napping in the television room. Jobe looked up at him, and turned around in his bed a few times before settling back down. Scott wrote a quick note of his own and headed toward the ranch. The Mendoza house looked empty and abandoned as he drove by. Some of the ranch kids were waiting for him when he got to Broken Creek. "We thought you'd forgotten about us," said one of the older kids. "Been helping a friend move all morning, but look, I've got a spare motorcycle helmet. Why don't you get the rest of the guys together while I go grab an extra jacket from my closet?" Scott found the group of ranchers waiting for him when he returned with the spare motorcycle jacket and an extra pair of gloves. He looked them over. The ranch currently had ten other residents; four scouts, and six juniors. "Okay guys, if you have long laces on your tennis shoes please double knot them," he instructed. "You don't want anything dangling that can get caught in the bike." He walked the boys through basic orientation about the motorcycle, and pointed out the foot pegs. He let everyone have a chance to sit on the bike. Some of the smaller kids looked pretty funny in his large jacket and helmet. It took longer to give all the boys a ride than he figured it would, but the fun they had made it worth it. ------- The Presidents' Day trip to Midland was exhausting. It was made easier since the extra cab seating of the Dodge comfortably fit everyone. Mr. Piotrowski and the Delgados had a great time catching up on town gossip and telling old stories. It was a two hour trip both ways, so they had plenty of time to talk. Nobody minded that he was the one driving. Midland sits in the center of the Permian Basin. The basin is an oil and gas rich geological feature that they had studied in school, but what the textbook couldn't explain was how absolutely flat the area was. They passed the airport on the way into town. Scott didn't think Mr. Piotrowski would have had any trouble with it since it looked like a straight shot in and out. Midland on the other hand was a challenge. It was a city of over a hundred thousand people and most of them seemed to be on the roads on this holiday. "Relax, you're doing fine, ' Mr. Piotrowski encouraged. At the city center were a surprising number of sky scrapers. He was impressed until Mr. Piotrowski informed him that at least half were empty. They had been built during the oil boom 70s, but the crash a decade later had ended a lot of dreams in towns all over Texas and Oklahoma that depended on oil dollars. There were some signs that the energy sector was making a comeback, but it was early days yet. Mrs. Delgado gave him directions to a mall on the other side of town. "Everybody remember where we parked," joked Jorge when Scott found a parking place at the crowded mall. Scott felt every bit the country bumpkin wandering around inside of the massive mall. The big air conditioned space packed with shoppers and stores threatened to overwhelm him. At the same time he felt a sense of excitement. He gawked at the people. Mrs. Delgado smiled knowingly at him, "Scotty, this is a small mall. You should see a big one in San Antonio or Houston with multiple levels. You could spend several days just trying to see all the stores." For lunch they ate at a place called 'Fuddruckers.' The food wasn't bad. Jorge insisted on paying since Mr. Piotrowski had provided transportation. "Actually, Jorge, Scott paid for the diesel today. He must have filled up my truck yesterday," explained Mr. Piotrowski. Everybody turned and looked at him, "It was the least I could do. We made four trips yesterday moving the last of the Mendoza's furniture, but I think I'll stick to filling up my motorcycle." Jorge laughed appreciatively. The men seemed to take great pleasure telling him how cheap gasoline and diesel were back in their day. When they finally left Midland, they were very well outfitted for their trip to Chicago. The start of the school week on Tuesday meant a return to normalcy, or at least Scott hoped that's what it meant. A shortened school week was always welcome, and the first four periods of the day flew by. Lunch was interesting. Eddie and Molly were two very nervous people when Scott sat down with his plateful of salad. "Have a good weekend?" he asked casually. Molly blushed, and Eddie stammered, "Yeah, you saw me on Sunday. It was a good weekend. Yeah a good weekend, right?" Bo grinned, "Yeah, great weekend. How about you, Rene? Have a good weekend?" Rene looked at Bo and Scott suspiciously. "Yes, I had a nice weekend. And you?" she pointed her fork at Scott. "Excellent. Went camping Saturday night. Helped Eddie move some furniture on Sunday, and went to Midland yesterday. Yes, a good weekend for me too." "What did you do in Midland?" Rene asked. "Went to the mall, shopping trip." "Oh the mall," Rene exclaimed. Rene and Molly launched into an in-depth review of the mall stores they knew, and the merits of shopping in a 'big' city. It looked like things were good between the two girls. The guys looked at each other and rolled their eyes. "Eddie tells me you want to plan a camping trip this spring," Bo said as he leaned in. "That's right. You up for it?" Scott replied. "Heck yeah. I've got gear too; a nice tent I can bring, a camping stove, stuff like that. The question is where, and when?" Scott shrugged, "I'm open to suggestions. There's some interesting terrain on the property behind Mr. Piotrowski's place." "I'll ask my dad," Bo suggested. The guys eagerly discussed the possibilities. They agreed go for a whole weekend. After some discussion they decided on one of the last weekends in March if their parents agreed. "One thing you might do is a practice run in your back yard. Set up your tent, and use all the equipment you'd want to bring. That way you can get a feel for what your pack will weigh, and get some practice putting it up and taking it all down again," Scott explained that he had done the same thing before his first camping trip. Since Bo and Eddie lived in town that would be easy for them to coordinate. After school Scott bumped into Eddie out by the Meritt's Corner bus. "What's up?" he asked. Eddie replied sheepishly, "I forgot and got on the bus." "You could still ride it if you wanted to go out to the shop." "Yeah, that's right. I could. I hadn't even thought about that. This town living is going to take getting used to." "Think about how much fun you're going to have this summer. You'll be able to visit Bo or anybody else from school. It's just a short walk to the pool. Hey, maybe you could even get a job as a lifeguard. How cool would that be?" Scott asked. Eddie looked back at him as a smile slowly spread over his face, "Lifeguard? Man that would be awesome! Getting paid to look at girls?" The two friends stood there grinning. Eddie slapped him on the back, "You're a genius! I knew being friends with you would pay off someday." "Get out of here. You better check into that. See what the requirements are, and all that junk." Scott climbed aboard the bus and went to the back. He was going to miss seeing Eddie as much as he used to, but he was happy for his friend and the entire Mendoza family. At Meritt's Corner he stopped and checked his post office box. I've actually got mail. Inside the box was an official envelope from the state. He tore it open carefully. It had only been two weeks since he had taken his driver's license test, and they had already sent him his official license. He stared at the picture for a while before carefully putting the license in the plastic window slot of his billfold. The box also had a form letter from his insurance company, as well as his very first piece of junk mail. Jobe was eager to see him when he arrived at Mr. Piotrowski's. Scott obliged him, and they ran around the back yard for a while. They were both panting when they collapsed in the kitchen. Mr. Piotrowski looked at them in amusement. Scott showed him his new license, and the junk mail. "It's official then. You are now a bona fide citizen, able to receive junk mail like the rest of the country." That Sunday they took a trip into town for lunch. Mr. Piotrowski was acting a little strangely, but Scott didn't mention it as they ate. After lunch Mr. Piotrowski got behind the wheel of the truck, and instead of heading back out to the house he drove to the cemetery on the east side of town. They parked and Mr. Piotrowski took a bouquet of flowers from the back of the truck that Scott hadn't seen before. He quietly followed Mr. Piotrowski. Mr. Piotrowski knelt down and cleaned the area around a pair of headstones, pulling weeds and dead leaves. Both stones were marked in large letters with, 'Piotrowski.' The larger headstone had Mr. Piotrowski's name on it along with his wife's name, but the space for a date below his name was blank. "I suppose I'm odd, but I won't visit here on the anniversary of Verna's death. Today would have been her 77th birthday," he said quietly. Scott didn't know what to say. "I suppose this must seem pretty strange to you," Mr. Piotrowski said. "I've never been to a cemetery before," Scott replied. "Not ever?" asked Mr. Piotrowski curiously. He'd really never thought about it. He couldn't remember hearing about a funeral for his parents. Was I in the hospital when it happened? His parents must be buried somewhere in California, although he didn't know for sure. Do they have a nice headstone, he wondered. "No, sir," he replied. "I don't even know where they're buried," he said in reference to his parents. Mr. Piotrowski turned slowly and looked at him. "Scott, you need to know where your people are." They stood quietly, each occupied with their own thoughts. "Thanks for coming with me," said Mr. Piotrowski. "Does it help to come to this place?" Mr. Piotrowski was quiet, and then answered, "Yes, I think it does." It was a somber trip back out to the house. February quickly turned into March. It was great riding weather, and Scott took advantage of it every chance he could get. It was the first Friday in March when he used one of the library computers to finish a big English paper that was going to be due in a couple of weeks. Riding the Yamaha meant he could spend time at the library after school, and stop and visit people in town if liked. He liked the idea so much that he decided to try riding in at least twice a week. He left the library and rode over the Mendoza house. Lilly answered the door. "Look who it is," she declared. "Hi Lilly, is Eddie here?" "You mean you didn't drop by to visit me?" she asked. "Or me?" piped up Janie who had come to see who was at the door. "As much as I enjoy visiting the women of the Mendoza family, I stopped by to see Eddie." "Well, do come in," Lilly invited him inside. "Would you care for a glass of water?" asked Janice. "Okay girls, what's up?" "Why do you ask?" Janie asked with a glint in her eye. "Whenever you two get polite I get nervous," he replied as he walked toward the kitchen. "Good manners are the mark of any young lady," Lilly explained. "Uh huh..." Scott started to look around suspiciously. "Eddie's not here," Janice told him as she handed him a glass of water. Scott looked at it carefully before taking a drink, "I sorta figured that out." "He's at her house," Lilly said with an accusatory tone. "Molly O'Brien," Janice supplied helpfully. "Oh, okay. Well, tell him I stopped by. I'll see him tomorrow at work anyway." "You're not mad?" Lilly inquired. "Why would I be?" he replied. That got a double 'Harrumph!' from both girls. "Scotty, are you staying for dinner?" asked Mrs. Mendoza when she found them in the kitchen. "No, ma'am. I stopped by to see Eddie, but he's not here. I need to get going anyway." "We'd love to have you. How about next Friday?" she asked. "Regretfully, I'm unable to attend." "Oh that's right, that's your trip out of town. Luisa mentioned it to me." "Out of town?" asked Janice. "Scott's going to Chicago with Mr. Piotrowski." "Chicago!" breathed Lilly. Both girls began asking questions over each other. Scott managed to explain that it was only for the weekend. "Yes," they were going to fly. "No," he wasn't scared. "To see a museum exhibit," he explained. That required a description of what the netsuke were, and his role in bringing Mr. Piotrowski and the museum people together. He finally managed to escape, and ride to Mr. Piotrowski's. Once there he informed him that news of their trip would be all over town by morning at the latest. Mr. Piotrowski chuckled when Scott described his interrogation at the hands of the Mendoza sisters. True to form the first words out of Eddie's mouth at the engine center on Saturday were, "Chicago? Why am I just hearing about this now?" "I was going to say something during the week." "All because you helped Mr. Piotrowski this summer? It's official, I'm jealous. Uh, so you stopped by Friday afternoon?" "Yeah, no big deal. I only stopped by before I headed to Mr. Piotrowski's." "Are you mad?" Eddie asked. "Why does everybody keep asking me that?" "Are you mad that I was over at Molly's" Eddie replied and looked at the ground. "No, how can I be? You're both friends. If you two are... 'getting along.' That's fine by me." "But you liked her," Eddie stated. Scott hunted around for the right thing to say, "I did, and I guess I still do. But after that little incident don't you think it's better this way? You have my blessing if you think it's required." Scott made a half hearted sign of the cross in Eddie's general direction. "Oh thank you," Eddie said as he genuflected. That cracked them up. The boys figured they had goofed off for long enough and got back to work. Monday, March 5, 2007 Scott was staring at a pineapple. He glanced over to see what Bo was drawing. The assignment was to draw the pineapple in a scene from their imagination. Bo looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. Scott shrugged, and turned back to his blank sheet of paper. A noise from the doorway interrupted his thought process. It was Principal Reynolds. The school staff would occasionally observe a class, either checking on the teachers or the students. Scott was never sure which. An art class would be pretty boring to watch, he thought. He sighed and started drawing. From experience he knew he could sketch a hyper realistic object, but he didn't dare do that for this class. What he absolutely could not do was draw in an artistic manner. Bo's pieces weren't technically perfect to Scott's eye, but what they had was imagination and whimsy. Something that Scott couldn't emulate on paper no matter how hard he tried. He ended up drawing a pineapple on a salad plate with a knife and fork resting nearby. Bo had drawn a circus seal balancing the pineapple on its nose. Fortunately the art teacher didn't dock too many points as long as you put the effort in. Scott hoped his 'A' was safe. Class ended and Scott put his art supplies away. "Mr. MacIntyre, may I speak with you?" asked Principal Reynolds standing near the doorway. Bo and several students looked at Scott wondering what kind of trouble he was in. "Yes, sir?" "Relax, you're not in trouble. Would it be possible for you and your guardian to meet here at the school tomorrow? It's an academic matter." Scott furiously thought over each of his classes, and how he was doing in them. He couldn't identify anything that necessitated a meeting about academic matters which would require the presence of the judge. "I'd have to call him, and see what his schedule is like," Scott fidgeted nervously. "Why don't you come to the office and use the phone there? Where are you supposed be next?" "Biology, sir." "I'll write you a note," the principal said. Scott dialed the judge's office number. The clerk put him right through. "What can I do for my favorite driver?" asked the judge. He was in a good mood. "Principal Reynolds asked if it was possible to meet here at the school tomorrow for an academic matter," Scott explained. "Is there a problem?" asked the judge, concerned. "He says I'm not in any trouble," Scott said looking at the amused principal. "He's there? Ask him if the end of the school day is acceptable." Principal Reynolds readily agreed when Scott relayed the question. "Yes, sir. The last class period starts just before three. Will that work for you?" "I'll see you then. Maybe I should bring my checkbook in case I need to bail you out?" "Very funny, sir." "Are you riding the bus tomorrow?" the judge asked. "I planned to," he replied. "Okay, do that and I'll give you a ride after the meeting." The next day was agony. Every class seemed to crawl along. None of his teachers seemed to pay him any extra attention. He gave up trying to figure it out. He entered the school office nervously and met the judge. "What's going on?" asked the judge. "Honestly, I have no idea," he replied. Principal Reynolds waved them back to his office. Scott followed the judge into the office, and was surprised to see Ms. Green, the school councilor, waiting for them. The principal sat behind his desk, and straightened some paperwork. He leaned forward eagerly. "Judge Upcott, thank you for coming, I know you have a busy schedule. May I introduce Bobbi Green, our school counselor?" The judge nodded politely, "You indicated that this was a meeting on an academic matter?" "Yes. There was some confusion about the number of math classes young Mr. MacIntyre would take this school year. I'm sorry to say that it looks like we erred in limiting him to only one class." The judge looked over at Scott. Scott gave a small shake of the head. The principal continued, "We received the electronic scores last week, and asked for verification. Yesterday we received the printed confirmation. I'm delighted to announce that Scott has one of the top scores in the country." "I'm sorry, top scores in what?" interrupted the judge. "Forgive me, his SAT scores." "The SAT?" "The college admissions test?" the principal asked. "You didn't know he had taken it?" "No, he never mentioned it to me," the judge said as he turned to Scott. "Well, in purely technical terms he blew the test out of the water. A score of twenty-three ninety is extraordinary, and for a freshman, well, we're all very proud." Good grief, Scott thought. They must have scored the writing section on some sort of curve. He'd meant to stay under twenty-three hundred, but the practice tests he'd taken couldn't replicate how the written portion would be scored. Ms. Green looked like she'd just bitten into something very sour. Principal Reynolds handed a sheet of paper to the judge who examined it curiously. "This score, twenty-three ninety out of twenty-four hundred? Are those numbers right?" the judge asked. The principal explained, "Yes, they changed the format of the test last year. There are now three scored segments instead of the old two. Scott scored a perfect eight hundred in both critical reading, and mathematics, as well as a very impressive seven-ninety on the writing portion. According to the College Board numbers, there are less than four hundred college bound seniors who scored a twenty-three ninety or higher so far this year. That's out of more than a million who took the test. They don't tell us how many sophomores or juniors took it. You can imagine that there are even fewer freshmen who take the test." "Amazing," the judge stated with surprise. "What does this mean for Scott?" "That's what we're here to determine," the principal paused while he checked some notes on his desk. "One option may be to advance him a grade next year. While Scot's maintained an 'A' average, his grades could slip if he's not appropriately challenged. Isn't that right Ms. Green?" "Yes," the counselor replied primly. The judge stroked his chin, "One thing I've learned about my young charge. He rarely does something without a plan. Right?" Scott managed to look embarrassed. "I see," responded the principal. "Mr. MacIntyre, maybe you can tell us what you hoped to accomplish by taking the SAT as a freshman?" The three adults turned to look at him. Scott cleared his throat and glanced at the counselor, "I hoped to apply to Midland College, and take classes during the summer session at the extension campus here in Fort Stockton." The judge sat back in his seat in surprise, and Principal Reynolds tilted his head as he absorbed the information. "Concurrent enrollment?" the principal asked. "That's restricted to juniors and seniors," the school counselor announced almost gleefully. Principal Reynolds fixed her with a look, "True, but there are always exceptions." The judge nodded, "What is concurrent enrollment, exactly?" "It's a dual credit system. Students can take college classes and get high school credit for the course work. Depending on how it's structured, they either take the class here, or go off campus for a half day," the principal explained. "Actually, sir, it was my intention to enroll as a regular, part time student. I figured concurrent enrollment could wait." "You know the district won't cover non concurrent enrollment fees?" Principal Reynolds asked. "Yes, sir. My savings over the last year will more than cover my course expenses, and I have transportation." "Like I said, he's a planner," the judge said with pride. "What classes were you thinking about taking this summer?" the principal inquired. "American History to 1877 for the first summer session, and Trigonometry, if I can successfully test out of College Algebra." "Ambitious," Principal Reynolds stated. "Then again I'm beginning to see that a lot of people have underestimated you. I happen to be good friends with Midland's registrar. If you bring me your application papers I'll see to it that everything is correct. You'll also need transcripts from here at the school. A letter of recommendation would also help." "Principal Reynolds," protested Ms. Green. "I think that's all for the day, Ms. Green, you can return to your duties," announced the principal. Ms. Green quickly made her exit, and Scott bit off a smile. "Let me think about what sort of schedule might work for you next year, and I'll get back to you. Now, the only thing left is for us to get a photo for the paper," Principal Reynolds said. "I'm afraid we'll have to take a pass on that," objected the judge. "From what you've described this could be a story that might get some attention, yes?" "I had hoped that it would. Our school could use some good press." "I'm sorry if this puts you in a tough position, but I have to insist that no personally identifying information be released. There are good reasons for this, Principal Reynolds," the judge stated firmly. Principal Reynolds looked at him questioningly. "It's a safety issue," the judge explained. "There was a picture late last year," the principal thought aloud. "Yes, it was ... an oversight. Fortunately, it was a low profile item, and was unlikely to have been picked up outside of Pecos County. In fact it was removed from the paper's archives at my request. As it was it did receive unwanted attention." "Yes, well of course. We can release something innocuous. Unnamed freshman score, school record, and so on." The judge stood, "That would be perfect." Principal Reynolds came around from behind his desk, "Scott, you have a lot to be proud of. With your grades and that score, I believe you could get a scholarship at almost any school you applied to." Scott mumbled thanks as the judge squeezed his neck affectionately. They had an interesting ride out to Meritt's Corner. The judge wanted to know what else he planned to take after the summer. "They have what they call core curriculum courses that are supposed to transfer to any in school in the state. That's what I want to concentrate on. I definitely do not want to skip a grade," Scott explained. "Do you already know where you want to go college?" "I'm undecided about what I'm going to do after high school." "You know you can ask me anything." Scott did have something he wanted to ask, "I think I'm going to need a new job for the summer. Mr. Piotrowski needs me for basic chores, but as much as I feel that I owe Mr. Mendoza I think I should look for another job." "Anything in particular?" "Something outside," he suggested. "Ah, you remember my friend the outfitter. Alright, I'll make a phone call." The judge treated Scott to a milkshake at the diner, and then headed back into town. Scott started the bike and rode to Mr. Piotrowski's. He handed a copy of his SAT scores to Mr. Piotrowski, and stood next to his recliner. Mr. Piotrowski perused the document without comment. When he was finished he handed it back. "So, what's next?" "Send my application in, and get accepted as a student." "They surprised you today," Mr. Piotrowski said. Scott scratched his head, "Yeah. I thought it would be another month before any results came back." "Are you ready for Friday?" "Yes! I'm turning assignments in early. There aren't any tests scheduled, so it's the perfect time to go." "And you talked to the judge about a job?" "Yes, he said he'll call the guy. I'm not sure when I should talk to Mr. Mendoza though." "Talk to him as soon as you can. He'll understand." Scott went to the kitchen and took out the application form he'd previously printed out. He filled it out carefully. The next morning he dropped it off in the school office for the principal. At the engine center that afternoon he went to the office and requested a chance to speak with Mr. Mendoza. Mr. Mendoza came out of his office, "I need to go see Rico over in the fab shop. Can we talk on the way?" "Sure." "What's on your mind?" Mr. Mendoza asked. "This summer I won't be able to work afternoons. I've been thinking about looking for another job. I don't think it would be fair for me to only work a few hours here." "Is that all?" asked Mr. Mendoza. "I thought it was something serious from the look on your face." "You've been so good to me giving me my first job, and being flexible when I need time off. I don't want you to think that I don't appreciate it." Mr. Mendoza stopped walking, and thumped Scott on the back. "Scotty, I never thought that you'd make a career out of working at the engine center. You're a young man who is going to go places. You'll always have a job here if you want one, and I'll be happy to give you a glowing reference for any job you want to apply for. Now what is it that you have in mind?" Scott explained about the potential job working for the hunting outfitter, and the early hours that supposedly went with the job. "Hmmm, might be pretty brutal later in the summer. Have the man call me if you need a reference. Keep the office informed about your schedule. I know the foreman will hate to lose you. You're a good worker." "Thank you, sir." "This doesn't mean you get out of dinners with the family. Connie will string me up if you don't come around for dinner sometime soon." "I would hate to miss a good meal." Scott left Meritt's Corner that afternoon with a great weight lifted from his shoulders. He had been more worried about Mr. Mendoza's opinion than he had realized. ------- Chapter 12 Friday, March 9, 2007 Scott arrived early at Mr. Piotrowski's. His suitcase was already at the house, packed and ready to go. Mr. Piotrowski was dressed and ready, standing with a cup of coffee in his hand. "A little eager are we?" "Very!" replied Scott. "You might as well relax and have a good breakfast." Scott moved toward the refrigerator, "How does scrambled eggs and toast sound?" "Just toast for me, please." Jobe bumped his leg as he passed through the kitchen headed toward his doggie door. "What about Jobe?" he asked, suddenly worried that he'd forgotten all about the dog. "Already taken care of. Jorge Delgado is going to come by to make sure Jobe has fresh food and water." After a quick breakfast Scott dragged both of their suitcases down to the porch. He took a look around and made sure that the house was secure. He rubbed Jobe's ears and told him to be a good boy for Mr. Delgado. "Got your photo ID?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Yes, sir," Scott replied as he patted his wallet. "Good. I've got the tickets, and our itinerary, plus my authorization to act as your guardian while we're out of state," Mr. Piotrowski said as he pulled the paperwork partway from his pocket. "How are you fixed for cash?" "I've got a little, and my debit card." Mr. Piotrowski handed him a small wad of bills, "Here, put this in your front pocket." "Mr. Piotrowski," Scott grumbled. "You need spending money. If you keep it in your front pocket then you'll still have something if you get your pocket picked." Scott felt his wallet, "Do you really think that could happen?" "You never know in crowded places. Better safe, than sorry." Mr. Piotrowski handed him a set of keys with a fob, "These are my spare set. Why don't we hit the road?" Scott put the bags in the back seat, and climbed into the truck. He let the big diesel warm up. Jobe sat on the rear steps watching them. The big dog yawned, and decided something on his paw needed licking. "Chicago, here we come," Mr. Piotrowski said as Scott backed the truck out of the driveway. They arrived at the Midland airport a few minutes before eight. Scott slung both bags over his shoulder and walked around to Mr. Piotrowski's side of the truck. "You don't have your pocketknife do you?" he asked Mr. Piotrowski. Mr. Piotrowski turned back around and dug his pocketknife out. "It's not like I'm going to highjack an airliner with my pocketknife." "You and I know that, but the security people will take it away from you anyway," he chided the older man. He went to give the keys back to Mr. Piotrowski. "Keep them. You might as well put your house key on it too." "Are you sure?" he asked. "No arguing. Let's go see if they remembered to put the wings on our airplane." They checked their luggage and went through security. Scott noticed that Mr. Piotrowski was walking a little slower than usual. "Is your leg bothering you?" "Scotty, at my age a lot of things bother me," he said as they arrived at their gate. The flight would leave on time the gate agent informed them. They found seats by the big windows in the waiting area, and sat down. Scott looked out at the airplanes on the tarmac. "Do you feel up to this trip?" he asked, concerned about his friend. "I'm still buying green bananas," Mr. Piotrowski replied. Green bananas? Scott laughed to himself when he figured it out. "I have to take it easy when I can, and I get tired faster than I used to," Mr. Piotrowski explained. "Maybe you should see your doctor when we get back?" "I'm not the biggest fan of the medical profession," he groused. "Mr. Piotrowski, if I have to get yearly checkups then there's no reason you can't." "We'll see." It wasn't long before the flight crew arrived and boarded the plane. After about fifteen minutes the gate attendant announced general boarding. From a quick glance around it looked like there were only about twenty people on this flight. Scott found their row, and let Mr. Piotrowski take the window seat. He listened intently as the stewardess gave the safety instructions. His sense of excitement increased as the plane taxied to the active runway for takeoff. Scott looked at Mr. Piotrowski with a grin that lit up his face as the thrust from takeoff pushed them back into their seats. "Enjoying your first airplane trip so far?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "I've flown before." "Really?" "It was a long time ago," he explained. 'Hmmmm, ' was Mr. Piotrowski's only comment. The first leg of their trip was a one hour hop to the Dallas - Fort Worth airport. Scott waited until he saw one of the friendlier looking stewardesses standing near the rear restroom before he excused himself. "Going to the bathroom," he explained to Mr. Piotrowski. "Don't get lost." He used the sink in the small bathroom to wash his face and hands. He exited and almost bumped into the stewardess. "Having a good flight?" she asked perfunctorily. "Yes, can I ask you a question?" She looked at him, "Certainly." "Do you know how people get one of those electric carts between gates at the airport?" "Oh," she paused. "Do you think your grandfather needs one?" He didn't bother to correct her, "His leg is bothering him, but he's too stubborn to complain." She nodded sympathetically, "I know how that is. What's your connecting flight?" He gave her the flight number and gate. "I can take care of that for you. Don't worry about a thing. We won't even have to mention it to your grandfather. The cart will be waiting when you disembark." "How can you arrange that?" She leaned in and whispered, "We have a network that lets us communicate with the airline, and our supervisors. I'll call ahead and arrange everything." "Thank you." "You're so welcome." He made his way back to his seat. "Get lost?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Took a wrong turn," he explained. They landed at the much larger DFW airport and taxied to the gate. The stewardess gave Scott a subtle thumbs-up as they exited the plane. When they emerged from the connecting tunnel there was a cart waiting for them. "Mr. Piotrowski?" asked the gate attendant. "Yes?" "Sir, we have a cart here to take you to the next gate. If you'd like to take a seat?" she directed him toward the front of the cart. "Now isn't that nice?" Mr. Piotrowski said in wonder. "This is real first class service by the airline." "It's our pleasure, sir," said the older black man who was their driver. "Now hang on, we'll have to make our way through this crowd." Scott climbed on to the rear seat and they were off. The driver beeped the cart's horn to help them get through the crowd. There were an amazing number of people in a hurry to get to their destinations. He enjoyed people watching as the cart sped away. There were families with worried parents trying to keep track of their children, and harried business people who pushed their way through the crowds. Weary travelers of every imaginable description shuffled here and there. Groups of uniformed flight crews ambled along sharing laughs about things he couldn't begin to guess at. He wondered what it would be like to travel to far flung places. With a start he realized that for this weekend at least, he was one of those people. They arrived at their gate and thanked the cart driver. The wait for their next flight was short. The gate agent called for early boarding. "Come on Mr. Piotrowski, that's us." "I'm not pregnant," he grumbled. "No, but you are a senior citizen. Besides, this way you won't have to stand in line waiting to board." "Oh, alright." This time Scott sat by the window. Their jet was third in line on the taxiway. He watched a massive Boeing 747 speed down the runway and lift off into the air. Mr. Piotrowski was flipping through one of the magazines from the seatback in front of him. "What are we going to do after we arrive in Chicago?" Scott asked. Mr. Piotrowski looked up, "We'll have to check into the hotel. After that it's all free time. The major thing is to figure out where we want to have dinner. I'm supposed to call and check in with the museum folks to let them know we've arrived safely. We can do some touristy type stuff if we want. In the morning I suppose it's up to us. The big reception isn't until early evening, and Doctor Yoshida wants to take us to late dinner after the museum function." Scott perked up at the mention of Doctor Yoshida, "I wondered if we'd get to see him again." "You just want to see his pretty assistant," teased Mr. Piotrowski. "What was her name again?" "Makepeace, Lauren Makepeace," Scott said. "She was nice." "I noticed," Mr. Piotrowski said slyly as their plane took its position on the runway. The seatbelt sign finally went out when their plane leveled off at its cruising altitude. I wonder how far up we are, he thought to himself. Thirty-two thousand feet at five hundred and eighteen miles per hour flashed through his mind, and a new map popped up in his mind's eye. He gulped and looked around nervously. He shouldn't be able to know this information, but the flight map was pretty cool. He examined it closely before quietly telling it to go away. "Got anything good to read over there?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Let me check," Scott replied as he dug through the seatback. When they landed at Chicago's O'Hare airport, there was another cart waiting for them. It took them to the baggage claim area. They got there before any of the other passengers did. Scott was amazed at how quickly the baggage from their flight started spilling out onto the carousel. He spied their two bags and grabbed them. "Good eye," Mr. Piotrowski complimented him. "What do we do now?" he asked. "There's supposed to be a car for us. Let's go find it." As they exited the baggage claim area Mr. Piotrowski spotted a man holding a sign with 'Piotrowski' printed on it in big letters. He raised his hand and caught the man's eye. "They even spelled it right," he commented. "Mr. Piotrowski?" the man asked. "That's me, Alex Piotrowski." "Right this way, sir. Is that all of your luggage?" the driver asked. "It is." Their first impression of Chicago was how much colder it was than back home. Fortunately, it was a short walk to a nice, black Lincoln Town Car. The driver popped the trunk and took the bags from Scott. "Do you work for the museum or the hotel?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "I'm a hired driver for the museum," the man explained. The roads around the airport were clogged with traffic, but they eventually made it out of the airport property. The ride into town was an interesting experience. The driver pointed out some of the highlights including the impressive Sears Tower. The tall buildings were a sight, but Scott really marveled at the four and five lanes of traffic that they encountered. Four lanes for just one direction! At one point the wide road went completely underground. Scott looked around in confusion, but they quickly reemerged into the sunlight. The buildings were getting taller the closer they got to their destination. They were in a canyon of 20 story buildings. "There's the hotel," the driver said as they sat at a stoplight underneath an elevated railway. "Where?" Scott asked in confusion. He had been looking up at what he knew was Chicago's famous 'L' transit system. "Right there," the driver pointed at a large building just ahead on the right. "It looks like two buildings from here, but that's the Congress Plaza Hotel right in front of us." "It's huge," Scott exclaimed. "It certainly is. The Congress has almost eight hundred rooms. I'm certain you'll enjoy your stay." The Town Car pulled right in front of the hotel entrance on Michigan Avenue. Scott was so busy looking at the sights that Mr. Piotrowski had to bump his arm. "We're here," he said. Inside the richly appointed lobby, Scott and Mr. Piotrowski looked around curiously. The large room was filled with marble and had a gold decorated ceiling. "Checking in?" asked the friendly looking woman at the front desk. "Yes, my name is Alex Piotrowski. I believe you have a suite for us?" he asked as he showed the woman his identification. "Of course, Mr. Piotrowski. We have your party in a lovely suite with a lakeside view. If you'll just sign here, and here," she indicated toward a document on the countertop. "How many key cards will you need?" "I think we better have two." "The Field Museum Foundation is taking care of your bill. Please sign with your room number for anything here in the hotel ... and we have a message for you," she said as she passed him an envelope. Mr. Piotrowski opened it and read through it quickly, "It's a copy of our itinerary, and a reminder to call when we get settled in." The clerk behind the desk pointed toward a man walking toward them, "George will take you up to the suite, please have a pleasant stay." George insisted on taking the luggage from Scott, and escorted them to an elevator. The man smiled as Scott's head kept swiveling back and forth trying to take it all in. "First time with us?" he asked. "Yes, this is a fantastic place." They rode the elevator up several floors and walked to their suite. Mr. Piotrowski watched carefully as George used the keycard to open the door. "I've never used one of those cards," he said. George showed him how easy it was to use, "Just don't forget to take one with you when you leave the room." The suite had a sitting area with bedrooms on opposite sides, each with their own door and bathroom. They thanked George, and were left on their own. "Scott, come take a look at this." Scott walked over and was transfixed by the view. "It's so much bigger than I thought it would be," he said softly. "I suppose that's why they call them great lakes," Mr. Piotrowski commented. "I'm going to call the museum, and let them know that we got in okay." Scott stayed by the window and looked out over Lake Michigan. For a brief moment he wondered what his friends were doing back in Pecos County. Mr. Piotrowski was speaking with somebody on the phone; reassuring them that their flight had been fine, and that the hotel room was nice. Scott walked to the desk and found a map that he took back to the window. He was examining it when Mr. Piotrowski got off of the phone. "Are we lost again?" he asked. Scott smiled at the old joke. "We're in a really good location. The museum is to our south by about eight blocks," he pointed toward where the museum should be. "Up to our north is Navy Pier, and about a mile behind us is Sears Tower." "Our welcome packet has tickets for the observation deck at the tower. How about we get a quick lunch, and then go take a look at it?" On their way to the hotel restaurant they stopped at the gift shop and paid too much for a couple of jackets. They had some quick sandwiches, and caught a cab the front desk called for them. A lot of other people must have had the same idea, because the elevators to the observation deck were crowded. "Are you afraid of heights?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "I don't think so," he replied. "I guess we'll find out." The elevator took off with a lurch. It only took about a minute to reach the 103rd floor. They had to swallow to adjust the pressure in their ears, the change in altitude was that rapid. The view from the observation deck was spectacular. It was a beautiful day in Chicago, and they had a clear view all around. "There's the hotel," he pointed out to Mr. Piotrowski. "And look, there's the museum. It's a lot bigger than I thought it was." "What's that other building near it?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "That's the aquarium, and out closer to the water I think the building with the dome is the planetarium. You can even see the edge of Soldier Field. It's partially hidden by those buildings." They worked their way around the windows. "This city just stretches out forever ... all those people," Scott said more to himself than anything. "Seen enough?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. Scott could probably have spent the entire afternoon looking at the city, but he agreed it was time to go. They returned to the hotel, and Mr. Piotrowski quickly fell asleep in a chair while watching the television. Scott stood at the window for a long time watching traffic go by. He decided that he should go and explore the hotel. He left a note for Mr. Piotrowski, and took his card key with him. The hotel had a decent workout room with several different machines. He was pleased to see that it was open at all hours so he could get an early morning workout in. He curiously followed the noise of some game machines, and found a couple of boys near his age playing a video arcade game. "Wanna play?" asked one of the boys. "I'm not any good." "That's okay, I'm not any better. I'm Wade, and this is my brother, Boyd." Scott introduced himself, and put a couple of quarters in the machine. They played for a while, but it got old quickly. The brothers were from Baltimore, and their dad had been recently transferred to Chicago. They were waiting for their house to be 'opened up' so they could move in. They hated the hotel. "It's so boring," groaned Boyd. "There's no pool, and they only have these stupid arcade games." "How come you're not in school?" Scott asked. "We have a tutor instead. Dad says we'll start going to a private school next year," Wade explained. "What's that like?" he wondered. "It's not bad. So, where are you from?" the boy asked. "Texas," Scott answered. "Cool, do you have a cowboy hat?" asked Boyd. "No, but I know a few people who wear them." The boys were disappointed, and they parted ways shortly after. Scott made his way back to the room. Mr. Piotrowski was awake and looked refreshed. "Find anything interesting?" he asked. "They've got a decent workout room that's open twenty-four hours a day. Other than that, there's not a lot to do in the hotel. I did find a bunch of brochures about different sights to see, but I don't think we're going to have time to see them." "Well I have some news, some people from the museum are going to come by tomorrow and take you out sightseeing," Mr. Piotrowski said. "Just me? What about you?" "That museum shindig is going to be long. You're young and indestructible. I plan to take it easy, and stay off of my feet." "Are you sure?" "Yes, I'll read the paper and watch television. Don't worry about me. We'll be plenty busy tomorrow night." Scott decided then that no matter what Mr. Piotrowski said, when they got back home he was going to see a doctor. They decided to play it safe and ate dinner in the hotel's restaurant. They retired early. At 5:30 a.m. Scott was up and hit the hotel gym. He had the place to himself thanks to his early morning start. Taking advantage of the equipment he did a vigorous session of circuit training. The hard work out helped center him, and he felt relaxed when he got back to the room. Mr. Piotrowski was awake, and had the coffee maker in the room brewing. "Breakfast after your shower?" he asked taking a sip of his precious caffeinated beverage. "Sure, won't be long," Scott replied. Downstairs in the restaurant they looked over the breakfast menu. "What's a continental breakfast?" asked Scott. "Usually it's breads like pastries, toast, that kind of thing. You're probably better off eating a hearty meal with our schedule today." Scott ordered banana pancakes, and they came with a light dusting of powdered sugar which he found odd. Was syrup not sugary enough? He finished breakfast and excused himself to get a paper for Mr. Piotrowski. At the little gift shop inside the hotel he bought two papers, and a few magazines. Mr. Piotrowski was sipping another cup of coffee when he returned. "Look at the size of these papers. Chicago is so big that they need two." The older man looked at the papers and magazines that Scott had selected, "Good thinking. You didn't spend too much money did you?" "No, and I've got plenty," he patted his front pocket for emphasis. "Well I'm heading back up to the room. Your tour guide won't be here till nine so you've got time to explore if you want." Scott decided to follow Mr. Piotrowski up to the suite. He read the papers, and then went for a walk. Shortly before nine he stopped by the room. "What time should I be back by?" he asked. Mr. Piotrowski looked thoughtful and replied, "I'd say no later than four? Now go have fun, that's an order." He was smiling as he said it. Scott went down to the lobby, and found a chair with a good view of the front doors. Mr. Piotrowski had said that he would recognize his guide so he shouldn't have been surprised when a hand swatted him on the shoulder. He turned around and then stood up, "Lauren, where did you come from?" "My god, you've grown a couple of inches since the summer," exclaimed Doctor Yoshida's assistant, Lauren Makepeace. "How tall are you now?" Scott looked her in the eye, "I don't know. How tall are you? Hey, you're a blonde now." "Five foot, seven," she said with a shake of her hair. "Like it?" "Sure," Scott mumbled. He felt slightly tongue tied. "You're right. He is cute," said the slim, dark haired girl next to Lauren. He blushed. "Scott, meet my roommate, Donna. We both work at the museum ... wow," she said as she felt his arm, "It feels like you've put on twenty pounds of muscle to boot. They must be feeding you good back in Texas." "Hi," Scott said shyly as he held his hand out to the other girl. They were both attractive young women dressed casually for a day out on the town. She took his hand, and looked him over closely, "How come you don't speak like a cowboy?" "I take English at school. I'm fluent even." "Ha!" Lauren said. "You two will get along famously. Donna is known for her wicked wit. We're going to Navy Pier. It's such a nice day that I thought we'd walk. Where's Mr. Piotrowski?" Scott pointed up, "He's staying in the suite. His leg has been bothering him so he's going to take it easy before the big event. Did you park out back?" "No, we took the 'L' from our apartment. The Van Buren Street stop is just behind the hotel," explained Donna. He had wanted to get a good look at the elevated train system, but doubted there would be time. Maybe he could make another trip to Chicago some day. They left the hotel through the main door, and walked toward the lake front. They passed a big fountain, and were soon right at the water's edge. He stared out at the enormous lake, enjoying the sounds of the lapping water. "First time seeing water?" asked Donna. "Not a lot of it in West Texas," he replied. "Ah," she replied. "The Chihuahuan Desert." She launched into quick summary of the geological features of the desert region. "She's a paleontology doctoral candidate," Lauren explained. "Their degree path runs through the geology department. Mention something about rocks and we'll lose her for a good half hour." "I'm not that bad," Donna complained. "Are too," replied Lauren. "So, English speaking cowboy. Do you ride a horse to school?" Donna asked. Scott looked at her, "Not to school, no. I do ride a motorcycle sometimes, but mostly I take the bus." "You have a motorcycle license?" asked Lauren. She held her hand out demanding to see proof. Scott handed her his billfold so she could see. "So you do ride horses?" persisted Donna. "I live on a ranch that has horses. So, I ride every now and then." "Do your parents have an oil rig on the back forty to pay for the horses?" Donna wanted to know. "I can't believe you're only fifteen," interrupted Lauren handing his wallet back. "It's a boys ranch, and no, no oil wells." "Fifteen," Donna mused aloud. "That makes you a freshman? Goodness, you're going to be trouble. What's a boys ranch anyway?" "It's code for orphanage out in the country," he explained. "Oh god, I'm sorry," apologized Donna. "Why, were you going to adopt me?" he asked with a grin. Donna's mouth dropped open. "I think he got you," crowed Lauren. Donna just shook her head. "Foster kid humor. It can be a little rough," explained Scott. "So, you're going to be a paleontologist?" "Yeah, I'm a PhD candidate at the University of Chicago," she answered, grateful for a change of topics. "What was your undergraduate degree in?" he asked. She explained that she'd gotten double degrees in biology and geology, "It's a lot of schooling; add another two years to finish your masters after your undergraduate years, and three, or maybe four more years to finish the doctoral degree." He was impressed, "And you did that all here in Chicago?" "Oh no, I was an undergrad at Stanford," she said. "In California? What about you Lauren?" "Asian languages and art history at Vassar in New York," she offered. "Neither one of those schools are cheap," he said. The girls chuckled in agreement. They were approaching a bridge that passed over the start of a branch of the Chicago River. There was a pedestrian walkway under the bridge. "So are you thinking about colleges? It's a little early for your freshman year," Lauren said. Their voices were echoing under the steel bridge, mixed in with the noises of traffic and the water. "I took the SAT last month. It's something I've thought a little about." "You mean the practice SAT?" asked Donna. "No the full SAT." "What did you get?" asked Lauren. Scott mumbled, "twenty-three ninety." "Say that again?" asked Lauren with a big smile as they emerged from under the bridge on the other side of the river. "A twenty-three ninety," Scott said. "Ah ha!" Lauren said. "Good looking and smart too. You're right Donna; he is going to be dangerous." Donna put her arm through Scott's and asked, "So, got a girlfriend?" Scott tried not to turn neon red. "No, I don't have a girlfriend," he stammered. "Been on any dates?" asked Lauren taking his other arm. He cleared his throat, "I had a date for homecoming, and I got asked to a dance recently." "But no girlfriend?" Lauren said with a lilt in her voice. The girls were tag teaming him, and enjoying his discomfort. "No, I live about thirty minutes outside of town. That limits my social opportunities. Besides, I stay pretty focused on school work, and my job." Donna licked her lips, "Hmmm, if your social opportunities don't change look me up in a couple of years." "Down girl," Lauren said. They had arrived at the pier. The threesome spent the next couple of hours browsing the shops, and seeing the attractions. For lunch the girls convinced Scott to try a big slice of Chicago style, deep dish pizza. It was good, but sat heavily in his stomach. Of course they had what he would normally have eaten, a salad. They hit a few more shops looking for a Chicago souvenir. "Why not get this Jake and Elwood Blues poster? It's a classic," suggested Donna standing in front of a black and white poster featuring two strange men wearing fedoras. "Who are they?" he asked. "How can you not know who the Blues Brothers are? Haven't you seen the movie? I think this is the problem with the younger generation, no appreciation for the classics," teased Lauren. 'Tsk, tsk, ' Donna joined in. "It's the education system these days. They don't cover the fundamentals." "It's a movie I'm supposed to have seen?" he asked. "Yes, in fact I'm giving it to you as an assignment. I'll give you my email address, and I want a full report after you've seen it," Lauren insisted. "Yes, ma'am," he replied. "Come on," she tugged on his arm. "Let's go ride the Ferris wheel." The three of them had a gondola to themselves and enjoyed the spectacular view. It was a beautiful day and the March weather was crisp and clear. "You know, I've lived here for three years and this is the first time I've been up in this thing," remarked Lauren. "I know what you mean," replied Donna. "There are so many great things to do here, but we get wrapped up in school and work." She patted Scott on the knee, "It's too bad you won't be here for Taste of Chicago. It's a wonderful summer street fair with great food from all of the best Chicago eateries." They strolled easily back to the front of the Navy Pier where there was a line of taxis waiting. Scott looked at his watch. "Are you guys going to be at this museum function tonight?" he asked. "Yes," replied Donna. She took his hand and spun him around, "Too bad there won't be any dancing." "Why don't I spring for a taxi back to the hotel?" he offered. Lauren looked at the time, "That's a good idea. Can you afford it?" "How much can it be? Don't worry, I've got cash." The group climbed into a taxi, and Scott told the driver their destination. It was a quick trip back to the hotel where Scott paid the driver. Scott walked the girls through the lobby, and out to the steps up to the 'L' station nearby. "Thanks for playing tour guide this afternoon. I had a really good time," he said. "You're welcome," replied Lauren. "We've got to go pretty ourselves up for the big do. Don't forget us little people when you're hanging out with the museum big wigs tonight." "I don't think that's going to be an issue," Scott replied. The girls waved goodbye. Scott returned to the hotel, and rode the elevator up to the suite. He unlocked the door, and found a relaxed looking Mr. Piotrowski in the sitting area reading a book. He looked up, "Have a good time?" "Yes, it was fun. We walked along the water front all the way over. At the pier they've got one of those giant IMAX theaters, and tons of arcades. I think we went into every little shop they had. I had a big piece of deep dish pizza. We also rode on a large Ferris wheel. It was nice. I paid for a taxi on the way back. Apparently the girls need a lot of extra time to get ready for this event." "Girls, plural?" "Oh yeah. You remember Doctor Yoshida's assistant, Lauren? She brought her roommate. She's going to be a paleontologist. How cool is that?" "Sounds exciting." "How about you? Did you get to rest?" Scott wanted to know. "I had a nice, quiet time. Read all the papers and magazines, and got our clothing for tonight pressed. Yours is hanging in your room by the way. I took a walk, and spent a little time in the lounge downstairs. They made me a real tasty roast beef sandwich. Which reminds me, do you need to eat? We're not going out for dinner until after this thing at the museum." "I'm good. The pizza filled me up." "Why don't you rest a bit? The car will be here for us at a quarter till six," Mr. Piotrowski suggested. Scott put his bag of goodies from the pier on the table in his room, and stretched out on the bed. He closed his eyes and took a nap. He woke with a start, and quickly moved to the shower. His clothes, as promised, were hanging nearby. Mrs. Delgado had selected dark grey slacks, a white shirt, black blazer, and a bright light blue tie. He dressed and tied his tie. Winding his Omega Speedmaster, he saw himself in the mirror. I'm a long way from Texas, he thought. He walked out into the sitting area, and saw Mr. Piotrowski adjusting his tie. "Where did you get that?" he asked. "Had it shipped up from Meritt's Corner," Mr. Piotrowski explained as he adjusted the slate grey Stetson on his head. It was a handsome fur felt cowboy hat with a tasteful black hat band set off by silver conchos. "Sometimes we have to play the part. Keep these northerners on their toes," Mr. Piotrowski said with a pronounced drawl. "Doctor Yoshida has already heard you speak. I don't think you'll get away with the accent." "I wish I had brought along my string tie," Mr. Piotrowski complained. "Sir, you look sharp. I'd say the hat adds just enough panache for the occasion." "Panache, huh? That's a good word. Let's go find our ride, and show these museum folks what a couple of fine Texas gentleman we are." Scott was happy to see Mr. Piotrowski in such a good mood. They made their way downstairs, and immediately spotted their driver from the airport. He complimented Mr. Piotrowski on the hat, and escorted them to the car. It was a quick trip to the museum. As they made their way to the impressive front entrance, there was a long line of cars and limos waiting. "We could get out and walk," observed Mr. Piotrowski. "It will just be a minute. Besides this is curb to curb service, sir." In short order it was their turn. An attendant opened Mr. Piotrowski's door. "Enjoy your evening at the museum," the driver said. "I'll be picking you up Sunday morning to go back to the airport." They thanked the driver, and exited the back seat of the Lincoln. "May I have your tickets please?" asked a pleasant young woman. "They're supposed to be waiting for us," replied Mr. Piotrowski. "Your names, please?" "Piotrowski and guest." "Of course. Would you come this way?" the young lady pointed toward a side door. "Mr. Piotrowski and guest," she said to a woman Scott assumed was her supervisor. "Welcome to the Field Museum. If you would follow me, please?" She led them past throngs of elegantly dressed party goers, until Scott saw Doctor Yoshida. "Ah, the man of the hour," the doctor cried when he spotted Mr. Piotrowski. Doctor Yoshida turned to the small group gathered around him and said, "I have the great pleasure of introducing Aleksander Piotrowski of Texas, who is responsible for our fabulous new addition, and his aide, young Scott MacIntyre. Although at the rate he's growing I'm not sure how much longer we can call him young." There was appreciative laughter at Scott and Mr. Piotrowski's discomfort at being in the spotlight. "Welcome to the Field Museum my friends," Doctor Yoshida said as he shook their hands. "These people are museum trustees, and some of our biggest donors," he said in a quieter voice. "We call them whales," Lauren Makepeace whispered in his ear. She had snuck up on him again. He turned to look at her. Her eyes sparkled, and she was wearing a simple black dress. Scott thought looked better than all of the fancy gowns he had seen. Her hair was fixed elegantly, and she had a delicate gold necklace around her neck. She looked good and she knew it. "You look very nice," he said. "Thank you. A lady always appreciates a compliment," she said as she reached to adjust his tie. "You look very handsome tonight, but how come you're not wearing a cowboy hat like your boss?" "I don't think I can pull it off like he does. What did you mean by 'whales' anyway?" Scott asked. "The term comes from Las Vegas, I think. It means high rollers. They're people with lots of money and the museum likes to keep them happy. We better hurry. I think Doctor Yoshida is moving toward the exhibit area." "Where's your partner in crime?" "Donna? She's with the paleo group. They're trying to land their own whales at this event. There are different types of big money donors. There are the artsy types like we're after, and the big dig, dinosaur lovers that her group is after. We'll see her later on." They hurried to catch up with the group. The collection of donors with Doctor Yoshida had joined with a group of Japanese men and women. Lauren explained that they were from the Japanese Consulate. Doctor Yoshida introduced Mr. Piotrowski to the Consul General of Japan at Chicago. The two men shook hands. The combined group continued on until Doctor Yoshida stopped at the entrance to a small exhibit hall. He looked around and spotted Lauren. The doctor gestured for her to join him. Scott walked over to stand with Mr. Piotrowski. "Consul General, distinguished guests, ladies and gentleman, on behalf of the Field Museum I'm proud to give you a first look at the largest collection of Japanese netsuke in the western world." Lauren flipped a switch and lit the room. The crowd filed in and spread out. Doctor Yoshida motioned for Scott to join him. He pointed to a length of cloth on the wall covering something, "Help Lauren take that down when I tell you." Scott went to one end of the cloth, and Lauren went to the other. The small crowd gathered around. Doctor Yoshida nodded, and they pulled the cloth away revealing a long brass plaque. It read, 'The Aleksander and Verna Piotrowski Collection.' The crowd clapped politely. Scott saw that Mr. Piotrowski was looking a little misty eyed when he returned to his side, "Are you alright?" "Verna hated these things you know." "I bet she'd change her mind if she could see them now," he suggested. Mr. Piotrowski laughed quietly, "I don't know. She could be pretty stubborn. I know she would have liked the party at least. Let's go see what these good folks have done." The display cases were brightly lit. Netsuke are small which makes showing them at their best somewhat difficult. The museum had solved this with a series of enlarged high resolution photo displays, and multiple ingenious video screens. A couple of screens showed live macro shots of netsuke rotating on a platform, while other screens ran through a collage picturing the netsuke from different angles. There was a voiceover narration, and Scott recognized the speaker. "That's you," he exclaimed when he saw Lauren watching him. "You wouldn't believe how many takes it took to get right." "You're famous," he replied "My name isn't on the wall," she replied. "Come take a look at the rest of the exhibit." She held his arm as she explained, "Mr. Piotrowski's collection increased our holdings by a good quarter which means we've got some very nice examples you haven't seen." Lauren led him around showing him some of the more important pieces in the museum's collection. Scott was interested to see netsuke that Lauren said were extremely rare. Mr. Piotrowski's collection had four of this artist's signed pieces, and they were all grouped together in a special display case with the museum's other two examples. "All we really know about him is his name, and the pieces he carved. We know the approximate dates when he was active. Every time we find a new piece it's like seeing part of a bigger puzzle. When I first saw this new grouping in Texas my heart almost stopped." Scott enjoyed watching Lauren talk about her work. Her passion was something he envied. Lauren looked at her watch, "The rest of the patrons are eating rubber chicken, and they're about to get the pitch from the museum brass. The doctor is scheduled to give a talk in about fifteen minutes. Then the exhibits will be open for viewing. Excuse me." He watched her go over and give the doctor a heads up on the time. Doctor Yoshida looked at his watch, and clapped his hands together. "Ladies and gentleman, our private showing is ending as they're about to call for intermission in the main hall. If you'll retake your seats the museum director will have a few words, and I'll speak on our newest addition. Mr. Piotrowski, if you will join me on the dais?" The small crowd broke up and began exiting the exhibit area. "Scott where are you going to be?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Sir, he'll be back stage with me," Lauren announced. "I'll try to keep him out of trouble." "Good luck with that." They made their way to the hall. The burble of voices had risen to a crescendo as the intermission was announced. The museum had created a stage area with side wings made from scaffolding like lattice covered in fabric. Lauren had some notes for her boss. He glanced over them, thanked her, and went to take his place at the dais with Mr. Piotrowski. "Trying to steal my man?" Scott and Lauren turned to see Donna. She was wearing a slinky red sheath dress. "I'll loan him to you if you're good," replied Lauren. "But it's so much better being bad," Donna replied with a lascivious lick of her lip. She brushed Scott's shoulders and played with his tie. "Looking good, boyfriend." What's wrong with my tie, he wondered? "Did you land another whale?" Donna asked. "Who?" Lauren replied. "The oilman with the cowboy hat." "That's my boss, Mr. Piotrowski," Scott explained. "He's not an oilman." "Hmmm, so are you two taking me to dinner?" Donna wanted to know. Lauren looked around, "If you're a good little paleontologist you can go with us. The Japanese delegation is taking a small group to an exclusive steak house." The two girls talked about which place it was, but the name meant nothing to Scott. They were excited. Lauren explained that the bill for dinner could probably pay their rent for at least half the year. Scott was suitably impressed. "I thought while the rest of the patrons were looking at the new exhibit you could show Scott some of your dinosaurs," Lauren told Donna. "Great idea," Donna said. They quieted down as the museum director began speaking at the podium. Their unique perspective just off stage allowed Scott to watch the people at the podium as well as the larger crowd out in the hall. The director finished speaking, and turned the microphone over to Doctor Yoshida. He spoke about the mission of the museum, the Asian collection, and the importance of their new acquisition. Mr. Piotrowski was introduced to an enthusiastic round of applause. The elderly man stood up stiffly, and doffed his cowboy hat to the crowd. They clapped even louder. Doctor Yoshida concluded his remarks by announcing that the museum and the Japanese consulate had reached an agreement. The collection would travel to Japan in two years' time for a six month tour of the Japanese home islands. It was interesting news, and was apparently something important for the Field Museum because all of their people looked really excited. The doctor asked Consul General Ogura Takahiro to stand, and there was another round of applause for the Japanese delegation. Lauren whispered in his ear, "Ogura is his last name, Takahiro is his first name. Doctor Yoshida gets very traditional around the Japanese delegates." The doctor concluded his remarks, and all of the museum guests were invited to visit the new exhibit. Scott walked out to the dais and checked in with Mr. Piotrowski, "This is some big deal, huh?" "I thought you'd like the news. Maybe we can get them to take us along as part of the exhibit. We could both wear cowboy hats and boots. Maybe get some six shooters. Have our own display case. What do you think?" "Maybe we could give them a video instead?" "Heh, yeah that might work better. Is that the other girl?" Mr. Piotrowski asked indicating the two standing just off stage. Scott waived them over. "This is Donna—" "Donna Church, Mr. Piotrowski. It's a pleasure to meet you. Lauren has been talking about your netsuke for the last six months." "So you're the dinosaur doctor?" "He's been talking about me, has he?" Donna teased. "We thought we'd go show Scott some old bones while you were busy with the exhibit." "Bring him back in one piece. I need him to help move my old bones around." Mr. Piotrowski shooed them away with instructions, "Go have a good time." They were leaving toward the dinosaur wing when Lauren stopped, "Look, they've got a photographer. Let's get our photo taken." "Yes. Come on Texas," Donna announced dragging him toward the photographer. "Are these for a newspaper?" he asked. "Private photographer, but there's probably a newspaper photojournalist around here somewhere," Donna explained. Lauren gave the photographer a museum business card with instructions to email the photos to her. They posed for a picture. "Rats, I think I blinked. Can we take another?" she pleaded sweetly. The photographer said, "No problem." As he went to take the new photo the girls leaned in and gave Scott a kiss on each cheek. The flash went off and Scott blinked, looking around. "Yes!" they cheered. "That's the one." Scott felt the tips of his ears get hot, and was sure his face was as equally red. The photographer laughed, and showed the girls the photo on his LCD display. "I'll print out copies, and you pick them up before you leave. Plus I'll email them to you," he assured the ladies. They toured the dinosaur exhibits, and Donna was a very knowledgeable guide. Scott found himself looking at a display showing fossilized dinosaur tracks. "We have some in Fort Stockton," he commented. Donna perked up even more, "Really, I'll have to look it up. What else do you know about them?" "I think they were made by a camptosaurus?" "Hmmm, bipedal plant eater. Not bad, cowboy." Lauren said that they had better check and see if the consul delegation was ready to go eat. They found Mr. Piotrowski standing with Mr. Whitmore, the lawyer who had travelled to Fort Stockton with Doctor Yoshida and Lauren. He gave Scott a polite nod. "Allen says they're taking us to a fancy steak house downtown," Mr. Piotrowski confided to him. "We're not paying are we? Lauren said that it's a really expensive place." "No worries on that front. It's all on the consul general. He probably has a budget just for taking people out to dinner. He's a real nice fellow too. We had a very interesting conversation." Donna had been to see the photographer, and had three soft framed photos which she distributed. "These were on me," she explained. Scott looked at the photo. The photographer had captured the delight in the girls' eyes, and the surprise on his face as they kissed him. He had to admit that it was a good photo. "This is better than a poster of those Blues Brothers," he stated. "Ahhh," the girls chimed in unison. "You still have to watch the movie and let me know about it," Lauren said as she patted him on the arm. It took five SUV's to take everybody to the steak house. They took the entire Japanese delegation along with multiple dignitaries from the museum. At the restaurant a room had been reserved for their use. Scott had an aged steak that was possibly the best thing he'd ever eaten. Lauren and Donna were quiet during the dinner. He realized that they were shy, or at least very cautious in the presence of the museum hierarchy. It was a pleasant meal, and the conversation covered a wide range of subjects. The girls grew animated when they got take home bags for their leftovers. Scott gave them his box and told them to split it. Outside the restaurant goodbyes were exchanged. The girls hugged him, and extracted his promise to email them. They declined the offer of a ride, and instead went to the nearby train station. "What a day," Mr. Piotrowski said with a sigh when they finally returned to their hotel suite. "You said it," Scott agreed. "Think you'd like living here?" Mr. Piotrowski asked him. "I don't know. It's a lot more exciting than Pecos County, but I think I might feel crowded after too much longer." "Those girls might make you change your mind." Scott let out a breath, "I think they were being nice to a kid." "Don't sell yourself short. I think they really liked you." "I suppose," Scott replied. It was confusing to think about. He wished he was a little older. He fell asleep quickly after such a long day. In the morning they checked out, and met the driver for the trip back to O'Hare. Scott was amused to think that he had already become jaded about commercial air travel. There must have been a notation on their return tickets because they had a cart waiting for them. Scott's enjoyment of air travel was a bit tempered by a four hour delay at DFW. They got into Midland by late afternoon, and back to the house around six. Jobe was beyond excited to have them back. Scott unpacked, and took Jobe for a quick walk. He tried to give the truck keys back to Mr. Piotrowski, but he insisted that Scott keep the set. Mr. Piotrowski was worn out from the day long travel. Scott told Jobe to keep a close eye on him. He was going to have to figure out how to get Mr. Piotrowski to see a doctor for a checkup. Scott put his souvenirs in his backpack, and started the motorcycle. He rode by the old Mendoza place. It looked abandoned without any curtains in the windows. The Broken Creek Boys Ranch looked small to him when he wheeled up over the rise, and looked down at the Rewcastle's place. He was surprised to see Mrs. Delgado's station wagon still at the ranch this late on a Sunday. He parked, and felt himself dragging as he went to the kitchen. Mrs. Delgado's eyes grew wide when she saw him. She hustled him back out the door, "Mijo, did you have a good time?" "It was great. Long day of travel back though. By the way, your choice of clothing was perfect. If I haven't thanked you for that before, I apologize," he said tiredly. "It's nice of you to say. Now, was there anything you forgot before you left?" she asked. That stopped him. She was obviously trying to tell him something. He thought it over, but shook his head. He couldn't think of a thing. Mrs. Delgado grimaced, "You might have told somebody here at the ranch." Well shit. He hadn't even thought of the Rewcastles. He had permission from the judge after all. "Am I in trouble?" "I don't think these stupid fools even noticed," there was a hint of venom in her voice. "Some of the boys were bound to notice, but they won't say anything. What we don't want to do is draw their attention to the fact that you've been gone." "What would I do without you, Abuela?" he hugged her. "Go, get some sleep. You have school tomorrow," she instructed. Scott walked to his room at the bunkhouse and looked around. The room looked as tired as he felt. He laid out clean clothes to wear to school in the morning. Despite being tired he pulled himself up to the rafter, and secured his nice watch and cash in his hidden lock box. Back on the floor he thought about displaying the picture from Chicago. It would definitely brighten up the room, but he wasn't sure he wanted people here at the ranch to see it. He returned the picture to his backpack. There was a little table in Mr. Piotrowski's spare bedroom where he kept his work clothes. Maybe he'd put it there. Scott fell asleep with a smile on his face. ------- Chapter 13 Monday, March 12, 2007 Scott bounced out of bed, and hit his calisthenics routine with a renewed sense of purpose. After a quick shower he rushed from the bunkhouse. He tightened the straps on his backpack, and went to warm up the motorcycle. For breakfast at Mr. Piotrowski's he fixed french toast. The strawberries from their last grocery run were still good so he cleaned up them with a sharp knife, and placed them decoratively over both plates. Jobe watched intently, hoping for a dropped morsel. Scott took pity on him and got him a treat. For his part, Mr. Piotrowski was slow coming down the stairs, and looked a little bleary eyed. "How can you be such a bundle of energy after our weekend? I need a few days just to recover," he grumbled. "Come on. It's a beautiful day full of promise," Scott said as he cheerfully put their plates on the table. "Okay, what has you in such a good mood?" "Why shouldn't I be in a good mood? We just got back from a fantastic trip. I might have a job interview this week, and I should be hearing from the college people soon. Plus, it really is going to be a great day outside. I've even decided to ride into town." Mr. Piotrowski looked at him briefly, and then dug into his breakfast. "Mmmmm, these are good," he said around another mouthful. Scott finished off his plate, and tossed a piece of crust to Jobe who ate it with a quick snap. On the way into town he waved at the school bus driver as he passed him heading the other way. In the school library Scott used a computer to look up the 'Blues Brothers' movie. It was an 'R' rated comedy. He'd have to check with his friends and see if any of them had ever seen it. Not even Mr. Channing's geometry class dampened his enthusiasm. On his way to third period English he spotted Eddie and Molly holding hands in the hallway. "Hey guys, have a good weekend?" he asked. "Uhh..." was all Eddie could get out. Molly let go of Eddie's hand, and looked nervously around. "Hey, we've got to get to English. See you at lunch, Molly," Scott said has he clapped Eddie on the back in a friendly manner. "Are you walking her to class? Hurry up then, time's a wasting." Scott left his friends in a confused cloud of good cheer. Eddie caught back up to him as class was starting. "Dude, are you okay?" he asked. Scott smiled, "I'm great!" The teacher called class to order while Eddie muttered something about Scott having been, "Kidnapped by aliens." In the break between classes Eddie tried to get him to talk about his trip, but Scott told him to wait till lunch when he could tell everyone at the same time. At lunch time, Scott headed toward the salad bar. He passed Rene with a hearty, "Hey, Rene!" She turned around, confused. Scott sat down at their lunch table with a plateful of salad and an orange. He shoveled some of the salad into his mouth, chewed and then took a big drink of water. He looked up at his friends who were all staring at him. He smiled. "Okay, what's going on?" demanded Eddie. "What?" he asked innocently. "Why are you in such a good mood?" asked Rene. "Yeah," chipped in Molly. "No reason in particular. It's a great day out. Spring is here, all that stuff," he explained. Bo leaned forward, "How was Chicago?" Scott put another bite into his mouth, and held up his finger telling him to wait a moment as he chewed. He took another drink. "The trip was great," he explained. He told them about airports, how big the hotel was and the great view of Lake Michigan. He went into great detail about the observation deck at Sears Tower, and the fun he'd had on the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier. They were impressed by his description of the fancy party at the museum and the amazing exhibits. Everybody was interested in the huge tower. The girls wanted to know what kind of shops he'd seen, and the guys nodded when he described the great steak he'd eaten. "Hey, have any of you guys seen a movie called, 'The Blues Brothers'?" he asked. Bo had, and wanted to know why. "These girls who were my tour guides said I had to see it," he replied. "Who were these girls?" asked Rene. "A couple of college girls employed by the museum, I met one of them last summer when the museum people came down to see Mr. Piotrowski's collection. We spent most of Saturday together, and had a really great time." "Pretty?" asked Rene. Bo and Eddie were trying to give Scott some kind of signal. He looked at them trying to divine what they were saying. "Sure, real pretty," he replied to Rene. He looked back at Bo, who was now pinching the bridge of his nose. Eddie stood up and announced that he was going to get a drink refill. Bo said, "I'll join you." Scott shrugged, and started peeling his orange. He asked if either of the girls wanted a section. They both declined. He noticed that Eddie and Bo were taking their time getting new drinks. "You guys would have liked these girls," he told Rene and Molly. "They're both college graduates. Lauren works for the head of the Asian department at the museum, and Donna is finishing a doctorate in paleontology. She works with dinosaur bones. How cool would that be?" "And you liked them?" asked Rene. "Yeah, they were great," Scott replied. The guys finally returned, but looked uncomfortable. "Hey, Eddie. Do you know what your plans are for the summer yet? Are you staying here, or going to work for your uncle again?" Scott asked. Eddie spilled his iced tea, and sputtered, "What?" Molly had turned in her seat to look at him. "This summer?" Scott prompted. "Uh, yeah. I'm staying here. Working for dad, and maybe a few days at the city pool if I get my lifesaving classes completed," Eddie looked nervously at Molly. Molly nodded at something, and relaxed in her chair. "What about you, Bo? Working for your dad's crew again?" Scott asked. Bo replied quickly, "Yeah, same old thing. Football camp again, and then working for my dad. What about you? "I'm not a hundred percent sure yet," he looked at Eddie. "It looks like I'll have a strange schedule which means I'm going to have to find a different summer job. I might have an interview later this week or next." "You're not going to work at the engine center?" asked a surprised Eddie. "Probably not," he explained. "I talked to your dad about it last week." Rene asked, "Why is your schedule going to be strange?" "Hopefully I'll be taking afternoon classes at the Midland College campus extension located in the vocational training center." "What?" asked an incredulous Eddie. "How?" Rene wanted to know. Scott finished his orange segment, and carefully cleaned his fingers with a napkin. "I took the SAT and applied. It was fairly straight forward, really." "You took the SAT? When?" demanded Molly. He folded the napkin, and pushed his tray back. He fixed Molly with a look, "Back in February ... on a Saturday." "Shit," Rene said softly. Molly blinked her eyes rapidly, and took a deep breath. Scott waved his hand casually, "Water under the bridge. So, what are you girls doing this summer?" "I'm going to the Grand Canyon with my grandparents, and then nothing. It is summer vacation," Rene stressed the last word, as she looked at Molly. Molly took another breath. "I'm going back east to see family. Then I don't know." "So, Eddie, how many days till summer vacation," Scott asked. Eddie distractedly replied, "I haven't counted yet." "Better get on that. How will we know otherwise?" smirked Bo. "Cheer up everybody. Think about it. In two and a half months or so we'll no longer be freshman," Scott said as he stood up. "I think they've got fresh bananas, anybody want one?" he asked as he walked toward the salad bar. "He's cheerful. This can't be good," muttered Eddie. Scott was still in a good mood when he got to the gym for final period. He dressed quickly, and was stretching while the rest of the cross country team gathered to listen to Coach Zell's instructions for the training period. "Okay, listen up. It's going to be a little different today. You're going to run a timed mile on the track." There were a couple of groans. "We'll go by alphabetical order," he clapped his hands together. "Head on out. Scott, wait up a moment will you?" "Yeah, coach?" "Results came back on this last round of piss tests. You're good to go." "Great. Thanks, Coach," it was another thing he could put behind him. His sample looked normal to the testing lab. They went out to the quarter mile track, and the five members of the cross country team tried to stay loose. Scott could tell that Rene was having trouble focusing after her first lap. Coach Zell could tell too, and laid into her as she ran past them. "Keebler, pick up the pace!" he yelled. By the end of her third lap Rene's rhythm was completely broken, and she struggled on her fourth and final lap. She collapsed after crossing the finish line. "Get up Keebler and walk it off. You'll cramp up otherwise. You know better!" the coach was yelling. He clapped his hands together rapidly. "Up, up, up!" Rene got up and looked wiped out. It was Scott's turn and he took off down the track. He had a good rhythm going. The one thing he hadn't managed to figure out was how to get Mr. Piotrowski to see a doctor. He considered asking Mrs. Delgado for help, but Mr. Piotrowski was a proud man. His wife's death also colored his view of the medical profession. Maybe he should stop by the hospital after school and talk to somebody. His yearly physical for family services had be coming up soon. Coach Zell's whistle interrupted his train of thought. "MacIntyre, you going to run another mile?" the coach yelled. Scott looked around, and realized he'd finished his mile. He started jogging back to the start-finish line. Coach Zell was looking at his stopwatch, and turned it around for Scott to see. "Not bad, MacIntyre. Not bad at all. Alright, everybody hit the showers." In the parking lot Scott sat on his bike as it warmed up. He thought briefly about riding over to the hospital and arranging an appointment, but wasn't sure if that would even be possible. After thinking about it he decided that Mr. Piotrowski probably wouldn't appreciate his interference. Instead he rode over to the courthouse to see Judge Upcott. He found the judge leaving his office, "Scott, I'm on my way to meeting. Whatever you need will have to be quick. Walk with me to the conference room. Did you have a good time in Chicago?" "Yes, sir. Chicago was great. I wanted to stop by and see if you've had a chance to speak to your friend about that job?" He had to walk quickly to keep up with the judge as he made his way down the hallway. Judge Upcott stopped outside of the conference room. He balanced his leather case on a knee, and searched through it. He pulled out a piece of letterhead with a phone number. "This is Mr. Lewis's phone number. He'll be expecting your call sometime this week." Scott folded the paper, and put it into his wallet, "Thank you, sir." He was almost to the stairs when the judge came back out of the conference room and shouted to him, "Scott, I forgot. You need to run by and see Honour, or Joseph, over at their offices." "About what?" "They'll let you know. It's nothing to worry about," and with that the judge closed the door. "Nothing to worry about he says," Scott muttered to himself. Downstairs at the main entrance to the courthouse there was a work crew taking measurements. He adjusted his grip on the motorcycle helmet, and paused to watch the workmen. "What are they doing?" he asked one of the elderly deputies who worked security at the courthouse. "They're going to install a security checkpoint and a metal detector," the deputy explained. "No kidding?" "They told us about it a few weeks ago. Part of me is glad for the added security, the other part of me is sad that we might ever need it," the deputy said as he returned to the magazine he had been reading. Scott could see the law office around the corner from where he was parked. The receptionist spotted him coming in the door, and picked up her phone to let one of the lawyers know that he was there. "Go right on back, hun," she said. He walked to Joseph's office, and peeked in. Mr. Black was standing beside his desk sorting through a large stack of paperwork. "Scott, good to see you. Go on down to Honour's office. I'll join you shortly." He walked further down the hallway, and knocked on the doorframe of Honour's office. She was on the phone. Looking up she covered the phone and told him, "Grab a seat." He sat down. Joseph walked in and took a seat. "You talked to the judge?" he asked. "I just saw him over at the courthouse. He told me to come by." "Good. How was Chicago? Did you get a chance to visit Northwestern?" "No, didn't have the time," he quickly described the sights he had gotten to see. "I did meet somebody who was going to the University of Chicago." "Fine school," Joseph said as Honour concluded her business and hung up. "It's good that you stopped by. We need to talk to you," Honour said as she motioned to Joseph. "Nazario Guzman is going to trial next week. You're on the county's witness list. We have to sit down with the prosecutor sometime this week. He'll explain what's going on." "How long is this going to take? Do you know how many days of school I might miss?" "It's not like television. I doubt this case lasts more than a day," Joseph explained. "The case is scheduled to be heard next Wednesday. I wouldn't worry too much about it. You're a supporting witness on a lesser charge to the main one he's up on." Honour cut in, "Scott, the prosecutor is going to review some questions that might be asked, and tell you how to answer the defense lawyer's questions. The basic rule of thumb is to give short answers, and 'Yes' or 'No' are best. No long winded explanations. Use as few words as humanly possible, and don't let the defense lawyer get under your skin." Joseph followed up by saying, "You might not even be called. It depends on how the case goes. Questions?" "Can we try to do this so I miss as little school as possible?" Honour spoke, "That's a good point. I think we can arrange the interview after school hours. Joseph, organize it with the prosecutor's office?" "Scott, I'll call over there and get it sorted out, and I'll leave a message with Alex when we know a meeting time with the prosecutor. Why don't you have a phone? You must be the only fifteen year old without one," Joseph asked half jokingly. "Who would I call?" Scott replied. He left the office and rode straight to Mr. Piotrowski's. The half hour trip gave him time sort out his thoughts. Scott found him watching the news in the front room. "It sounds like you've had an interesting day," Mr. Piotrowski commented. "I got a call from our lawyer a short while ago. If you can be at their office after school tomorrow you can have your meeting with the prosecutor. How do you feel about all of this?" Scott sat down in the other reclining chair. "Well..." he scratched the back of his neck as he thought, "I don't really see what I can testify about. Almost having a fight in a school hallway isn't illegal, and the threatening letter Guzman wrote to the paper I never actually saw." "With the Black's watching out for you, you'll be fine," Mr. Piotrowski observed. Jobe walked into the front room and bumped Scott's knee. He reached over and scratched the big dog's ears. "I did get the number for that job from the judge. Do you know a Mr. Lewis?" Mr. Piotrowski rubbed his chin, "Can't say that I do." Scott stretched and stood up, "I think I'll take Jobe for a walk, and then call Mr. Lewis." He gathered his courage, "Mr. Piotrowski, would you do me a favor?" "What's that?" "While I'm walking Jobe, would you call your doctor and make an appointment to get a checkup?" "Scott, where's this coming from?" "I'm worried about you. Like you said, you've been getting tired, and you're having some trouble with your leg. Please," Scott urged. "You really are worried aren't you?" said Mr. Piotrowski. "Yes." "In that case I'd better call and get an appointment, hadn't I?" Scott took Jobe and went for a long walk. By the time they got back he'd filled Jobe in on the trip to Chicago, and all of the latest news. "They got me right in. I've got an appointment next Tuesday, early. I'll drive myself," announced Mr. Piotrowski. "That's great," replied Scott. "What would you have done if I had refused?" "I don't know. Maybe I'd have called the Ladies Auxiliary and see what they could do?" "Ho!" Mr. Piotrowski said with an amused grin. "That would have been a little extreme don't you think?" "Perhaps," Scott had to laugh at the look on Mr. Piotrowski's face. He took the phone number out of his wallet, "I'm going to call Mr. Lewis." He dialed the number. "Lewis Outfitters, how can we help you hunt today?" the voice on the other end of the phone announced. "Mr. Lewis? This is Scott MacIntyre. Judge Upcott said I should call?" Scott asked. "Indeed. This is Mr. Lewis. You're looking for a job?" "I am. Yes, sir." "Hmmm. Do you know where Lewis Heating and Air is?" Mr. Lewis proceeded to give him the address in Fort Stockton. "I can find it, sir." "Friday, after school, come by the office for an interview." "Thank you, sir. I'll be there." Mr. Lewis grunted and hung up. Scott looked at the phone and hung up, "I've got an interview on Friday at Lewis Heating and Air." Mr. Piotrowski nodded his approval. The next morning Scott stopped at Meritt's Corner and bought gas for the motorcycle. The school day was unremarkable, and his session at the prosecutor's office was anticlimactic. The man didn't say anything that Joseph or Honour hadn't already mentioned. The most interesting part of the week before Friday was Eddie enlisting Scott's help for his lifeguard classes. Eddie had to have CPR certification to qualify as a lifeguard. The Red Cross wouldn't justify coming down from Odessa unless they had one more person signed up for the class. Scott agreed although he wasn't happy about missing yet another Saturday of work. Eddie assured him that he'd clear it with his dad. After cross country practice on Friday, Scott showered and dressed. He'd thrown a tie into his bag for the collared shirt he wore. He took some good natured ribbing from the other guys in the locker room as he tied his tie. He left in a hurry. There wasn't much he could do about his hair. It was going to get mussed by the helmet, but he'd do the best he could. First impressions were important. He drove over to the Lewis store for his interview. He sat at a four way intersection waiting for the traffic ahead of him to pass through the stop signs. Ahead he could see 'Lewis Heating and Air' right next to 'Lewis Interiors.' The third of the trio of buildings belonged to something called, 'Pecos Electronics.' It wasn't a store he was familiar with, but he wanted to check it out. There wasn't any designated motorcycle parking. He didn't want to take a spot right in front of the storefront, so he parked at the end of the building. He took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair looking at the reflection in the store window. He straightened his tie. It was the best he could do. He composed himself, and opened the door. A blast of cool air hit him in the face as he walked inside. It wasn't much of a storefront. In fact it looked more like a parts house. At the front counter sat an elderly man with snow white hair and shockingly large eyebrows. The man was pecking at a computer keyboard with his two index fingers. "Help you, young man?" the man rasped. He cleared his throat, "Yes, sir. My name is Scott MacIntyre. I'm here for a job interview with Mr. Lewis." 'You are, are you?" The man turned around on his office chair. He was wearing a work shirt with a sewn in name tag that read, 'Lewis.' He reached over, and pressed a button at the base of a microphone Scott hadn't noticed before. He heard a crackle over speakers hidden in the ceiling as the old man's voice echoed through the building, "Smokey, young man here to see you." Shortly after a man appeared behind the senior citizen, and looked at him. "Come on through," he told him. The old man pointed to a section of the countertop that swung up. Scott lifted the desktop and set it back down as he went through the pass-through. He followed the other man to a surprisingly clean office. "Have a seat," the man instructed him. "I'm Smokey Lewis. You met my father, Buck, out front." "Scott MacIntyre, sir, pleasure to meet you." Mr. Lewis looked him over carefully, and Scott did the same. Mr. Lewis looked to be a man in his late-50s or early-60s, and had obviously spent a lot of time outdoors. His skin seemed to have a permanent tan and was weather-beaten. He had lines around his eyes that made him look like he was in a permanent squint. "Well, you're polite at least. Not much use for a tie in our business. Why don't you tell me what kind of work experience you've had?" "I grew up doing ranch chores; everything from clearing brush and hauling feed, to shoveling manure. I can do minor carpentry, repair fences, and care for horses. I've worked since last January at Mendoza's Engine Center out at Meritt's Corner. I've cleaned parts, helped with inventory, and was an apprentice in the small engine shop. Starting last summer I've also worked for Mr. Piotrowski helping him clear out a house and storage building, cleaning, cooking, and all manner of household chores. I'm an early riser, and a hard worker." "You have your own transportation?" "Yes, sir. I have my license, and I own a motorcycle," he explained lifting his motorcycle helmet. "You're fifteen?" Mr. Lewis asked. "I am, and I turn sixteen in January. It's a hardship license," he wasn't sure why he was embarrassed to explain that. Mr. Lewis sat back, and folded his hands behind his head. He studied the young man in front of him. "If you have two jobs now, why are you looking for another?" "I've enjoyed working for Mr. Mendoza, but I'm only working eight hours a week at the engine center. I plan to take a college class this summer which meets in the afternoon, and I've heard this job starts early and finishes after lunch. Plus, I really like the outdoors." "Hmmm, and this other job with ... Piotrowski?" Mr. Lewis asked as he stumbled over the name. "I'll keep working for Mr. Piotrowski. The hours are flexible and it's only a few chores. It's near where I live." "I see. Let me tell you a bit about what we do. Lewis Outfitting provides guided hunting adventures. We have clients from all over. They hunt for white-tail and mule deer, pronghorn, javelina, turkey, quail, dove, and mountain lion. This is the off season. From now until fall we work hard managing the property, and preparing for hunting season. We do have some off season activities like sporting clays." Scott indicated that he was following him so far. "Before I go much farther let me ask if you have any experience with firearms, and how do you feel about hunting?" Mr. Lewis asked. "I've completed the NRA basic rifle and handgun courses. I have a Ruger .22 rifle that I won at the VFW fair this last Veteran's Day." He hesitated before answering the second part of the question, "As far as hunting, if it's for food or population control I'm for it. Trophy hunting isn't something I can see myself doing, but I'm not against anybody else's right to do it." Mr. Lewis looked at him, "You're honest at least. Who taught you to shoot?" "Mr. Piotrowski, and Sheriff King," he replied. Mr. Lewis's eye twitched at the sheriff's name. "Here's what the job entails. We have two properties. The main property is thirty-two thousand acres of prime hunting land. There are automated feeders to maintain, stands to repair or replace, really an endless list of items. The biggest part of the job this summer is surveying the property. I want every acre looked at." All thirty-two thousand acres? "You won't be the only one of course. I have a manager and another employee that will also be doing this. Some of it you'll have to hike on foot, but we do have four-wheel, all terrain vehicles that will save you a lot of time. You'd also be documenting any animals you see with a small digital camera. We start work at 6:00 a.m., and try to knock off the field work by 1:00 p.m. to avoid the peak heat, Monday through Saturday. Still interested?" "Yes, sir." Seven hours a day, six days a week? He could definitely get behind that. "You mentioned that you like the outdoors, what kind of experience do you have?" "I've done a lot of hiking. Lately, I've gotten into camping. That's really all there is to it," Scott explained. "That's better than I'd hoped. We can teach you the rest. Here's the deal. You have the job if you want it. Your work experience, and demeanor would have gotten you the job anyway, but the recommendation of Elijah Upcott guaranteed it. I'll pay you seven-fifty an hour to start." The money sounded good. Mr. Lewis appeared to be one of the few people to refer to the judge by name, and not his title. "When would I start?" "When does the school year finish?" asked Mr. Lewis. "May 25th," Scott replied. Mr. Lewis looked at his calendar, "I would say your first full day would be May 29th, the day after Memorial Day. However, what I'd like to have you do is start working weekends for us. There's a lot to teach you. We're in the middle of developing our other property, and you could help there. That would let you meet my people, and so forth. How would that work for you?" "I have a Red Cross first aid class this weekend, and a camping trip with some buddies planned for the last weekend of the month. Other than that I'm free and clear, or will be after I let Mr. Mendoza know." Mr. Lewis stood up, and reached out his hand. Scott shook it. "Then consider yourself hired. With a starting date of ... the first weekend in April. Let's go fill out some paperwork," Mr. Lewis told him. "Any final questions?" "Do you also own the other stores on this lot?" "Lewis Interiors is owned by my ex-wife. We lease the other space to that electronics store." Mr. Lewis herded him down the hallway to another room where he said payroll was handled. "New employee for the outfitting side, get him sorted out will you?" he announced as he left Scott in the care of a pleasant looking woman. Scott filled out the employment paperwork, and provided all of his contact details. "Don't you have your own phone number, honey?" Scott shook his head. "That's easily fixed. Here's what you do. Go over to the electronics store and tell them that Mrs. Lewis told you to get a prepaid cell phone on the Lewis account. Once it's activated call me so I can have the number." His confusion must have been obvious because she explained that she was the current 'Mrs. Lewis, ' and that he'd probably meet the other Mrs. Lewis in time. They would pay for the phone, and if he ran out of minutes then he could add them at his own expense. She gave him a card that listed all of the important Lewis phone numbers, and a packet with maps of their hunting properties. She showed him where he was expected to be the first Saturday. On the map it was labeled, 'hunting lodge.' "Welcome to the Lewis family," she said cheerfully. "Thank you," he replied. Mrs. Lewis took him out a different door, and reminded him to call her with his new phone number. He walked down to the electronics store and went inside. The store appeared to be deserted. He spent several minutes browsing before a man appeared and asked him what he wanted. Scott didn't think much of the man's sales technique, but explained that he was supposed to get a cell phone on the Lewis account. The man disappeared again, grumbling the entire way. Scott went back to browsing. Pecos Electronics sold used and new items, and others that could only loosely be described as electronic. They had several laptops. He looked them over carefully. With college classes on the horizon it might finally be time to buy one. He wondered what Mr. Piotrowski's friend at the hardware store would charge him for a used laptop of questionable origin? The man returned from the back of the store with a box, "Okay, here's your phone. It's already charged. Do you need any accessories?" "Like what?" Scott asked. "Different colored case, maybe an adaptor for your vehicle, or our extended warranty. See what happens is—" Scott realized that this is what Mr. Piotrowski called the 'up sell, ' "No thank you. I don't need anything else." Then he spotted something that perhaps he did need. "How much for the used iPod?" The man took it out from the counter display. It was the smaller size iPod, and had a long gouge running down the face. They haggled over the price. Scott emphasized the damage to the unit, and talked him down to twenty-eight dollars. Mr. Piotrowski would have been proud. The salesman was slightly mollified when Scott paid full price for a new pair of ear buds. There was no way he was keeping the ones that came with the used unit. He paid for his iPod and ear buds with cash, and signed the purchase order for the cell phone. The salesman didn't care if he unboxed his purchase right there at the counter, and quickly disappeared into the back of the store again. With service like this Scott wondered how the man stayed in business. He put the box in the nearby trashcan and the put the instructions and charging station in his backpack. Scott made his way outside. He carefully dialed the number Mrs. Lewis had given him. "I've got it," she told him when he called. He thanked her and hung up. He wasn't sure what to do with the phone, so he put it in the backpack along with everything else. Finally he took his other purchase out and looked it over. Aside from the large gouge down the front, the edges were chewed up and the back showed a lot of wear. Scott sat on his motorcycle and started the engine, letting it warm up. He turned the iPod on, and saw that it had a low battery. Looking around to make sure nobody was nearby he carefully examined the unit noting all of the damage in his mind. With the index and middle fingers of his right hand he stroked the front of the damaged iPod. The gouge slowly disappeared as he ran his fingers down its length. He quickly traced the rest of the surface of the small device with his fingers. The tiny music player grew warm in his hand. When he stopped it looked like he held a brand new device. There were no scratches or marks of any kind left on it, and it was fully charged. Now that's cool no matter how weird it is, he thought. A quick scroll showed that it did have some music in the memory. He put the ear buds in his ears, carefully running the cord inside of his summer weight motorcycle jacket. He pulled his helmet on, and checked the cords again. He pressed play, and had to immediately turn the volume down. He zipped the iPod up in a jacket pocket, and headed for Mr. Piotrowski's house. While he didn't care for the selection, the ability to have music on the long ride to and from town thrilled him. "I got the job," he announced happily to Jobe and Mr. Piotrowski when he found them in the kitchen. "Congratulations!" Mr. Piotrowski said proudly. Jobe 'woofed' his response. Scott told them all about the job. "You sound excited about it. Are you sure you still want to keep working for me?" "Of course I do. I told Mr. Lewis that I was going to continue working for you. That is unless you don't need me anymore?" Scott hadn't even thought that it was a possibility. Mr. Piotrowski assured him that he wanted him to keep doing what he was doing, "I feel better knowing that you're checking up on me, and helping me keep things straight around here. Jobe does a pretty good job, but he's lousy at making breakfast." They laughed when Jobe cocked his head at an odd angle, looking at them. Scott dug out the cell phone, and explained it was a prepaid model that Lewis Outfitting arranged for him. When it ran out of minutes it was up to him to buy more. Then he showed Mr. Piotrowski the tiny music player, and told him about the strange way the little electronics store operated. Mr. Piotrowski was surprised at the behavior of the salesman. Scott passed him the iPod and let him examine it. How do you get the songs into it?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "You download them from the internet through a computer with a cable. Would you mind if I borrowed your laptop to set it up?" "Of course not. Go right ahead. I'm guessing you're not worried about the Rewcastles?" Scott hadn't even considered the Rewcastles, or their ban on music devices at the ranch. "You know ... I'm not worried about them at all," he decided. "Good!" exclaimed Mr. Piotrowski. "Mr. Piotrowski, I did look at some used laptops at the electronics store. Do you think that you could find out what your friend might charge me for one?" "I suppose. Are you needing one that badly?" "I will if I get to take summer classes at the extension campus. There's no hurry, but I thought I should try to get the best deal I can," Scott explained. "Good thinking. I'll look into it," Mr. Piotrowski told him. "I'm going to load some songs onto this thing, and then I'll take Jobe for a walk," he announced. Upstairs in the office he navigated his way through the music store setup, and filled in his debit card number. He ended up purging the entire library on the iPod, and instead filled it with the songs he liked. The newest music he put on it was from Alison Krauss. Mr. Piotrowski had turned him onto her, and he'd fallen in love with her voice. Jobe was very curious about what he was doing. Scott unplugged the unit from the laptop, and showed it to the curious dog. When Jobe was satisfied Scott headed downstairs. He held the ear buds up to Mr. Piotrowski's ears. Mr. Piotrowski smiled when he recognized the music. "I can hear it so clearly," he exclaimed. That gave Scott an idea he would need to check into when he went to town tomorrow. Then he remembered something, "Mr. Piotrowski. I'm taking a Red Cross first aid course all day tomorrow, and for three hours on Sunday. I'd forgotten to mention it to you." "What brought this on?" "Eddie. He's trying to become a lifeguard at the city pool. To qualify for the job he has to have this class. They needed another body before the Red Cross people would come down from Odessa so I was volunteered." Mr. Piotrowski told him it wasn't a problem. Scott took Jobe for his walk, and then headed back to the ranch. The mood around the ranch had been different lately. Currently there were only seven other boys in residence. It was the fewest number he'd ever known in his years there. He dumped his backpack in his room, and checked over his calendar. He took a look around the room. With a sigh he went over to the record player. He packed it up along with the ancient headphones, and spare needle cartridge. Over at the junior bunkhouse he knocked and entered. A couple of the boys were interested in the record player, so he showed them how it operated. Saturday morning he washed Mr. Piotrowski's truck, and rode the Yamaha into town arriving at Eddie's by 8:30 a.m. "About time," Eddie shouted as Scott got off of the bike. "We're only two blocks from the pool," Scott protested. "Yeah, I know. Just nervous I guess," he apologized. "You hungry?" "Nah." "Hey, thanks for the postcard by the way," Eddie said. Scott had wondered when those would start showing up. He'd bought a bunch in Chicago and mailed them the morning they left the hotel. Lilly and Janice were still wearing their pajamas when Scott sat down at the Mendoza kitchen table. They thanked him for their post cards. "No problem," he said brightly. "Scott, you want any breakfast?" asked Mrs. Mendoza as she bustled through the kitchen. "No, ma'am. I already ate." "Turning down food?" she walked over and playfully felt his forehead. "Teenage boys turning down food isn't natural," she explained to the girls. "I feel fine," he protested to their giggles. Eddie was impatient, "Come on, let's get a move on." "What time is that class finished?" asked Mrs. Mendoza. "Mom! I've told you three times already. We get a break for lunch, and the class is over at four." Eddie practically ran out of the house. "I swear she does that on purpose," he grumbled. "So who is going to be in this class anyway?" Scott asked. "Several lifeguards from last year. You'll recognize them, and there's some lady from the city. All the lifeguards have to qualify annually." They crossed the street and made their way to the community pool. Eddie spotted a couple of upperclassmen from the school, "Watch out for those guys. Apparently all the new lifeguards get hazed. Hey, if I haven't said it already, thanks for doing this with me." "No problem. Like I told you, it's probably good stuff to know anyway, right?" Scott asked. "Yeah. Thanks though. I mean it." Scott shrugged. They met up with the group of people waiting outside the building located next to the pool. As Eddie said, they were people Scott recognized from around school; the two older guys Eddie had already pointed out, and three girls. He realized they were all from the swim team. A middle aged lady was on a cell phone. She must have been from the city. She hung up and announced, "The Red Cross people are about ten minutes away." "Hey, have you new guys been shown the equipment room yet?" asked one of the two male lifeguards. "Uhh, no," replied Eddie. "This way," replied the other of the two older boys. On the back side of the building hidden from view of the pool was a wire mesh utility cage. One of the boys unlocked it and led them inside. There were all manner of floats, safety ropes with buoys, first aid kits, a rescue backboard, and all kinds of other gear. "Why don't you guys get familiar with all of that," they slammed the door shut and ran off laughing. "Son of a bitch!" fumed Eddie as he pulled at the locked door. "What did I tell you about the hazing? If they make us late to this class I swear I'll..." Eddie ran out of things he'd do to them when he got free. Scott bent down and looked at the lock, "Look for a piece of wire. I think I can open this thing." He rubbed his index finger over the face of the lock. He felt a weird resistance when he passed over the lock. Eddie brought a broken bit of wire over to him. It was too big, so he told Eddie to keep looking. He looked to see where Eddie was. He concentrated, and rotated his hand with the tip of his index finger against the lock. The locked turned and clicked. He had to pull his finger away from the lock as if it was physically stuck to the lock mechanism. He gently pushed the door open. "Got it!" he told Eddie. "I'm going to tear those assholes a new one!" Eddie promised through clenched teeth. Scott grabbed Eddie by the arm. "Wait. Think about it. You have to work with these knuckleheads this summer. They're hazing you to see if you can take it. Instead of blowing up and getting mad, let's walk over there like nothing happened. If they ask about how we got out pretend that you don't know what they're talking about." Eddie swallowed his anger, and calmed down. "You really think it will work?" "Let's give it a try and find out." "Yeah, maybe you're right. Let them try to figure it out." The Red Cross people had shown up and the lady from the city was unlocking the building. Scott and Eddie walked right in behind the group, and found a couple of seats in the classroom like setup. The older boys stared at them and whispered between themselves. Eddie turned to Scott with a triumphant grin, and Scott had to keep from laughing. With only eight people in the class, the Red Cross trainers sped through the training. They had a plastic training dummy, and several videos along with a lot of reading material. At a break the lead Red Cross trainer suggested that if they worked through lunch, they could take the test later that afternoon and not have to come back Sunday. One of the girls said they could order pizza and keep at it, and everybody quickly agreed. They left the public pool later that afternoon with their Red Cross CPR certifications. Eddie had also reached an understanding with the other lifeguards and seemed to be on better terms with them. "What are you going to do for the rest of the weekend?" asked Eddie. "I've got to run an errand and then head back to Mr. Piotrowski's. Not sure about tomorrow now that we don't have to come back." "Don't forget about our camping trip," Eddie reminded him. "Have you and Bo gone over your camping gear?" Scott asked. "No, we still need to do that." "Why don't you guys try and get together tomorrow? Maybe decide where we're going camping and then give me a call. Hey, forgot to tell you. I've got a cell phone now." "What? You?" "Yeah I know. It's for this new job. They bought me a prepaid cell phone. So don't be calling me a lot and yakking. I have to buy any new minutes on it after the first batch expires." Eddie stopped walking and bent over in laughter. "What?" Scott demanded. Eddie had to wipe the tears from his eyes, "Oh man, that's too funny. Scott, can you seriously see yourself calling somebody up on the phone and spending more than two minutes talking to them?" "Well ... no." He was still laughing, "If you ever use up the minutes on that phone then I'll buy you more. I can't wait to tell everybody else." They'd already reached the house and Eddie practically ran to the kitchen. "Mom, Scott's got a cell phone." The Mendoza women all looked at him. "I'm glad you have a phone. Living outside of town, and riding your motorcycle all over the place. It's a good idea, dear," Mrs. Mendoza decided. "Give me the number, and I'll put it in our phones." "Mom, he's worried about running out of minutes," Eddie said with a smirk. Mrs. Mendoza and both girls were grinning at him. "What, I talk to people!" he insisted. There was open laughter to that statement. "You're many things, but a chatterbox will never be one of them," Mrs. Mendoza told him, as Scott showed her the phone number. "Unlike Eddie," Lilly teased. "I'll show you a chatter box!" responded Eddie. "That's enough," Mrs. Mendoza said mildly. "So what prompted you get a phone?" "Scott's got a new job," Eddie informed her. "You're not working for Dad any longer?" asked Janie. "Why not?" "He's going to be a college student this summer," Eddie announced. "Is that true?" asked Lilly. "Yeah, he took the SAT and everything." Mrs. Mendoza was examining him oddly. Scott waited to see if Eddie was finished talking. Eddie looked at him. "My turn?" Scott asked. Eddie started to say something, and then blushed. "It's only summer session. That's if I get in. I should know here in a week or two." "You'll get in," Eddie said confidently. Scott looked at the time. "Hey, I've got an errand to run. I'll see you Monday, Eddie." "You should come to dinner next week sometime," Mrs. Mendoza insisted. "I'd like that, but it will have to be later in the week if that's okay?" "How about Friday night?" she asked. "That would be good for me," he replied. Eddie walked him to the front door. "I'll give Bo a shout and see what he's doing tomorrow. Get that trip organized like you said." Scott rode over to the electronics store. He shut off of his bike, and heard a ringing sound from his backpack. Curious, he pulled out the cell phone and pressed a button. "Hello?" "It really is him. He got a cell phone," the person hung up. "Rene?" Scott said into the phone. He looked at the display. The phone rang again, "Hello?" "Thanks for the post card," Rene said and hung back up. He went to put the phone back in his bag when it rang again. "Hello?" he said. "It is him. Thanks for the postcard. Sorry, can't talk," the girl said as she hung up. "Molly?" Scott looked at the phone again. What had Eddie done, called all of his friends with the news? He was almost to the door of the store when the phone rang again. Scott answered a little more testily than necessary, "Hello?" "Hey man. It's Bo. Wanted to let you know that I'm getting together with Eddie. We'll get the camping trip organized. Don't want to use up your minutes. Talk to you Monday," and just like that he hung up. At least he introduced himself, Scott thought. Thank goodness he didn't have any other friends in town or this might take all day. He turned the phone off, and put it away. He walked into the store only to be confronted by the man who worked there, "No refunds. All sales are final!" Scott looked at him in disbelief. If this store was still open after the summer he would be shocked. "I'm looking for something to buy. You don't mind do you?" The man threw his hands up and disappeared into the back. Scott found the item that he'd remembered seeing the day before. He pulled the box down, and walked up to the counter. "Hello?" he shouted into the back of the store. "Can you ring me up?" The man reappeared, "What do you want?" "I'll give you ten dollars for this." "It says twenty-five dollars on the sticker," the man said. "Yeah, but look at all the dust on this box," Scott demonstrated by running his finger over the top, and showed the man his blackened finger. "Nobody's even looked at this since you opened. I'll give you twelve dollars and that's my final offer." "Yeah, whatever," the man grumbled as he rang up the purchase. Scott managed to fit the box into his backpack, and left the store. He bet he was the only repeat customer the offensive little man had ever had. Heck, he was probably the last repeat customer too. He put in his ear buds and hit shuffle on the iPod. He headed for Mr. Piotrowski's house. When he got to the house, Jobe ran down the driveway and wanted to race him back up. Scott opened the storage building. He took his surprise for Mr. Piotrowski out and plugged it in to charge up. He stacked some boxes in front of it in case Mr. Piotrowski came looking. He went to find Mr. Piotrowski. "Class is finished. We got it all done and don't have to go back tomorrow. I'm going to lift some, and work on the bag." "Sounds good," said Mr. Piotrowski. "Why don't you take Jobe for a run and work off some of his energy." "Will do." Scott changed clothes up in the little bedroom while he looked at the picture from Chicago he had put in the room. He wondered if he should email Lauren, but put the thought aside. Out in the storage building he hit the weights hard. He went a couple of rounds with the heavy bag, before taking Jobe for a run. He arrived back at the ranch, and went to visit with Mrs. Delgado. She gave him a big hug, and thanked him for her postcard. The post cards hadn't cost much, and were cheap to mail. He figured that a hug was more than a fair trade for the small effort. ------- The next day he took his surprise from the storage building into the house. He spent several minutes hooking it up in the front room. "What have you got there?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. Jobe came in and plopped down on his bed with a minimum amount of fuss. "Please sit down," Scott told Mr. Piotrowski. Scott checked the volume level and walked over to Mr. Piotrowski's reclining chair, "They're wireless headphones. That's the base unit over there. It's infrared so don't block it with anything. When you're not using the headphones put them on the base and it will recharge the batteries. You don't even have to switch them off. They'll automatically shut off when they're not on your head. Try 'em out," Scott told him eagerly. Mr. Piotrowski cautiously put them on his head. Scott turned the television on, and handed him the remote. Mr. Piotrowski adjusted he headphones on his ears with a big smile on his face. "Oh I like this. I can hear so clearly. Thank you, Scott. That was a very thoughtful gift." "I'm going to do chores," he announced loudly. Mr. Piotrowski nodded, and began flipping through the channels. ------- Scott rode the bus on Monday and Tuesday. He hustled to Mr. Piotrowski's Tuesday afternoon, and ran inside the house. Mr. Piotrowski was at the kitchen table sorting pills into a pill organizer. Mr. Piotrowski looked at him. "Well?" Scott asked. "Blood pressure medication. I've got to take the damned things every day according to the doctor. My blood pressure was too low which accounts for the lethargy. This weekly organizer is supposed to remind me to take my pills. Somehow, I don't think that's going to be a problem. Do you?" "That depends if Jobe can be trained to bug you about taking them," Scott said. "What about your leg?" "It's an old leg," Mr. Piotrowski joked. Before Scott could say more he continued, "It was actually my hip. The doc gave me a steroid injection. Said it should help some. The joint has deteriorated, but then again so has the rest of me. Satisfied?" "Long as you take your pills," Scott said. "That's what I figured. You want me to come down to the courthouse with you tomorrow?" "I don't think you need to. Honour will be with me. She says it's a lot of sitting around." "Remember to dress up for court. No t-shirt or jeans." "I was going to wear jeans and a nice shirt with a tie. I guess I could pack some better clothes." "Wear what you wore to the museum function, and take the truck into town," Mr. Piotrowski told him. "I can't do that. What if you wanted to run errands?" Mr. Piotrowski waved away his arguments, "I'm sticking close to home. The doctor said it may take a week or so for me to adjust to these pills. Why don't you stop and do some grocery shopping while you're in town? Do we have a list going?" "Are you sure?" "Yes, now don't argue. How much food do we have left to feed the beast?" Scott sighed and went to check how much dog food they had. The next morning Scott was nervous. He hung his suit jacket on a hook inside the truck. He had his black slacks, white shirt, and blue tie on. Mr. Piotrowski was restraining Jobe to prevent him from getting dog hair all over Scott. "Are you sure you'll be okay?" Scott asked again. "Get in and start the truck. I've got your cell number. I'll call if I need anything. You've got the money and shopping list?" "Yes, sir." "Don't worry about a thing. Honour will keep an eye on you. Jobe and I are going to watch my shows, and I'm going to enjoy being able to hear clearly. Go on now." Scott reluctantly got into the truck, and headed into town. The drive was smooth, and comfortable. He knew it would be years before he could afford a similar vehicle of his own. Besides I like riding the motorcycle, he told himself. He parked in front of the Blacks' office, and retrieved his suit jacket. "Look at you," Honour said when she caught sight of him. She walked over and fussed with his tie. No matter how careful he was with his tie, it never seemed good enough for the women around him. She looked at her watch. "We better get going. Do you have anything to read?" He shook his head. "I'll be right back," she went down the hall to her office, and returned with a paperback. "I've been meaning to read this." They walked around the corner to the courthouse. "I'll be in court keeping an eye on the proceedings. You're going to have to wait outside the courtroom with the other witnesses." At the courthouse they were held up by the newly installed security station. Scott put his keys in a plastic tray, and followed Honour through the metal detector. She led him down to where the criminal court cases were tried. There was a deputy with a clipboard standing nearby. She gave him Scott's name. He checked something off on the sheet of paper, and nodded in his general direction. "Okay, wait here. There's no telling how long this will take. They do take a lunch break. I'll come get you then. We can go the cantina, or maybe over to the taqueria?" "I'll be here," he held up the paperback and went to find a spot on the bench. It wasn't difficult. The only other witnesses so far appeared to be a couple of detectives from the sheriff's department. They said a quick hello, and returned their attention to what Scott assumed was their case notes. He saw the prosecutor, and his assistant, go into the courtroom. They were followed a short time later by a disheveled looking woman with a mean face. "Guzman's mother," one of the detectives whispered to the other. Scott lost track of time. He looked up when Honour came out of the courtroom. Was it lunch already? "He took a plea," she announced. "What did he get?" asked one of the detectives. "Five years," Honour replied. "Well that's just great," said the disgusted detective. "First offense as an adult," Honour shrugged. "What can you do?" "That means I don't have to testify?" Scott asked. "That's right, it's all over," Honour told him. Scott looked at his watch. He could still make his fourth period class if he hurried. "Honour, can you get me a note from the prosecutor, or maybe the judge?" he asked. "For school?" she asked bemused by the prospect. "Yes, please?" She had a smile on her face, "Let me go see what I can do." Honour turned to go back into the courtroom when Nazario Guzman's mother came bursting through the doors and knocked Honour over. The woman spat and cursed. She stumbled down the hallway with the courthouse deputy in close pursuit. Scott knelt down and helped Honour to her feet, "Are you okay?" "Gallant and handsome, it's a good thing I'm married," she jested as she dusted herself off. She patted his cheek, "You are so easy to tease. You blush at the drop of a hat. Wait here, I'll get that note." Scott and the detectives all watched her admiringly as she sauntered into the courtroom. "That Guzman woman will end up like the rest of her family, dead or in jail," one of the detectives observed quietly. Scott winced. Honour returned shortly. "You should have seen the look on the prosecutors face," Honour smiled as she handed him a handwritten note. "Don't I owe you lunch, or something?" Scott asked. "Next time. I wouldn't want to be accused of contributing to the delinquency of a minor by keeping you out of school." Scott thanked her, and headed for the truck. As he was leaving he heard Honour speaking to the detectives, "Now boys, how about buying me lunch? You never know when you might need a good defense attorney." He drove over to the high school. Without a parking permit he was forced to park in visitor's parking. Scott made his way to the school office. The secretaries all smiled at him when he walked in. "If that's a suggestion for school uniforms, I have to say I like it," announced Principal Reynolds as he walked into the office. Scott realized he hadn't taken off his jacket. He took the note from his pocket and handed it to the principal. Principal Reynolds read it with interest. "What was the outcome?" he asked softly. He told him what Honour had said. Principal Reynolds scribbled a hall pass for him. "I'm glad that business is over with." Scott agreed and headed for class. The bell had already rung, so he was late to geography class. He opened the door and walked up to the surprised teacher. There were a couple of wolf whistles at his dressy clothes. He handed the teacher the hall pass, and went to find his seat near Eddie. "I'll explain at lunch," he whispered to Eddie as he sat down. At lunch he explained about the court case, after suffering a close examination by Rene and Molly. "Who picked this out for you?" asked Rene. "Mrs. Delgado," he answered. "She has good tastes," Rene acknowledged, and Molly agreed. Bo asked if he'd seen Nazario Guzman. "No, I never saw the inside of the courtroom. They must have brought him in from the lockup. I did see his mother though," Scott frowned at the memory. After school he went to the grocery store. A girl from one of his classes was there with her mother. She watched him closely, as he exited the big pickup truck. He nodded to her, but she looked away. Inside the store he pushed the cart around checking off items from the shopping list. He spotted the girl ghosting him as he made his way up and down the aisles. "Coupons?" the woman running the register asked him. "Uhhh, no?" he replied. 'Hmmph' she replied as she ran his items over the scanner. "So you do your own shopping?" a voice behind him asked. He turned around to see the girl and her mother in line behind him. He hadn't ever talked to the girl before. Gregory was her last name, and he had to think for a moment. She had an odd first name. "Hi, Lacey. No, I'm shopping for a man I do chores for." "Is that your truck?" she wanted to know. "No, I borrowed it. It's hard to carry groceries on my motorcycle." "Mother, he has a motorcycle," Lacey repeated needlessly. The girl's mother gave him a look that he had no trouble interpreting. He had best stay clear of this one. "Ma'am," he said politely. "I'll ... uh, see you school tomorrow," Scott told Lacey. Lacey seemed very happy at her mother's discomfort. He paid the bill with cash that Mr. Piotrowski had given him, and got the heck out of the store. He hurriedly threw the cold items into the insulated bag that was kept behind the rear seats. With the long drives to and from town you needed something to help keep the cool things cool. As he closed the rear door of the truck he noticed a dent and scratch in the driver's side door. Shit. He'd only been in the store for thirty minutes. What kind of idiot scratches a new truck door like that, he wondered. This was not the place to try and fix it. He left the parking lot and made good time out of town. Scott pulled into Mr. Piotrowski's place and turned the truck around so the front end was facing down the driveway. He wanted the driver's side door hidden from view of the house. He got out and examined the dent closely. Some paint was missing from the center of the dent, exposing the primer layer. Jobe came out through the pet door to investigate what he was up to. Scott scratched the top of the dog's head, and told him to keep an eye out for Mr. Piotrowski. He took his left hand and placed it palm side down over the dent. He concentrated, and held his breath. There was a muffled pop under his hand, and the door grew very warm. He pulled his hand away and examined the results. The door was now smooth, but the paint over where the dent had been looked slightly discolored. He was trying to look at it from a couple of different angles when Jobe leaned past him and licked the door. "Crazy dog," he laughed. Scott took a paper towel from the back seat side pocket, and rubbed the door dry. He looked closer, but the paint shadow was gone, "Well it's probably not very sanitary, but I may have to let you wash the dishes next time." He scratched Jobe's flanks. "Let's get these groceries inside." Mr. Piotrowski was napping, with his headphones on. Scott let him sleep and got all the groceries put away. He sliced up a couple of chicken breasts, and cooked them in a pan with some onions and sweet peppers. Jobe kept a close eye on things from his blanket by the door. He looked around for something to serve with the chicken, and decided on a mix of parmesan noodles. "What smells so good in here?" asked a sleepy Mr. Piotrowski. "Chicken and parmesan noodles," Scott explained. "Sounds adventurous. What happened at court?" "Plea bargain," Scott told him. "I never even saw the inside of the courtroom. Finished the half day of school, and then went to the grocery store." "What did they give him?" "Five years," Scott said. "That means he'll be out in two and half," Mr. Piotrowski said. "You think so?" asked Scott. "Usually how it works." "That doesn't sound right," Scott complained. He took a bag of frozen corn and popped it into the microwave. They had a pleasant dinner. Scott remembered that he'd forgotten to check his mail. He'd do it tomorrow after school. "Jobe, remind the boss to take his blood pressure medication. I've got to get the kitchen cleaned up, and head back to the ranch," Scott said. "And just how is he going to do that?" asked an amused Mr. Piotrowski from his kitchen chair. Jobe got up from his blanket, walked over to Mr. Piotrowski's side and barked. "I'll be damned!" Mr. Piotrowski exclaimed. ------- Chapter 14 Wednesday, March 28, 2007 It was another week before Scott finally learned about his college application. His post office box at Meritt's Corner contained a very thick packet from Midland College. Scott put it into his backpack without opening it. Outside in the parking lot he stared wistfully at Mendoza's Engine Center. Saying goodbye to all the men that he'd worked with over the last year had been more difficult than he'd imagined. They had wished him the best, and seemed genuinely happy for him. At Mr. Piotrowski's house he set the packet on the kitchen table. A note said that Mr. Piotrowski had taken Jobe for a walk. His elderly friend seemed to have more pep a result of the new blood pressure medication. Scott changed into his work clothes. There were spring weeds growing all over the property. He started along the long driveway and worked his way out to the road. After he had been working for a while Jobe trotted up and sniffed around where Scott had been digging. "Why aren't you using the weed eater?" called Mr. Piotrowski. Scott paused and leaned against the hoe, "It would be faster, but it wouldn't get the roots. At least these weeds won't grow back." "I suppose. It's your back," Mr. Piotrowski said as he headed back up to the house. Scott flexed his fingers. His leather work gloves were a tight fit now and had developed some holes. He needed to buy a new pair. Jobe supervised the weeding until he got bored. Scott needed a shower when he finally finished. Walking into the kitchen he was surprised to see Mr. Piotrowski hovering over the stove. "Chili," Mr. Piotrowski explained. "Smells good," Scott replied. "I'm going to get cleaned up." Refreshed after the shower Scott sat down at the kitchen table. Mr. Piotrowski handed him a bowl of steaming hot chili. "That's got some kick to it," he said as he went back for another mouthful. "Too much?" "No, it's good. Just more bite than I expected." "Want to tell me why you haven't opened that packet from the college?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. Scott set his spoon down and looked at the large envelope, "Not sure. I don't think they'd send a rejection letter in a big thing like that." "So open it." Scott picked it up and tore it open. He slid the material out on the table. On top was a letter. He read it quickly and passed it over to Mr. Piotrowski. "Congratulations, you're a college student. What else did they send you?" He took a quick inventory, "Student handbook, a course catalog, and a bunch of pamphlets. They even sent a map of the campus up in Midland." "Nothing about the extension campus in Fort Stockton?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "One of these pamphlets has some information about it, but it's housed in the technical training center right behind the high school. How much mystery can there be?" "True enough. What do you have to do now?" Scott looked up from the student handbook he was flipping through, "I have to see about testing out of College Algebra. Register for classes. Write a check or two." "Can you do the testing in town?" "I think so." He ate some more chili. His 'to do' list was quickly filling up. "That was really good," he told Mr. Piotrowski when he reached the bottom of the bowl. "The leftovers will be even better tomorrow. What are you going to do about school next year?" There was no beating around the bush with Mr. Piotrowski. "I don't know. I can't do the concurrent enrollment deal until I'm a junior. Principal Reynolds did say there was some 'wiggle room' whatever that means." "I suspect what he means is that it's a guideline, as opposed to something written in stone. You need to sit down and get it figured out," Mr. Piotrowski said. "You're right. I'll try to see Principal Reynolds." Scott got up and started clearing the table. Mr. Piotrowski was right, he thought. He did need to get his schedule figured out. Things were getting complicated. Another issue was the motorcycle. He was going to put a lot of miles on it this summer, and even more in the fall. If he didn't get serious about maintenance it could come back to bite him in the ass. What would he do if he had a major mechanical breakdown? Mr. Piotrowski interrupted his train of thought, "You ready for the camping trip?" "You bet, and I can't wait." After a lot of debate the guys decided that it would be easiest to go camping on the land behind Mr. Piotrowski's house. That way they avoided any transportation issues to a remote location. Mr. Piotrowski had offered to let Scott drive the truck so he could bring Bo and Eddie out to the house after school on Friday. Originally they'd planned to ride the bus out to Meritt's Corner, but realized their camping gear contained a lot of items they weren't allowed to bring onto school grounds. The next morning before class, Scott ran by the front office to arrange an appointment with Principal Reynolds. The school secretary looked through her book. "Monday during afternoon study period is the earliest I can get you in," the secretary told him. "That would be great, thanks." During lunch Scott reminded Bo and Eddie to have their gear packed and ready to go Friday afternoon. The girls had their own plans for the weekend which involved makeovers and other mysterious rituals. By the time Friday afternoon finally rolled around, Scott was more than ready to leave civilization behind for a few days. Bo's family lived close to the school so he walked home to get his gear. Scott drove Eddie to his house with hopes of retrieving his backpack without too much delay, but Mrs. Mendoza had other ideas. "Where are you going, exactly?" she wanted to know. "Mom, we're leaving from Mr. Piotrowski's house," Eddie said. Scott had prepared for something like this, and unfolded a sheet of paper he'd photocopied in the library. "This is a map of the area," he said. "It shows the general route we'll be taking. I've circled a couple of potential camping areas. It all depends on what we find while we're out there." Mrs. Mendoza looked at the map, and back up at Scott, "I suppose you know what you're doing?" "Mom," Eddie groaned. "He's hiked and camped all over the area. We'll be fine." Scott shrugged, "I do know the area, and Bo's an experienced camper. We'll keep a close eye on Eddie." Eddie frowned, but kept his mouth shut. "You can always call Mr. Piotrowski if you have any concerns," Scott reassured her. "I want you boys to be careful. Look, I made you some trail mix. Are you sure you'll have enough food?" Scott examined the three zip lock baggies of homemade trail mix she had produced. "These will be great, thanks. Don't worry. We'll have plenty of food between the three of us." Eddie was eager to leave, and hustled Scott out of the house. "Did you go over your check list?" Scott asked as he examined Eddie's backpack. "Yeah, yeah. Let's get going to before she thinks of something else." Eddie was still complaining about his mother, "Sometimes I envy you. Nobody to nag at you." Scott turned and stared at him. "You know what I mean," Eddie said in apology. Bo was waiting for them when they pulled up outside his house. Bo threw his backpack into the truck bed and climbed into the back seat. "Road trip!" he exclaimed as Scott backed out of the driveway. "Eddie's mom made us some trail mix," Scott told him. "Hey that's great. Eddie, your mom is the best," Bo said. Scott tried not to laugh as Eddie grumbled. It was a quick trip out of town for the three friends. "Do we need any last minute supplies?" Scott asked as they got close to Meritt's Corner. "I need to check my mail, and you guys could hit the store. Eddie, we can stop and see your dad if you want?" "I'm good, but let's get some milkshakes," Eddie said. "Now that's a great idea," Bo chimed in. Scott checked the fuel gauges as they pulled in past the gas station. The truck still had plenty of fuel. He dug out some cash and handed it to Eddie, "Grab me two chocolate milk shakes will ya?" The only thing in his mail box was a letter from his insurance company. He got over to the diner in time to help the guys carry the milkshakes out to the truck. Scott tore open the letter while Bo and Eddie slurped their frozen treats. "What's that?" asked Bo. "Insurance company wants to sell me home and life insurance," Scott said as he put the letter back in the envelope. "Makes me feel real confident that my insurance company thinks I might own a house." Jobe was super excited when the three guys got out of the truck. He knew something was up. Mr. Piotrowski was very pleased with the milkshake. Scott looked at his watch, "We better get moving. My gear's upstairs." The guys followed him up to the small bedroom. Eddie spotted a picture on the small side table and showed it to Bo. "Are these the girls from Chicago?" Eddie asked. Scott retrieved his backpack and hiking boots, "Yeah, that's them." Bo whistled, "Nice." "Why don't you sleep here?" Eddie asked looking around the room. "You've got clothes and everything else that you'd need." "I've thought about it. The Rewcastles would eventually notice. Who knows what would happen then." "It's a stupid arrangement," Bo said. "No argument from me," Scott answered. They trooped downstairs, and Scott took some food from the refrigerator. "I thought we could split these eggs up between us." "Good idea," said Bo. Outside the kitchen door they set their backpacks down and did a quick inventory. Scott handed each of the guys a color copy of the topography map he was using. "I don't have a compass," Eddie said. "You can borrow mine," Bo replied. "Check this out guys." Bo's dad had let him borrow a handheld GPS unit. The boys admired it. Mr. Piotrowski was standing on the back steps watching them, "Scott, are you taking your cell phone?" "I hadn't planned to." "Why don't you grab it? You never know when it might come in handy." Scott ran inside and retrieved the cell phone. "Do you think it will even get a signal?" he asked as he ran back past Mr. Piotrowski. "You're not going that far off the beaten path," Mr. Piotrowski said as he finished the remainder of his milkshake. Jobe was busily sniffing each backpack, and bumping into Bo and Eddie enthusiastically. "I think Jobe is more excited about this camping trip than we are," Scott said as he checked that everything was packed correctly. "Jobe's coming?" Eddie asked. "You bet. He's a good scout." "Cool." Scott shouldered his backpack, and helped Eddie tighten his straps. He tugged on Eddie's backpack a few times, "How's that feel?" "Feels good." "Bo, you ready?" Scott asked. "Let's do this," he replied. "Almost forgot," Scott said as he went over to the storage building. "Walking stick," he explained to Eddie as he handed out the two extra sticks he'd collected in addition to his own. They waved to Mr. Piotrowski as they set off. Jobe barked excitedly and ran around them. They had planned their route as a large triangle made up of Mr. Piotrowski's house, the first night's camping spot, and then a long hike Saturday to their final camping spot. They'd make the return leg on Sunday. They had a leisurely two hour hike to the first camp site. Scott and Bo took turns showing Eddie how they knew where they were on the map. Scott would show him the map and take a compass reading. Bo would then show him the display on the GPS unit. "This is a good spot," Bo said when they arrived at their campsite. It was the campsite that Scott had first used last October. Scott pointed to his old fire pit still ringed with rocks, "We can dig that out and use it again." Eddie was standing uncomfortably as Bo and Scott started setting out the tents. Bo and Eddie would be in the larger tent, while Scott and Jobe shared his as usual. "Hey guys. Where can I ... uh, you know?" Eddie stammered. Bo and Scott exchanged smiles. Scott took the shovel from his pack and unfolded it, "Here you go. Head out about two hundred feet that way and dig a hole." Eddie looked at the shovel, "How about ... you know ... some toilet paper?" "You didn't bring any?" Bo tossed him a roll, "Be sure to dig down a good bit, and fill the hole in afterwards." Scott helped Bo setup his tent and drive the stakes in, and Bo returned the favor. Eddie came back a short time later. "That's more adventure than I think I needed," he announced. Bo was the first to start laughing. Scott joined in until all three were laughing uncontrollably. "It's not really that funny," Bo said as he wiped the tears from his eyes. That started them off again. "I'm glad we did this," Bo said. There was quick agreement. "Let's get some firewood gathered," Scott suggested. They cooked hotdogs over the fire, and enjoyed a simple dinner. Jobe snapped up a couple of frankfurters tossed his way. They were all a soft touch where the dog was concerned. Bo brought out a bag of marshmallows. They enjoyed the gooey concoctions toasted over the flames. Eddie interrupted the after dinner conversation, "Guys, can I ask you a favor?" Bo glanced at Scott, "Sure?" "Do you think that you could start calling me 'Ed' instead of Eddie?" "It's going to take some getting used to, but sure ... Ed," Scott replied. "Have you told your mom?" Ed sighed, "I've tried to bring it up several times. Somehow I don't think she'll ever call me anything else." "She was good about your sister not wanting to be called 'Janice' anymore," Scott reminded him. "That's true." Bo tried 'Ed' out several times trying to get used to it. They made a game of it, "Ed this..." and "Ed that..." As the sky turned darker they piled up the wood and got a larger fire going. The three friends talked and joked until the fire finally died down sometime after midnight. "We better hit the rack. It's going to be a long day tomorrow," Scott suggested. "We should do things like this more often," Bo said. Scott and Ed were quick to agree. The next morning Scott quietly let Jobe out of the tent. It was cool, but not cold. He could tell that Bo and Eddie were still sleeping. 'Ed, ' he corrected himself mentally. He got the fire going and started heating some precooked sausage patties that were a good camping staple. Bo was the first to emerge from the other tent. "That smells good," he said as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He turned around slapped at Ed's sleeping bag, "Get up sleepy head!" Ed rolled out of the tent looking grumpy. He looked around until he spotted the shovel. He grabbed it and headed out toward their makeshift toilet area. Breakfast was sausage patties, a can of hot biscuits, and scrambled eggs. Jobe got his normal dry food along with a biscuit tossed to him by Bo. "What's the plan for today?" asked Ed. "Think we'll find any arrowheads?" Scott replied, "I hope so. You never know though. Mr. Piotrowski says it's just a matter of luck." The boys got the campsite cleaned up and their gear repacked. Scott showed them where he found his arrowhead down in the old creek bed, but they didn't find any others. Eventually they headed off toward their evening campsite. They spotted a low hill in the distance and decided it would be where they would break for lunch. Bo explained to Ed that having a visual objective helped you walk in a straight line. Otherwise you could easily get lost, and not even know you were walking in circles. "But we've got the GPS, and the compass." "True, but what if we lost the compass, or the battery ran out on the GPS unit?" Bo explained. "These basic skills could save you." Scott agreed. Unmentioned was the map in his head. The information was there, but he rarely needed to consult it. He had come to realize that the projections were a crutch. If the information was in his mind then he didn't really need a visual representation of it. Still, it was a nice touch at times. The boys munched on Mrs. Mendoza's trail mix as they hiked. The conversation covered a wide variety of topics. Ed talked about his hopes for the Mendoza companies, and his eventual place working with his father. Bo confided that he didn't think he and Rene would date much longer. He still wanted to be friends, but the boyfriend-girlfriend relationship wasn't working out. Scott told them what he could about the job with the outfitters and his plans for the summer. When they reached the hill they were ready for a break. Ed distributed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches his mother had made. Scott cut up a couple of apples he had been saving, and Bo had a bag of pretzels to share. Jobe got some dried dog food and fresh water. The boys ate quietly and watched Jobe sniffing around. "Maybe he's part bloodhound?" Bo said. The dog started digging at something near where Ed was sitting. "Jobe found some arrowheads!" Ed exclaimed when he leaned over to inspect what Jobe had been after. They all got up to take a look. There were three very nice notched arrowheads all about the same size. There were four smaller ones that Bo said were used for hunting birds, and one very large flint of an unusual shape. They searched around but found no other identifiable artifacts. Scott had Bo put the arrowheads down on a flat rock. He took his canteen and poured some water over them. "Look at that," Ed said as the water made the colors of the flint pop. They examined the larger flint passing it back and forth. "It has to be a spear point, don't you think?" Bo asked. "Maybe seven inches?" he guessed as he laid it out on his palm. "I'd say that's about right," Ed said examining the spear point with his fingers. "Measure it with the side of the compass," Scott offered as he was digging through his backpack. He brought out a roll of paracord he kept as part of his supplies. He measured out three lengths, and cut them with his knife. He carefully tied a length of cord around each of the three identical arrowheads, and offered them to the guys. "What do you think?" he said as he put an arrowhead around his neck. "It's terrific," Bo said looking his impromptu necklace. Ed agreed as he put on his, "What do you think we should do with the big one? Sell it?" "Maybe give it to the Fort Stockton Museum?" Bo said. "I'll go with whatever you guys want," Scott decided. "Mr. Piotrowski would know what we could get for it I'll bet, but I like the museum idea." Jobe got a lot of attention and praise for his find. He luxuriated in the scratching and kept bumping them with his head demanding more. The group was in a great mood as they set off for their final campsite. By late afternoon some large thunderheads had built up to their west. Bo looked at them and announced that they had better find a higher campsite. Scott agreed and examined the topographical map. "There's a good site about a half hour ... that way," he pointed. Bo checked the map and agreed. "Why do we want to get higher?" asked Ed. "In case it rains," Scott explained. Ed's blank look prompted him to add, "Flash floods." "Oh!" Ed said as he caught on. "Do you think there's a chance?" There had been some bad incidents in the past with flash flooding. "Better safe than sorry," Bo said sagely. They walked along the low banks following the path of the ancient creek bed until they found the high point depicted on the topographical map. It was a bluff backed by the creek bed. Bo and Scott paid extra attention to assembling the tents at the highest point they could camp at, but not too close the edge of the bluff. They made sure that the tent stakes were firmly secured in the dry ground. Scott rigged the extra rain cover over his tent. They ate dinner watching the weather move in from the west. As the sun reached the horizon the clouds were lit up in shades of yellow and red that contrasted with the ominous darkness of the thunderheads. It was an impressive display by Mother Nature. Flashes of lightning lit the up the sky and they counted the seconds between the flash and the thunder. Ozone laden air blew in as the temperature dropped ahead of the storm. Jobe expressed the group's nervousness as he went and hid inside Scott's tent. Scott dug a couple of quick, shallow trenches around both tents leading downhill from where they'd camped. "Might keep some of the water away," he told Bo. "Don't think we'll get much sleep tonight," Bo said as he rechecked the tent tie downs. They retired to their respective tents and watched the weather. Scott was stretched out atop his sleeping bag listening to the wind whistle as the rain drops started to drum against the sides of the tent. A nearby bolt of lightning lit up their tents, and he heard Ed exclaim, "Holy..." only for the rest to be drowned out by the loudest crash of thunder he'd ever heard. "Shit," Bo shouted in the aftermath. Scott called back, "That was too damn close." Jobe whimpered from his blanket. Scott reached over and patted the dog's head reassuringly. The rain was really coming down now. "Oh for Pete's sake!" somebody in the other tent cried out. "What?" Scott yelled. Bo called back, "Our damn tent's leaking!" "What?" "Rain is coming right through the fabric." Was it possible that their tent wasn't rain proof? Scott looked around. It would be a tight fit. "Grab your gear. It won't be comfortable in my tent, but at least you'll be dry," he yelled. He dragged Jobe's bedding between his sleeping bag and the side of the tent. Jobe put his paws over his head. Scott turned on the battery powered LED camping light and hung it from the tent's center support pole. He unzipped the tent front just in time for Ed to dash in followed by Bo, each carrying their gear. They stacked the backpacks on the far end of the tent and tried to arrange their sleeping bags so they could all stretch out. The lightning continued to flash on and off like a strobe, and the wind and rain battered the tent sides. "There's no way I can sleep when it's like this," Ed said. "I've got a pack of cards," Bo announced. "I've got some beef jerky," Scott said reaching for his backpack as Bo dug out the deck of cards. "What do we use for chips?" asked Ed. "Your mom's trail mix," Bo suggested as he turned on his own portable camping light. "Just don't eat your profits." The three friends sat Indian style and attempted to play poker as the wind shook the small tent. Scott folded a weak pair of twos when they heard a deep rumble and 'whoosh' of air followed by the unmistakable sound of rushing water. The sound was frightening as the boys looked at each other. "I better take a look," Scott announced. "Be careful!" both Bo and Ed demanded. "I not leaving the tent," Scott said as he grabbed his powerful flashlight. He stood on his knees and carefully unzipped the front flap sticking the flashlight out. He took a quick look, and turned off the flashlight. His enhanced vision showed him what he was afraid of, and he quickly zipped the tent back up. "I think the creek bed behind us is full of floodwater, and the trail across the slope below us is overrun. We're surrounded, but ... I don't think it can get up this high, I think we're okay." He handed the flashlight to Bo, who took his own look. Bo sat back down, "I couldn't see much but I think you're right." The storm finally tapered off about an hour later. The rush of water continued, and the boys got little sleep. The next morning they emerged from the tent and surveyed the damage. The water down slope was receding, but an angry and swollen creek was at their back below the bluff. "Stay close," Scott instructed Jobe. "Firewood's soaked. It'll be a cold breakfast." The guys nodded as they looked around. "How long before the water recedes do you think?" asked Ed. Scott shrugged, "You can see the high water mark. It's already fallen by a good bit." "Hey, what about your phone? Do you have a signal?" Bo wondered. "Good question," he said as he ducked back into the tent to grab the phone. He walked out of the tent and held the phone up, no bars. He concentrated as he held the phone. The signal meter went up to two bars. It should be enough. He dialed Mr. Piotrowski's house. "Scott, is that you?" Mr. Piotrowski demanded. "I've got some very worried parents here." "Tell them we're okay. We camped on a bluff top last night." "Thank, God," he heard as Mr. Piotrowski passed the word on. Scott covered the phone and told the guys their parents were at Mr. Piotrowski's. "We're going to be stuck here for a while until the water recedes," he informed Mr. Piotrowski. "Where are you exactly?" "You've got the topo map handy?" Scott asked. "Right in front of me." "Okay, we're about two miles, west southwest of where we'd originally planned to camp. Can you see that elevated area? We're right by the height marker where the creek bed bends." "I've got you. Should we get the county to try and send somebody out for you?" Scott told the guys, "He wants to know if we need somebody to come rescue us? What do you think?" "The water's going down pretty quickly," Bo said. "I think we'll wait it out. The water's going down. We should have a straight shot to the house here in a couple of hours," he told Mr. Piotrowski. He could hear the parents discussing it over in the background. "Okay, but if you run into anything else you let us know? Be careful." "Yes, sir. We'll be okay. How about having some hot food ready for us?" "They must be okay. They're asking for hot food," Mr. Piotrowski told the assembled parents. "Okay, we'll be looking for you this afternoon." The guys took down Scott's tent, and then tried their best to wring out the water from Bo's soaked tent. The remaining flood water looked shallow in front of them. Scott walked down to the water's edge and felt around with his walking stick. "It's only a couple of feet deep," he announced. "Let's look for a place to cross. I don't want to hike back with wet boots." They were a muddy and tired group when they reached the edge of Mr. Piotrowski's property around three that afternoon. They'd had to take one extensive detour after finding a new channel which had been cut into the desert floor by the flood water. Jobe took off at high speed toward the house. Scott could faintly hear Mr. Piotrowski yelling that the dog wasn't coming inside until he'd had a bath. Bo and Ed were rushed by their parents as the tired campers made the turn around the end of the storage building. Mr. Piotrowski was standing on the back steps, drinking a cup of coffee. Scott got a kiss from Bo Mason's mother, and a long hug from Mrs. Mendoza. The ladies quickly took charge. "There are two showers, and we've got dry clothes for each of you," Mrs. Mendoza said as the mothers pushed their boys inside. "Awe, mom!" Scott heard Ed complain as he was shoved toward the upstairs shower. Scott shrugged out of his backpack and loosened the laces on his hiking boots. "So how was it?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "It was great right up until it started raining," Scott replied. "I better get my stuff hung up to dry. Are we expecting any more rain?" he asked. "The weather guesser says that should be all of it," Mr. Piotrowski said. Scott went out to the storage building and strung up a couple of lines. He hung up the tent, the rain cover, and his sleeping bag on the lines. He dragged the galvanized tub out to give the big dog a quick bath. Jobe tried to hide in his dog house. "Come on you mutt. If you want back into the house you need to get clean." Jobe reluctantly allowed himself to be given a bath. He took revenge by shaking himself off near a less than thrilled Mr. Mason before Scott caught back up to him with a towel. Ed came out on the back steps with wet hair, "Upstairs shower is free." Scott slipped into the kitchen and was hit by the aroma of something that smelled really good. He was shooed away from the stove by Mrs. Mason. "Pan fried chicken and homemade mashed potatoes," she explained. Scott rushed upstairs and took a quick shower. He got back downstairs in time to hear Ed giving a detailed report on their adventures. A smiling Mrs. Mason handed him a plate covered in hot fried chicken, and thick mashed potatoes. She ladled out a pile of fresh cut green beans. Mr. Piotrowski started to get up from his seat, but Scott waved him back down. He put his plate on the kitchen counter and dug in while listening to Bo and Ed exchange details about the trip. Mrs. Mendoza pursed her lips when she heard Bo referring to Eddie as 'Ed, ' but she made no comment. "Show 'em the spear point," Scott said as he polished off a chicken leg. Bo came back with the spear point wrapped in a dirty t-shirt. Mr. Piotrowski took a close look at the flint turning it over under the kitchen light. "That's one of the finest I've ever seen. You boys have got something here," he said, and the other men echoed him. The boys exchanged grins and simultaneously pulled their arrowheads out from under their shirts. The mothers cooed and examined their boys' makeshift necklaces with interest. "This would look really good on a silver chain," observed Mrs. Mendoza as she cradled the arrowhead in her hand. The women began conspiring about who they wanted to do the work fitting chains for their boys. Scott shrugged and returned to his plate. The paracord was fine with him. "Where did you boys find this trove anyway?" Mr. Mason wanted to know. Ed explained that it was really Jobe who had discovered the arrowheads while Bo showed his dad where the hill was on the map. "What are you going to do with the big one?" asked Mrs. Mason. "We talked about selling it, but I think we've decided to donate it to the museum in town," Bo explained. Mr. Mendoza spoke up, "Will there be any issues with the land owner?" "I know the owner. It won't be a problem," Mr. Piotrowski said. The ladies began clearing dishes away while the men shook down Bo and Ed's gear. Bo had to talk his dad out of throwing the wet tent away. After a round of goodbyes they were left alone. "That was some mighty fine fried chicken," Mr. Piotrowski said. "Those ladies insisted I keep the leftovers. I'm looking forward to a late night snack of cold fried chicken and a glass of milk." It did sound good. Scott was inspecting Jobe's coat and legs, making sure he'd gotten any thistles out that the dog might have picked up on their adventure. "You know the land owner? What about the investment group?" Mr. Piotrowski's eyes were twinkling, "Don't tell anybody, but I went ahead and bought that parcel of land. In fact, I need to go into town tomorrow to finalize some related paperwork. How about I drive you to Meritt's Corner in the morning, and pick you up after school?" Scott was still wrapping his head around Mr. Piotrowski's surprising land purchase, and nodded his agreement to the plan. "Interesting weekend wasn't it?" Scott thought it over, "It was a great weekend with an unexpected finish." "Ha! That's one way to put it I suppose." Scott started his bike and rode back to the ranch. The big excitement there was that the retaining pond had overrun its banks after the influx of rain water. The ranch foreman would have to spend the early part of the week repairing the earthen berm around the pond. Monday's classes went by normally. The only big excitement from the flash flood was some farm damage out in the county. The adventure of Scott's friends hadn't spread, and the boys weren't talking about it. That lasted until lunch when the girls wanted more details than what they had already heard. Molly had seen Ed's arrowhead necklace and was, to put it politely, insanely jealous. She wanted the boys to find her one of her own, and find it fast. Scott leaned over and whispered to Ed reminding him about the small 'bird' arrowheads that they'd found. They were more delicate and should be perfect for the girls. Ed nodded and said he'd get together with Bo and they'd take care of it. Scott finished his shower in the gym after the cross country team's workout. He hadn't talked to Coach Zell yet, but he didn't think he would be able to run cross country during the next school year. He made his way to the front office for his scheduled meeting with Principal Reynolds. He was surprised to find Judge Upcott waiting for him. "Judge, what brings you here?" "I ran into Alex today and he mentioned that he might be held up over at the law office. I offered to come over and give you a ride." "You didn't have to do that, sir. I could have walked. It's not that far." "Nonsense. Besides this gives me a chance to see what's happening with your education. Alex said that you'd been accepted as a student at Midland. Congratulations." "Thank you, sir. I found out on Friday." "Now, tell me all about this adventure you had Saturday night." Scott told him about the camping trip, and how they had avoided the flood waters. One of the school secretaries told them to go on back to the office, and the judge clapped Scott on the back telling him he'd done a good job. The judge and Principal Reynolds shook hands warmly. "You don't mind if I sit in do you? I'm giving him a ride this afternoon." "Not at all. You're more than welcome," the principal reassured Judge Upcott. "As you probably know, Scott's been accepted as a student at Midland College. That's as a regular student independent of any future concurrent enrollment studies." "Yes, we're all very proud of him," the judge said "And deservedly so, but his sophomore schedule will take some juggling. As a rule concurrent enrollment is restricted to junior and senior students. The one exception has been for sophomores taking language classes not offered here at Fort Stockton High. Scott, have you thought about taking any language classes at Midland?" "I'm going to try and test out of Spanish. I haven't talked to the school yet, but I want to take that test and the College Algebra test. Obviously, how I do on those tests will determine what classes I sign up for in the future. Are you saying I have to take a language class next term?" "Not necessarily, and there are a couple of conditions, " The principal held up his hand to forestall the inevitable question, "The conditions being that you must get good grades in the summer classes you take, and that your college studies don't distract from your high school classes. Now, I don't for an instant think that you'll slack off, but those are my conditions. Acceptable?" "Yes, sir. That seems more than acceptable." "So, what classes do you want to take in the fall?" the principal asked as he consulted his copy of the Midland course offerings. "I want to take American History to 1877 and Trigonometry this summer, if I test out of Algebra, so I thought I'd take American History since 1877. It's the companion to summer class. Other classes I've looked at include Calculus, Physics, or maybe Chemistry." "Those are all serious classes. What about something from the humanities like a literature class, or how about Ethics? You could also take Art History. You need to cover all of the basics. Don't forget English Composition. Remember, unless you're travelling up to Midland you'll have to take what's available at the extension campus. There are exceptions. Some of the classes you can take online. Other's like the Trig class will be part of a general math lab. It's almost self study. You'll be able to watch a video feed via computer of the regular lecture." That was news to Scott. "Here's what I suggest. For the fall semester, you take one class over at the extension campus. If that goes well then we can look at letting you do half days over there for the spring semester. Would you rather have a morning or afternoon class off campus this fall?" Scott was starting to get excited. With Principal Reynolds backing this might just work out, he thought. "Thank you, sir. Morning class if that's alright?" "Most college students avoid morning classes religiously," Principal Reynolds shared a smile with the judge. "It would mean I could still ride the bus in from Meritt's Corner, and save some wear and tear on my bike." "Good thinking. Okay, mornings it is. By my reckoning you'll not need to take any more high school history or mathematics if you get passing grades in your college classes. That means, yes, we're going to give you dual credit. That will free up more time for your college classes. Let me strongly suggest that you take English Composition through Midland this fall?" Scott looked at the judge who agreed that it was a good choice. "Sounds good to me. I'll do it." Principal Reynolds made a few final notes and thanked them for coming in. The judge drove them over to the law office. Instead of going into one of the main offices Judge Upcott took him straight to the back of the building past the conference room. In a small room Scott hadn't seen before, Mr. Piotrowski was seated at a desk chatting with Honour and her husband, Joseph. "It's about time," Mr. Piotrowski said. "What's going on?" asked Scott. "Presents," Honour announced. "This is from all of us," she said as she held up a large box. "Sit, sit," insisted Mr. Piotrowski as he got up from behind the desk. Scott looked closely at the wrapping paper. It was covered with baby shower graphics. Honour explained, "It was the only wrapping paper I could find on short notice." He carefully tore open the paper. Underneath was a box advertising the latest laptop. He pulled the plastic away and opened the box, "Is this mine?" "Yes, it's all yours," she assured him. "I can't believe you guys bought me a laptop. Thank you. I don't know what to say." "Joseph picked it out, and we all pitched in for it. You're a college student. You need it, and I know you'll put it to good use," the judge told him. That's not all," Mr. Piotrowski said as he held up a new backpack. "Your old one was getting too ratty. This backpack has a specially padded section for your laptop." "And..." Honour said. What else? Scott thought. She was holding a key out to him. He took it carefully, and looked at it. The crowd around him was smiling, pleased that their surprise had been pulled off successfully. "This office has its own entrance. We thought you might need a place to study between your classes at the high school and the extension campus. We used to store law books here, but with everything we need on computer these days it was wasted space," Honour told him. "Now I really don't know what to say. You've all been so good to me." "We're happy to help, but don't ever doubt that you're worth it," the judge said with authority. "Well said," Mr. Piotrowski acknowledged. "Follow me," Joseph told him. "The next time you bring the laptop in I'll get you onto our network here in the office." He led Scott over to a exterior exit. Between the doorway and the fence bordering the parking lot was a newly designated, 'Motorcycles Only, ' parking space. Joseph took him back inside and showed him the alarm pad and explained how it operated. "This backdoor locks whenever it closes. We can't have people wandering inside and looking at our confidential files so please don't ever block it open." "I won't. Thank you for all of this." "It's our pleasure." The ride out to Mr. Piotrowski's house was a blur. He couldn't believe the things these people did for him. What a strange year it had been. He had great friends and people who looked out for him. Some slimeballs had tried to kill him, again. Mother Nature had even taken a shot, but good preparation prevented that from turning ugly. "Are you coming in?" Mr. Piotrowski asked him. "What?" They were already at the house. "Yeah, sorry. I've had a lot to think about. I still can't believe you guys got me a brand new laptop, and arranged a place for me to study." Mr. Piotrowski unlocked the kitchen door, "You've done the hard work. If what we've done helps out in any way ... well that's a bonus." Scott sat at the kitchen table and transferred his stuff from the old backpack to the new. The old backpack still had some use in it. Maybe he'd add it to the community pile at the ranch. Jobe came through the kitchen and examined the new backpack. He put a paw on the laptop box. "New laptop," Scott explained to the dog. "Want to see?" He opened up the box and unwrapped the laptop. He plugged in the power adaptor, and spread out the booklet explaining all the features of the new computer. Jobe was watching closely. The laptop booted up quickly. It came with a lot of preinstalled software which Scott didn't need or want. He started uninstalling it as he read through the instruction manual. The laptop dinged, but he kept reading. It dinged again, and he finally looked up. His index finger was resting lightly on the touchpad. Scott's eyes grew wide as he watched what was happening on the screen. The uninstall dialog was confirmed, and the next program started uninstalling itself. His finger hadn't moved, or tapped against the pad. His mouth grew dry. Jobe was staring at him. Scott could have sworn that the dog was laughing at him, again. He pulled his hand away from the laptop. He got up and paced the length of the kitchen before pouring a tall glass of ice water. Why am I nervous? It's only a bigger version of the iPod or the cell phone, he thought. He configured the network connection. Mr. Piotrowski was watching television in the front room. His only witness was Jobe. He thought, Browser, Fort Stockton Pioneer. The browser opened and went right to the newspaper's web site. Yep, I'm weird. New messages popped up indicating that updates were available. Go ahead, install all the updates, he thought. He checked on Mr. Piotrowski and found him napping in his chair. Scott went upstairs and changed into his workout gear. Jobe was in the kitchen with his nose next to the laptop. "No porn," he warned the dog jokingly as he went outside. Scott did pull-ups and lifted weights until he was thoroughly soaked with sweat. Feeling tired and sore reassured him. He may have been stronger than any normal person, but the ache in his muscles reminded him that he was still human. He could see a dangerous path ahead if he didn't maintain a sense of balance. Jobe bumped into him several times as Scott tried to cool off. "It's still too wet to go running. How about a game of fetch instead?" Running around the yard with Jobe lightened his mood considerably. The laptop was asleep when he went back inside. With a tap it woke up. Listed on the screen was a summary of the multiple software updates that had been completed. He stored the laptop in the upstairs bedroom. There was no need to start taking it to school yet. ------- Classes the next day were odd. He realized that soon he wouldn't be seeing a lot of his classmates as he began taking courses off campus. After art class with Bo, his biology class was having a special session. They were doing frog dissection in the lab with one of the other biology classes. He wasn't sure why they were combining classes. At lunch Ed had said they did it that way every year. The lab hadn't filled up yet, so he found a table toward the back. "Hey motorcycle guy," a female voice said. Scott turned to see Lacey Gregory sitting down at his lab table. Ed waved to him from a table up toward the front of the class. "Hey grocery girl," he replied as he waved back to Ed. "Grocery girl?" "Yeah, weak I know. What else am I supposed to call you?" "How about Lacey? You and Ed and Bo are all pretty tight aren't you?" "Yeah?" "You should ask me out sometime. Then we could double date with their girlfriends." Scott coughed, "Uh ... what about your mother? I got the impression she didn't like motorcycles or motorcycle riders." "She'll get over it." Yikes! "I guess. My schedule is crazy though, and I live pretty far outside of town." "Don't be so enthusiastic about it, sheeesh," Lacey replied with a smile. "So, what do you think about frogs?" Scott asked. "Change the subject much? But, 'yuck' is my answer. I heard that seniors have to dissect cats." "Really?" "It's something I heard around school," she replied. "When do you want to go out?" Up front the two biology teachers each wheeled in a cart stacked with metal trays containing the frogs for dissection. A thick smell of formaldehyde filtered through the lab. "I've got a new job starting this weekend. Maybe we could try a Friday night sometime soon?" "Free the animals," came a shout from behind him. Free the animals? They're dead, he thought. He turned to see a girl shouting animal rights slogans. She was a junior that he vaguely recognized. She usually wore long dresses with sandals, and smelled of that awful patchouli oil. There wasn't much of an incense and crystals crowd in West Texas. He'd always figured it was some sort of fashion statement. His biology teacher was yelling at the girl from the front of the classroom, threatening to have her suspended. The girl shouted, "No justice, no peace." She lit something and dropped it into a large lab flask. The flask was surrounded by other glass laboratory equipment stored on the shelving at the back of the room. Scott saw what looked to be an M-80 firework bounce off the bottom of the flask. Not good, flashed through his mind right as the large firework exploded. Time crawled to a stop. Scott could see a small pressure wave followed by a lot of dangerous looking objects headed his way. His mind's eye displayed velocities and trajectories of the various bits of exploded glassware. Projected flight paths were highlighted representing the most dangerous pieces of... 'Pyrex' his brain supplied the name for him. He couldn't do anything about a piece heading to his left, but in front him were three large shards headed straight for Lacey's face. He was going to get hit, but it was nothing he couldn't deal with. He was fascinated to watch the pieces slowly moving toward him. The hippie girl must have gotten the M-80 from Mexico. Lots of cheap fireworks crossed the border. What kind of trouble could you get in for setting off what was essentially a small explosive in school, he wondered? Focus! It hurt to move his arm. It was like trying to bench press a maximum amount of weight. He stretched out a finger and tapped the first piece. The projected trajectory changed to show the piece deflecting into the ceiling. He did the same with the other two dangerous shards. There were some smaller pieces that the plot showed weren't as hazardous so he ignored them. Moving his arm back into position by his body was almost more difficult than lifting it had been. Time sped back up. There were screams in the shocked aftermath of the explosion. A couple of football players tackled the would-be juvenile terrorist as she tried to flee the scene. Up front a girl started to cry. Scott stood up and yelled instructions since nobody else seemed to be taking charge, "Check your lab partners to see if they're injured. Ed, help me do first aid!" The pain in his arm was nearly unbearable. Torn muscles and strained ligaments, his brain supplied. Repairing. Was he telling himself that his arm was repairing, or what? He shook his head to clear the thought. He checked Lacey's face with his other hand. She had a small cut up by her hairline. He grabbed a piece of the industrial paper towel located at every lab station and told her to hold to the makeshift bandage in place. He flexed his fingers. He was starting to get the use of his arm back. The fire alarm started ringing. "Mr. MacIntyre what are you doing?" shouted his biology teacher, finally snapping out of whatever trance she was in. "Eddie Mendoza and I can do first aid. We're certified by the Red Cross. You better get the nurse, and I think we'll need an ambulance," he shouted back across the confusion. The other biology teacher had disappeared. He hoped the man had gone to get help. Scott turned to see where the other dangerous piece of Pyrex flask has gone. Bits of damaged ceiling tile were drifting down onto their black lab desks, and there was acrid smoke mixed in with the sickening smell of formaldehyde. A student he only knew as 'Larry' was standing in shock. There was a large shard of Pyrex embedded in the side of his face, dangerously close to an eye. Scott moved over to his side. "Hey, Larry. Right? We need to sit you down," he guided him to a stool. "Okay, we're going to sit until the nice paramedics get here. It won't be long." "My face is numb," Larry said. It was probably a good thing. The fire alarm finally cut off. "What can I do?" Ed asked him in the eerie silence that followed. It was quickly filled by the moans and cries of injured or scared students. Scott looked around, "Check for any more injuries like this. We might have some shock cases. If they look wobbly, get them to sit down." The sound of pounding feet revealed Principal Reynolds and one of the football coaches arriving at the lab door. His biology teacher appeared to be having a panic attack, but she waved them on to the back the class. "Mr. Mendoza, Mr. MacIntyre, what's going on?" Principal Reynolds demanded. "Some crazy girl set off an explosion," Ed said pointing to where the football players had the girl restrained. "Glass went everywhere." "Explosive? We should evacuate," the coach replied. "It was an M-80. I saw her drop it in one of the big flasks. I don't think there's any other danger," Scott told the men. The coach went over to check on his players and the girl. "Larry here has a bit of an issue, sir." Principal Reynolds took a look, "Don't let him pull that out." "Copy that, sir." "Scott, you're bleeding." "It's just a nick or two." Principal Reynolds took out his cell phone and began issuing orders. The nurse arrived and started doing triage. Ed showed her the students with the worst cuts. She took a close look at Larry. Scott assured her that he wouldn't let Larry remove the piece. "Good job boys," she told them. "I better go see to your teacher." An emergency plan went into action, and before long there were a lot of paramedics and volunteer firefighters on the scene. Larry was the most seriously injured student. He went in the first ambulance followed by their biology teacher. There were a few cases of hysteria to be treated, and a handful of students needed a stitch or two. Scott got by with an alcohol wipe and a couple of butterfly band aids. He still had to make the trip over to the hospital with the other injured students, "Just in case," they were told. A nurse at the hospital gave him a quick once over and told him that he was fine. He flexed his arm experimentally; it was a little sore but seemed to be fully functional. He walked down the hallway and treated himself to a sugary Dr. Pepper. Scott spotted Principal Reynolds and a familiar Fort Stockton detective. They saw him and waved him over. "Scott," the detective greeted him. "Detective," Scott said politely. "Take a seat. I'm told you had a good view of this thing?" "Yes, sir. My lab partner, Lacey Gregory, did too. Maybe a few others, but I don't know for sure." "Tell me what happened." "It was frog dissection day. I grabbed a seat in the back. The teachers had just wheeled the frogs in. A girl behind us started shouting. 'Free the animals, ' and that sort of thing." Principal Reynolds couldn't restrain a snort. "What?" asked the detective. "The frogs are all dead. They're preserved in formaldehyde. There was nothing to free," the principal explained to the detective. "Continue," the detective indicated. "Well, anyway, she shouted something like, 'No justice, no peace.' Next thing I saw was her dropping an M-80 into one of the big lab flasks. There's an entire shelf of glassware stored at the back of the laboratory." "You're certain it was an M-80?" "I got a good look at it. Bright red, about so long," he indicated the size with his fingers. "It made an impression." "No justice, no peace? She actually said that?" the detective asked. "Yes, sir. Ironic, huh?" "It's something alright. You're a good witness, Scott. I'll get this typed up. You'll have to sign a formal copy at some point." "Sure thing, detective." "Scott, do you need a ride?" asked Principal Reynolds. Scott thought about it for a second until he saw Mrs. Mendoza rushing toward him. "I think my ride's here, sir." "Scotty, oh baby are you okay?" asked a worried Mrs. Mendoza. "I'm fine. Just a couple of nicks," Scott insisted. "I told you he was okay," Ed said catching up to his mother. "The boys were doing a real fine job of rendering first aid to their classmates, Mrs. Mendoza," Principal Reynolds said. "They both got their Red Cross certifications only a couple of weeks ago. Did you know that?" she asked. "I did not. You should be proud," he replied. Ed brought up a very good point, "Principal Reynolds, can we get into the school to retrieve our books and things? I've got an awful lot of homework due tomorrow." "I'm sorry, but the police have the building blocked off while they conduct their investigation. We'll have to get the lab cleaned up. I think classes will start on time tomorrow. Your teachers will understand about your homework." Mrs. Mendoza started dragging Scott to the hospital exit, "You can call Mr. Piotrowski from the house." A short while later Mrs. Mendoza had the boys sitting at the kitchen table feeding them warmed up leftovers and cold glasses of milk. The noise level increased tenfold when Lilly and Janice arrived home from school. The rumor mill was running at full strength. They had heard from reliable sources that the high school had been blown up. Mrs. Mendoza simply pointed to the boys sitting at the kitchen table as evidence of the contrary. Lilly demanded to know what happened. Janie was the one to ask if Scott was okay after spotting his bandages, and blood stained shirt. Ed took over the story telling duties while Scott finished his food and glass of milk. "So she was protesting animal cruelty by hurting some human kids?" asked Janie. "Crazy, huh?" Scott replied. The phone rang and Ed went to answer it. Lilly went to listen in. "So was there lots of blood?" Janie wanted to know. "There was some, but head and scalp wounds bleed a lot. We were really lucky that there was only one serious injury." "Did it gross you out?" "No, not really. I concentrated on the people who needed help. I didn't really think about the blood." "That makes sense I guess." Eddie came back into the kitchen, "That was Bo. He says that Lacey Gregory has told everybody you asked her out and then saved her life." "Who is this Lacey character?" Lilly asked. "Is she a hussy?" Janie piled on. Scott laughed at the term, "You have got to stop watching those trashy telenovelas. If you must know, she's a girl in your brother's biology class." "Hey don't look at me. I don't think I've ever talked to her. She is kind of cute though. She's got a little of that punk rocker vibe," Ed replied defensively. "How do you figure that?" Scott asked. "She wears her hair kind of spiky like, sometimes. I don't know. That's the feeling I got from her." The sisters were watching the exchange very closely like it was a tennis match. "She suggested a double date with you guys," Scott explained. "I told her I had a crazy schedule, but we might try to work it out. Her mother isn't a fan though. I can tell you that right now." They turned to Ed. "You've met her mother? When?" Their heads swiveled to Scott. "Bumped into them at the grocery store a while back. Lacey mentioned my motorcycle, and her mother gave me the evil eye." The girls turned back to their brother. "So do you like her?" Heads turned back to Scott. "I don't really know her. She's cute, I guess. We'll see." Game, set, and match. The older Mendoza brothers arrived and started giving the guys grief about, "Freshman blowing up the biology lab." "She's a junior isn't she?" asked Ed. "I think so. You know her I bet. The hippie girl? Smells like patchouli oil," Scott described her. "Oh, that chick. Wow, that's crazy," Robert said. "Is that what that smell is? Tommy asked. "I hate it." "Your ride's here," Mrs. Mendoza called from the living room. Mr. Piotrowski gave Scott's face a quick once over. "Good thing you've got a hard head." Scott rapped his skull with his knuckles in affirmation. "You've had an exciting weekend and now a crazy day at school. I think you're about ready for a vacation," he said. "Count me in," Scott replied. "I could see a trip to the islands, or maybe skiing in the Alps? What do you say Mr. Piotrowski?" "How about a Meritt's milkshake and a trip out of town to an estate auction tomorrow afternoon instead?" "I'll take it!" ------- Chapter 15 April 2007 The aftermath of the incident in the biology lab was short-lived. Principal Reynolds put an end to the wild rumors going around during a special school assembly Wednesday morning. Nobody had been killed or maimed, but one student had been expelled. The biology lab had been cleaned up and was ready for classes to resume. The student body had to sit through several speeches about personal responsibility and the 'proper' ways to express disagreements. Leaving the assembly Scott was deep in thought when Ed nudged him. He looked up and was surprised to see Larry and his parents walking down the hallway. Larry pointed and walked over with his folks. "Mom, Dad, these are the guys I was telling you about." "I'm surprised you're back in school already," Ed said. "I'm not really. We came to get my books. They're letting me study at home for a few days. You wouldn't believe the headache I have. The doctor says I should be fine once all the swelling goes down." Scott looked at the bandage on Larry's face and the impressive black eye he could see developing, "I'm really glad to see you up and around." Larry's mom spoke up, "Thank you for taking care of our son. He said you kept him calm until the ambulance arrived." "Larry was pretty brave. I don't think I would have been in his position." They watched Larry and his folks walk away through the crowd of students. They seemed like a nice family and Scott was glad Larry's injuries hadn't been worse. Lunch was a little rowdier than normal right up until the point when Lacey sat down at the lunch table. Scott looked closely and saw a tiny stitch in the cut by her hairline. "How are you feeling today?" he asked. "I'm good. How are you?" she said as she poked at one of the scabbed over scratches on his face. He brushed her hand away, "You know everybody right? Girls you know Lacey?" Rene and Molly exchanged cautious greetings with Lacey. "So, are we getting together Friday?" Lacey asked. "It would have to be early. I've got to get up for work before five Saturday morning. Is your mother okay with this?" Molly and Rene were staring at him as if he'd grown an extra ear. "Don't worry about my mother," Lacey said. Bo interrupted, "How about a get together at my house Friday after school? We could watch movies and order pizza?" The rest of the gang was up for it and plans were quickly made. Scott looked at Lacey who added her agreement, "Sure, sounds like fun to me." That settled it. Lacey left the lunch period with a very large smile on her face. Mr. Piotrowski picked Scott up after school and they drove to an estate sale in the county. The midweek auction was a bust, but watching Mr. Piotrowski was fascinating. People were continually stopping to say hello, or ask his opinion. A man from the auction company came by to see if Mr. Piotrowski needed anything. "Thank you, but no. I'm good. I think we're just looking today," Mr. Piotrowski said. "If I can be of any assistance," the man offered his card. "Of course," Mr. Piotrowski replied taking the man's business card. They continued to walk around the old farmhouse looking at the various items for sale as the auction went on. There was a somber couple on the porch watching the proceedings. "Who are those people?" Scott asked. "Family members. This is somebody's life for sale here, and we're modern day vultures picking over the carcass." "I guess I never thought about it that way," Scott said. "It's not so bad. These auctions do help. There's a tax burden after death, and the auction will raise money for the family. It helps them clear out the property. It's the way of things. What can get ugly are foreclosure sales or even an estate sale if the family is arguing. In that case you buy quick and get the heck out of Dodge." They continued to walk around. Scott recognized the brothers with the moving business. They waved at Mr. Piotrowski who politely waved back. "Now there are a couple of smart young men. Their business is recession proof. In good times and bad, people will always need to move things." ------- Scott finally got to watch The Blues Brothers movie during Friday afternoon's party. Lacey turned out to be a social butterfly of the first order and succeeded in charming the entire group. They had pizza and played different games. All in all, it was an excellent party. Lacey walked Scott out to his motorcycle, "I wish I could go for a ride." "I've got an extra helmet I could bring, if it was okay with your folks." "It's just my mom, and she'll never be okay with it. Are you going to kiss me?" she asked. Scott leaned in and gave her a kiss, and slowly pulled his head back in surprise at his own boldness. "That was nice," she said. "Yeah." He nervously licked his lip and tasted ... strawberries? "So does this mean that we're dating?" She giggled and said, "Not exactly." "What do you mean by—" Lacey stood up on her toes and gave Scott a kiss. For a brief second her tongue probed his. Wow! It felt like his brain had just short circuited. "I'm not allowed to date until I turn sixteen," she said. Scott tried to get his heartbeat back under control, "When do you turn sixteen?" "Not till next May." Next May? "But I can go to parties and group activities," she blurted out. "Please say you're not mad." "I'm not mad, but won't your mom be when she finds out the truth?" "She's not going to find out. I wanted to go out with the cutest boy in ninth grade and now I have. We can be each other's dates for parties and at the movies. Things like that. What do you think?" "I think you're crazy is what I think," Scott told her. Her refrain had sounded terribly familiar. "So your plan is that we'll just happen to be at a lot of the same parties? You know I don't really go to parties, right? I guess we can figure something out, but don't blame me when your mom finds out and grounds you." "Why do you keep saying that? She's not going to find out." "Right. I'll bet you a dollar that within ... two weeks your mom will have either met, or spoken on the phone with at least half of the moms from the group in the house." "I don't think so," Lacey said as she as she grabbed his arm. "Will I see you Monday?" "Of course, sit with us at lunch." "It's a date," she said and kissed his cheek. Scott put in his ear buds and pulled on the motorcycle helmet. He started the bike and let it warm up. Lacey stood there and watched. He goosed the throttle. Lacey turned around and started sauntering back to the house. She had a very nice walk. He pulled away from Bo's house while Jerry Reed sang, 'She got the goldmine. I got the shaft... ' Scott hoped it wasn't prophetic. At Mr. Piotrowski's house Scott busied himself doing chores. He tackled the upstairs with the vacuum cleaner and a dust rag and worked his way downstairs. When he was finished he hit the kitchen and both bathrooms. He was sweeping the front porch off when Mr. Piotrowski interrupted him. "What's gotten into you?" "I met a girl." "Really? Better tell me about it," Mr. Piotrowski said as he sat on the porch bench. Jobe sat down and cocked his head, observing the interchange. "Her name is Lacey, Lacey Gregory." "Can't say I that I know the family name," Mr. Piotrowski replied. "I kissed her." "Whoa ho! That explains the goofy look." "Hey!" "I'm joking. So this girl, you really like her?" "I could get to." "Then what's the problem?"Mr. Piotrowski asked. "She's not allowed to date until she turns sixteen, which isn't until next May," he said. "Breaking her parents' rules isn't going to do you any favors." Scott continued, "She can do group activities, things like that. You're right though, and I told her she was going to be grounded when her mother finds out." "Sounds like T-r-o-u-b-l-e to me," Mr. Piotrowski said with a grin. "Is this girl the Travis Tritt version or the Elvis version?" Scott smiled at the song reference, "This girl is definitely the Tritt version, very up-tempo." "I hate to admit it, but Tritt's version is better," Mr. Piotrowski said. "I didn't know that you were an Elvis fan." "Verna was the big Elvis fan. She loved his movies. She loved everything he did no matter how cheesy. I liked his older stuff before the sequined jumpsuits." It was quiet on the front porch. Jobe walked over and inspected the broom as a late afternoon breeze rustled the leaf debris Scott had piled up. "Changing the subject," Mr. Piotrowski said as he stood up. "Are you ready for tomorrow?" Scott swept the trash into a dustpan before he answered, "As ready as I can be. I have no idea what I'm actually going to be doing. Do you want me to stop by in the morning?" "Finish up here and be sure to get a good night's sleep. I don't think there's any need to come by in the morning. I'm sure you could use the extra time." Back at the ranch there was a note on his desk. He looked around the room, but nothing seemed out of place. The note was from Mrs. Delgado and read, 'Mijo, I'm starting to forget what you look like. Breakfast tacos are in the fridge for you.' He made a promise to spend some time with her the next chance that he got. He sat against the headboard of his bed and let his thoughts slip away. He jerked awake. It was dark as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. He knew without looking at the luminescence of his watch that it was four a.m. The stiffness in his neck went away under the hot spray of the shower. He shut the bunkhouse door and made his way to the kitchen to retrieve his breakfast. He didn't need to think about the routine as he wrapped the gate chain around the post and pulled out onto the highway. He rode past the empty rental house, and Mr. Piotrowski's house was dark when he passed it minutes later. At Meritt's Corner an empty cattle truck idled in the parking lot. The big rig's parking lights and the bright neon flickering above the diner were the only signs of life. He rode on. The ranch occupied his thoughts as he drove toward his new job. ------- Scott slowed to turn onto the private road leading to the Lewis place. Stone columns had recently been built at the entrance to bracket a fancy ranch sign. It was softly lit by hidden light fixtures, but there was no name displayed. The private road had brand new blacktop and neatly groomed shoulders. He rode slowly on the smooth surface enjoying the road as it followed the terrain. The lodge at the end of the road was an impressive post and beam structure dressed in natural stone. He parked at the back of the building as he'd been instructed. He'd worn his low quarter riding boots, jeans, and a fairly new t-shirt under his motorcycle jacket. The sheet he'd been given by Mrs. Lewis hadn't mentioned any dress code, but he suddenly felt underdressed. "Nice bike," a voice from the doorway said. Scott turned to find a younger version of Smokey Lewis coming toward him. "I'm Bern. If you're our new employee, my brother says you come highly recommended." "Scott MacIntyre, Mr. Lewis. It's a pleasure to meet you." "And you're early. That's a good way to start. Come on in. I'll give you the nickel tour and introduce you to the others. I'm Bernard, or 'Bern', Lewis. Smokey is my older brother. Did you meet Buck?" "Yes, sir, at the store," Scott replied. "Oh none of that 'yes sir, no sir, ' nonsense, at least not between the lodge staff. Call me 'Bern'." "Yes ... Bern." "See, that wasn't so hard," Bern said as he opened the lodge door. "What do you think of the place?" Scott looked around. The lodge interior was mostly wood, with stone details. There were trophy heads hung from the walls. A large fireplace dominated one end of the structure. There was an airy vaulted ceiling, and oversized stuffed chairs clustered around. It was both fancy, and casual. He couldn't quite get a handle on how to describe the style. "It's fantastic," he said. Bern led him over to the kitchen area, "You wouldn't believe what it cost. Coffee?" "No, thank you." "Caffeine is the lifeblood that keeps this place going in the early morning hours. If you ever see the coffee pot empty, head for the hills," Bern said as he poured himself a mug. "This ranch has been in the family for three generations. It's where Lewis Outfitting got started. Our dad, Buck, was the one who really expanded the business back in the 1970s. He's retired, mostly, and these days Smokey and I run things." There was a commotion as a small group of people entered the lodge. "Junior, meet our newest employee," Bern said. Junior turned out to be Bern's twenty-three year old son. He mumbled hello and flopped into one of the chairs. He immediately started flipping through television channels on one of the big flat screens scattered throughout the building. The other two people were introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Pope, caretakers of the property. They were an older couple. "He needs a shirt," Mrs. Pope said. "I'm still giving him the orientation speech. I'll turn him over to you later," Bern told her. "Let me show you something," Bern said. Scott followed him over to a large, framed map hanging on a wall. "We're turning the ranch into a sportsman's retreat. We've got the main lodge, obviously. Over here we're finishing our shotgun ranges," Bern pointed to an area with his finger. "We've got a really terrific sporting clay course, and facilities for skeet, trap, and five stand. We're also building rifle and pistol ranges. We're creating the ultimate get-a-way for the shooting sportsman." It sounded impressive. "Do you shoot?" Bern asked. "I do. I've taken all of the basic NRA pistol and rifle classes. I've not had any shotgun experience though. I've got a nice Ruger .22 Sporter of my own." "Those Rugers are great. Don't worry about the shotgun stuff, we'll teach you all you'd ever want to know. Where have you been shooting?" "On private property, and over at the sheriff's range." "That's a nice facility," Bern acknowledged. "I know what you're thinking. Why build a fancy place here in West Texas? The answer is because there's a market for it, and it's one that we've been building for thirty years. The types of customers we're after want to get away from the big cities and the crowded suburbs. They want an adventure. Sportsmen like variety. What we offer is something straight out of a John Ford movie. They can do the mountains, or the leafy green water adventures in other places. West Texas is our selling point." Junior snorted from his chair, but Bern ignored him. "You don't know who John Ford was, do you?" he asked. "No, sir," Scott replied. Bern sighed, "He made really great movies about the west. It doesn't matter. Come with me and I'll show you some of what I've been talking about." Scott made a mental note to look up John Ford. Outside they went to a covered parking area for utility vehicles. They were sort of a cross between a four-wheel, all-terrain vehicle and a golf cart on off-road steroids. They had proper seats with a roll cage, and a short cargo deck at the back. The vehicles had impressive power for their size. The UTVs were painted in different woodland camouflage schemes. Scott knew they were expensive because the farm supply store had a couple on display. They were priced at close to ten thousand dollars a vehicle. Bern explained as he drove along neatly groomed paths, "We're selling a lifestyle here. Come for a weekend or a week. We'll offer personalized instruction in any aspect of hunting or shooting that the customer wants; corporate events, vacations, you name it. We won't officially open this part of the business until next year. We've got a few things lined up with some of our loyal customers to help do some test runs after we finish construction. Think you'd like helping out here until summer when we switch you over to the other property?" "Yes, sir." "Even with school in the fall, we always appreciate good help, so keep that in mind. We'll get you outfitted with the correct clothing too. That's another benefit, a clothing allowance and a sweet employee discount. It's all part of the lifestyle," Bern tugged at his pants for emphasis. "There's big money in hunting and sporting clothes. We've got a deal with a brand name manufacturer to promote their lines. All our people wear this gear. I know you'd prefer jeans, but these rugged hiker style pants are pretty great. They've got cargo pockets, and they're durable. You wouldn't believe the amount of thought that's gone into color schemes for the staff. Mrs. Pope will see that you get fitted. Stick with us and you'll end up with an entirely new wardrobe." They continued the grand tour. Some of the facilities were still under construction, and Bern was careful to explain it all. He was an enthusiastic tour guide. "Questions?" Bern asked as they were headed back toward the lodge. "What are you going to call it?" Bern laughed, "That is the million dollar question. I'm for something simple like 'The Lewis Ranch, ' but my brother ... well really it's his wife who wants something much fancier. Hopefully we'll have a decision by the end of the summer." "Can you tell me more about what I'll be doing at the other property?" Scott asked. "Much different. That's pure hunting over there, the roots of Lewis Outfitting. It's a considerably larger parcel of land. We bought it three years ago when we started phasing out guided hunts here on this property. It's a big expansion for our business. I think Smokey explained how we want a close look at the entire thing? We've got aerial photos and we've covered a fair bit ourselves. What we need is an up close, methodical survey. There are old hunting blinds we need to find and remove, abandoned feeders, that sort of thing. You'll be looking for what doesn't belong. It could be anything from trash to old fencing. We pulled down a barn and a couple of shacks last year." "Sounds pretty cool," Scott said. "Let's be truthful. It's going to be long and boring, but I like your attitude." Bern parked the vehicle and turned him over to Mrs. Pope. She took him back to an office. "Turn around," she said. Scott complied as she tugged at his waistband and measured him. She jotted the numbers down. "Five foot, eight inches," she said. "You're a growing boy so I'm going to leave some room in these measurements. We should have the pants and shirts for you by next week. Take this voucher to the farm supply store and get fitted for two sets of boots. You'll want high ankle cover for snake bite protection. You're from Broken Creek aren't you?" "Yes, ma'am." "Then you know Mrs. Delgado?" she asked. "Very well." "Please tell her I said hello." Mr. Pope took charge after that. He was a no-nonsense, taciturn man, and Scott couldn't help but like him. He drove Junior and Scott out to the shotgun ranges. They were to do some landscaping around a centrally located club house and snack bar. The building appeared to be complete, but was unfurnished. Scott spent the afternoon rolling out a fabric weed barrier and pinning it down around the building. Later, they wheeled in barrow-loads of white gravel and spread it around. This was low maintenance landscaping in the desert. Junior never said much, and was less than enthusiastic about their assigned task. It didn't bother Scott. He'd worked with all types growing up at Broken Creek. Mr. Pope returned and told them that was it for the day. "Should we start here tomorrow?" Scott asked. "Tomorrow?" Mr. Pope replied. "Son, we don't work Sundays. Be at the lodge next Saturday and we'll have work for you. There's always plenty to do." Scott left the ranch and headed back to Mr. Piotrowski's. It had been a day of experiences. The new job was going to be pretty cool. Jobe and Mr. Piotrowski were out in the storage building when Scott pulled up on the bike. "How was it?" Mr. Piotrowski asked as Scott took off his helmet. Scott knelt down and patted Jobe, "Working weekends at Lewis Outfitting does not mean 'working weekends.' They're closed on Sundays." "Ah." "They're doing a lot of interesting things there. I think I'm going to like it." "So what did you end up doing today?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Shoveled gravel." "Sounds very interesting," Mr. Piotrowski said. "It was nice gravel." "Alright funny guy, why don't you take the rest of the day off? Take Sunday off too." "Are you sure?" Scott asked. "I am." "I think I might go for a hike tomorrow if that's alright?" "It's fine with me. Come on out. If you want you can go to town with me in the afternoon." "I would like to, very much. Can we stop by the farm supply?" "Sure," Mr. Piotrowski replied. When Scott got back to the ranch he found the gate hanging open. He closed the gate and made sure that the chain was secured around the post. He rode down to the barn and went looking for the foreman. "Son of bitch," the foreman said. "It's that new idiot I've got working for me. I'll take care of it, and thanks for telling me instead of you-know-who." "Hey us worker-bee's have to stick together," Scott said. "Need any help? I've got nothing but time this afternoon." "Move some feedbags for me?" "You got it," Scott said. Thirty minutes later he waved to the foreman and headed toward the kitchen. He slipped quietly through the door. Mrs. Delgado was at the counter supervising the younger ranchers. He watched for a minute remembering his early years at the ranch. Without Mrs. Delgado's kindness he didn't know how he would have survived. He surprised her with a hug. "Mijo!" "I've missed you, Abuela." She flicked her ever present hand towel at him, "You know where to find me. What have you been doing today?" Scott grabbed a brush and started scrubbing potatoes, helping out the younger boys. "I started work at Lewis Outfitting today." "A new job?" "A Mrs. Pope works for them. She told me to pass on her greetings to you." "Judith Pope?" "I never heard her first name. Her husband works there too. They're caretakers of the hunting lodge and property." "That's her. I know of these people, the Lewis family," Mrs. Delgado made a quick motion, rubbing her fingers together. "I think so," he replied. "Good," she whispered and patted his shoulder on her way to the pantry. Scott turned his attention back to the potatoes. The boys around the table all looked at him with wide eyes. "What?" he asked. "Nothing," was the mumbled answer. "Be nice to Mrs. Delgado and she'll be nice to you. In this place she's all that stands between you and..." He pointed a finger upstairs. "Let's finish up here and go play catch. Sound good?" The boys attacked their kitchen chores, and Scott supervised the cleanup. When Mrs. Delgado returned he told the boys to go and grab their gloves, he'd join them shortly. "They're a good group," he said as the boys ran out of the kitchen. "They are now, but then they grow up," she teased. "I talked to Judith. She told me about the clothing. That's a great deal. From what she tells me this could be a very good job for you." "I think so too. She also gave me a voucher for some boots. I'm going to pick them up tomorrow when I go into town with Mr. Piotrowski." Mrs. Delgado pursed her lips, "You're not taking on too much are you? The jobs, the college classes? You should take time for yourself." "Abuela, I'm as happy as I've ever been. I have friends, a good job, and I'm going to be a college student this summer. Did you ever think the six year old that you met that Christmas all those years ago would be able to say that?" "I hoped, Mijo, I hoped. Now go outside and play," she said. He grinned and went outside. The next morning found him at Mr. Piotrowski's. He had the bike up on a stand outside the storage building. He went over every part of the bike, checking cables and bolts carefully. Satisfied that the bike was in good shape he topped off the automatic oiler. He carefully washed the bike and dried it with some rags. "Problems?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. He'd come out in his pajamas and a bathrobe while sipping a cup of coffee. "Preventative maintenance," he explained. "Good thinking." "I'm going to put a lot of miles on it this summer. I want to stay on top of things," Scott said. "Take it by the engine center and have Noah look at it. I'm sure he'd be happy to give it a once over." "I don't know. I feel kind of bad about leaving there." "When you check your mail this week run by and say hello. You'll see there are no hard feelings," Mr. Piotrowski told him. Scott promised he would stop and see Noah. "When you get back from your hike what do you say about lunch at the taqueria?" "Count me in." Scott whistled for Jobe and grabbed his walking stick. He wanted to look at the changes to the land after the flash flood. They walked along the bottom of the new cut in the desert floor made by the flood waters. The channel was completely dry now. It would probably a lot more interesting to a geologist. He looked, but couldn't find any sign of human artifacts. He took a break and sat down. The water here had cut a deep, wide curve around some harder rock formations. He glanced at his watch. He should start heading back. Scott stood up and looked for Jobe. The dog had a leg hiked up and was marking a bush. When he glanced back across the dry channel something caught his eye. He'd sat there all that time without noticing anything unusual. He called for Jobe and scrambled down into the wash. At the apex of the curve the water had exposed a large, flat expanse of rock. Scott knelt down and brushed away some loose sand with his hand. Jobe had caught up and was looking at him curiously. "Stay here, I'll be right back." He looked around until he found a bit of brush. He broke off a limb and used the plant as a broom, sweeping sand and small rocks away from the hard surface. He stood back and looked at what the flash flood had uncovered. He tried to get some pictures of it with his phone, but it was difficult to see. He climbed up on some rocks and got his bearings. "The road is that way, and the house is that way," he pointed for Jobe. The dog cocked his head at him. "Do you think we can get the truck out here?" Jobe made a quizzical noise. "Yeah, I don't know either." Scott headed for the road noting the route carefully as he walked. When he reached the blacktop he started jogging back toward the house. "Where did you two come from?" asked Mr. Piotrowski as Scott and Jobe walked up the driveway. "I'll tell you all about it. I'm going to wash up real quick." Scott ran inside and returned a few minutes later. Mr. Piotrowski looked at him, "Okay, you've got my attention." "I'll tell you on the way," Scott said as he held the door open for Jobe and then climbed into the truck. They pulled out onto the highway. "This is not the way to town," Mr. Piotrowski observed. "No, it isn't," Scott replied. He spotted where he wanted to turn in. He stopped the truck, and put it into four wheel drive. He pulled slowly off the road. "It might be a little bumpy." Mr. Piotrowski tightened his seatbelt and braced himself with a hand on the dashboard and a firm grip on a hand hold that was bolted to the B pillar. "Jobe and I found something. I walked the path back out to the road. We shouldn't have too much trouble getting to it." "Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "I don't want to prejudice your first look." 'Hmmph, ' was Mr. Piotrowski's reply. It was bumpy and slow going, but they made their way to the site as the big truck handled it with ease. Scott parked and held the door open for Jobe. The dog ran around to a shallow draw and trotted out toward the area that Scott had cleared off. He sat down and waited. "The flash flood exposed all of this." "You've got my undivided attention," Mr. Piotrowski said. "What's Jobe doing?" "That dog is too smart for his own good. That's where we're going," Scott said as he looked for the easiest route down into the wash. Scott helped Mr. Piotrowski down the same path Jobe had used. He stood silently as Mr. Piotrowski walked slowly around the area he had cleared off. The elderly man knelt down gingerly and traced one of the depressions with his hand. "Dinosaur tracks? This is ... incredible is what this is. What do you figure, twenty-five, thirty feet worth? You haven't told anyone have you?" he asked. "Of course not." "Keep it that way. There'd be idiots out here by the bus load, and some moron would be trying to cut these out," Mr. Piotrowski paused and ran his hand over his head. "I honestly don't know what we do now." "This is on your property," Scott said. "Yes, yes it is." "I tried taking some photos with my phone but they didn't come out very well. I could grab the camera and get some better shots. Maybe borrow a GPS unit from Bo, and get the exact coordinates." He had them in his head, but there was no easy way to explain that. "That's a start," Mr. Piotrowski mused. "I should talk to Honour, get her advice." "Well ... I do know a paleontologist," Scott said. "That's right. You do, don't you? Can she be discreet?" "I could run it by her. I think she'd understand the need for caution." "Do it," Mr. Piotrowski said. He looked at his watch, "Lunch is my prime concern at the moment. You know you might have a future as a treasure hunter." "What?" "I'm thinking about sending you out looking for gold," Mr. Piotrowski. "Is there gold around here?" Scott asked. "Not that I know of, but if there was I'd bet you'd find it." Mr. Piotrowski had promised to buy lunch at the taqueria, so they dropped Jobe off at the house and talked about the tracks all the way into town. Mr. Piotrowski mulled over what questions to ask his lawyer. That reminded Scott that he should stop by the office they'd set up for him. He also needed to get over to the extension campus and see about testing out of College Algebra. The taqueria was doing brisk business when they found a seat. Lunch was good, and Mr. Piotrowski exchanged greetings with several old timers. Scott dragged the last bite of his flauta through the beans and swallowed it with a satisfied groan. "Good?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "The best," Scott replied. "Can't eat it too often though. How was your enchilada?" "Outstanding and I don't have to worry about the calories. I'm allowed to put on a little weight. You've been distracted. Are you thinking about—" he pointed in the general direction of the house, and the dinosaur tracks. Scott took a drink of water to clear his throat, "More about my schedule and college. Mrs. Delgado asked me yesterday if I was taking on too much." "And?" "I don't think so. I just need to stay organized. There's a reason we challenge ourselves, as you say." "I say that do I?" Mr. Piotrowski asked as he folded his napkin and took out his wallet. "I'll tell you what I think. You're not worried about the workload, or the college classes. You're worried about what the older students will think of you." He left a tip and picked up their lunch ticket. As they walked up to the register Mr. Piotrowski lowered his voice and leaned over, "I say to hell with what people think. You go in there and blow their socks off. You hear me?" "Yes, sir." "Now," Mr. Piotrowski put his arm over Scott's shoulder and squeezed. "Grab a few extra mints for me will you?" Scott smiled at the girl working the cash register and pocketed a handful of the mints from a bowl by the register. They made a quick trip to the farm supply store and Scott left with two new pair of boots. Back out at the house he made sure the camera battery was charged and put a couple of bottles of water into his old backpack. He'd kept it just for camping and hiking. There was an extra long tape measure out in the storage building he could take with him to measure the length of the tracks. Out at the site he carefully cleaned some of the more detailed tracks and poured water over them. The late afternoon shadows worked in his favor making the rock slab easier to photograph. He used the tape measure to show scale, and to measure the length and width of the tracks. Scott sat back on his heels after he was finished. What else could be found around here he wondered? It was clear that this was a job for experienced people. At the house he browsed through the photographs on his laptop. He picked a couple of the better ones and wrote a short description of his observations and the measurements he'd taken. First he wrote an email to Lauren telling her how he'd finally watched the Blues Brothers movie, and about the classes he was planning to take over the summer. He'd finally joined the modern age and had gotten a cell phone, 'for work, ' he wrote. Next he drafted a carefully worded message to Donna and attached two of the photos he'd selected. He read the message over a couple of times before he sent it. Resting his hand on the laptop he began to issue mental commands allowing him to browse the Midland College's online catalog. His search expanded as he looked up graduation requirements, and various state laws related to foster care. He had options. The ding of incoming email pulled him from his reverie. He had two messages. The first was a message written in all capital letters. 'CALL ME AT... ' and concluded with a number for Donna. The next email was from Lauren, 'Call Donna so she'll stop yelling at me.' Scott went downstairs and got a fresh glass of water. Mr. Piotrowski was watching some sort of auto auction in the front room. Jobe looked to be asleep, but his hind leg was moving. Maybe he was chasing something in his dreams. Mr. Piotrowski pulled one of the ears of his headphones aside. "The paleontologist wants me to call. She seems very excited. What do you want me to say?" "Don't promise her anything, but find out what she thinks we should do. Use your judgment, and try not to think about her red dress," Mr. Piotrowski said. He started to protest, but Mr. Piotrowski just smirked and readjusted his headphones. Scott went back upstairs to the office and retrieved his cell phone. He dialed the number. It rang twice before he heard, "Cowboy? Is that you?" "It's me, Donna." "You found this? You're not yanking my chain?" she demanded. "I found it ... recently. Can you tell me what made them?" "What? No that will take a lot of research. Some tracks are easier to identify than others. I can't believe you found this. What can you tell me about it?" "What do you want to know?" "How many people know? Is the site safe? How did you find it? Everything, I want to know everything," she said. "You'll understand if I don't tell you some things?" "Of course, but tell me whatever you can. Please." "We had a flash flood here recently. The site was uncovered by the flood water. Only two people here know about it, counting you that makes three people in the know. Four, counting Lauren I guess." "That's good, very good," she replied. "The site is on private property. There's almost no chance for anybody to stumble over it." "You know the owner?" "Yes." "You have some sway with the owner?" "A little." "You know just about any school in Texas would leap at the chance to see what you've found?" she said. "I don't know anybody at those schools." "Talk to Lauren for a bit, I need to use the other phone and call my department chair." "Scott, are you there?" asked Lauren. "It's me. How have you been?" "I've been good. Tell your boss that the exhibit has been very popular. Professor Yoshida has me doing a lot of related research. It sounds like you've been extremely busy." "I have been, but my trip to Chicago has still been the highlight of the year so far." "So you liked the Blues Brothers?" "Loved the car chase, it was insane. The rest was funny, but I felt like I wasn't in on all of the jokes." "I think you need to have seen a lot of their Saturday Night Live sketches, and you need to know who all the musicians were who made cameos in the movie," she explained. "You can look them up online if you're curious." "I might do that." "You've got Donna wound up pretty good. When are you going to find me something?" Lauren asked. "I'll keep looking, but I'm not holding out much hope of finding Asian artifacts in the West Texas desert." She laughed, and the sound tickled something deep inside him. "Do you like Indian, or 'Native American' things?" he asked. "Sure." "I've found a few arrowheads. Would you like one?" "I'd love one," she gushed. "So tell me, any new girlfriends?" "Ahh ... there's a girl I met recently." "You're dating?" "Not exactly." "What does 'not exactly' mean?" He could hear the mirth in her voice, "She's too young to date. We went to a party with other friends. I don't know. It's complicated." "Have you told her about me?" she asked. Was she crazy, he wondered? "I don't know her that well yet." Lauren made a noise, "You'll have to watch out for Donna now. None of the losers she's dated ever found her any dinosaur tracks." He could hear Donna protesting the description of her past boyfriends as, 'losers.' She took the phone back from Lauren and told Scott what her department head had to say on the subject of recent discoveries in Texas. He listened intently. This was not going to be a rapid process. "Can you protect the site?" Donna asked. "I believe so. It's private property. Nobody would have a reason to be out there. If the discovery is kept quiet, there's nothing for anybody to go looking for." "That's right. This may seem counterintuitive, but I need you to cover the rock with dirt. This will protect it from the elements. Can you do that?" "It shouldn't be a problem. How much dirt?" "A foot at least? And do it by hand. No machinery. No digging around the tracks themselves. Is it where it can be driven over?" "No. It's safe from any human activity. I'll get it covered up tomorrow. Is there anything else I should do?" "Can you keep anybody else from going out to the area?" "I don't think it's an issue. It's really very isolated." "What about exact coordinates? Can you get them?" she asked. "I've got GPS coordinates." "Want to send them to me?" "I'll run the information past the land owner and let you know what he says. Stay in touch?" "Are you kidding, cowboy? I'm not letting this get away from me. Starting tomorrow my department head is going to have me chewing his ear off until he lets me fly down there." "Is there a chance you could come down?" "Damn straight. They're not going to have a choice. I'll keep you posted." Scott closed his laptop and put the phone on the charger. The idea of introducing Donna to his friends at some point in the summer made him smile. He went down to the television room and sat down in the other recliner. "Well?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "They're very interested. I told her that I'd run all the info past the land owner this week, and get his feedback. There's a lot of detail to work out before the university can get involved. My paleontologist wants to be the one to fly down and check it out." "Well this land owner wants to hear all about it, after I talk some things over with Honour. I'll run in to see her tomorrow." Mr. Piotrowski replied. "Anything we need to do in the short term?" "She wants me to cover the find up with dirt to protect it from the elements since it's only recently been exposed. She's really worried about other people getting in there and destroying the rock, scavengers and such. I told her I thought the find should be pretty safe. It's isolated as long as we keep word of it from leaking out into the community." "Good point," Mr. Piotrowski mused. "I'll tell Honour and we'll keep it to the three of us for now. It's on their heads up in Chicago." "There's no way that Donna's going to let this slip through her hands by being careless. You should have heard her." Jobe got up and scratched an ear. "It's been a long day, and I think it's going to be an even longer week. Why don't you take off?" Scott quickly agreed. Monday after school he took a shovel out to the site and started moving dirt. He dug into the loose soil at the side of the wash. This was going to be a lot more work than he first thought as looked at what little earth he'd been able to move. He pulled his gloves tight and started working harder. He got lost in the sound of the shovel and the heat of the sun beating down. Eventually he took a break. The tracks were covered up, but after a few minutes of reflection he realized that it looked pretty obvious that somebody had been trying to cover something up. He used the shovel to scatter around some lighter sand, and smooth out the soil. He climbed on up a rock and took a look around. It looked a little better, but security was going to depend on the area's isolation and closed mouths. He slung the shovel over his shoulder and started walking. Mr. Piotrowski was back from town when Scott got to the house. "You look worn out," he said. "I got it done. I'm headed to the shower." Scott wiped the steam from the mirror and gazed at his reflection. He needed a haircut. He ran his fingers through his hair as a quick brush and continued drying off. When he turned back to the mirror he froze. One side of his hair was long, the other side was short. He glanced at his hand for a second and ran it back through the short side thinking furiously, fix this. He grabbed a small hand mirror from under the sink and tried to look at the back of his head. As far as he could tell his hair looked like it was back to normal. He felt pretty foolish looking at his hair from every possible angle. Stray thoughts while he was tired could be a very bad idea. He joined Mr. Piotrowski in the kitchen and got a large glass of ice water that he downed in seconds. "You alright?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "I'm fine. Lot more work than I originally thought. Plus I need a haircut." "It is getting a little long. I could give you a high and tight buzz cut like we had in the Marines," Mr. Piotrowski said. "No thanks. How was Honour?" "We're all good there. I own the land, and I own the mineral rights. There aren't any statutes or regulations we have to worry as far as the state goes. There's no hurry. Those prints have been there for millions of years so a few more months won't hurt. I say we wait and see what your paleontologist and her friends have to say." "Her friends being the University of Chicago, or the Field Museum, heck maybe both. I don't know," Scott said. "Not bad as far as friends go. Plans for the rest of the week?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Good question. I think I'll ride in tomorrow and try to stop by the extension campus. I need to visit the law office. Don't you think it's too much, giving me some office space? Maybe I should offer to file some papers for them?" "You can offer, but I think they'll turn you down. Honour and Joseph were so pleased to be able to help you with your education. Don't take that away from them." "Yes, sir." "Now, what do you say to me frying us up some ham and egg sandwiches for dinner?" Scott shook his head, "How about I make a nice salad with the lettuce we've got, and I'll cook a couple of those chicken breasts instead?" "You're getting me back for that crack about the enchilada aren't you?" Mr. Piotrowski grumbled. "Healthy eating, sir." ------- "Forty-one days of school left," Ed announced as Scott walked into third period English. There were groans from nearby students. "Get used to it, he's going to do this every day until summer break," Scott said. "That's cruel and unusual punishment," a voice called back. "Tell me about it," he replied. "What's up, Ed?" "Got a letter from the city pool. They can guarantee me three days a week this summer. One of the guys says if I do well I could go full time next summer." "Hey that's great," Scott said. "How goes the de-Eddie-fication process?" "Dad's on board. The girls don't care. By the way, you need to have dinner with us soon. There have been complaints. Mom, well ... she's Mom." "Just tell me when. I'll be there with my bib on." "How was Saturday?" Ed asked. Their teacher walked in and called class to order. "I'll tell you next break," Scott said. They didn't get the chance to talk during break so he promised he'd tell all at lunch. Lacey walked into the lunch room and slapped a dollar bill down on the table. Scott looked at her. "Didn't even survive the weekend!" Lacey complained. "I'm grounded for three weeks, and any future get-togethers will be closely vetted with a complete list of attendees." "She nailed you good," he replied. "Did she actually say 'vetted'?" "You don't have to look so happy," she groused. "I made a dollar; I'll buy you something from the vending machine." "Gee thanks." "Would it help if I stopped and spoke with your mother?" he asked. "Are you trying to get me put on permanent restriction?" It was amazing how easily Lacey had integrated herself into his lunch group. Scott managed to get bites of his salad in between telling the group about his new job. The girls were momentarily interested when he mentioned the clothing allowance. When he described the clothes they quickly lost interest. "Think you can get us a discount on hunting gear?" asked Bo. "I can check." "Did you think about me this weekend?" asked Lacey. "Sure." "Sure, you thought about me, or you're sure you thought about me?" "Uh, is there a difference?" Lacey stood up and all three girls flounced off to the bathroom. "What just happened?" Scott asked. "Did you guys have a fight?" Bo asked. "I don't think so." "See, you remember telling me how crazy I was all full of raging hormones? Well, I'll tell you that they get just as crazy. And Dad says it never goes away," Ed said. Scott exchanged looks with Bo, "I'm pretty sure you should never say that out loud again. You could get one of us killed." "What he said," Bo confirmed. "Well it's true," Ed insisted. "What are you going to do, apologize?" The girls were headed back to the table. "I think I'm going to pretend it never happened." "Yeah, you let me know how that works out," Ed replied. After school he went to check out the extension campus. It wasn't a long journey. The dual purpose technical training center and Midland extension campus branch was located behind the school's football stadium out on the highway. Luckily the law office was pretty much on his route to and from town. It was only a couple of miles from the office to the extension campus and high school. It would be a good place to study. The extension campus had a relaxed atmosphere compared to the high school. He walked into the business office. "Help you?" asked a lady at the desk. "I need to test out of College Algebra and Spanish." The lady looked him over carefully, "You know you'll have to pay for that right?" He pulled his checkbook from his backpack. "I need to take the test before I register for summer session. How hard is that to organize?" "Nothing to it," she explained. "All you need is a proctor and almost anybody here can do that. When do you want to take them? Most students want time to prepare." "No, I'm ready to go. Anytime after 3:30 on a weekday?" "In that case, how about tomorrow at four? Which one do you want to take first?" "Four would be great. The Algebra test first, then Spanish on a following day?" "Alright, all I need is your student ID and a check," she said. "I guess need to get my student ID then," Scott said as he dug out his admittance letter from the college. He handed it over to her. "Can I see another form of identification?" she asked. He handed over his driver's license. "Fifteen," she exclaimed. "You're the youngest Midland student I've seen that's for sure. You must be really smart." "I'm ambitious at least, hoping to be smarter," he replied. She smiled and guided him over to stand on a piece of tape. With a flash she took his picture. A few minutes later he had his new student ID card. The lady watched his expression as he wrote the check. "Have you applied for any grants?" she asked. "No, I haven't." She went over to another desk and began pulling information packets out. She looked through them and handed several over to him. "Read over these. The requirements are very specific. If you don't fit them, don't apply. If you do match the requirements follow the instructions to the letter. That's one way they have of weeding people out. Good luck." "Thanks, you've been very helpful." He left the extension campus with a sense of accomplishment and drove over to the law office. He parked in the 'motorcycles only' spot. Instead of going in through the back door he walked around to the front and went in that way. "Felt strange going in the back way with you all here," he explained to the receptionist. Both office doors were closed as he went down the hallway to the back. He setup his laptop and started sorting through the college grant packages. Joseph rapped his knuckles on the doorframe to get his attention, "You look like a college student." Scott grinned, "I feel like one. Wrote my first check today." Joseph tossed a memory stick to him, "Text file on that has our network key. Delete the file when you're done. You can keep the stick. They were handing them out like candy at a meeting I was at in San Antonio recently." "Cool," Scott plugged the stick in and copied the long passkey string. "What do you have there?" asked Joseph as he sat down in the other chair. "I'm on the network," Scott replied as he deleted the file from the memory stick. "These are information packets on different grants I might be eligible for. Nice lady in the college office gave them to me." "Grants are good. It's the student loans you have to watch out for." Scott frowned, "Can you explain that a little?" "Sure," Joseph said getting comfortable in his chair. "I'm not saying that all student loans are bad. If you're going to be short money for a term they might be a good solution in limited form. What you have to watch out for is funding your entire education through loans. It's a really terrible idea to leave college with tens of thousands of dollars of debt." "I can understand that, but aren't you going to college to make more money? Aside from getting an education I mean," Scott said. "Extend the thought. You leave college at the start of your career. Your earning potential is at its lowest while your expenses are growing. You're probably moving a few times, furnishing an apartment, or even thinking about buying a house. Maybe you're starting a family, but you're loaded down with debt. It's a tough way to start out." "I just want to get a degree." "Scared you huh? You've got time. The sad part is how easy they make the loans. You watch, you'll start getting guaranteed credit card applications by the handful. I bet they even pass them out on campus. Walk away from school with a degree, huge loans, and maxed out credit cards. It's even worse when the student doesn't graduate. Double whammy." "I get the feeling that you know something about the subject," Scott said. Joseph sighed. "Unfortunately. It was law school that loaded me up, and it took years for me to pay off those loans. I guess the experience left me a little bitter. I should have known better. In this economy I think it's borderline criminal how colleges and the credit companies work hand in hand." "I'm a convert. Cash and grants are the way to go." "Are you worried about the money?" Joseph asked. "Concerned, yes. Worried, no. I've been saving since before I even started working. I've got the cash on hand, but I hate to eat into my savings. I'm working, so at least I'm putting money back in the account." "I'll leave you to it then. If you've ever got any questions, don't hesitate to ask." "Thanks, Joseph. It means a lot." Scott sorted through the grant folders. In the end he thought he only qualified for three. The rest he dumped into the garbage can. He started filling out forms. One of the grants wanted a short essay; he was pondering what he wanted to write when Honour slipped into the small office. She always managed to get his pulse racing, and she knew it. "What are you working so hard at?" she asked. "Grant applications." "Get used to it. You'll be filling them out for a few years. Did you get the lecture from Joseph on student loans?" "In detail," Scott replied. "It sounds like good advice." "It is. He can get pretty passionate on the subject. That passion is part of what makes him such a good litigator." Honour looked up the hallway to see if anybody was nearby. "Any news on the thing?" she asked while making a walking motion with her fingers. "Only a half dozen emails from my friend. Most written in the wee hours of morning. I'm going to send her the rest of the photos I took." "I'd like to see it if I could." "Nobody's going to see the tracks in person until the experts come down since I've buried them again, but check out these photos," he spun his laptop around and started a slide show from his folder of images. Honour examined the screen intently. "You knew this was something just from seeing it?" "You do know that we've got some dinosaur tracks over at the museum. I saw them years ago on a school field trip." "We do?" "You've never been over to the museum to see historic Fort Stockton? You need to drag Joseph through it." "I might just do that." The following afternoon Scott sat for his first college test. The proctor's only reaction to the young test taker was a raised eyebrow as he checked Scott's student ID. Forty minutes later Scott was done. He took some time to double check his answers, and then handed the test to the proctor. "All done?" "Piece of cake," Scott answered. "Who grades it?" "They do it up in Midland," he said as he signed and dated a form. "I'll seal this up and it will go out with the mail tomorrow. Takes a week or two to hear back." On Thursday he was back in the same place, with a different proctor taking the Spanish test. He flipped through the test, and raised his hand. "Yes?" the proctor asked. "Do you have the Spanish II or Spanish III test? This is too easy." "I can get it, but they require an oral section. Let me go see if the Spanish instructor is in the building," she said as she stood up. "Will I have to pay extra for the test?" "If you pass the higher test then you don't have to pay for the test you skipped. If you fail the higher test and go back to the lower test, then you pay for both. Okay?" "Got it, thank you." The proctor returned a short time later with the Spanish professor in tow. They had a pleasant conversation and she quizzed him on grammatical rules. "Take the Spanish III test. You'll pass it with flying colors I believe," the instructor told him. Glancing at his paperwork she said, "MacIntyre? No Spanish in the family, South America maybe?" "Not to my knowledge," he replied. "You have a remarkable grasp of the language and a beautiful accent. I would swear that you are a native speaker." He took the test and handed it in. He was leaving the building when he heard somebody calling his name. He turned to see Jorge Delgado jogging his way. "Jorge, what brings you here?" "Long time no see. I'm taking an adult education class. Four weeks on Excel, what about yourself? Are you starting classes already?" "I tried to test out of a couple of things. Why are you learning about spreadsheets?" Jorge looked around, "I'm applying for a new job. Even if I don't get it I like learning new things. What about you, how did you do on your tests?" "Where are you applying for work at?" "Can't tell you just yet. Cough up the details on those tests. Did you pass?" "I won't know for a week or two," Scott replied. "If I passed then I'll start college with twelve credits already under my belt. Three of those credits will be right from the core curriculum." Scott couldn't keep the excited grin from his face. Jorge gave him a victorious thumbs-up gesture. "You're a college student, Scotty. I can't believe it." "Me either. It's been a hell of a week." ------- Chapter 16 Thursday, May 3, 2007 The preceding weeks had been busy. Scott had found time to stop at the engine center to say hello. Mr. Piotrowski was right as usual. There were no hard feelings and in fact his old co-workers were delighted to see him. With Scott's assistance, Noah examined the Yamaha and declared that it was holding up very well. Scott did manage to have a short conversation with Rico Lopez. They would have talked longer, but Rico was a busy man. The big news from Rico was that Mr. Mendoza had purchased a small commercial building in Fort Stockton along with the assets of a bankrupt welding business. Rico was going to be the assistant shop manager for the newly christened 'Pecos County Welding'. Scott's own news had been just as rewarding. Midland College had quickly awarded him credit for the Spanish and Algebra tests. With that information he'd met with Principal Reynolds to set his sophomore schedule. The best part of the meeting was getting official notice that the school had agreed to waive the usual junior-senior requirements and grant him concurrent enrollment status. In exchange, Principal Reynolds presented him with a contract setting out grade point and attendance requirements. Fall below the agreed upon levels and he'd have to go back to a regular high school schedule. Scott happily signed. Discussions about the dinosaur tracks were at a standstill. Donna's group at the University of Chicago had commitments to a dig in the Dakota's over the summer. As it stood now, Donna, along with a couple of undergraduate assistants, was going to fly down during the summer and examine the find. The date hadn't been firmed up, but it would probably be in late July or August. On the personal front, his relationship with Lacey continued cautiously. Grounding had drastically changed Lacey's attitude. She had dropped any discussion of clandestine meetings saying, "If I have to spend another week locked up in the house I'm going to scream." From now on Lacey swore she was going to work within her mother's restrictions. Scott didn't mind, even though their relationship had grown a little awkward. These thoughts bounced around in his head as he sat in the upstairs office at Mr. Piotrowski's staring at his laptop. All he had to do to complete summer registration was click the button and confirm payment from his bank card. He sent the payment through and headed downstairs. "All good?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "It's done. Paid for and everything." "When does the semester start?" Scott rubbed both hands over his face before replying, "Three more weeks of high school. Then a whole week off, and the summer session starts June fourth. The same day I go fulltime at the big ranch." "Not much of a summer vacation," Mr. Piotrowski observed. "It's not like I was going to hang around at Broken Creek," Scott said. "True," Mr. Piotrowski said, "but you should try to relax a little." "I'm too busy to relax," Scott replied. That got a laugh out of Mr. Piotrowski. Scott rode to school Friday morning so that he could have dinner with the Mendozas that evening. The mood of the student body was mixed. Final tests and class projects had put pressure on everyone, but summer vacation was just weeks away. After school he made a quick trip over to the law office and let himself in through the back door. He walked to reception. It didn't look like either lawyer was in. "Would it be okay if I had my college textbooks delivered here to the office?" The receptionist looked up, "I don't see why not? Regular post or delivery service?" "I can tell you in about five minutes. I think the books will come from Midland so it shouldn't take too long, but I don't know for sure." "Just let me know," she said. Scott walked back to the office and turned on his laptop. The bookstore's website told him what texts the instructors wanted him to buy after he punched in his course numbers. He frowned as he read the book descriptions. "What's the matter," Honour asked. He looked up from the laptop and pushed himself away from the desk. Honour was leaning against the doorframe. She was backlit by light from the hallway. "Textbooks," he said. "I can't believe how much they cost. My history class requires two books, they're more expensive than the class was." "Ouch," she said. "I'm afraid it's only going to get worse. Is the price going to be a problem?" "I've got the money, but I'm not going to like what it does to my savings." "What about used books?" "They've got them," he acknowledged. "Although they're really not much cheaper. I might save twenty or thirty dollars. Every bit helps." "Come on, I'll buy you a drink," she said. Scott followed her to the tiny coffee room. She dug a bottle of cold water out of the refrigerator and handed it to him. "Any news on those grant applications?" He took a drink before replying, "No, but I didn't expect to hear anything yet. It's not all bad. This fall they're letting me do concurrent enrollment. That means the state will pick up the tuition costs." "That's great!" "Yeah, it is. I guess I really don't have anything to complain about." He looked at the time, "I better get going." "Big plans?" "Dinner at a friend's house." "Sounds nice," she said as she walked back to her office. Scott hurried to follow her, "Can I ask a question?" She stopped and looked at him, "Of course, always." "When did you know you wanted to be a lawyer?" "Career advice? That's what you want to ask me about?" she asked. "Who do you talk to about other things?" "What do you mean?" "Life, the mysteries of the universe, girls, things like that?" "I thought girls were the mystery of the universe." Honour burst into laughter, "Touché." Getting her to laugh made him feel ten feet tall. "I talk to Mr. Piotrowski about most things, Judge Upcott, my friends." "Am I one of those friends?" she asked. "Of course, but you're also my lawyer. I can tell you things that I can't tell anybody else." "You could, but you haven't. I know you have your reasons. You are a frustrating young man." "I'm a teenager." "And it's your job to be frustrating?" she said. "So I'm told." She gave him a little smile, "I think I always wanted to be a lawyer. I just knew, so it's probably not what you wanted to hear. You should ask Joseph." "I'll do that. Thanks, Honour." Scott collected his laptop and headed over to the Mendoza house. Traffic was light as he made his way toward the house. A few people waved as he rode by being friendly as folks are in small towns. At a stop sign a block from his destination a group of younger boys wanted to race him on their bicycles. He goosed the motorcycle's throttle and they cheered. The family was gathered on the back deck when Scott finally parked beside the detached garage. Mr. Mendoza was grilling chicken. It looked like they were going to be eating out on the deck. Mrs. Mendoza spotted him, "Scott, run in and grab the salad from the refrigerator for me?" He pulled the large wooden bowl of salad from the fridge. Janie, the youngest Mendoza, came through the kitchen door. "Need any help?" she asked. "Can you find some salad tongs?" Janie dug through a drawer and held up her find, "Anything else?" "I guess we'll find out," he went to the back door and held it open. "After you, Milady." Janie curtsied and ran laughing out onto the deck. Mrs. Mendoza took the salad bowl from him and told him to find a seat. Scott always enjoyed dinner with the family. He lost himself in the good food and the ebb and flow of conversations around him. Robert Mendoza had gotten a scholarship to Arizona State to play baseball. It sounded like half the family was going help him move out to Tempe in June. Janie kicked Scott in the shin. He looked across the picnic table and she pointed her fork at her father. Scott glanced at Ed who just shook his head. He swallowed and said, "Great chicken." "Thanks," Mr. Mendoza said. "But I was asking how you liked your new job?" There was good natured open laughter, and he joined in. Finally he got out, "It's different that's for sure. I like it though, and the hours are perfect for me." That seemed to satisfy his social obligations for the meal. Saturday morning found him riding in a truck with Bern Lewis. Scott was wearing the Lewis uniform; tan hiking pants with cargo pockets, and a long-sleeve blue shirt embroidered with 'Lewis Outfitting' over the breast. Mrs. Pope informed him that the color was British desert tan while the winter version would be a darker, chocolate brown. It didn't matter to him. If they wanted to buy him clothes then he wasn't going to argue. It was a quiet ride. Things had been a little tense out at what they were now calling the 'Lewis Sportsman Ranch.' Scott wasn't sure what the source was, but thought it might have something to do with Bern's son, Junior. He'd caught the tail end of a heated argument between Mr. Pope and Bern. Junior seemed to be the topic. Scott did his best to keep his head down. He concentrated on the GPS unit in his lap and compared it with the instructions in the booklet that he was reading. They were heading out to the other Lewis property where he'd be spending his summer. "We're here," Bern said. Scott looked up as Bern turned off the main road. The lodge here appeared to be an older structure and was decidedly smaller than the one at the other ranch. There was a man waiting outside for them. He had that same long and lean, weather worn look that all outdoorsmen seemed to have. He was wearing a version of the Lewis uniform, but with a red shirt topped off by a ball cap. "He's all yours," Bern said as he stalked off toward the lodge. The man waited until Bern had disappeared inside. He handed Scott a desert camouflage ball cap with 'Lewis' embroidered on it. "I'm Tony Lewis," the man said. "I'm a Lewis cousin, but don't hold that against me." "Scott MacIntyre," he replied. "I know, the source of all the excitement today." "I don't understand," Scott said. "You had the misfortune to show up the boss's son," Tony said. "That's a good thing, don't worry about it. I think you're exactly what I need this summer." Scott nervously formed the bill of the baseball cap before putting it on. "I haven't done anything like that," he protested. Tony gave him a look, "Actually you did. Mr. Pope called and told me all about it. He had a lot of good things to say about you. What you did was the work he assigned you, and Junior, not so much." Scott suppressed a groan. He knew Junior was lazy, but he didn't want to be the cause of conflict. He'd never had any problems working for Mr. Mendoza. Maybe that was because Ed was the only family member working for him. The Lewis clan did things a lot differently. "Don't look so worried," Tony said. "I'm a lesser Lewis. Now, don't get me wrong. I love the job, but I don't play in the family political battles. If you work as hard for me as you did for Mr. Pope then we'll get along famously." Scott gave him a weak smile of thanks as they walked. "This is our vehicle shed," Tony said as they approached an old pole barn. "We've got a mix of ATVs, all-terrain vehicles or four-wheelers, and UTVs, the utility terrain vehicles with a roll cage. You've got your driver's license?" "Yes, sir, and a motorcycle endorsement." "Call me Tony. Find a helmet that fits," he said pointing toward a shelf. Scott dug through the open face motocross style helmets until he found one that fit. Tony spent a few minutes going over the operation of the different vehicles. They mounted up on a pair of four-wheelers and went for a ride. Scott followed Tony as they drove around. After a while Tony pulled to a stop and waved Scott up beside him. "You look pretty comfortable. How's it feel?" Tony asked. "Feels good. I don't think I'll trade my bike in, but I like it." "What do you ride?" "An old Yamaha RD200." "Two-stroke? Those are fun. Now, these four-wheelers are great, but they'll bite you if you get stupid. Ride safe and we won't have any problems. Got your phone?" Scott dug it out of a pocket and showed it to Tony. "Tell me what kind of signal you've got." "I've got two bars," Scott said. "You'll get reception on about a quarter of the ranch. It's hit or miss. We use hand radios a lot. Let's head back and I'll try to explain what I want to use you for." They parked back at the barn and topped off the fuel tanks. Inside the lodge, tables had been set up and there were a series of white boards scattered around. Scott looked around curiously. The tables were covered with detailed maps and aerial photographs. The white boards were covered with photos of deer, and appeared to be sorted by zones. "I turn the lodge into my command center in the off season," Tony explained. He pointed at the boards, "This is all population management; rough counts of the herd, where different animals have been sighted. These maps also show our current food plots and feeder locations." "How do you get the pictures?" Scott asked. "Technology," Tony said. "We have digital cameras mounted at various points around the property. Day or night, when the deer come by and activate the camera we can get stills or video depending on how we have each station set." "That's pretty cool." "Over here is what I wanted to show you," Tony said as he led him over to the large work tables. "You can see how big a project this survey is. What I've decided so far is that we'll start at the far end of the property and work our way back toward the lodge over the summer." Scott whistled softly as he looked at the map, "How many of us are there going to be?" "Well, there's going to be three of us. You, me, and Junior," Tony glanced around before shrugging his shoulders. "We've got three months." "So how can I help?" asked Scott. "That's what I like to hear," Tony said. "We're going to use the next three weekends to test out a few ideas. Is it better to use a big truck as a logistics base and drive it in and out every day, or should we set up a camp and relocate it as we move from one area to the next? We'll try out a few different things and see what works." Scott's head was packed full of information when he left with Bern a couple of hours later. ------- Three final weeks of school, and Saturdays spent on the ranch practicing for the summer survey, left Scott a bit frazzled when the final bell rang Friday afternoon. He had cleaned his locker out the day before so there was no reason to hang around. He didn't expect to see his friends much over the summer. He'd barely seen Lacey. She'd joined a study group that met during lunch. He didn't think studying during lunch was very effective if you hadn't bothered to study during the semester, but she said she needed every advantage she could get before finals. Bo was leaving after the holiday weekend for football camp, and Ed was staying in town because his job at the city pool started immediately. Rene and Molly were headed off on various family vacations. The group had planned to try to meet at the pool when their schedules would allow it later in the summer. Scott stopped at Meritt's to check his mail box. He had the usual junk mail. For some reason he had started getting a large parts catalog about every other week. He had to pry it out of the box. He tore his address off and pitched it into the nearby trashcan with a loud, 'thunk'. The only thing left was an envelope from an address he didn't recognize. The letter had been squashed by the catalog so he opened it carefully. Heads turned his direction as he jumped and yelled outside the post office. He waved the letter triumphantly and ran to his motorcycle. He sped out of the parking lot and up the road to Mr. Piotrowski's. Jobe barked excitedly as Scott came through the kitchen door with a bang. Mr. Piotrowski emerged from the downstairs bathroom drying his hands on his overalls. "What's all the commotion?" "I got a grant!" Scott shouted. "Five hundred dollars." "No kidding?" replied Mr. Piotrowski as he took the letter. "That's terrific." "It sure is," Scott replied as he knelt and scratched Jobe's neck. The dog licked his ear, and Scott used his hand to dry the dog slobber. "They even said I should apply again for the fall semester." Mr. Piotrowski folded the letter up and handed it back to him. Scott carefully tore the check along the perforated lines separating it from the statement, "I'll have run by the bank and get this deposited." "What do you have planned for the afternoon?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Thought I'd sweep out the storage building, and check out that loose railing on the porch." "Don't start any big projects. That railing probably just needs tightening up. I want you to take Saturday and Sunday off. You should try and relax this next week as much as possible." They'd been invited to Judge Upcott's big Memorial Day barbeque on Monday, but after that they had little else scheduled for the week. With the holiday weekend off, Scott spent more time at Broken Creek than he had since Christmas. The summer population was down to six ranchers. He helped the boys clean their bunkhouses from top to bottom. Old mattresses and linens were thrown out. Windows were washed and miscellaneous repairs completed. Mr. Rewcastle got into a heated argument with the ranch foreman. The bunkhouses needed to be reroofed according to the foreman, but Mr. Rewcastle was not having it. Scott's own room looked bare. He'd boxed up his personal possessions and moved them to the upstairs bedroom closet at Mr. Piotrowski's. The only thing left was the flag hanging behind the bed. He'd even moved his lockbox. He'd wrestled with the decision, but in the end he'd moved it to the bedroom at Mr. Piotrowski's and placed it in plain sight on the closet shelf. Sunday morning the boys helped Mrs. Delgado clean the kitchen. They emptied all the shelves and wiped them down. The large pantry was emptied and cleaned out. They took a break for lunch and had cold sandwiches outside. The boys wandered off to watch the foreman and his crew. They were installing new railings around the paddock. Scott helped Mrs. Delgado clean up the discarded paper plates. "Mijo," she said getting his attention. "How much longer do you think?" Scott looked at her and tried to gauge what she was asking him. He wondered if she felt it like he did. "I don't know," he replied. Her mouth twitched. She wanted to ask him more questions. "You'll be seeing me tomorrow you know?" "I will?" "You will. Jorge and I have been invited to the big party." He started to ask her how, but she held up a finger to her lips. He looked at her and she smiled in response. Monday morning over Mr. Piotrowski's protestations, Scott took the porch railing down and stripped the paint back from the problem column. The column had rotted around where the railing had been attached. He carefully removed the rot and filled the voids with synthetic wood filler. "You better get cleaned up if we're going to make to the judge's party," Mr. Piotrowski said coming out onto the porch. "How's that filler working out?" "I think it's going to do nicely, but we'll know for sure after it's dried. The directions say that you can drill and paint it, just like the real thing." Scott stripped down to his underwear and tried to get clean in the upstairs bathroom. He scrubbed at the filler stuck to his hands. It was stubborn material and refused to come off easily. He stared at his hands. Help me out here why don't you, he thought? His fingers tingled and he held them under the faucet. The synthetic material slipped off his hands under the force of the water. He wiggled his clean, pink fingers. He sniffed an armpit. His deodorant was holding up. He looked at himself in the mirror. Why not, he thought. He held his arms out and spread his feet in an echo of Da Vinci's famous drawing, closed his eyes, and concentrated on getting clean. He felt a tingle all over his body and cracked one eye open. He was covered in goose bumps and the hair on his arms and legs was standing up. The hair on his head looked like he'd touched a live wire. He clenched his eyes tightly closed until the sensation faded. Scott felt clean, but his hair was a mess. This trick could come in handy, he decided. He grabbed a brush, and there was an audible crack of static electricity when the brush touched his hair. After he recovered from that little shock, he put on his best pair of jeans and a nice shirt and headed downstairs. Mr. Piotrowski shouted that he would be a few minutes longer. Scott checked Jobe's water bowls and set out a new bully stick from the pantry. Jobe walked around Scott sniffing him closely. "What?" Scott asked. Jobe stuck his nose in Scott's crotch and sniffed. "Hey, watch it," Scott complained pushing the dog's nose away. "You start doing that and somebody's going to be in the dog house." Jobe licked Scott's hand, woofed, and went to his bed. "Tell the boss that I'm moving the truck if he asks." They were on their way to the party when Mr. Piotrowski interrupted Scott's quiet mood, "Tell me what you think of those UTVs you've been using." "I like them. They're more useful than the four-wheelers, but the four-wheelers can go some places the UTVs can't. Why do you ask?" "I might have a line on one." Scott looked over at Mr. Piotrowski, "Why on earth would you want one?" "I thought it might come in handy when your paleontologist and her people come down." "That's an awfully expensive thing to buy for a onetime use," Scott said. "There's a gentleman farmer who's learning an expensive lesson. Thought we might take a trip over there tomorrow and you could tell me whether or not it's a good deal." "I can tell you what kind of condition it's in, but only you can decide if it's a good deal or not." Mr. Piotrowski shook his head, "I suspect you've got a better nose for a good deal than you give yourself credit for." Scott pondered that comment until they reached the judge's place. There were cars and trucks parked everywhere. "I had no idea it was this big a party," Mr. Piotrowski said as they walked to the house. "Me either. Who are all these people?" Behind the house were two large tents providing shade for several tables. People were scattered all around talking and laughing. Caterers were stationed at a long table dishing out lunch. "Alex, Scott, so good of you to come," gushed Bea Upcott as she walked toward them. "Let me take you over to Elijah. He'll want to know you're here." "Thanks for the invitation," Mr. Piotrowski replied. "My pleasure. Scott, you're getting so big. I can't believe how you've grown since the last time I saw you." "This is a great looking party," Scott said. "Who are all these people?" "County employees, and various friends of ours," she replied. "Speaking of his eminence, darling, look who's finally shown up." Judge Upcott turned away from the conversation he was in. He kissed his wife chastely on the cheek, and stuck his hand out to Mr. Piotrowski. The two men shook hands and exchanged greetings. "Glad to be out of school?" Judge Upcott asked putting his arm around Scott's shoulders. "And when are we going to have our quarterly meal? You're so busy now it sounds like we'll have to work around your schedule for a change." "Is this Wednesday, or maybe Friday, too soon for you?" The judge checked his schedule on his phone. "Wednesday, lunch? We'll go over the Cattleman's Café and try one of their steak sandwiches?" "Yes, sir. Sounds good to me." "Why don't you go find Sheriff King? He was asking about you earlier. I'll stay here so Alex and I can talk about you." The two men waited until he walked away before putting their heads together. Scott glanced back, but the judge gave him a shooing motion. He wandered around the party. He recognized a few faces. He maneuvered around one large group gathered by a beer keg and ran right into Jorge and Luisa Delgado. "Scotty," Jorge said. "Luisa said you'd be here. What a place, eh?" Jorge had a beer in one hand and was in a party mood. "Did you tell him the news?" Jorge asked his wife. Mrs. Delgado shook her head, "Not yet. Maybe you should switch to soda?" "I could use a drink," Scott said. "Are you hungry?" she asked. "You know me, I can always eat. So what's the big news?" "Let's get some food and we'll tell you." Jorge set his beer down and the Delgados steered him toward the serving line. "They put out a hell of a spread," Jorge said looking at the various selections. Scott grabbed a glass of unsweetened tea and followed the Delgado's over to a table, his plate was overflowing with beef ribs, a pile of barbecued chicken, potato salad, and a couple of rolls. He waved and got Mr. Piotrowski's attention. Pointing to the table with his glass he got a thumbs-up in return. "He's a growing boy, what's your excuse?" Mrs. Delgado asked her husband, pointing at his plate. Jorge winked at Scott and wiped the barbecue sauce from his fingers. "Good grub. Tell the boy the news." "Jorge got a job with the county's business development office," she announced. The happy couple smiled at each other. Jorge saluted his wife with his tea glass. "That's great news," Scott replied. "What news is that?" Mr. Piotrowski asked as he sat down with a plate of his own. "Jorge's working for the county now," Mrs. Delgado explained. "That is good news. Congratulations you two." The adults caught each other up on current events while Scott polished off his lunch. He was gnawing at a rib bone when somebody spoke up from behind him. "Getting enough to eat?" the voice asked. It was Sheriff King. "I'm thinking about seconds," Scott confessed. "Come walk me through the line. I wouldn't want you to starve," said the sheriff. Scott and the sheriff made their way through the line exchanging small talk. The sheriff was interested in Scott's summer job, but even more interested in his summer classes. They walked back to the table where Judge Upcott was being entertained by Mrs. Delgado. "Walt, I found a new source of Scott stories. Meet Luisa Delgado and her husband, Jorge. They both worked at Broken Creek," the judge proclaimed. "Do tell," the sheriff said. "Luisa, tell the Sheriff the story about Scott and the horse apples," Judge Upcott said with a grin. "Hey!" Scott protested. "I think the sheriff should tell us some Judge Upcott stories." The sheriff snorted while the judge protested that the statute of limitations hadn't expired on any of his stories. The judge continued to hold court at their table as various people drifted by to say hello. Scott enjoyed watching the Delgados. Mrs. Delgado was really happy about Jorge's new job, and she reveled in the attention. The judge's wife brought some people over to sit at their table. Scott smiled at the little girl that sat down next to him. "I'm Charlie and I'm going to be in second grade," the girl said introducing herself. Scott wiped some barbecue sauce from his mouth before replying, "I'm Scott and I'm going to be in tenth grade." "I know." He was trying to figure that comment out when the rest of her family sat down across the table. Mrs. Gregory was glaring at him while Lacey gave him a little wave and started whispering in her mother's ear. He looked at the little girl, "Charlie, huh?" "Yup," she said as she nibbled at a roll. The judge took notice of the newcomers, "It's Gale isn't it? From Administrative Services?" "Yes, your honor. These are my daughters, Lacey and Charlotte," Mrs. Gregory said. The judge introduced the Delgados, Mr. Piotrowski, " ... and of course our distinguished Sheriff, Walter King." The adults made polite conversation checking to see if they knew some of the same people. Scott glanced over at Lacey and she looked back at him nervously. Charlie was watching them both closely. He leaned over and whispered to her, "Don't worry. I may be one of the sheriff's prisoners, but they let me come to the party on account of my good behavior." "No you're not," Charlie said a bit too loudly. "You're Lacey's boyfriend." "Well, isn't this interesting," the judge said in the silence that followed. "My daughter is too young to date," Mrs. Gregory said as Lacey slouched in her chair. "If you need a reference, he's a fine young man and a personal friend," the judge said. "I did not know that he could turn that color," Mr. Piotrowski observed. Scott felt his cheeks burning. Mrs. Delgado looked concerned, but Jorge, Mr. Piotrowski, and Sheriff King were trying very hard not to smile. "Mother," Lacey hissed. Mrs. Gregory got up and took her daughter a short distance away where they proceeded to have a quiet, but furious argument. Scott looked at Mr. Piotrowski and shrugged, "Maybe we should leave?" "Oh surely you don't have to do that?" Mrs. Delgado protested. "I'd rather not cause any problems," Scott said looking at Mr. Piotrowski who nodded. Charlie looked pretty miserable so he knelt down next to her, "Hey, can you do me a favor?" "Yes?" she whispered refusing to meet his eyes. "Would you tell your sister that I didn't know she'd be here, and I'll try to see her sometime this summer?" Charlie finally looked at him, "You're not mad?" "Nah, besides you're pretty cute." Charlie went back to nibbling at her roll. Scott picked up his paper plate along with Mr. Piotrowski's and took them over to a nearby trashcan. Judge Upcott caught up with him, "Do you want me to speak to Mrs. Gregory?" "Won't help. She has a rule about Lacey not dating until she is sixteen. She's not the biggest motorcycle fan either," Scott replied. "You can interrogate me about it over lunch if you want." The judge clapped him on the shoulder, "The life of a teenage boy, I wouldn't go through it again for anything. Okay, Wednesday lunch it is." Mr. Piotrowski was quiet as they drove back to the house. Scott couldn't blame Mrs. Gregory, she had a rule and he respected that. He changed radio stations looking for something to fit his mood. After a while he gave up and switched the radio off. "Want to talk about it?" Mr. Piotrowski said. "I don't know what there is to say." "I can see why you like her. She's pretty. What about Mr. Gregory?" "Lacey's never said much about him. He left and went to work in the oil fields, Alaska somewhere, it sounded like he was never coming back." "Maybe that's why her mother is so protective?" Mr. Piotrowski mused. "With my luck he probably rode a motorcycle." Mr. Piotrowski chuckled in sympathy. The next morning Scott touched up the porch railing with paint and was pleased with his repair efforts. Before lunch Scott, Jobe, and Mr. Piotrowski drove out to the farm to look at the utility vehicle. Mr. Piotrowski explained while they were en route about the man who owned the place, and how he had gotten in over his head and wanted to sell quickly. "Where do you want me to park?" Scott asked as he drove up the gravel road toward the farmhouse. "Over by the barn." Mr. Piotrowski got out and greeted the middle-aged man who came out of the farm house. They walked to the barn as the farmer described a fairly new tractor and a bunch of implements, which had barely been used, but Mr. Piotrowski wasn't interested. The Rhino UTV was dirty and must have been sitting outdoors for a while. It was the current year model so it wasn't as old as it appeared. With all the bells and whistles it looked like the salesman had seen this guy coming. The soon to be ex-farmer helped Scott remove the front seat and center console to access the engine. Scott climbed all over the vehicle with a small flashlight examining it carefully. Scott closed the air box, secured the cover and asked the farmer to turn the starter switch. The battery was weak, but the engine started. It sounded rough as it idled and the farmer turned it off after Scott gave him the kill signal. The man walked away so Scott and Mr. Piotrowski could consult in private. "What do you think?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "The only thing it needs is a new air filter and a good servicing. Wash it up and it would be mint. I don't know what he's been doing with it, but I think it's the dirtiest air filter I've ever seen." "Let me go dicker with this fellow." "Have you thought about how we're going to get it to the house?" Scott asked. "I've got it all figured out." Scott watched Mr. Piotrowski and the gentleman farmer hash out the details. The farmer kept shaking his head, 'no.' Mr. Piotrowski waved his arms around a bit. Then he held up a hand as if to say, 'wait a minute.' He talked for a bit longer and then pulled a large wad of cash out of his pocket and started counting off hundreds. Finally the farmer took the cash and they shook hands. "Let's get out of here before he changes his mind," Mr. Piotrowski said as he walked back toward Scott. "What are we going to do about the Rhino?" "Stop at Meritt's. I'll get the engine center to go pick it up with one of their flatbeds, and they can give it a tune-up while they've got it." When Mr. Piotrowski told Scott what he'd bought the UTV for, Scott's mouth dropped open. "It's easily worth four times that!" Mr. Piotrowski was pretty pleased with himself, "Yup. This might be the deal of the year." "I feel kind of guilty about the air filter. I could have left it off and the engine probably would have purred." Mr. Piotrowski wasn't having any of that. "Don't feel sorry for that idiot. He decided to buy some property and do a little hobby farming, but gave no thought to doing any hard work. He spent like a drunken sailor and now he's desperate for cash to stay ahead of the bank." They stopped at the engine center. Noah was amused to have Scott bringing him business. Mr. Piotrowski explained what he wanted done, and Noah said he'd have the vehicle delivered out to the house by Friday. Scott and Judge Upcott went to lunch on Wednesday as scheduled. The judge seemed unusually nervous as they ate. Finally he launched into a speech about responsibility and dating. Scott had to bite his lip as the judge started to edge around the subject of safe sex. "So ... uh, have you had 'the talk'?" inquired the judge. "The talk?" "You know, the birds and the bees talk?" "I had health class last semester," Scott explained. "Besides, Mr. Mendoza gave Ed and me the gorier details last year." "Do you have any, uh, questions?" "No, do you have any you want to ask me?" Scott meant it as a joke, but the judge looked very thoughtful. "Have you and your girlfriend ... you know?" the judge asked. "What?" Scott looked around at their nearby dining companions, but nobody was paying them any attention. "Are you kidding me? I mean we like each other, but we haven't even been on a real date." "That's not really a requirement you know?" the judge said. "It's not?" "Forget I said that," the judge said wiping a bit of sweat from forehead with a paper napkin. "I was not ready to deal with this. You understand the consequences here right?" "Babies," Scott replied. "Well, yes. That's certainly one possibility. If you haven't already you're going to start seeing classmates drop out of school, either to have them, or to pay for them. I know you have plans, Scott. A pregnancy could ruin them all." Scott nodded soberly. "You're growing up so fast, and you're doing adult like things; driving, going to college, working. You're still a minor, but capable of making some very adult like mistakes." Judge Upcott rubbed his eyes. "Frankly, I'm surprised you haven't asked me about emancipation." Scott wondered how he should answer. "I've thought about it," he confessed. "After researching it I didn't think it would work out. I've got my eye on another solution." The Judge looked him in the eye, "You're right about not getting emancipation. There's no court that would have granted it. You're still too young. You work, but that's a long way from actually supporting yourself." "Yet as my legal guardian, if not my physical guardian, you have some leeway over certain decisions." "Yes," the Judge said, acknowledging the unusual nature of the situation. "What's this other solution?" "I'm still thinking about it, I'll let you know when the time comes." The judge gave him a look, and they returned to their lunches. Scott thought back over their conversation. He'd always been able to count on the judge for giving him a straight answer. His might not be the ideal situation, but he had friends and people that he could depend on. "So what do you think about Lewis outfitting?" the judge asked. "I like the work, but working for a family business that employs a lot of family is ... different." "Family politics can be a tricky thing," the judge was trying not to frown. "Be careful on those four-wheelers. It's an awful lot of land to get lost in, and it's going to be a brutal summer." "You want me to be careful about a lot of things," Scott grumbled. "Exactly," the Judge answered. Scott spent a lazy Thursday doing touch up work on the front porch. He finished a few other small jobs in the afternoon before he went to find Mr. Piotrowski. "I think I'm going to change and go for a run, I finished all my chores for the day." "Oh to be young," Mr. Piotrowski replied. Scott stretched and took Jobe with him for his run. He finished the impromptu workout by hitting the heavy bag. He cooled down by taking a walk. He filled Jobe in on all of the latest news, and his thoughts about the future. Jobe was a good listener. Noah's word was good, and the next morning the engine center delivered the Rhino. Noah had come along to make sure Mr. Piotrowski was satisfied. "It looks brand new," Mr. Piotrowski observed. "Somebody had treated it poorly, but it cleaned right up. I serviced the engine. It has almost no wear and tear. I'd say you have a real fine vehicle. These Rhinos will run forever." Scott started it up and everybody nodded in satisfaction. Noah left, and Scott drove the UTV into the storage building and parked it. Monday, June 4, 1997 The first day of his new schedule started slowly. Junior was a half hour late to the ranch. Tony Lewis threatened to dock Junior's pay, but Junior couldn't be bothered. "I thought you said to meet at the Lodge," Junior simpered. "I told you to meet me here," Tony practically growled. 'Here' was a staging area off the access road that meandered down one side of the property. They would drive the ranch truck to the base camp that Scott and Tony had set up prior to the end of school. They had prepositioned fuel and basic supplies, including a generator. It was a rough and dusty journey to base camp. Once there, each surveyor was assigned a vehicle. Junior got a UTV while Scott and Tony got ATVs. Tony had confided to Scott that Junior was getting a vehicle with a roll cage because Tony feared he'd end up doing something stupid with it. Each of them had a GPS unit, radio, digital camera, binoculars, note pad, and a survival kit. Tony handed out map packs to each of them. Under the front plastic cover their individual survey areas were outlined. "There's not much to say. Be safe. Check in with the radio on the hour. Only twelve weeks until we're done." Junior left without saying a word. Scott checked his pack and made sure it was secured to the rear cargo deck before he climbed aboard his four-wheeler. He waved to Tony and set off toward his grid. The sun slowly climbed over the horizon as Scott began his survey. He didn't expect to see many animals riding the noisy four-wheeler. The morning's highlight was finding the scattered remains of a desiccated deer carcass in a little gully. He found an arrow among the remains. He ran it through the straps on his pack and logged the GPS coordinates. Scott wondered why the bow hunter hadn't tracked the kill down. After his 11:00 a.m. radio check-in, he stopped for a break. He retrieved an apple and granola bar from his pack. He guessed that temperature was already in the low 90s. He used some water to soak a handkerchief and tied it around his neck. It had been hours since he had seen anything interesting. Tony had been adamant about the priority list; trash, old structures, fencing, metal of any kind, and any sign of feral hogs. He was unlikely to see any hogs during daylight, but Tony had shown him pictures of hog tracks and scat, along with areas the pests had torn up by rooting. Pecos County didn't have a big feral hog problem, but Tony wanted to stay on top of the issue. "What do we do if we find some?" Scott had wanted to know. "We go in and try to cull as many as we can. They're like roaches, and are almost impossible to eliminate once they get established." "Just another animal to hunt aren't they?" Scott asked. "Yes and no. You can hunt them year round, but there's no money in it. They'd be eating everything we want our deer feeding on." So far Scott hadn't seen any signs of animal life he recognized. Tony had promised to teach him about scouting as the summer wore on. He climbed back aboard the four-wheeler and resumed his journey. He made it back to the base camp shortly before one. Junior was already there, napping under the shade of the tent. Tony showed up not long after. They refueled their vehicles and debriefed about the day. Junior claimed he couldn't raise anybody on the radio after 10:00 a.m. They secured the tent and made the journey back to the staging area. "How was your first day?" Tony asked as they watched Junior's pickup truck disappear in a cloud of dust. "Not bad. I didn't see a single animal." "Did Junior say anything to you?" "He didn't say a word to me," Scott said. "It's going to be a long summer," Tony said. "Are you going to make your class in time?" "I should," Scott said looking at his watch. "It starts at 2:30. I'll have time to stop in town and get my books if I get going now." "See you tomorrow morning then," Tony said. Scott let his bike warm up and then took off down the access road. The old road wasn't in the best shape so he had to be extra cautious. His shirt was crusted with salt, and his pants were dusty. He waited until he was on the road into town before trying his new cleaning technique. He wouldn't have time for a shower. Scott felt the tingle as he rode along, but with his riding jacket and helmet he was still sweating in the early summer heat. He let himself into through the back door of the law office and went to the small bathroom. Locking the door he took off his helmet and examined his appearance. He had a serious case of helmet hair, but at least he didn't stink. The hair he could deal with. He'd run by the barbershop and get a buzz cut. Ten bucks and a half hour at the barbershop was a lot easier than trying to use his special talents. He'd tried it a few times after the first discovery at Mr. Piotrowski's, but was never satisfied with the results. Hair, he had learned, was best left to a professional. He left the bathroom and hurried to the break room for a couple bottles of water. Scott drained the first one and took the other with him. He'd pre-staged his books and laptop in his office. He checked his books and put them in the backpack along with the computer. "Doing your own version of the 'crocodile hunter'?" Honour asked from the doorway. "Huh?" was his brilliant reply. "Cargo pants, boots, neckerchief, dark tan," Honour said with a smile. "I half expect you to start telling me about some exotic animal you found this morning." "Shit," Scott exclaimed as he untied the neckerchief from his neck. "I'm going to be late." Fortunately, motorcycle parking was right by the building and there were plenty of slots open. Scott barely made it to class ahead of the professor. He grabbed a seat and set his helmet on the floor beside him. Unless there were other students later than him, it looked like there were only about fifteen people in this class. A few students looked like they might be recent high school graduates while others looked like they could have college aged children. The professor dropped his heavy shoulder case on the desk next to the lectern and began to speak. "I'm Professor Ardmore and this is American History. If you don't belong here, it would be a good time to leave." There was nervous laughter. The professor grabbed a stack of papers and started handing them to the people in the front row. "This is your syllabus. Read it." The papers were passed back, and Scott took a copy from the woman in front of him. "Contrary to what you may have heard, summer session is no cakewalk, and the grading is not easier," the professor glanced at each student. "You have until next Wednesday to decide if you want to drop. I won't sign anything after that." The professor checked his watch, "We'll take a fifteen minute break at 3:45. Now, let's talk about American History." At the break Scott followed the other students to the lounge area and perused the row of vending machines. Nothing looked particularly good. It was all sugar, and more sugar. He found apple juice in one machine, and grudgingly fed it his money. He'd remember to bring his own snacks from now on. "I'm on a diet, what's your excuse," the middle-aged woman who had been sitting in front him asked, as she selected apple juice for herself. "Don't think I could sit through the second hour with all the extra sugar in me. What do you think of the class so far?" The lady removed the metal foil top and took a drink, "The word is that Ardmore is pretty good; tough but fair. You can tell he enjoys lecturing unlike some." His fellow students were a chatty bunch. Scott sat on one of the couches and listened to them. He heard several references to 'professional students' and was intrigued at the idea before they all headed back to the class. His days settled into a routine. Mornings under the blazing summer sun, and air conditioned afternoons learning early American history. He found that he enjoyed history, particularly when taught by somebody who had a passion for it. Professor Ardmore may have been brusque when it came to college bureaucracy, but he really was an excellent lecturer. He often referred to other texts and Scott liked checking the library and adding them to his class reading. The survey was another story, it was hard work and he enjoyed that part of it, but putting up with Junior was becoming a real hassle. The twenty-something layabout was habitually late in the mornings, and the first to be done - except when he wasn't. Twice Junior had been so late returning to the base camp it caused Scott to be late to class. Tony was the boss, and a minor 'Lewis', but apparently that only went so far in the family business. Junior was Bern's son and the two Lewis brothers, Bern and Smokey, were the business. Mr. Piotrowski was very pragmatic when Scott vented to him about it all, "You're an employee. As long as you take their money you'll have to swallow the crap they dish out. They didn't hire you to fix their family or their business." Scott endeavored to keep his mouth shut and his opinions to himself. He really did enjoy the survey. They'd found and removed several old blinds. They spent three days removing old barbed wire fencing. It was hard work. They had to cut and roll the wire as well as dig out a lot of the posts. Hauling the fencing off the property was an adventure all of its own. June turned into July. Tony was true to his word and taught Scott as much about scouting as he could. Scott supplemented his knowledge by reading extensively on the subject. He especially loved when he was able to dismount from the ATV and hike areas impassable to any wheeled vehicles. It took a lot longer to work those areas, but the personal rewards were worth it. Tony had happily assigned the smaller 'on foot' portions of the survey to Scott. Scott learned to read sign and spot tracks. He was always thrilled to find a deer wallow or a rub. He wished it was fall so that he could observe rutting bucks and track them. Maybe they'd ask him back, he thought. He didn't want to hunt, but working as a guide wouldn't be so bad. Another benefit of being on foot was that he was able to find antler sheds. The rougher terrain was a lot better for finding old antlers. They had a small pile of antlers back at the base camp. This was base camp number three. They'd moved twice as the survey progressed. Tony had already declared Scott the winner of the antler shed contest. His victory trophy was being allowed to take the best pair home with him. When he found the time he planned to make a mount for the antlers. So far he'd only had a few chances to see his friends. He'd made it to town on a couple of Saturdays and made an appearance at the public pool. Ed had gotten a good laugh. Scott's face was as dark as it had ever been, but the rest of his body was pale. He couldn't even muster up the traditional farmer's tan. They wore long sleeves to protect against the brush, and heavy gloves while riding. Ed on the other hand was darkly tanned from his weeks working as a life guard. Scott was fortunate he tended not to sunburn. Ed also enjoyed teasing him about who had the better summer job. Scott couldn't really argue, the eye candy at the pool was considerable. He'd seen Lacey exactly once, and that was when Mrs. Gregory had dropped Lacey and Charlie off at the pool. Had she known that he was there she would have made other plans. It had been a great afternoon. Charlie was a bundle of energy. Lacey was clearly irritated at all the attention her little sister garnered, but she made Scott laugh and he happily obliged her in playing game after game. The Mendoza sisters had shown up, in part he suspected to size up the competition. Lilly wore a bikini that Scott wondered if Mrs. Mendoza knew she owned. Lacey wore a modest one-piece, but he thought that she looked pretty spectacular in it. Lilly and Janie Mendoza tried to be snotty to Lacey and her sister, until Scott held both their heads underwater. After that minor attitude adjustment they all got along, swimmingly. The four girls ganged up on him to the point where Ed had to threaten to throw them all out of the facility. The Fourth of July was a nice break. The Mendozas had a party and barbeque at their house. Mr. Piotrowski claimed he was tired, and begged off from the festivities. He let Scott drive the truck to town, and Scott promised to bring him back a big plate of Mrs. Mendoza's finest offerings. He was disappointed his friend didn't want to come, but realized that lots of loud teenagers and fireworks wouldn't make for the most relaxing afternoon. At his age, Mr. Piotrowski had earned the right to a little peace and quiet. Scott was happy for the chance to catch up with his friends. Bo and Ed both had interesting stories about their summers so far. For a change, Bo was getting paid for working for his father's contracting crew. Unfortunately, Bo told him work had been slow, and his father said it looked like the economy was heading for another downturn. "Think we can get another camping trip in before school starts back up?" Bo asked. "Go camping during the hottest time of the year?" Ed said. "Are you crazy?" "It'd be nice to get away." "Coming to town is getting away for me," Scott replied. "Camping's not a terrible idea, but what about something different?" "Like what?" asked Bo. "I don't know. You two come up with something. You'll see each other more than I will." Before he left the party, Scott went to talk to Mrs. Mendoza about a plate for Mr. Piotrowski. The ladies heard and started assembling not a plate, but several containers of food. He was glad he had the truck as he exited the house carrying bags of food in each hand. "Hey, gringo." Scott turned to see Rico and a very lovely young woman hiding behind him. "I'd like you to meet my Gabriela." "Hello," Scott said. The girl smiled shyly at him. "This is one gringo you can trust," Rico said to Gabriela. Scott shook his head. Here was Rico, reformed break-in artist, who was now the assistant manager for a business in the least racist environment he knew. "Gabriela's English is no good. I was wondering if you could tutor her," Rico asked. "She has her papers." "I wish I had the time, but I'm either working or in class," Scott said. "You know, the learning annex has an English immersion program. It's supposed to be pretty good." "Immersion?" "Yeah, it's the best way to learn a language from what I hear. They surround, or immerse, you with the language you're learning." "Right, we could both go. Then I could be a college boy like you." "But you could, Rico. The fees are reasonable, and they have all kinds of courses. You could definitely be a college boy, or what they call a non-traditional student at the very least. Go by the office this week. It's at the front as you enter the building. They have brochures and booklets sitting out for the taking. You can talk to somebody if you want, or just pick up some material and leave." "Do you really think so?" Rico asked. "Yes I do, in fact I know so." "How did you go from being the shy, little gringo I first met to being so big and smart? I have to look up at you now. It's not fair." "Blame Mrs. Mendoza's cooking." Scott made it back to Mr. Piotrowski's with enough to feed a small army. Some containers had instructions that their contents should be frozen, while others could be refrigerated and heated later. Mr. Piotrowski lifted lids and smacked his lips appreciatively. Jobe hovered nearby. "Nothing for you, Buddy, sorry," Scott patted Jobe's head. Scott used the rest of the holiday to study. It was hard to believe that his first semester of college would be over in a week. The compressed summer schedule meant he had little time to waste. The class had dropped from fifteen students down to just eleven. Professor Ardmore had grown more relaxed as the semester progressed, and the small class size made it a very intimate environment. The first summer session ended on the coming Wednesday, and the second session started the next day. He wasn't particularly looking forward to the telepresence class. He wished he'd elected to take the second half of American History instead. Trigonometry he could handle, but watching the professor teach a class in Midland while he observed over a computer video conference hookup? That he wasn't sure about. ------- At the Lewis Ranch, Scott and Tony pored over a series of topography maps. This section of the survey would be conducted on foot. All three surveyors would tackle it. Tony wanted each of them to work toward the middle where they'd hopefully be able meet up sometime by the end of the next week. Things were going pretty good. The terrain was challenging, and Scott really felt at home. On foot, he could move quickly and he was preternaturally quiet. It was rare for him to be able to slip so totally into this unfettered state. He was liberated, free of civilization. It was an intoxicating feeling. Kneeling at the top of a ridge he looked out over the land. He often wondered if he'd been born to the wrong time. It was a long, but productive day. Back at the camp the afternoon debrief was short. Junior had little to nothing to add. Scott thought Tony was going to say something to Junior, but he held back. Tuesday morning Scott waited at the staging area. Tony was late, which was unusual. Junior hadn't shown up either, but Scott had stopped caring about Junior's problems with time a long ago. Finally the ranch truck arrived and Tony climbed out. He held a white box and opened it for Scott's inspection. Donuts, Scott reached in and grabbed one of the sugary concoctions. They were a rare treat. "Any bets on how much longer Junior will be?" Scott asked as he tried to clean the sticky sugar from his fingers. "No bets today. He's not coming." Tony practically grunted the words out. "Do I want to know why?" The thought caused Tony to smile grimly, "Oh, it's pretty entertaining, in a twisted kind of way. You know how we've been logging all this GPS data right?" "Sure." "And you know how you can pull up tracking info from the unit?" "Yeah?" "Either Junior is just that stupid, or he honestly didn't know," Tony said. "I spent the weekend generating maps to show Smokey and Bern about how the survey has progressed. We had a big powwow over at Smokey's house last night and I laid it all out for them. They seemed to be unusually interested so I pulled up the history from each of our GPS units to show how we could drill down into the data." Tony had Scott's complete attention now. "You know how Junior always seemed to the first back to the camp?" He nodded. "Well, it turns out that Junior would leave the camp each morning driving far enough away to see us leaving. Then, the little bastard would wait for a bit and come right back." "What the hell was he doing?" "Sleeping would be my guess. In fact the only days he didn't do this were when we all had to work together." Scott was shocked. "Did they fire him?" "Are you kidding? Of course not, he was 'reassigned to other duties'," Tony said making sarcastic quote signs as he spoke. "What are we going to do?" Scott asked. "Do we have to have to go back and re-survey all of his areas?" "I don't know. Somebody is going to have to do it." It was somber ride to the base camp. They looked over the map and tried to figure out how to divvy up the remaining portion with just the two of them. "Do you know anybody that wants to do a little extra work? Somebody would could handle this?" Tony asked. "I might. Want me to run him by Mrs. Wilson?" "If you can get somebody, bring them with you. I'll square the paperwork. Heck, I'll pay them out of my own pocket if I have to. It'll be worth it to have another body who can pull his own weight for once." Scott checked his gear, "I suspect we won't have as many radio problems either." That got a laugh from Tony. "You want the UTV?" he asked. "Why don't you take it? You've had a lot more aggravation than I've had this week." They were a man short, but both Tony and Scott felt like they'd gotten more accomplished that day than they had for the entire summer when they met again later that afternoon. For once, Scott didn't have to worry about being late to class. "Son of a bitch." "What?" Tony said looking around. "That rat bastard," Scott tossed his empty water bottle at the side of the UTV. "What the heck was he doing those times when he was late getting back to camp?" Tony's mouth opened and closed several times. He turned to look at the camp as if the answer would magically appear. "The hell if I know. He must have kept an eye on the clock, drove off and waited somewhere. I'd have to look a little closer at the data. That's ... I don't know what that is, but I swear I'll never let that little sleazeball work for me again." Scott made the trip to town and went straight to the law office. Joseph saw him and came to say hello, "How's your day been?" "I don't know how to even begin to describe it," Scott replied. "I've had a few like that. How's class going?" "Great, more interesting than any high school class I've ever had. Taking the final this week." Joseph wished him good luck and left. Scott used the time to review the semester in his head. He glanced at the time, and pulled out his cell phone. "Bo? It's Scott, how have you been?" "Not bad, what's up?" Bo replied. "Interested in a little outdoor work? We've got a sudden opening at the ranch. Think of it as advanced hiking. Starts early and ends early. Might be able get you outfitted with the hunting gear you've been wanting." "Starting when?" "Tomorrow if you're available." "Let me ask my dad." Scott shut his laptop down and got ready to head to class. Bo finally came back on the phone, "I'm in. How am I getting out there?" Scott thought about it for a moment, "I'll give you a lift. I've got an extra helmet. I'll be outside your house at 5:15, don't be late. We'll figure out something more permanent." "Will we make it on your bike?" Bo asked. "We won't set any speed records, but sure," Scott answered. "Alright, 5:15 in the danged morning. I must be crazy. See you then." Scott laughed at his friend's words and hung up. ------- It was early in the morning and still dark when Scott handed his spare helmet over to a very grumpy Bo. "Just remember to lean with me. If you need something, tap me on the shoulder and I'll pull over." "Ready?" Scott shouted. His voice muffled by the helmet. "I guess," Bo shouted back. "You know what they call riding like that don't you?" Scott shouted as Bo climbed onto the bike behind him. "What?" "Riding bitch." "What?" Bo shouted a little louder. "Riding bitch," Scott shouted. "Think about it." He pulled away from the house. He heard a muffled exclamation from Bo which was followed about ten seconds later by a light punch to the kidneys. The bike shook as he laughed. It was definitely a slower trip, and the ride on the deteriorating access road was uncomfortable. Bo was more than happy to climb off the bike when they reached the staging area. "You drive that every day?" Bo said as he stretched his legs. "It's not usually so bad. This old bike wasn't really designed for this." The ranch truck rattled to a stop, "Here's Tony." Scott and Bo climbed into the truck, and Scott introduced Bo to Tony. Tony said that he knew Bo's dad, and was pleased to have him along. At the base camp Tony took extra time to show Bo the maps and explained what they were trying to do. "How do you want to handle this?" Tony asked Scott. "I thought I'd have him follow me on the other four-wheeler out to here," he said pointing to an area on the map. "We'll hike in together and I'll show him the ropes as we go. Tomorrow we could try splitting up my section, and take it from there." "Sounds like a plan to me," Tony agreed. They didn't cover a lot of area, but Scott and Bo had a pretty good time. Bo already had a working knowledge of GPS units and had done a fair bit of deer hunting with his dad and uncles. He was going to acclimate to the survey work without much trouble at all. They came to a rock feature that fell somewhere between a spire and a miniature mesa. "Let's climb it and then head back," Scott decided. "What do you think, thirty, thirty-five feet?" Bo asked. "About that. It's not technical. Follow me." They made their way up the side. There was only one difficult point. Scott had to jump over a small crevice and grab onto a ledge. He pulled himself up. It was a short climb to the top from there. "Are you crazy?" Bo called from below. "Come on, it's a short jump. You probably jump farther in football practice." "We don't do a lot of jumping in football." "You jump, I'll make sure you don't fall," Scott said. Bo made the jump easily, and Scott pulled him up by his backpack. Moments later they were standing on top of the little mesa. The view was spectacular. Scott spotted something and broke out his binoculars for Bo's benefit. He looked through them before handing them over to Bo. He crouched down and pointed toward the downside of a gentle slope about a half mile away. "What am I looking at?" Bo asked. "Keep looking. You'll see it," Scott kept his voice low. "Oh man, they blend right into the grass," Bo whispered. "I count three, no four. No, wait, six now." They were mule deer they both agreed; big ears, floppy tail, beefier than whitetail. It was a nice little herd. Scott checked his map. He tested Bo to see if he agreed about the herd's location. Bo got up quietly and walked around the little mesa top checking his GPS unit against the terrain features around them. He came back and smacked Scott on the head. "Why didn't we come up that side?" Bo demanded, pointed to the opposite edge from where they had climbed up. Scott went over and looked. It was an easy route up and down. He shrugged, "Didn't know about it. How's our position." "We're good, what now?" "Log the coordinates, and make a notation in your notebook. It's always good to have backup, and Tony likes to debrief us each day back at the camp. Speaking of, let's head back. I've got a final this afternoon." Tony was eager to hear about the herd they'd sighted. The ranch really wanted to have a healthy population of the larger mule deer. Whitetail were good hunting, but were very common in central and eastern Texas. Mule deer offered nice variety, and the ranch attracted hunters who liked not having to travel out of state in search of large bucks. Bo gratefully accepted a ride to town by way of the lodge first, with Tony. Bo really didn't want to spend any more time on the back of Scott's small motorcycle. Scott understood, and was actually relieved. He'd make better time, and he was eager to get to town early so he could prepare for his exam. Bo said he'd get his dad to give him a ride the next day, and they'd figure something out if he was going to work more days out at the ranch. Thursday morning's meet up was well attended. Bo's dad, Bill, was very chipper. He had a thermos of coffee and Tony accused him of having some Irish cheer. The two men had crossed paths at some point in the past and clearly enjoyed the chance to catch up on current events. Bo, for his part, was slightly catatonic, but managed to wake up long enough to thank his dad for the ride. After going over the map, Scott decided that the two of them would split up and meet at a prearranged point around eleven. Bo checked his own map and agreed. It was a particularly beautiful morning. Scott cinched his shoulder straps and started walking. He looked back and saw Bo wave and set off at a jaunty gait. He had a sense of accomplishment. His essay exam on early American history had been challenging. Who writes anything out by hand anymore he mused. The little blue books they'd written in seemed like something from a past age. By eleven Scott was more than ready for a break, and a bite to eat. He was pleased to see Bo waiting for him at the rendezvous spot. "How'd it go?" he asked. "Great, but I didn't see a single deer," Bo said as he opened his pack. "What did you bring to eat?" Scott took out a bottle of water, an apple, and a baggie containing some hummus wrapped in a corn tortilla. "How you survive on that stuff I'll never know," proclaimed Bo. "You've gotten bigger and stronger, yet you eat like an old lady." "What do you have then that's so great?" Scott asked. Bo pulled out a soft sided cooler and extracted a massive sandwich from it. "French bread, salami, olives, lettuce, salad dressing," he explained. "Want?" Scott's mouth watered, "If you can spare a bite." Bo took out a knife and cut off a chunk for him. Scott offered up his apple, "Want some?" "Sure." He cut the apple into quarters and removed the bits of core. It was an excellent lunch for an excellent day. "Good?" asked Bo. 'Mmmphh' was Scott's reply. "What?" "Yes, it's very good," Scott got out after he swallowed. "You ought to come over for dinner sometime. Mom's a great cook." "You've got a deal. All I need now is for your mom, and Ed's mom, to feed me on alternating days and I'll be set." "What about Lacey's mom?" Bo asked with a grin. "A, not going to happen, and B, I doubt I'd survive the meal." The boys both laughed. They finished their meal and policed up their trash. They did a map check and agreed to meet a little earlier at the four-wheelers so they that could get back to the camp by one. About twenty minutes after they parted Scott's radio crackled. "Say again," Scott said as he keyed the radio. "Repeat your last transmission." "Can you hear me?" It was Bo's voice. "I can read you, over." Bo read out grid coordinates. Scott read them back to him. "Are you hurt?" Scott asked. "No," was the reply. "Just get here, and hurry." Scott took off at a loping run. Breaking an ankle was not an option, but he was steady as a mountain goat as he traversed the rocky terrain. Bo had been making nearly as good time as Scott had. That meant he had about forty minutes of travel time at a brisk walk. He hoped to cut that down considerably. He ran, letting his mind's eye help him navigate and avoid treacherous ground. He stopped to catch his breath, and try the radio again. This time Bo's response came in much stronger. "Try shouting. I think I'm pretty close." He heard a faint shout echo off the rocks. "I heard that, I'll be there shortly." Scott jogged up the incline until he caught sight of Bo. His body posture was odd. As he got closer he grew increasingly worried at the look in Bo's eye. "What's going on?" Scott asked as he closed the final few feet between them. "I was looking for antlers. Thought I found some. Look for yourself," Bo pointed to a copse of scraggly mesquite trees. "Be careful." Scott approached the trees and looked back at Bo. Bo shook his head. He wasn't coming any closer. The soil around the small scrub trees had been eroding. One of the trees was leaning over. In between the trees Scott spotted it; a small human skull. There were other bones scattered in the small hollow. Some were bleached white, while others were darker having only been recently exposed to the air. Scott squatted down to get a better look. "Did you try to radio Tony?" "I barely got you. Nothing from Tony." Scott pulled out his cell phone. There was no chance of a signal in this isolated section of the ranch, but maybe he could finesse it without too much questioning. "How long do you think it's been there?" Bo asked. "I mean do you think it's ancient, or—" "I can tell you exactly how long it's been here," Scott said softly. "How?" "Come over here." Bo shook his head. "Come on. You need to see this," Scott insisted. Bo reluctantly walked over and knelt next to Scott, but refused to look. "Not only can I tell you how long, but I can tell you who it is." Bo looked at him. Scott didn't know if it was in shock or horror. Bo managed to whisper, "How can you possibly know?" Scott grabbed his tactical flashlight from a pocket and turned the powerful LED light on. He aimed it at something beneath the bones. "That's a plastic backpack. Like a little kid would wear." Bo turned toward the light, he couldn't help it. "If you look very carefully you can see that it's—" "Hello Kitty," Bo whispered. "Yeah." They had found little Andrea Jones. She'd been missing for seven years. No resident of Pecos County could forget the massive search for the little girl, and her Hello Kitty backpack. Scott stood up and pulled Bo away from the trees. He sat him down by a rock and dug out an energy bar from his own pack. "Eat this, and be sure to drink too. I think you're in shock," he had the brief sensation of déjà vu before remembering that they'd actually had the same conversation once before. "I'm going to climb a little higher and see if I can get a cell phone signal. If I can't, we're going to have to hike out and keep trying until we can get ahold of somebody. Bo nodded numbly and started unwrapping the energy bar. Scott walked further upslope until he was out of Bo's direct sight. He concentrated and watched the bars climb on the cell phone. He pulled Sheriff King's contact up from his address book. "Who's this?" the voice practically growled over the phone connection. "Sheriff, it's Scott MacIntyre." "Scott? What's wrong?" "Can you hear me?" "Yes, talk to me." "I'm out on the Lewis Ranch, cell phone coverage is spotty, the new ranch, not the old one. Do you know it?" "Yes, now tell me what's going on." "I'm going to read some coordinates to you. Can you repeat them back to me?" Scott read the coordinates, and the sheriff read the correct numbers back to him. "Now tell me, what the hell is going on?" Scott quickly explained that Bo Mason was with him, "Bo found a body. You need to send some people out here." The sheriff's voice changed noticeably. He was all business now, "How fresh?" "It's skeletal." The man sighed, "Scott, there's no emergency then is there? Don't do anything crazy and we'll get some people out there in due time. Heck, we might even have to get an anthropologist—" "Sheriff," Scott interrupted, "you don't understand. It's a child's body, and there's a plastic 'Hello Kitty' backpack under the remains." There was no response. "Sheriff? Are you still there?" Scott checked to see if he still had a good signal. "Yes ... I'm sorry. It's just, my god, give me a moment to think ... what's the best way to get out there?" the sheriff's voice was back and stronger now. Scott described the access road and where to enter the property at the staging area. "Tony Lewis is out here somewhere on the property. We're supposed to meet back at our base camp at one. We've got radios, but Bo could barely reach me and we were only a few miles from each other. I was surprised to get this phone call to go through." "Understood. Scott, I need you to promise me something." "Yes?" "Tell no one, not even Mr. Piotrowski, and don't let Bo call anybody either." "Yes, sir. I think we're going to head back to the base camp. You'll need our help getting up here. I doubt you'd find this place without a helicopter." "It may come to that, but good idea." Scott made his way back down to Bo. Bo's color was a lot better. Scott got him to his feet, and they hiked to their four-wheelers. Scott took the time to tie neon-pink ribbon tape to several branches along the route. They'd taken to using the highly visible material to mark trash when they found it. He'd learned the hard way that it was very difficult to find something when you came back to look for it in wide open country. Back at the base camp Bo stretched out on the cot. His eyes were closed but Scott knew he wasn't sleeping. Scott stood at the folding table and tried to find a better route to the gravesite. "How do you think she got there?" Bo asked. Scott looked at him, his eyes were still closed. "Not by herself, that's for sure." "Yeah." "The Lewis's have only owned this property for three years. I've no idea who owned it before them, you?" "No idea. Dad might know." "Might not even have anything to do with who owned it," Scott pondered aloud. "You'd think they, whoever they are, would have had to know the property though. It's not something you stumble upon. You'd need a four wheel drive vehicle at least just to get to where we left our four-wheelers." "I wonder if she was alive?" Bo whispered. "What?" "Alive. I wonder if she was when he took her up there. He. It has to be he doesn't it"? Scott started coughing. He slid the floor of the tent. "Hey man, are you okay?" Scott coughed and tasted dirt, and blood, and darkness. "Whoa, you look about as pale as I felt back up in those rocks." Scott fumbled for a bottle of water and poured it down his throat and all over his face. He sat on the floor and tried to get his breathing under control. His heart was racing. His phone rang. He looked at it in surprise. It only had one bar. He touched it and boosted the signal. "Hello?" "Scott, our first unit is at your rally point. I'll be there shortly. Can you, or somebody, meet us? I don't want to dick around trying to find your camp site." "Yeah," Scott said as he stood up. His knees were shaky, but he felt better by the second. "I can do that. I'll head your way now. Bo can man the fort here." Bo looked at him for an explanation. "Sheriff King," he replied. "They just arrived at the access road. I'm going to take the truck and bring them back." "While I man the fort," Bo replied. "And remember—" "Don't call anybody. Got it." "Hopefully, Tony will hear all the vehicles and come to investigate," Scott said as he grabbed the truck keys from the hook on the tent pole. Scott had regained his equilibrium by the time he reached the access road. There were several four wheel drive trucks waiting for him. One had sheriff department badging, but the others looked to be privately owned vehicles. Sheriff King walked over and shook his hand. "You guys have been getting around on four-wheelers. Do you think our vehicles will make it there?" "They should make it to the base of the rocks. We've mostly been on foot this last week. We'll have to hike up to the site. Can all your guys make it?" Some of the department's forensic guys weren't in the best shape. The caravan made it to the camp where they collected Bo. Scott left the truck and a detailed note for Tony as dictated by the sheriff. It took a while to drive to, and then hike, the low ridges. The sheriff was complimentary about the bright colored ties guiding the way. It wasn't steep terrain, but it was rugged and the summer sun beat down mercilessly on the men. When they reached the familiar section of slope, the sheriff had Bo take the lead and narrate what had happened the first time. Some of the men were having trouble breathing. It made a good excuse to stop about fifteen feet from the gravesite. "Scott's the one who spotted the backpack. If you don't mind, I'd prefer to stand back here," Bo had trouble even looking toward the mesquite trees. "Alright, son," the sheriff patted Bo on the back. "Scott, lead us up there. Point, but don't touch." Scott walked to the edge of the depression and knelt in his old tracks. The sheriff knelt down beside him. The men all removed their caps. With a start, Scott did too. A flash went off as one the forensic techs started taking pictures. "What did you do next?" the sheriff asked. In answer, Scott took his flashlight out and focused it on the backpack, just visible under the skeleton, and what he now realized was decayed fabric from the girl's clothing. "Okay," said the Sheriff. "Let's all back away." The men walked back to where Bo was standing. Conversations were muted. "I'd really like to get a look inside the backpack," said the sheriff. He asked one of the techs, "What do you think?" "We should wait and do the full workup, but you know what I think," said one of the men. "Who's got the satellite phone?" the sheriff asked. One of the men handed it to him. "The FBI," the sheriff explained for the boys' benefit. "They're a pain in the ass, but nobody does forensics better than they do." The sheriff department's forensics team agreed, and looked relieved. The sheriff had a short, but cordial conversation with somebody on the federal side of law enforcement. Orders were issued and crime scene tape was strung. There was nobody to keep out, but it was procedure. One of the deputies was designated for the first watch. The department would keep a man on site until the feds took over. They left the first shift with plenty of water and food, and the satellite phone. Conditions would improve the sheriff promised the deputy. Scott was not surprised to see Tony's UTV hustling toward them at top speed when they got back to the vehicles. He skidded to a stop and marched up to the sheriff. "What the hell is going on here? Are the boys alright?" The sheriff pointed toward the boys who nodded back at Tony. "I'm Sheriff King, you are Tony Lewis?" "Yes." "The boys found a body. I'm afraid we're going to be taking over your base camp for a while. We're going to be bringing in a lot of people and gear for the investigation." "A body!" Tony asked. "Who?" "I'm afraid I can't say Mr. Lewis. However, your cooperation is appreciated." The lighter UTV was able to keep up with the large four wheel drive trucks as the convoy made its way back to the camp site. The sheriff's men stretched their legs and drank cold drinks from their coolers. These were experienced lawmen, and they knew how to stay comfortable for long periods of time. The sheriff examined the tent and supply depot. "Nice setup," he commented. Tony was nervous. "Look, I'm only the manager. Lewis Outfitting owns the property. That's Bernard and Albert. I need to call them." "Mr. Lewis, this is a law enforcement matter now. That said, cooperation would be nice. We don't need it, but it always helps. So go ahead and call Smokey or Bern. Hell, call them both, but please emphasize that this is a sensitive law enforcement matter and I would appreciate it if they kept the information to themselves." Good luck with that, Scott thought. Tony had a very heated conversation with Bern. Tony grew more and more exasperated. The conversation devolved to shouting. Tony hung up the phone with an emphatic, "I won't do it." "What was that all about?" Scott asked. Tony was still staring at his phone, as if he was daring it to ring again. "The bastard wants me to fire you." "What?" "According to the great genius over at Lewis Sportsman Adventures you should have called him before calling the sheriff. I told him I wouldn't do it and the idiot threatened to fire me." "That's outrageous," the sheriff said as he walked over to see what the commotion was about. Scott felt a moment of white hot anger. He took a deep breath and let the emotion flow away from him. He gave a Tony a wry smile, "Don't put your job in jeopardy over me. I can always find another. I've got afternoon class to keep me busy. In fact I'm probably going to be late for my first day of trigonometry. "It's not right," Tony muttered. "It most certainly is not. I will have words with Bernard, you can be sure of that," the sheriff threatened. "Dammit," Tony said. "Don't worry, it's the first job I've been fired from. Had to happen sometime." "How many jobs have you had?" asked the sheriff. "Three." That got a little laughter from Tony. He still looked mad though. "The way things are going we'll both be looking for work." "I've enjoyed working for you Tony. I'll never forget it." Scott and Tony shook hands. The sheriff put an arm around Scott's shoulder. "I've got to get these boys back to town. We need formal statements, and I've got to greet the FBI when they come in." "The FBI," Tony echoed. "Serious business," the sheriff confirmed. ------- Chapter 17 July 12, 2007, the Staging Area A group of deputies helped lift Scott's motorcycle into the back of the sheriff's truck. The boys were bundled into the back seat and the convoy of vehicles started to roll. A deputy stayed behind to control access to the property. Emergency lights hidden behind the grills of the privately owned vehicles flickered in the glass of the sheriff's truck as the convoy sped down the road. Scott sat quietly while Bo stared out the window. Sheriff King used the rearview mirror to check on the boys. Scott shrugged at his unasked question when their eyes met. "Bo, where is your dad working today?" the sheriff asked over his shoulder. Bo shook himself, "They're doing a renovation downtown. The old jewelry store." The sheriff grunted and grabbed the radio mic. He checked in with the dispatcher, and issued additional orders. Scott tuned the words out. His chest seemed tight and he could feel the thrum of blood pulsing through his head. Nothing stayed buried, not the past and not little girls. In town people were going about their business. It was a normal day for them. Scott envied their ignorance. He had a sudden revelation. The sheriff must feel like this all the time. People were happily living their lives and had no idea about the criminals who walked amongst them, or the indiscretions committed by supposedly upstanding members of the community. The sheriff knew Scott had a secret. Does he think I'm broken like the others do, Scott wondered? The sheriff put the truck's transmission in park and told the boys to stay put. He got out and walked into the old jewelry store. Moments later Mr. Mason came through the door and looked toward the truck. He seemed satisfied that Bo was safe, and continued his animated conversation with the sheriff. Bo said something, but Scott missed it. "What?" "We knew her," Bo said quietly. "You knew her?" "Andrea Jones. She lived right down the street from us. You didn't know?" "Bo, we were in third grade. We didn't really talk." Bo managed a smile, "You didn't talk to anyone back then. She was just another neighborhood kid. Younger than us, but I remember her being around. Then she disappeared." "What happened to the family?" Scott asked. "The Joneses? They stayed in that house for a while. Divorced a year later I remember. He left, and she stayed in town for a few more years." "Must have been rough," Scott observed. "Yeah," Bo said. "I've never known anybody who died, so I'm not sure what to think. It's weird. She's been gone for seven years, but it feels like it just happened." The truck's rear door opened and Mr. Mason stuck his head inside. "Hey, Buddy, you okay?" "Yeah, Dad, I'm alright." "Come on, I'll get you home," Mr. Mason said. "Scott, you okay?" "I'm fine, Mr. Mason." The sheriff spoke up, "Bo, you did good today. I'll see you and your dad tomorrow at my office." The Masons left and the sheriff told Scott to move up front. "Bo was pretty shook up," the sheriff said as he buckled his seatbelt. "It's his first death," Scott replied. He sat and waited for the truck to start. He looked over at the Sheriff who was staring back at him. "What?" Scott asked. "But not your first?" "I'm pretty sure it's a prerequisite for becoming an orphan," Scott said. It wasn't as funny as it sounded in his head. The sheriff shook his head at the bad joke. "The FBI is coming. They're very thorough," the sheriff tried to explain. "They'll interview you. Until they know differently everybody is a suspect." "But—" Scott protested. "Doesn't matter if Bo's the one who found her, you were there too," the sheriff's fingers drummed nervously against the steering wheel. "I shouldn't ask you this, but your fingerprints and DNA ... do you know if they're in a database somewhere?" After a long pause, Scott nodded. "Under your real name?" Scott flinched. "Have you spoken to anybody from the marshal's service since that day in Elijah's office?" He shook his head. "Damn," the sheriff said softly. "I'll fix this somehow. What do I do with you in the meantime? I've got to get back to the office." Scott's voice cracked, "It's the first day of the new summer semester. I need to be there for class." "You really want to go?" "Yes," Scott replied. His voice was raspy. The sheriff reluctantly drove him over to campus and told him that either a deputy or somebody he knew would pick him up later. "What about my bike?" "I think it's safe in my truck," the sheriff replied. Scott barely made it to the distance lab in time. Sitting in front of a computer watching a class being taught an hour away in Midland was a unique experience. The distance learning students were expected to stay in touch with the professor via email. During class a chat application would run that allowed the students to submit questions, and a video conference session could be scheduled for office hours. It was a welcome distraction for Scott. The buzz in the back of his brain never completely faded, but the tightness in his chest eventually eased. The class, presented through a computer screen, was cold and impersonal. He had been that way once, he thought. Why had he changed? These feelings weren't something he wanted. The class finished a few minutes early. Scott stood outside, lost in thought until someone called his name. It was Mr. Mendoza. "Come on, son. You're staying with us tonight." "I should call Mr. Piotrowski and let him know I won't be there this evening." "Already taken care of. All you need to do is have a nice warm meal and get a good night's sleep. You and Bo have had a heck of a day." "What did the sheriff tell you?" Scott asked. "Only that you boys found human remains, and you're to stay in town so they can take a formal statement tomorrow morning. We haven't told the kids, and I don't think you should either." "Okay." "Do you want to talk about it?" Mr. Mendoza asked. "Not until the sheriff says it's okay. I'm pretty tired, and I should probably eat," Scott replied. "Food we can handle." The drive over to the Mendoza house was short. That was Fort Stockton in a nutshell; you were always close to your destination. "My motorcycle," Scott said when he spotted it in the driveway. "We unloaded it this afternoon." "Thanks." Inside, Mrs. Mendoza hugged him tightly and proceeded to shove some of his favorite foods at him. He ate. The food was warm and probably delicious, but he tasted none of it. The girls had been banished upstairs. Ed made a brief appearance and gave him the 'what's going on?' look. Scott shrugged; he'd explain when he could. Scott had some reading he needed to do and a little homework, but it was difficult to concentrate. They had made a bed for him on the couch. He finally started to get tired after the rest of the family had gone to bed. He was grateful to be able to close his eyes and fall asleep. Somebody was shaking him. Firm hands grasped his arms and shook again. "Scotty, wake up!" His eyes snapped open. He had trouble swallowing and his throat felt raw. Mr. Mendoza released his arms. "Are you okay?" Mr. Mendoza asked, his face a picture of concern. A lamp had been turned on and soft light spilled across the darkened living room. Scott noticed Mrs. Mendoza standing nearby. She was wearing a robe, and she held a clenched fist to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and shiny. The borrowed t-shirt that he had been sleeping in was soaked with sweat. "Just a nightmare," he croaked. "You were shouting something. When I came downstairs you were trying to claw your way through the couch," Mr. Mendoza explained. Scott looked at his fingers. You could only see the scars when he clenched his fists tightly. Shouting? That was new. "What was I saying?" Mr. Mendoza looked away, and Mrs. Mendoza rushed over and pulled his head to her stomach. She squeezed so hard he feared something might break. She bent down and whispered to the top of his head, "You were crying 'mommy'." He pushed gently away from her embrace, and untangled himself from the twisted bedding. "I need to get up. I'll ... go for a run and grab a shower afterwards. I've got a change of clothes over at the law office," his voice sounded terrible. "It's 4:30 in the morning," Mr. Mendoza complained. "This is when I get up out at the ranch. I'd like to stick to my routine. Helps clear my mind." "I'll make breakfast," Mrs. Mendoza offered. "No," he pleaded. "Go back to sleep. I'll be fine. It was only a nightmare." "Then I'll set out some of the boys' clothing for you." "Thank you," he answered. He had to let her do something. "Where are you going to run?" asked Mr. Mendoza. "Not far. I'll try to get my normal distance in. It will be a nice change of scenery for me. I'll be back in twenty, thirty minutes at the latest." "Be careful." "You should go back to sleep too." "I'll wait up." Scott sighed. Mrs. Mendoza had produced some shorts and socks, as well as a few t-shirts for him to choose from. He dressed and went to the mud room. He grabbed a pair of Ed's running shoes and let himself out on the front porch. He stretched and warmed up with a few pushups. He set a brisk pace and slipped away into the darkness. The small town in the pre-dawn hours was very different than the Fort Stockton he knew. He was alone as he ran. A few lights were on here and there. The only traffic was a large truck he could hear in the distance working its way through the low gears. He kept his promise and returned to the house almost exactly twenty-five minutes after he had left. Mr. Mendoza was sitting in the kitchen. He had some paperwork in front of him, but Scott doubted he had gotten much work done. After a hot shower he felt better. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice. Mr. Mendoza was watching him closely. "Scott, have you ever talked to somebody about your nightmares?" "I get my head shrunk on a yearly basis, like clockwork, courtesy of the fine people of the State of Texas." "But have you talked to them about your dreams?" "I don't remember my dreams, and rarely ever have nightmares," Scott replied. "The way to have a good mental health screening is to tell them what they want to hear, not what you need to say." "Everybody has nightmares," Mr. Mendoza said. "The difference is that I think yours are real." Scott smiled at Mr. Mendoza's attempt at pop psychology, accurate though it might be. "What kind of breakfast do you like?" Scott asked. Mr. Mendoza reluctantly accepted the change in subjects, "You cook?" "All the time," Scott replied. He dug through the cabinets surveying his options. Pancakes and eggs he decided. He checked the refrigerator and took out a slab of bacon and a carton of eggs. He turned the oven on and lined a sheet pan with his favorite invention of the twenty-first century, non-stick aluminum foil. Mr. Mendoza watched as Scott laid strips of bacon on the pan, and popped it into the oven. He grabbed the pancake mix and started blending ingredients together. He borrowed a trick from Mrs. Delgado and added a squeeze of lemon juice and a shot of vanilla extract to the mix. Mr. Mendoza looked on suspiciously. Scott counted Mendozas on his fingers, remembering that Robert was at Arizona State now, and then started cracking eggs in a large bowl. He whisked them vigorously until the frothy contents were fully blended. Mrs. Mendoza had one of those electric griddles and he was eager to try it out. He organized things around the griddle while he let it heat up. He gave the pancake mix another brief stir and then used a measuring scoop to pour out his first pancake. With that started he grabbed a large skillet and put it on a burner and turned it to high. The smell of bacon was starting to spread throughout the kitchen. He checked the oven and quickly turned the bacon pieces over with a fork. The bubbles on the edge of the first pancake were breaking open so he flipped it over. The pancake was a nice chocolate brown color. The skillet was hot so he slapped a chunk of butter in the pan and spread it around as it melted. When the water in the butter had cooked off he poured the scrambled egg mixture into the pan. Perfect timing, his first test pancake was done. He moved it to a plate and ladled out two more. The eggs had started to firm up so he pulled the mixture in from the edges of the pan with his spatula. He gently worked the pan until he had nice fluffy eggs. He slid the finished product onto its own plate and kept flipping pancakes. A quick check of the oven and it was time to take the bacon out. He covered a plate with paper towels and placed the crisp bacon on it. He was almost done. He had a stack of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. A little cleanup and breakfast could be served. He turned around to grab some plates only to be confronted by the blinking, but hungry eyes of the Mendoza family. The girls were wearing cute pajamas that he would enjoy teasing them about later. The boys were in a mix of t-shirts and shorts. Mrs. Mendoza gazed at him in wonder, "You made breakfast." "If he starts talking like Julia Child, I say we make him the permanent house chef," Mr. Mendoza joked. "Let's eat." There was a scramble as the girls went for plates and silverware while Ed grabbed condiments. Tommy, the oldest Mendoza child in the house now that Robert was away, grabbed a chair. Mrs. Mendoza carried the food over to the table as Mr. Mendoza put his paperwork away. Scott sat his mixing bowls in the sink and ran hot water into them. He tossed a couple of used paper towels onto the foil lining the bacon pan. When they had soaked up the grease he carefully folded the foil into a disposable ball. The pan underneath was clean and could be returned to the cabinet when cool. "Neat trick," Mrs. Mendoza said from behind him. "Now go sit down and eat." "I've only got to wash a few things and I'll be done." "You cooked, we'll clean. You better get some food before the herd cleans you out." Scott grabbed a plate and sat down. If the clink of silverware and satisfied groans were any indication, breakfast appeared to be a roaring success. He even managed to snag a piece of bacon without losing a finger. With breakfast out the way, the Mendozas drifted off to do their own things, or go back to sleep. Scott sat in the living room at a loss for something to do. He looked through Mrs. Mendoza's magazines. He found himself reading a shockingly forthright article in Cosmo. Ed snuck into the living room, checked that the coast was clear and blurted out, "What the heck is going on?" "Have you ever read one of these?" Scott asked pointing to the Cosmo cover. "No way," Ed replied. "Come on, spill." "Keep a close eye on the news or the rumor mill later today. I don't think it will stay secret for long. We're not supposed to talk. Sheriff's orders," Scott explained. "Are you guys in trouble?" "Nothing like that." "When you can talk, I want all the details," Ed insisted. "You got it." Ed left for the city pool. It wasn't all pretty girls in bikinis. Life guards had to be on hand for early morning swimming lessons. Scott had at least another hour to kill so he started looking for something to do. He went outside and walked around the yard. He found a hoe in the garage and went to work eliminating weeds. Janie came outside and decided to pitch in. "I liked your pancakes," she said. "Thanks." They went to work in the flowerbeds. Scott let Janie wield the hoe while he cleared away the weeds she dug up. When they finished weeding Scott stood and looked at a brown bush that anchored one end of the flowerbed. "I think it's dead." Janie poked at it with the hoe, "What should we do with it?" Scott reached down and grabbed the base of the bush. He gave it a small tug for Janie's benefit. He extended his senses and tried to feel if there was any life in the plant. The plant was definitely dead, and he had a new skill for his bag of tricks. Mr. Mendoza came outside and looked around at the fresh holes in his yard and the pile of dead weeds. "What's all this?" he asked. "We're doing yard maintenance, Daddy," Janie announced. "How come when I ask you to help with the yard you're always too busy?" "It's different when Scott's here," Jane replied. She gave her father one of her brightest smiles. "Uh huh," Mr. Mendoza commented. "Well what do you have there?" "Dead bush, sir. I think it will have to come out." Mr. Mendoza had a trick of his own. He retrieved a length of chain from the garage and had Scott secure it around the base of the bush. He backed his truck into the yard and told the kids to stand on the porch. With a jerk he pulled the dead bush from the flowerbed and dragged it halfway across the yard before the truck came to a stop. Scott knocked dirt from the root ball and used it to help fill in the hole. He had to admit that using the truck to remove the bush saved him a lot of digging. Mr. Mendoza was pleased with the results. He gave Scott a big thumbs up and said, "Redneck gardening." "I liked it," Scott replied. "Me too," Janie chimed in. "Can you do that to get the boys out of bed sometime?" Mr. Mendoza pretended to consider the idea. Looking at his watch he said, "Scott, you better go wash up. Sheriff King will be here before long." ------- Scott waited on the porch until he saw the sheriff's vehicle down the street. He yelled into the house that he was leaving, and would be back later to pick up his motorcycle. He walked to the truck as it pulled up to the curb, and climbed in. "Ready?" asked the sheriff. "Can we stop by Honour's office? I've got a change of clothes stashed there. I should probably wear something better than borrowed shorts don't you think?" "You're in luck since that's where we're headed anyway. We'll be a bit early. Do you need to stop for anything, late breakfast?" "Did you square things with the Rewcastles? The last thing I need is trouble from them or family services." "All taken care of," the sheriff replied. "I get the impression that you don't cross their minds very often." Scott shrugged. The sheriff grunted at the confirmation of his suspicions, "Now, was there anything you needed before we head to the office?" Scott chewed on his lip, "Can we stop by Lewis Heating and Air?" "I don't know if that's such a good idea," Sheriff King said. "I'm sure they'll change their minds after they think about it. It was a heat of the moment decision, had to be." "If Tony was the only boss I'd stay, but I think I better find a new job. They were already mad about some family stuff. I don't think it was going to improve any." "Lewis Heating and Air it is," the sheriff said turning left instead of right. "What family problems?" "Something to do with Junior, he's Bern's son. It wasn't what I did as much as what he didn't do, which was work. Tony says I made him look bad." "It can be hard to work for a family business. Got to know where you stand." "I didn't do it on purpose," Scott protested. "Tell me about the Lewises." "Tony's a stand up guy, but he's only a second cousin or something. They've got good employees. The Popes out at the Sportsman Ranch for example," Scott said. "As for the rest, I'm not sure what to think anymore. They were very friendly at first. They really sold me on the ranch and the job. They kept saying it was a lifestyle and I kind of liked it." "What changed?" "I don't know. The family stuff obviously played a big part. You ever see a horse that looks really good, and then you exercise him or go for a ride and it's a completely different animal?" Scott looked over to see if the sheriff was following him. "As strange as it sounds, I know exactly what you're trying to say," the sheriff answered. The truck bounced as the sheriff drove over a curb and into the parking lot. "Here we are. Want me to go in with you?" "I think it's something I have to do on my own." Scott went in through the main door. There was no sign of Buck Lewis, or anyone else, manning the front desk. He headed toward the business office. There didn't seem to be anybody working in the building. He knocked on the open door and startled Mrs. Lewis. "Came to get my final check, and turn in my phone. I can drop off my ranch clothes later in the week if that's okay." Mrs. Lewis turned slightly red. "Keep your clothes," she said. "You can pick out the embroidered stitching if you like." She looked at his file on the computer and printed out a check for him. She handed it over and told him that he might as well keep the phone. It wasn't worth anything to the company. All he had to do was buy new minutes for it. "Thank you," he said. "You're welcome. I wish, well, I wish things had gone differently." "Me too." The sheriff was pleased at Scott's unhindered exit from Lewis Outfitting, but regretted that he didn't have a chance to confront the Lewis brothers. The two of them walked into the Black & Black law office fifteen minutes later. Honour and Joseph were both dressed for battle. Scott doubted anybody else in the county was dressed as professionally. Judge Upcott was there and had a grim look on his face. It didn't take any special abilities to pick up on the level of tension in the air. "How are you?" the judge asked. "Fine, sir. Sorry for the trouble." "No trouble. I'm just sorry about this mess with Smokey Lewis. We've been friends for a lot of years, but now he won't even answer my calls," the judge shook his head in resignation. "Don't think we're ganging up on you, but there are few things we need to take care of this morning. You're keeping us on our toes, that's for sure." "I try," Scott smiled trying to help everybody relax. "I've got a spare set of clothes in the back, do you mind if I change?" "I think it's a good idea," Honor said, speaking for the first time. "Come to the conference room when you're done." Scott pulled a pair pants from a hanger. He'd used his Lewis employee discount to order some clothes that fell somewhere between casual and dressy. They had an outdoors feel, but still managed to look better than what he normally wore. He took a last glance in the mirror on the back of the closet door. Look out FBI here I come, he joked to himself. He took a seat in the conference room. Honour looked over at the judge and nodded. "Walt, why don't you tell us where we stand," the judge asked. The sheriff cleared his throat, "I'd like to ask each of you as officers of the court to treat this information as privileged. It involves a sensitive criminal investigation." The lawyers nodded. "Does the name Andrea Jones mean anything to either of you?" Judge Upcott took a sharp breath. Scott was surprised that the sheriff hadn't told the judge about the identity of the remains. Joseph looked at Honour, and they both shook their heads. "Spring 2001, five year old Andrea Jones went missing, biggest search in Pecos County history. She disappeared without a trace, and we never even had so much as a suspect, let alone any leads." "We didn't set up practice here until 2003," Joseph replied, "but it rings a bell now that you mention it. I think I might have read an article in the paper on anniversary of her disappearance perhaps?" Honour shook her head. "The five year anniversary," Judge Upcott said quietly. "How old were you Scott? When she went missing?" Honour asked. "I was in third grade. It was spring so I would have been eight years old. I remember it clearly. We had school assemblies, and officers came to every classroom. It was a big deal." "Nobody ever came forward. We didn't have a lick of evidence. It was like she had vanished from the face of the earth, until yesterday," the sheriff said. "It won't be official until the pathologist signs off on it, but I don't think there's any doubt." "My god," exclaimed the judge. "I think you better explain how this involves Scott," Honour stated. "Right. Two different issues are at play here. You know he was working at the Lewis ranch doing a land survey. Apparently they had a vacancy on their crew so Scott arranged for it to be filled by his friend, Bo Mason." Scott nodded. "The short version is that Bo found a set of human remains yesterday. Scott recognized a key piece of physical evidence that Bo hadn't spotted. Andrea Jones was known to be wearing a plastic backpack featuring a cartoon character called—" "Hello Kitty," the Judge said. "Yes. Scott did the right thing and called me immediately." "I'm at a loss to understand why there's a problem? This is a good thing isn't it?" Joseph asked. "I've called in the FBI." "I think I'm following you," Honour said, but Joseph was still puzzled. Judge Upcott took the floor, "We need to set some ground rules. Sheriff King and I have signed legal documents that relate to Scott's history, and there is a court seal at play." "Documents that—" the sheriff interrupted. "Later, Walt. We can get into that another time. Honour, I believe you are still Scott's lawyer?" "Correct." "Then I guess the question is about Joseph, and the rest of us. Scott, you understand the attorney client privilege?" the judge asked. "Honour has explained it to me." Scott replied. "It's sacrosanct. Without it our legal system would not function. You need to tell Honour everything, and I mean everything, so she can help you before you meet with the FBI. Walt and I will back you one hundred percent. I talked to Alex this morning. It was all I could do to keep him from coming to town, but you have his support for anything you need." "I'm completely in the dark, so if you want to continue without me this would be a good time to break," Joseph offered. Scott thought about the things he needed to say. "Honour, would it be better if Joseph knew?" "Yes." He dug a dollar out of his wallet and handed it over to Joseph. "Under our partnership agreement, I don't think this is required," Joseph said as he examined the bill. "Walt, you've just seen a lawyer turn down money. The apocalypse may be upon us," the judge laughed at his own joke as the others chuckled. It was a welcome light moment. "I'd like you two to stay," Scott said to the sheriff and the judge. "If I can't trust you with my life, then there's nobody that I could. I only wish Mr. Piotrowski was here. You won't be protected by the same privilege though will you?" "You have our word, we'll never speak of what we hear here to anybody who's not in this room," the sheriff said and Judge Upcott nodded his agreement. "I can't ask for more than that, can I?" "We can get Mr. Piotrowski here, but I have to ask if you really want him burdened with the knowledge?" the judge asked. "What do you think, Honour?" Scott asked. She pursed her lips and then replied, "I think he already knows what he needs to." The judge sat back down, "Scott, anytime you're ready." Scott closed his eyes for a moment. "I guess if I'm going to tell this, we need to have everybody on the same page. Honour, would you explain what you know from our previous discussion?" Honour straightened her notebook and pen on the desk before speaking. "I had a background check run on Scott in the course of another matter. I should tell you that my investigator is very good. All we were able to learn was that his name was legally changed in 1997. His parents—unnamed—are listed as deceased as the result of an accident, and there are no living relatives able to take him in. He was injured in the accident that took his parents, and he suffers from some memory loss as a result. He was placed in foster care here in Pecos County the same year. The sparse information available raises more questions than it answers." The adults exchanged glances. "Judge, would you please tell them what you know?" Scott asked. "Why don't you take that, Walt?" the judge replied. Sheriff King cleared his throat, "Shortly before Christmas, 1997, a female Deputy U.S. Marshal delivered a young boy to the office of Judge Elijah Upcott. The story the paperwork told was that the child was recovering from wounds received in an accident which killed his parents. He would require follow up medical care. His name and date of birth were legally changed and he was placed into care at the Broken Creek Boys Ranch by the direction of the marshal's service. All records were sealed. That how you remember it, Elijah?" "Was this witness protection or protective custody?" Joseph asked. "A little of both, or something else entirely. We're no longer sure," replied the sheriff. "How is that possible?" "It's a very good question," the judge replied. "We did a very quiet check of available records and found nothing to explain the situation." "My investigator did the same going back several years. No results," Honour added. "No one from the marshal's service has ever been back to Pecos County on any business related to this case. Not to my office, and not to visit Scott," the sheriff said. "Did you know this marshal, Scott?" Joseph asked. Scott felt their eyes turn back to him. "I met her the day before, at a birthday party." Nobody seemed to know what to say to that. "I think, now, you'll have to tell us the rest." Honour was right. Scott took a breath and looked at each of them. After all this time, what should he say? He stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt. "What are you doing?" Joseph asked. Scott carefully laid out his shirt on the conference table and put his right hand behind his head. He turned his torso toward the others and ran a finger over the faded scar on his ribs, "Can you see this?" They all acknowledged that they could see it. "Maybe you could give Joseph some workout tips?" Honour joked. "Thanks, dear," Joseph replied. Sheriff King's eyes were flicking back and forth. He couldn't stop looking at the scar. Scott put his hands flat on the table top and pressed his fingers down hard. With some of the blood pushed out of the skin you could see faint scars. "They've faded a lot," he explained as he invited them to look closely. "That's right, I remember that you didn't have any fingernails," the judge said. "Walt and I didn't know what it meant, but we both remarked on it later." Joseph and Honour looked at each other, questions clear on their faces. Scott put his shirt back on and walked to the door and back. He started to speak, but stopped himself. It was harder than he had imagined it would be. "When I was five years old, a man, my father's business partner, butchered my mother and father in our home. I'm not sure I really understood that until years later. There was no accident. It's true that I suffer from amnesia, permanent memory loss the doctors say. I have no memories of anything before that day, September 1, 1997. The man buried me, along with my parents in a hole in the desert." He couldn't bring himself to look at their reactions. "After..." Scott paused for a moment, "after I was found, I spent about a month in the hospital. Asleep, you know?" "A coma," the sheriff said softly. "At first. Eventually I woke up and they moved me in with a special foster care family. They took care of sick kids, or kids with difficult needs. They were really great, but the bad man was not happy to learn that I had survived. He tortured and killed some people who worked for family services, to try and find me." He paused. He hadn't thought about these things in years. "The foster family and the investigators tried to keep things from me, but I was a good listener. We were moved to a safe house. We were there for several weeks while they searched for the man. On my sixth birthday they murdered a judge. That's when I met the marshal. We flew somewhere, a military base. I remember there was snow and lots of really cool airplanes, people in uniform, that sort of thing. The next morning I arrived in Fort Stockton." "They?" asked the judge. "You said 'they' murdered a judge." "A drug cartel. There was a contract. Nobody ever said much about it to me. They said the murderer was crazy from the drugs, I guess that's where the cartel came in." Joseph looked a little green, "How were you found, I mean ... god." Scott looked at Sheriff King, "A deputy sheriff found me wandering in the desert. I guess you could say that I've been partial to law enforcement ever since." "And the scar?" the sheriff asked. "Kitchen knife," Scott explained. He held his hands apart indicating the size. "It, umm," he made a little tugging motion with his hand, "got stuck?" Honour gagged and rushed to the doorway. "And the other scars?" Scott made a digging motion with his hands against the table. Honour fled down the hallway. The sheriff reached over and stopped Scott's hands. "Scott, that's enough. You can stop now," the sheriff said. "I've never told anyone except for the detectives. It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. Did I leave anything out?" "You did fine," the judge said. Joseph got up and poured water for everyone. The judge grabbed at his glass and drank deeply. The sheriff stole some paper towels from next to the water pitcher and handed them to Scott, "Here." Scott dried his face, "Was I crying?" "It's okay." Joseph was angry. "They dumped him here." "It would appear so," the judge said. "No family. No therapy, no treatment. They told you none of it." "Not a word," the sheriff confirmed. "Hey, I think I turned out okay. Don't you?" Honour returned to the conference room. Her eyes were red, and her face had been scrubbed clean. She held a laptop in her arms. She sat down and tapped a few keys. "Scott, what was your name?" He looked around, the judge nodded at him, "Van Pelt, Scott Van Pelt." Honour entered the name. "Like the sportscaster?" asked Joseph. "I don't know, what sportscaster?" "Where?" Honour asked. "Is this safe?" Scott asked. "It's a criminal case database, access is restricted. It should be fine. Where did this happen?" "The murders, the first ones, were in Altadena, Los Angeles County, California. The rest happened in San Bernardino County." That bit of information surprised everybody. Honour entered more data. "The killer was—" "Craig Carson," Honour filled the detail in. "Spree killer, labeled the 'Valley Monster' by the press." "That's him." "He's dead, Scott," Honour told him. "Do you want to know?" "Please." "Murdered in prison, by the cartel, or so the prosecutor's office believed." "When?" Honour read through the material. The judge had moved in behind her and was reading over her shoulder. "Summer of 2000. He got consecutive life sentences for four murders, and for your attempted murder, along with a slew of other charges." "When did they catch him?" "New Year's Day, 1998," Honour read off the screen. The judge pointed out something. Honour chewed on her lip. "They didn't charge him with the state judge's murder. It's listed as open, unsolved. Possibly a drug cartel hit related to the Van Pelt murders." Joseph made notes on his legal pad. He tapped the pad a few times with his pen and then cleared his throat. "Why don't we take a short break? I think we could all use a chance to stretch our legs," Joseph suggested. "Yes, a break would be good," the judge agreed. Scott walked down the hallway to his office. He turned on the laptop and checked his email. His trigonometry professor had requested a brief note of introduction from each of his students. Scott wrote a short paragraph and sent it off. He could hear muted voice talking softly in the conference room. He concentrated and brought the words into focus. "And you had no idea?" Honour was asking. "We thought it might have been abuse," he heard the judge say. "If you could have met him then you wouldn't believe it's the same person. Somehow, despite all of that, despite our ignorance, he's turned out alright." "You hope. There's a lot of darkness buried under that smile." Scott stopped listening and turned back to his text book. Mathematical concepts were a good thing to lose himself in for a few minutes. The section on the history of Greek mathematicians was pretty dry. He flipped through the next few chapters committing them to memory. He had a thought and opened his note file on what courses he'd planned to take. He'd already satisfied the core math requirements. Maybe he should put his plans to take calculus to one side, and look at something from the humanities? It was worth thinking about. "Scott." "They need me back?" Scott asked the sheriff. "Yes," he said. "Are you okay?" "You know, I think I am. I haven't talked about any of it since after I got out of the hospital," Scott closed his laptop and grabbed his backpack. "About what Joseph said? I've never blamed anybody here for a thing." The sheriff walked Scott down the hallway. He stopped inside the door and announced that he had to get back to his office. "Honour, try to be there by eleven. The agents from the main FBI office in El Paso should be arriving any minute now. You know what to do." "Walt, I'll walk you out. I need to get to my office as well," the judge announced. He got up and walked over to Scott, and grabbed him by the shoulders. "We'll get this straightened out. Listen to Honour." The two men left. Scott sat down and looked at Honour. She tapped Joseph on the arm, and he took over the meeting. "Here's what's going to happen. You and Honour are going to go over to the sheriff's office and sit down with the FBI. They'll interview you about yesterday's events. Focus on that. You have nothing to hide. You've helped solve a mystery. It won't be an adversarial process." "That's right," Honour said. "I'm there as your lawyer, but also as your friend. We'll go in friendly, eager to assist the FBI with their investigation. When it comes to your identity and any forensic evidence they ask for, I'll take over from there." It sounded good to him, "What about the rest?" "I'll be digging into that," Joseph said. "For now, try not to think about it. I realize it may be asking a lot." "You'll be careful?" Scott asked. "Very careful," Joseph assured him. They took another break. Joseph and Honour retired to their respective offices and did whatever it was that lawyers do. Scott committed more of his text book to memory. What was he going to do for the rest of the summer, he wondered? Maybe he should study the law? It could come in handy. Since he was on the law firm's network he browsed around the various legal resources and pulled up an interesting looking reference. He read for about five minutes before giving up. It was worse than Greek mathematicians. Scott went to the bathroom and washed his face. His eyes were a little red, and his face appeared puffy. He concentrated, blinked a few times and was satisfied with the change. Maybe he should do some of his tricks for the FBI and really blow their minds. Honour drove Scott over to their meeting at the sheriff's. He was surprised at the interior of her car. It wasn't filthy, but it was cluttered. There was a big accordion file of paperwork in the passenger seat he had to move before he could sit down. Clothing was tossed haphazardly in the back. She said she needed to drop it off at the dry cleaners. There was a bubblehead of a robed judge super glued to the center console. Scott flicked it with a finger and watched the head jiggle. Honour just glanced at him and grinned. When they reached the parking lot, you could definitely tell something was going on at the sheriff's department. There were several blacked out SUV's parked in a row. There was a large truck sitting to one side with various antennas on its roof. It looked like they were running power to it from the building. "Ready to meet the FBI?" Honour asked. "Let's go," Scott replied. Inside they were escorted to a seating area and told to wait. Several deputies came by and said hello. Scott was getting impatient. "How do you know all these people?" Honour wanted to know. "Mostly from weekend training sessions. They bring instructors in to teach all kinds of subjects to the deputies and staff. The sheriff lets me attend some. He says it's like an Explorers program without the budget." "Sounds interesting," Honour commented. "It is," Scott said. He looked around, "Plus, I think the sheriff may have told his deputies to keep an eye on me after I got my license." "You really think so?" "Either that, or the stretch of road between Meritt's and town must have had a heck of a crime problem for those first few weeks." He shared a smile with Honour. "Scott, they're ready for you," one of the younger deputies stood nearby to escort them to an interview room. The room was bright and had a fresh coat of paint. Inside a woman waited for them. He guessed that she was in her early-30s. She wore a white shirt, with a blue blazer and matching slacks. There was a bulge at her waist indicating the presence of a holstered weapon. "Scott MacIntyre?" the woman asked. "Yes, ma'am." "I'm FBI Special Agent Lilly. Is this your mother?" "I'm Honour Black, Scott's lawyer," she said as she handed the FBI agent her business card. Special Agent Lilly looked at the card and slid it into her portfolio. "Do you need a lawyer?" she asked as she invited them to sit down. "Mr. MacIntyre is a ward of the state. I'm here on behalf of his guardian, and I'm also a friend." "I see," she said as she made a note. "No need for a representative from family services?" "No." The special agent had a friendly demeanor. She asked about school. How he came to work for the Lewis family. What his relationship with Bo Mason was, and so on. Honour had placed a legal pad between her arm and Scott's. She occasionally made notes. He looked down and saw that she had written, 'You're doing fine.' The conversation shifted to what area of the ranch Scott had been working in prior to Thursday's discovery. Scott spoke generally. Specifics were difficult to put into words and the special agent looked lost. "If I had a map, I could show you." The FBI agent collected her things, "Wait here. I'll be right back." Scott started to speak after she left but Honour stopped him. She made a note, 'No privacy in here.' He nodded his understanding. A few minute later the special agent returned with a large map, and another woman. She introduced herself. "I'm ASAC Chambers, the Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge," she pronounced the title 'a-sack.' "I heard you were going to give Special Agent Lilly a geography lesson. I thought I'd sit in, do you mind?" Scott shook his head. Honour jotted something down rapidly on her pad, and then folded the page over. "Counselor?" ASAC Chamber asked. "Please, join us," Honour replied. Scott had barely gotten a look at the note. It read, '#2 @ El Paso offc.' This woman was the second in command of the regional FBI office. Scott wondered what her presence meant. The ASAC nodded at Special Agent Lilly who then asked him to continue their discussion about the Lewis property. Scott gave them a basic orientation to the property; where the access road was, the camp, the basic routes of travel. He explained what the Lewises wanted to accomplish with the survey, as he understood it, and how difficult some of the terrain was. "Why did you ask Bo Mason to help out?" Special Agent Lilly asked. "As I said, he's a friend. We've gone hiking and camping together. I know he's hunted with his family. He's good in the outdoors. I'd seen him recently and he mentioned that the family contracting business had been slow so I thought he'd appreciate the work." "Who assigned what areas to be searched?" "The general assignment was from Tony Lewis. Bo and I sat down and divided up my area that morning. I gave him the easier section since it was only his second day." "Can you explain what an 'antler shed' is for me?" she asked. "Sure," Scott put his thumbs to either side of his head and wiggled his fingers as he put them straight up in the air. "Male deer grow a rack of antlers." The women were looking at him strangely. Scott put his hands down his chest and spread his fingers out, "You know, like a rack of ribs?" Special Agent Lilly made a small noise while Honour cocked one of her eyebrows at him. He looked down and saw that he had cupped his hands in an unfortunate gesture. He dropped his hands to his side. The ASAC's face hadn't even twitched. "The male deer drop their antlers after the rut, or mating season, is over. They'll grow an entirely new set over the spring and summer. They're not like horns, they drop them every year. With our dry climate and sparse snow, the antler sheds don't deteriorate much. People collect them." "Why collect them?" Special Agent Lilly asked. "They can be decorative. Mount them on a plaque for example. If a hunting ranch can display a large collection of antler sheds then hunters will see that there's a healthy deer population present. They all want to bag a trophy with an impressive rack." All three women tilted their heads slightly. Scott felt his ears burning and took a quick drink of water. "What made you think that the remains belonged to Andrea Jones?" Special Agent Lilly asked. He followed her shift without pause, "The backpack." "Explain." "A plastic, pink and white 'Hello Kitty' backpack. After she disappeared we had several school assemblies and officers came to our classrooms. Had anybody seen her? Seen the backpack? They even put up posters with her picture and pictures of the backpack. Kind of hard to forget." The FBI agent asked a few more questions. Really they were the same questions, only asked a different way. "Okay, Scott. Thank you," the special agent said. "You've been very helpful. All we need now are your fingerprints and a DNA swab, purely for eliminations purposes only." Honour placed her hand on his and bade him to be still. "ASAC Chambers, could I have a word, privately?" The ASAC digested this request. "Special Agent Lilly, give us a moment?" The agent left without protest. "You have the floor, Counselor." Honour was all business, "I'd rather not share this with any other ears." ASAC Chambers turned to the camera in the corner of the room's ceiling and told whoever was behind it to take a break. Honour waited until ASAC Chambers indicated that she should continue. "My client was the victim of a violent crime when he was very young. As the only surviving family member he was relocated and his identity changed. I'm concerned, as is his guardian, that your request may reveal information better left undiscovered." The ASAC pulled Honour's business card from the special agent's leather portfolio and examined it. "We ran basic criminal record checks on all names supplied to us by the Pecos County Sheriff's Department," she said. "No alerts were received concerning any witness protection identities. Nor do you mention the phrase, but it's what you've described. Tell me, was this perhaps a state family services arrangement, or some kind of private judicial favor?" Honour returned the ASAC's gaze, "It appears to have been a federal arrangement, an extraordinary action undertaken through the marshal's service." The ASAC froze perceptibly. A muscle in her cheek twitched before she responded, "I will personally see to it that any information related to your client is sequestered. We may need to speak again. Would you take your client and find a seat in the waiting area?" Scott and Honour went to find new seats. The ASAC walked out of the building and to the middle of the parking lot. She produced a phone and started to speak. Scott focused in on her mouth, but lip reading was not part of his current skill set. The only word he could make out before she turned her back to the building was 'problem.' Honour on the other hand, was pleased with how things had gone. She couldn't resist teasing him, "Tell me about the antlers again?" "What?" Honour put her hands to her head, copied his antler motion, and broke into a huge smile. Scott groaned and put his head in his hands. He'd looked like an absolute idiot. "Do you often think about antler racks?" Honour asked as she made a squeezing motion with both hands. "I'm so embarrassed," Scott muttered. "You are way too easy," Honour laughed. The ASAC returned from the parking lot and walked over to them. "Mr. MacIntyre, you've been a big help. Thank you for coming in. Counselor, we'll speak again." Sheriff King came over after the FBI woman left. Honour gave him a quick review and he relaxed. "I'll call Elijah and let him know. Scott, will you be okay?" the sheriff asked. "I've got class, and then I'm going to Mr. Piotrowski's." Once they were in the car Honour said that it had gone about as well as they could have hoped. "The ASAC lady wasn't happy when you mentioned the marshals," Scott said. "No she wasn't, was she?" Honour replied. "We'll deal with it when we have to. What do you want to do now?" "I'm starving. How about I treat you and Joseph to lunch?" He had a deal. They stopped at the law office and grabbed Joseph. The taqueria made great food, and was well within his budget. Joseph swore it was his first time eating there so Scott ordered him a sampler plate. Scott had never seen another human sweat so much from eating spicy food. Perhaps it was a bit cruel for Honour to break out the habanero sauce. Their waitress took mercy on Joseph and brought him a glass of cold buttermilk. For someone who had probably never consumed milk with more than one percent butterfat, it was a shock, but it cured the fires in Joseph's mouth. Scott paid for lunch, but Joseph insisted on the leaving the tip. Their waitress did very well by Joseph. The Blacks dropped Scott off at the Mendoza house and made him swear to call if he ever needed anything, or wanted to talk. There was nobody home at the Mendoza's when Scott let himself in through the back door. His clothes had been laundered and were sitting on the counter. He changed quickly and left a note for Mrs. Mendoza thanking her for the hospitality. He found his riding gear in the mud room. The Yamaha didn't want to start. When it did it idled roughly, but smoothed out after a few minutes. He took the long way to the extension campus. He had an hour until class. He could sit around twiddling his thumbs or he could keep riding. He passed the turn and kept going. He rode without thinking about anything in particular. Scott realized that he was near the bank, and decided to deposit his last Lewis check. He parked by the bank's ATM machine and used it to deposit his check. He could have gone inside, but Mrs. Mendoza would be there. She did something with account services, and he knew if she spotted him she'd make a fuss. He wound his way back to the extension campus, parked, and went to the distance lab. The class was alright, but he'd decided not to take any more of the telepresence courses. He'd consider online classes instead. The idea of working at his own pace appealed to him. He'd have to take the occasional test under the supervision of a proctor, but that was nothing. It'd be a great way to stack up a few more credit hours, and he could sign up as a regular Midland College student and avoid any input from the school district. At five he was finally able to leave Fort Stockton. Waves of heat reflected off the blacktop as he sped toward Meritt's Corner. He'd told his dark secret and the world hadn't come to an end. He had another secret, or two, but knew he'd never be able to share them. He came up behind a tractor trailer transporting a large well head. He was content to sit behind the big truck and think, but the driver stuck his arm out the window and motioned for him to pass. He waved his thanks as he sped by. He stopped at Meritt's and gassed up. It was amazing at how far he'd managed to stretch the drug money he'd taken the previous fall. At only two or three gallons at a time, he could have gassed the bike up every day for a couple of years and not touched his own money. There nothing but junk mail in his post office box. If somebody had asked him about his feelings as he turned into the driveway at Mr. Piotrowski's house, he doubted he'd have been able to put them into words. He slowly dismounted from the motorcycle and stretched his legs. He took his helmet off and tiredly greeted Jobe. The big dog pressed against him the entire way into the house. He took off his gloves and eased the backpack from his shoulders. Under his jacket the back of his shirt was soaked with sweat and clung to him. "You look wore out," Mr. Piotrowski commented. "Nothing a good shower won't fix," Scott replied. "You've had a heck of a couple of days." "Is it on the news yet?" Scott asked. "Been on the radio. Supposed to be a big news conference tomorrow morning. Where'd you find her?" "Bo is the one who found her, ' Scott told him. "They've said who it is already?" "As big a deal as they're making, it seems the only reasonable conclusion," Mr. Piotrowski said. Jobe was resting his head on Scott's thigh as he sat at the kitchen table, "I'd show you if I had a map." "Come on up to the office, I'll show you something new." Scott followed Mr. Piotrowski upstairs and made a brief stop in the bedroom where he stored his stuff. He dumped the backpack on the bed, and went to see what new treasures Mr. Piotrowski had acquired. Mr. Piotrowski had a big plastic tube with the end cap removed sitting on his desk. It appeared to be packed full of maps and various charts. Leaning against one wall was something in a large wooden frame. Scott bent down to take a look at it. "You like that?" "Is it authentic?" Scott asked. It was an old map of the area around Fort Stockton. The map was dated 1867, and marked property of the Ninth Cavalry Regiment. "Believe so. I thought about giving it to the historical society, but I think I'll hang it here in the office instead." Mr. Piotrowski slid one map out of the tube and used his paperweight and a mug to keep it from rolling back up. "I think this one is what we want." Scott quickly got his bearings, "When did you pick these up?" "Did a little horse trading yesterday," Mr. Piotrowski explained. Scott traced his finger along the map to the point where Bo had discovered the remains of Andrea Jones. Mr. Piotrowski shook his head, "That's no good." "Why do you say that?" "She went missing in the spring. I don't think it was a stranger or a visiting hunter at that time of year. To take a body out there, in that terrain? You'd have to know where you were going. That means it was somebody from here." Scott thought briefly about his own journeys to the desert; once as a victim, and then last fall with the men who had tried to kill him. "It's the FBI's problem now," Scott said. "Let's hope they catch the bastard," Mr. Piotrowski said as he rolled the map back up. Scott went to find a hammer and the laser level. After a few careful measurements they hung the large map. Mr. Piotrowski was pleased and Scott agreed that it really added something to the room. He did a few more chores around the house. Dinner was cold roast beef sandwiches. Mr. Piotrowski tossed a piece of meat to Jobe who barely had to move from his bed to snap it up. "So what are your plans now? Job wise?" he asked. "Sheriff King told you about that too, I suppose?" "He did. Is it official?" "Went by and got my final check. On the plus side, they let me keep the phone and all the clothing. Mrs. Lewis said it wasn't worth anything to them. I don't know what I'm going to do. You can't find a summer job with summer half over." "I can't say that I understand those Lewis folks," Mr. Piotrowski said, "but I do have a suggestion, interested?" Scott looked at Mr. Piotrowski, the old man had something up his sleeve. "You know I am." "Take the rest of the summer off. Enjoy some of your summer vacation while you can." That was not what Scott had been expecting to hear. "Just like that, take the summer off?" "Why not?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Enjoy yourself. I think you've earned it. The state is going to pay for your Midland tuition this next year, right?" "Yes." "There you go. You're fifteen for heaven's sake. Enjoy what's left of summer. Visit your friends, go swimming. If I need a little extra help with some of my trading, you can lend a hand, and you'll have your afternoon class." "Well, I guess if you put it that way," Scott conceded. "Besides," Mr. Piotrowski added. Ah-ha! Scott knew that Mr. Piotrowski was up to something. "Your paleontologist and her people will need a local guide who can also provide a little manual labor. They've agreed to pay you for your help. And I might add, at a very healthy hourly wage." Scott could only shake his head. "They're going to fly in to Midland on Sunday, August 12th, and fly back out on the 22nd. The university will ship some equipment ahead of them and we'll store it here. I've already arranged to rent the UTV to them at a very reasonable rate." Scott almost felt sorry for whoever had negotiated with Mr. Piotrowski. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He'd have nearly a month 'off'. The last of the summer semester would only overlap with Donna's visit by a couple of days. His trig final was set for August 15th, and high school classes didn't start until the 27th. "Okay, it sounds like a plan to me." Scott spent the weekend catching up on chores around Mr. Piotrowski's place. Sunday afternoon he took the Rhino UTV out and looked for the best route to the covered dinosaur tracks. Mr. Piotrowski wanted to buy a snowplow blade for the Rhino and have him grade the route. Scott argued that he could make a decent route with a few marked stakes and a little shovel work. For the next couple of weeks he established a new schedule. He'd make breakfast for himself and Mr. Piotrowski, and do a few chores. Some days he'd work on the route to the tracks, other days he'd do a punishing workout. For a change he started riding into town early to hit the pool. Swimming was an excellent workout and he logged a lot of laps. Bo Mason was a mini celebrity. His picture appeared in the paper and he'd even been interviewed by a television station from Midland. Scott stayed away from all of that. His friends got used to seeing him in town. They had a raucous lunch at the diner one afternoon. There were a number of other high school kids eating there and the place had a party atmosphere. Bo, Ed, Rene, Molly, and in a big surprise, Lacey all ate together. Her mother, she explained, wasn't as anti-Scott as she had been, but the dating rule was still firmly in force. The girls told about their summer vacations, and everybody wanted to know about Bo and Scott's adventure. Scott let Bo tell the story. The guys talked about getting together. They still hadn't come up with an alternative to camping. Lacey punched Scott lightly in the arm, "That's your phone." His backpack was ringing. He was surprised at the number of the caller. "Hang on he shouted into the phone, I'll step outside where it's quieter." "Can you hear me now?" asked Tony Lewis. "Yeah, Tony. Sorry, I'm at the diner in town and it's a madhouse here. How are you?" "Scott, I know I'm probably the last person you want to hear from—" "Hey, I don't hold anything against you. You should know that. I'd work for you again in a heartbeat," Scott said. "I ... I appreciate that. Listen, the reason I called is that Junior is missing. They're getting a little desperate here. Do you know anyplace where he might be hiding out?" "Where did he go missing from?" "The Sportsman Ranch." "You've probably already checked it, but he really like the game room and snack bar they built between the sporting clays and the skeet ranges." "That's one of the first places Mr. Pope checked," Tony said with a sigh. "Maybe he took off and went to visit friends or something?" Scott suggested. Tony was quiet for a moment, "No, I don't think so. The FBI has been around asking questions." "Oh." "Well I'm sorry to have bothered you, but I had to ask," Tony said. "I hope you find him, Tony." Scott went back inside and rejoined his friends. ------- He had about a half hour of class left when a sheriff's deputy he recognized poked his head into the distance lab. He spotted Scott and started walking his way. Scott took his headphones off. "What's up?" "Sheriff wants you to stop by his office." "Trouble?" "Not for you. Something he wants to tell you in person." Scott didn't know what to make of that. The deputy looked at the monitor trying to determine what was going on, "What the heck are you doing anyway?" "I'm watching a trigonometry class being taught in Midland. I've got about fifteen minutes left." The deputy grimaced, "You're doing this voluntarily?" Scott laughed, "Heck, I have to pay them for the privilege." That cracked the deputy up. He left after Scott promised that he'd go see the sheriff as soon as class was over. There was a full house at the sheriff's department. The deputies and agents were in an upbeat mood. He caught a glimpse of Special Agent Lilly as he headed for the sheriff's office. Sheriff King's secretary told him to take a seat in the office since Sheriff King would be along shortly. Scott used the time to look at the numerous photos hanging on the wall. He found an old photo of Sheriff King and Judge Upcott holding some very respectable sized fish. "Trout fishing in Wyoming. That must have been twenty-five years ago," the Sheriff said as he entered the office and shut the door. "Looks like you had a good time," Scott observed. "We did," the Sheriff answered. "I'll get right to it. The Andrea Jones case is over. I don't think you'll have to worry about the FBI again." "Over? You made an arrest?" "The case has been solved. It will be public knowledge by tomorrow morning. Scott, Junior and Buck Lewis are dead, murder-suicide. The suicide note contained a lengthy confession." "Junior and Buck?" Scott repeated. Buck was the family patriarch, it didn't make any sense. "Tony called me at lunch. He said Junior was missing and asked if I knew any hiding spots they should check." "The family called us in after one. The FBI brought in a helicopter and they found Buck's truck shortly before three. They'd driven pretty far into the property. It's clear that Buck shot Junior and then himself." Scott tried to figure out what it meant, "So who killed the little girl?" The Sheriff put his hands behind his head, "According to the confession, Junior took her. He'd have been about your age then. What he did to her we'll never know, but she died, accidentally perhaps? The pathologist said it was impossible to determine given the state of the remains. The story is that Junior went to Buck, and Buck hid the body and kept his secret." "And I thought Junior was just lazy," Scott mused. "During the survey you mean?" the Sheriff asked. "Buck's suicide note says that Junior never knew specifically where she'd been buried. Buck claimed he was the one who pushed Smokey and Bern to buy the property when it became available. I don't think they thought anybody would ever find her body." "It's hard to believe," Scott said. "The pressure on Buck and Junior during the survey must have been considerable. When Bo made his miraculous discovery, it all started to unravel." "What do you mean?" "The Lewis family. They're done in Pecos County. The family is tearing itself apart. It'll get pretty ugly before it's all over. I think the Joneses will probably finish off what's left in civil court." "What about Tony?" Scott asked. "He'll be the one Lewis who comes out of this alright. They didn't bring him to Pecos County until they bought the big piece of property. With his skills and reputation, he'll have no trouble getting on with a big outfit anywhere in the state." They talked for a few minutes more before the sheriff had to return to the fray. Scott made good time to the house. He hustled inside and found Mr. Piotrowski watching television. Mr. Piotrowski pulled his headphones off. "Yes?" "Have you heard already?" Scott asked. "Not a thing. I'm guessing you beat the rumor mill for once." "Andrea Jones. The case is over," Scott said as he sat down in the other recliner. That got Mr. Piotrowski's attention, "That's good info?" "Straight from Sheriff King. Junior Lewis killed her, and Buck Lewis buried the body." Mr. Piotrowski chewed on that for a while, "Buck Lewis took the girl's body and buried it where you boys found it? Does that sound likely to you?" Scott thought about it. Mr. Piotrowski had a point. "Buck Lewis is about ten years older than I am. Do you really think he hauled forty or fifty pounds of dead girl up into that terrain and then dug a hole? They better figure out who helped him." "That might be pretty hard. Buck shot Junior, and then himself. Left a full confession," Scott told him. "Well, it doesn't get more final than that does it?" "No, sir." The news of the deadly end to the Andrea Jones case hit Fort Stockton like a bombshell. The television stations returned for several days but eventually left. Scott's friends knew he'd worked for the Lewises so they had lots of questions. He didn't have many answers for them. ------- With the arrival of August attention shifted from the past, to the future, especially to the future of the Fort Stockton Panther football team. Despite Bo and Ed's best efforts, Scott had no desire to play the game. So they did the next best thing, they recruited him as their conditioning coach. Scott agreed to ride into town early for the next week and a half. The boys would work out and then finish with laps in the pool. Tommy Mendoza was going to be a senior, and he laughed at Bo and Ed for working out on their own before mandatory practices started. He changed his mind after he saw how gassed they were from Scott's workout. Bo and Ed would have cursed Scott for what he made them do, but with Tommy watching they kept their mouths shut. It took a few days, but word spread and the morning workouts grew to include a group of junior varsity and varsity players. They did some strength training, but the focus was on conditioning. That meant running endless sprints, and a punishing amount of leg lifts and butterflies. Any question about why Scott was leading the workouts was quickly settled with a pull-up competition. The highlight was the pool. The group swam laps and mixed it up with some water polo. They called it water polo, but it usually ended up as no holds barred dodge ball. Honour called him on a Thursday evening and asked if he could stop in to the law office at eleven the next morning. He agreed and said he'd see her then. It was a short workout the next morning. Two-a-day football practices started Monday. The workout group felt pretty good about their chances against their fellow team members. Scott would miss the group workouts, but he was eager to see Donna and make a little money playing 'local guide.' Scott let himself in through the back door of the law office. He dropped his backpack on his desk and went to find a drink. He was extremely surprised to find the conference room guarded by two men in dark suits. Seated inside were the Blacks along with ASAC Chambers of the FBI and two very distinguished looking men. "Scott, would you come in and close the door?" Joseph asked. Scott did as requested and took a seat next to Honour, "I didn't see your fancy SUV parked out front." ASAC Chambers smiled, "We can be subtle when it's required. Scott I'd like to introduce you to the newly appointed U.S. Attorney for the Western District of Texas, Mr. Thomas, and this is Mr. Demps with the Department of Justice." Scott glanced at Honour and she winked at him. Mr. Demps began to speak, "Mr. MacIntyre, I'm very pleased to meet you. By all accounts you are a remarkable young man. I was very impressed to learn that you're taking some college classes." "Thank you, sir." "I hope you might consider a career in government service, despite what you're going to learn in the next few minutes. Do you understand what a non-disclosure agreement is?" "I think so, sir," Scott answered cautiously. "I think you understand the need for keeping secrets?" Scott nodded. Mr. Demps slid a folder across the table to Scott. "I'd like you to sign this please, where the arrows are pointing." Scott opened the folder and looked at the document inside. It had brightly colored post it note arrows indicating where he should sign and date the document. He looked at Joseph and then at Honour. Joseph spoke for both of them, "Scott, we've already signed similar documents. You don't have to sign, but I think it would be worth your while to do so." He looked at Honour again, and she nodded ever so slightly. He picked up a pen, signed where indicated, and slid the folder back to the man from the Justice Department. Mr. Demps looked at the signatures and stacked the folder on top of the other two he already had. He folded his hands and set them on the conference table, "I'd like to tell you a little story. In the aftermath of 9/11 the way we do law enforcement in this country changed greatly. A lot of the walls between agencies were dismantled. Our new marching orders included words like 'joint operations' and 'interoperability, ' these were fancy ways of saying that the respective agencies would now work more closely together, for the good of the country. Some agencies responded to this new direction better than others." Scott had no idea where the man was going with this, but it was interesting. "Another part of the story relates more directly to 9/11. It involves the recovery of certain secure vaults beneath portions of the World Trade Center complex. Beyond the unimaginable loss of human life, a number of federal agencies lost important files. Understand that this was a large commercial complex with multiple buildings beyond the Twin Towers. Some buildings survived the devastation partially intact only to be torn down later. Within one of those buildings for example, precious commodities, including tons of gold were recovered. One of our intelligence agencies managed to recover some archived material this way." Mr. Demps paused and took a sip of water. Scott looked over at Joseph who looked back at him with a similar expression. "One puzzling discovery recovered from these vaults appeared to be the records of a small, unknown agency. In light of more pressing matters these records were moved to secure storage in West Virginia. An attempt was made to destroy the records at this storage site which resulted in several arrests. The incident spawned the creation of a special task force to examine and attempt to understand these records. You're probably wondering how all of these government machinations relate to you?" "Do they? Relate to me?" "Indeed they do. What we had uncovered were the records of a black bag, covert organization operating within the United States Marshal's Service. They had their fingers into a little of everything; favors for the powerful, blackmail, illegal surveillance, intimidation, off the book operations for other agencies, and occasionally the relocation of assets for some of our intelligence services. Heads rolled over what was discovered. Unfortunately, we got very little cooperation from the parties involved. Most could not be identified. Those that we could identify, vanished. A select few even had unfortunate accidents." "The marshal?" Scott asked. "Yes, your mysterious marshal. One of the vanished I'm afraid. Your attorney's description of the unusual nature of your relocation matched a set of parameters we've briefed our most senior law enforcement partners to be on the lookout for. In fact, your case is only the fifth action we've been able to definitively tie to this mysterious organization." Scott didn't know what to think, "Other people were ... relocated like I was?" "Perhaps, but we think it unlikely given the unique facts of your case. The other identifiable actions were more along the lines of blackmail. Your case appears to have been a hybrid action; a favor to a powerful man, and a relocation abusing the resources of the marshal's service." Honour asked, "What about my client's safety?" Mr. Demps acknowledged the seriousness of the question, "We've had people looking at this from many different angles. The drug cartel involved in the killing of the California judge, and that took the contract on your client, has been destroyed by the cartel wars. We don't think there's anybody left to take up the cause even if they learned who Mr. MacIntyre was." "Then the problem is this powerful figure you mention, who is he, and why does he pose a threat to Scott?" Joseph asked. "Yes, that is the complication. Part of what made investigating this rogue group so difficult is that they destroyed the evidence of what actions had been completed. In your case they destroyed the records of your relocation. Our break came from what they would never destroy - the records of who owed favors to whom. That's how we were able to link your case to the group. Many favors were owed to, and by, a man named Craig Carson, in your case Craig Carson Sr." "I don't think I understand," Scott blurted out. "Craig Carson Sr., the father of the man who murdered your parents, is an extremely wealthy and powerful California businessman. Craig Carson did not use the 'junior' suffix for whatever reason." "I've been having trouble with juniors lately," Scott thought aloud. "I'm sorry?" Mr. Demps asked. "A Junior Lewis was involved in the kidnap and murder case that brought Mr. MacIntyre to our attention," ASAC Chambers supplied. "I see." "Could I be excused to use the restroom, please?" Scott asked. "Yes, a short break is an excellent idea," Honour agreed. Scott made his way to the bathroom. They were talking about him, but he tuned everything out. He splashed water over his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He allowed the anger to surface for a brief moment. Craig Carson's father? A dozen thoughts screamed through his head, and the porcelain under his hands cracked. He pulled his hands away from the sink and looked at the damage. He was lucky the fixture hadn't shattered completely. He traced the cracks and pictured the restored sink in his mind. There was an acrid smell as the porcelain repaired itself. For a brief moment he imagined having Mr. Carson's head in his hands. His hands trembled as he washed them. The repaired sides of the sink were still hot to the touch when he left the room. He returned to the conference room and nodded at the agents guarding the door as he passed. "I've been discussing a few things with your lawyer, Scott," Mr. Demps said. "What you want to know of course, is why?" "Yes, sir." "Pride, the oldest of sins, appears to be the answer, with a dash of greed thrown in for good measure. Craig Carson Sr. wanted to keep you from gaining access to the Carson family fortune through the courts. Preventing his son from committing yet another murder, or being responsible for financing one, appears to have been an afterthought. The money itself would have been a drop in the bucket. It was the bruising of his pride, his failure as a father that appears to have driven his actions. Actions I suppose a psychiatrist would have a field day with. Carson Sr. couldn't bring himself to have you killed, although he would later change his mind, so having you disappeared into the foster care system was his solution. I don't think he ever considered that you would emerge from the system in any shape to challenge the Carson family. Given what you went through, and how your foster care situation was managed, I have to say I'm delighted that he was so wrong." "He changed his mind?" Joseph echoed. "Yes, from the records it appears he rethought his generosity and requested that the organization eliminate your client. It was a bridge that not even this secretive organization would cross, and their practice of destroying all relevant records served to insulate your client even further. The request put him deeper in their debt." "And now?" Joseph asked. "He is quite elderly. Envoys from the taskforce have been in contact with him. He wishes no further antagonism. We can guarantee that negotiations on Mr. MacIntyre's behalf by his representatives will result in a very generous settlement, and I would encourage you to pursue that." "No criminal charges?" Joseph asked. "It would be an evidentiary nightmare. With the resources of the Carson family, and Mr. Carson's age, we doubt a successful prosecution could be completed before his death, if it were even possible." "What about the Van Pelt estate?" Honour asked. "Bankrupted, I'm sorry to say by Craig Carson's financial irregularities relating to the Carson-Van Pelt business partnership. There's a small life insurance policy that can now be paid out. The home mortgage was underwater. No significant savings or retirement accounts were found, although there is some question about that. Certainly, monies related to the Carson fraud should be recoverable." "Indeed," Honour said. She was at a near boil over what she had heard for the last half hour. "Your client is also owed certain reparations by the government. Scott, I hope in time that you won't harbor ... resentments about the government." Scott looked at Mr. Demps before answering. The man appeared completely sincere. "I guess that when you think about it, I wouldn't have learned any of this if it wasn't for the government. At least the good parts of it, they have to be bigger than the bad parts, don't they?" Mr. Demps and the quiet FBI agent smiled in relief. "We like to think so," ASAC Chambers said. "Another thing in your favor," Mr. Demps added. "ASAC Chambers is due a promotion and will soon be stationed at one of the larger California offices. She'll be able to keep a close eye on Mr. Carson for us. He'll never trouble you again." Scott nodded his thanks to the woman. "There are other things that we can smooth over for you. Would you like to return to California for example, or retake the Van Pelt name?" Scott looked away from the table and up at the ceiling. After what seemed an eternity to him he replied, "Everything I know is here in Pecos County. If it's all the same I think I'll stay for a while. As to the other, I hope my parents will forgive me, but I can only remember being a Van Pelt for a handful of weeks. I've been Scott MacIntyre ever since. I can't see being anybody else." Mr. Demps stood up and Scott shook his hand, along with the FBI agent. The U.S. Attorney never said a word. There were some details to work out so they went to Joseph's office. Scott walked down the hall and sat at his desk. He turned on his laptop but nothing interested him. Their guests must have left because Honour and Joseph burst into his small office. Honour pulled him out of his chair and into a fiercely tight hug. Joseph reached over and patted the back of his head. Scott dried his eyes and thanked them for everything they had done. "What should we tell Judge Upcott and Sheriff King?" he asked. Honour and Joseph shared a look. Joseph spoke first, "I'm not sure you should tell them anything beyond that matters have been resolved. They were used, badly." Scott saw the wisdom in Joseph's statement, "You're partially right, but Carson's plan misfired in part because of men like Sheriff King and Judge Upcott. They may have been used, but they've never failed me." "Scott, things are going to move quickly," Honour said. "Normally there'd be a lengthy investigation into Carson's assets. Negotiations would drag out, but not in this case. The Justice Department has Carson by the balls. Everything is open to us. I'm going to fly out to California and get started immediately. I'll call and let you—" Scott interrupted her, "No. I don't want to know. Honour, I trust you. Please make sure that you and Joseph keep track of your hours, I'll figure out a way to pay you back." "I'm not doing this for the money," Honour protested. "I'll get my payment from making this Carson creature bleed. If we structure the settlement right, you won't even have to pay taxes." "Honour, I don't care about taxes," Scott replied. Joseph had a pained look on his face, so he added, "What I meant is that I'll pay them if they're owed." "Scott, she's in her punish the wicked mode. Best let her be," Joseph suggested. "I suspect she's talking about some sort of personal injury award. That's not taxed as personal income. Interesting legal implications, but we'll work those out." "I appreciate what you guys are doing, honest I do. I don't know how I'll ever thank you." "I'll make him pay, I swear," Honour said with gritted teeth. ------- Chapter 18 Friday afternoon, August 10th, 2007 Scott walked into the kitchen at Mr. Piotrowski's bursting with news. Mr. Piotrowski was at the stove standing over a big pot holding a large wooden spoon. Jobe was hovering nearby in case anything interesting fell to the floor. He started to speak, but Mr. Piotrowski pointed the spoon at him. "Before you say anything, Honour called. She says to tell you, and I quote, 'not a word'. She was very insistent." "That woman knows me too well," Scott grumbled. Mr. Piotrowski chuckled, "She's good that way isn't she?" "What are you making?" "I'm soaking some beans. Tomorrow, this will be ham hocks and beans." Scott looked at the pot and back at Mr. Piotrowski. "Don't frown. Have you ever had ham hocks and beans?" "No." "You'll see. Now, without telling me anything you shouldn't, was it good news or bad?" "Good, I think." "Then that's all I need to know. Let me cover this pot and we'll head down to Meritt's. They called and another crate came in." Meritt's had a small shipping counter next to the tiny rural post office. Over the last week several crates of gear had arrived from the University of Chicago. They were the biggest thing to pass through Meritt's in years. Now they filled one bay of the storage building awaiting the arrival of Donna and her team. Scott and Mr. Piotrowski made a quick trip to get the last of the expected deliveries. After a very short debate they decided to eat in the diner. Back at the house Mr. Piotrowski had a checklist for the impending visit. All the crates had arrived. Fortunately, most of them weren't very heavy. "Hotel rooms?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Three rooms at the La Quinta in town," Scott confirmed. "Rental car?" "They can stop by and get it any time." "What are we forgetting?" Mr. Piotrowski wondered. "If we knew, we wouldn't be forgetting it." "Okay wise guy, how about the path out to the site?" "Want to go for a ride?" Scott asked. "You haven't been since I showed it to you the first time." Mr. Piotrowski agreed. They walked out to the UTV and Jobe insisted on going along for the ride. Scott started the Rhino and they headed off. He'd been working on the route for the past couple of weeks. It was rough, but serviceable. "You put out a lot of stakes," Mr. Piotrowski observed. He was bracing himself with both hands. "Don't want them getting lost. You okay over there?" "My teeth haven't fallen out yet." They made the trip without too much trouble. Jobe jumped down and investigated the area giving it his stamp of approval. Mr. Piotrowski looked around and scratched his chin. "Have you thought about trying to prepare a camp site? Maybe set out a sun shade?" he asked. "I did, but I figure Donna is going to have her own plan." "Actually, that's good thinking," Mr. Piotrowski said. "Flexibility when dealing with the female of the species is a must." Jobe barked. "It could be a universal rule," Mr. Piotrowski said as he scratched the dog's head. They headed back to the house. Mr. Piotrowski had an idea about how Scott could improve the route. It took him about twenty minutes to rig it up, but before long he had a couple of old tires dragging behind the UTV. Stopping every now and then, he took his shovel and worked on the high spots and filled in the low ones. The sun was headed down when he returned to the house. He was tired and sweaty. Rather than track dirt through the house he stripped and dumped his work clothes by the washer. Mr. Piotrowski didn't say a word as Scott went through the kitchen. Jobe however, snuck up behind him and goosed him with a cold nose. "Hey!" He escaped to the shower as Mr. Piotrowski chuckled at Jobe's stealthy move. After a quick shower, and a change of clothes, Scott grabbed his backpack and prepared to head back to Broken Creek. "Tired?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Yes, sir." "Think that plow blade attachment might have made things a little easier?" Scott stood there. "There's nothing wrong with honest work to save a little money, but working smarter is even better. How much time did you spend on that dirt path?" "A bunch." "Something to think about then." "Yes, sir," Scott replied. ------- By the time the sun came up Sunday morning, Scott was twenty minutes south of the Midland airport. He was going to chauffeur three people, so Mr. Piotrowski had stayed home. Scott had a lot of time to think about recent developments. If Mr. Demps from the Justice Depart was to be believed, there was no longer any threat against his life. What he couldn't get out of his head was Craig Carson Sr. Would a man who went to such great lengths to get rid of him really let him live in peace? At the airport he lowered his window to grab a ticket from the machine at the entrance to the covered parking garage. Driving through the parking structure with its low ceilings in a large truck was an adventure all of its own. He parked and grabbed the little sign he'd made. He waited outside the baggage claim area with his 'Miss Church' sign. There was small rush of business travelers before he spotted Donna. She had cut her hair short since the last time he'd seen her. She smiled broadly and rushed over to say hello. "Cowboy, you've grown!" Donna hugged him and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I like the hair," Scott said. "Thanks," she replied as she primped. "It's easier to take care of when I'm out in the field." "No hug for me?" a familiar voice called out. "Lauren?" Scott replied. "What are you doing here?" "Gee, don't sound so thrilled," she pouted. He gave her a hug as she pecked him on the cheek, "I'm surprised is all. It's great to see you." "I'm Victor," a voice said. "No hug required." "Oh, I'm terrible," Donna said. "Scott this is Victor Gale, my assistant. Victor, this is Scott MacIntyre our local guide, and my friend." Scott shook hands with Victor. Victor was a painfully thin Asian man in his early 20s struggling with a cart loaded with bags. Between the two of them, they managed to get it moving toward the parking garage. He unlocked the doors on the truck and started throwing bags into the truck bed. "Is this thing big enough, cowboy?" Donna asked when she got a good look at the Dodge. "I don't know, we may have to stop and rent a trailer to haul all of your luggage." Donna hit him playfully. "I can get a booster step for you if you want," he teased back. He got them all loaded into the truck and started the air conditioner. He drove carefully out of the parking garage and paid the two dollars required. Donna told him to keep the receipt for expenses. Lauren reached over the back of the driver's seat and played with his hair. "You're hair is almost bleached white, and you're so dark. What have you been doing?" Scott looked in the rearview mirror, "Hey, buckle up back there." "Oh pooh," Lauren said as she buckled her seat belt. "I've been working outside to answer to your question," he said. "How's your summer been?" "Busy," Lauren replied. "Thought I'd take a little vacation with my girlfriend here, instead of going to the beach she tells me I'm going to be digging in the desert." "And the best part is that I get to be her boss," Donna added. Lauren shook her fist at her roommate. "Victor, do they give you as hard a time as they do me?" Scott asked. "I'll exercise my rights against self incrimination until after Ms. Church writes my evaluation," Victor replied. Donna laughed loudly at that. It didn't take long to get back onto the interstate. Scott relaxed and hit the cruise control. His three passengers were busy looking out the windows taking in the sights. "I didn't realize it was so desolate," Victor said after a lengthy period of silence. "The terrain gets more scenic the closer you get to the Big Bend area," Scott explained. "How far is that?" "It's under a hundred miles to Fort Stockton, and then another hundred and twenty to the park itself. You're in the Permian Basin now, which is why it's so flat. You'll see the land change as we go further south." "I thought it was a short trip into town?" Donna asked. He looked over at her, "Only if you fly into Fort Stockton, but there's no regular commercial service." Lauren shrugged, "We flew on a private jet when I came down with the museum." The trip back passed much faster. Donna and Victor talked about the big dig where they had spent the majority of their summer working. They had been excavating a cliff face rich with fossils. Lauren wasn't completely out of her depth. She spent a summer working on an archaeological dig in Mexico when she was an undergraduate. The girls talked about the similarities between the two disciplines when it came to methodology. They reached Fort Stockton and Scott tried to play tour guide. He pointed out the training center housing the Midland extension campus, and the high school. "There were several hotels to choose from because of the interstate. This place looked to be the cleanest of the ones I visited." "It has a pool at least," Donna said. "I didn't bring a suit, did you?" Lauren asked. "We can buy new ones. Scott you could help us with that, right?" "Umm ... sure?" Victor went to the front desk and proceeded to check the group in. The lady working at the desk pointed something out to him and handed him some key cards. "You two are next to each other, I'm down the hall," Victor announced. With the guys carrying most of the burden they made it to the rooms in one trip. Scott told his three guests that he'd wait in the lobby while they got settled. The small lobby had several courtesy papers which made for interesting reading if you liked learning about yesterday's news. Surprisingly, Donna was the first one down. She wanted to get the rental car taken care of. "The rental place is close by. If you want to call the other two and tell them to wait, we can be back in no time," Scott told her. Donna used the phone in the lobby to call the others after Scott reminded her of the room numbers. As promised, it was a quick trip. Fortunately the rental people were on top of things and the large sedan was ready to be picked up. Back at the hotel Donna parked near their rooms and ran up to corral her charges. Scott parked the truck and rolled down his window. He had three copies of a map he'd made showing a simplified route to and from Mr. Piotrowski's, as well as the location of several places where the visitors could eat, or purchase various necessities. "Scott, I think we're all going to ride with you if it's okay?" Lauren said as she walked up to the truck. "Sure, it will make it easier to point things out to you." Lauren claimed the front passenger seat and made him roll the window up, "I can't believe how hot it is." "Welcome to Texas in August." Donna and Victor climbed into the back seats. Scott passed out his maps and narrated the highpoints of Fort Stockton as they drove through town. He waved to a city patrolman when his cruiser turned in front of them at an intersection. "Do you know everybody in this town?" Donna wanted to know. "No, but I probably recognize a fair number of folks." "How far to this Meritt's Corner place?" Victor asked. "Not far, only about thirty miles." "I'm not sure I want to know your definition of far," Victor mumbled. They reached Meritt's, and Scott sent the three out-of-towners to the diner while he hit the diesel pump. He took the opportunity to wash the windshield and headlight covers. He parked in front of the diner, but signaled to Lauren through the window that he'd be a minute longer. A waitress spotted him as soon as he walked into the diner, "Sweetie, your friends already ordered. You want your usual?" "Please," he said as he sat down. He flipped through his mail. There was something from Midland College, and a statement from his insurance company. "You have a usual?" Donna asked. Scott looked up from reading his mail, "I only live a few miles from here. Meritt's has a bit of everything as you can see." It wasn't long before the waitress brought their food. It wasn't sophisticated fare, but it was good. As the plates started to clear they ordered milkshakes at Scott's urging. The milkshakes were a hit, and Scott checked to see if anybody had a problem with dogs. Fortunately they didn't. He told them that Jobe was sure to take an interest in their activities. If he got in the way all they had to do was tell him to go back to the house. It was a short drive to the house, where Mr. Piotrowski was very pleased to see Scott hold up an extra milkshake as he exited from the truck, "Hello folks, welcome to Pecos County." "Thank you, sir. Donna Church, we met in Chicago," she said by way of introduction. "You know Lauren of course, and this is my assistant Victor Gale." "Miss Makepeace, it's a pleasure to see you again. Mr. Gale, a pleasure as well. I think you'll find everything in order. Your crates are in the building. Would you like to sit a spell?" "With our compressed schedule I'd like to get our gear unpacked and inventoried. I hope to start first thing in the morning," Donna explained. "Alright then, I'll leave you to it." Scott opened the doors on the storage building and plugged in a box fan. Donna compared crate numbers against her list and was satisfied to see that the shipment was complete. He found a couple of pry bars and Victor helped him tear the crates down. It didn't take long for the floor to be covered with gear. One crate contained tenting for shade and coolers for water. There were several bags of gear for each worker. Boxes of extra brushes, various trowels, stakes and line, and the list went on. One of the heavier crates contained an odd looking piece of equipment. It had big tires and resembled a disassembled lawn mower. "Careful with that one," Donna said. "That's my ground penetrating radar. Think you can put it back together for me?" Scott took the proffered assembly sheet and looked it over, "Doesn't look too complicated." The unit was durable and went together quickly, since all he had to do was put the frame together and put the wheels on. He strapped the battery back in, but left the handle in the stored position. If they strapped it down tightly, it should ride okay on the back of the Rhino. He was tightening the wheels on the GPR's frame when Victor spoke up. "Uh, is this your dog?" Scott looked over and saw Jobe observing the chaos, "Yeah, that's Jobe. Hang on, I'll introduce you." He got up and walked over to Jobe. The dog was excited and took in everything as he panted. "Victor, say hello to Jobe. Jobe this is Victor. He'll be working here for the next week or so." Jobe held up a paw. Victor reached down delicately and gave the paw a little shake. "That's a big dog." The girls demanded to be introduced next so they repeated the process. Jobe received many compliments on his appearance. He ate up the attention. It looked like Lauren and Donna were going to have a constant companion out at the dig site. Donna reminded everybody to hydrate, and went back to her check list. She was pleased at the progress they had made, and was thrilled that nothing was missing from the inventory. "I think we've done about as much as we can do here. Scott, can we take a trip out to the site?" Donna asked. "Sure. I need to give you some instruction on the UTV anyway." Scott walked them around the vehicle. Lauren remarked how it was just a fancier version of her father's golf cart, so she was designated the alternate driver when Scott wasn't around. "These rear seats can be unbolted from the deck when you need to haul cargo. Also, you can secure gear to the roof rack, but keep the weight down. You don't want to over balance this thing." Donna grabbed a bag with some survey gear, and Scott had Victor help him tie down the bag containing a sun shade and its support poles. Lauren managed to fit Jobe's back end on her lap, but the big dog stretched over the other seat and put his front paws and head in Victor's lap. Victor smiled nervously, but Jobe yawned and seemed to laugh at him. Scott drove and Donna complimented him on the clearly marked trail. They reached the site and Jobe jumped down and ran right to the position above the tracks. Donna and Victor looked around with a professional eye. Victor took a clipboard and started a rough sketch of the area. "Scott, where are the tracks?" "You see where Jobe is sitting? Right under him. I put two stakes on either bank of the washout area. The tracks run on a line between them." Donna spotted the stakes and walked to the high point and looked down the line past where Jobe was seated. "Scott, you did a real good job covering them up." She glanced at her watch, "What I'd like to do is stake out a rough perimeter and select a site for our base camp." Scott pointed next to the rock formation where the water had cut around, "I thought there would make a good area to setup in." Donna put her hands on her hips and looked around, "The thing about a camp site is that you don't want to setup someplace where you might have to end up digging." "I hadn't thought about that." "No reason you should. That said, I think your spot is the best candidate." Donna and Lauren started counting orange plastic stakes while Victor helped Scott assemble the sun shade. Scott used the head of his hatchet to pound tie down stakes for the support poles. "Scott, will our gear be safe out here if we leave it overnight?" Victor asked. "From humans, you're fine. There's nobody for miles and this is all private property. Long as you don't leave any food here, I think you'll be fine from critters. In the mornings be a little careful moving gear. We do have rattlers out here." Lauren muttered an obscenity. Victor and Donna were experienced in the field and knew the dangers of snakes. "How many trips do you think it will take to move all of our gear?" Donna asked. "We can make it in a couple of trips if we use the truck. You can drive here from the road, but you'd have to know the route. I've done it once." "You can't go the same way we do on the Rhino?" Lauren asked. "It's too narrow." They headed back to the house. Scott had Lauren drive so she could get used to the vehicle. Ninety minutes later Donna was pleased with the group's progress. They had moved all the gear to the dig site and set up another open sided tent. With the gear under cover, Scott drove the truck back to the house and took Jobe with him. The others took the Rhino. They'd have to make the trip on their own when he wasn't there, so it was good practice. Monday morning Jobe barked when the rental car pulled into the long driveway and parked by the storage building. Scott went out to greet the arrivals. "You're one of those disgusting morning people aren't you?" Lauren accused. Scott laughed. "There's coffee inside if you want. Did you all have breakfast?" "We hit the McDonalds by the hotel," Victor said. "You should have gone to the diner in town, or stopped at Meritt's. Can't beat breakfast at either one, and it's cheap." That news received a grunt or two of acknowledgement. They spent the morning laying out lines and taking measurements. Finally, they started digging. Scott was disappointed at having to work with hand tools. He'd used a shovel to cover up the tracks, but Donna insisted that they, 'do it right.' He thought he was a patient person, but working the dig site taught him a new appreciation for the word. Every scoop of dirt removed was dumped into a bucket and then filtered through a screen. Donna and Victor examined each bit of rock that was left. Lunch was sandwiches made on site. Scott had delivered fresh water and ice to the dig site before the group was even awake. Mr. Piotrowski's chest freezer was packed full of bags of ice they'd purchased from Meritt's. Scott told Donna that he'd have to leave for his class soon. Donna pulled him aside and told him take Lauren back to town with him. She wasn't acclimated to the heat, and Donna wanted her to take it easy. Lauren didn't argue when Scott asked Victor to take them back to the house. Victor was nervous driving the UTV, but he eventually got the hang of it. Scott gave Victor some more cold drinks to take back to Donna and sent him on his way. He should have kept a better eye on Lauren. She did look like she was having trouble with the heat. He made her sit down at the kitchen table and drink a full bottle of the sports drink that was kept in the refrigerator. She was still a little flushed, so he her took over by the sink and held her wrists under the tap while he ran cold water over them. "What are you doing?" she asked. "This will help bring your body temperature down." "If you insist." "I insist," Scott replied. He sat her down at the kitchen table with a glass of water, and parted an orange. He made her eat a slice. He found Mr. Piotrowski and told him that he needed the truck to take Lauren to town. "Overdid it a bit," he explained. "Not a problem. I've got nothing on for the rest of the day anyway. How's it going out there?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Donna is one hundred percent professional. Even with the time constraints, she's taking it step by step. I'm really impressed." Lauren had perked up when he returned to the kitchen. She gave him a weak smile, "Do I get to ride on the back of your motorcycle?" "Not today. We have this modern invention called air conditioning, and you're going to stay in it as much as possible until tomorrow." Scott got her to the truck and headed for town. The comfortable seating combined with the rhythmic noises of the long road soon put Lauren to sleep. He let her nap until they reached the farm supply store. Lauren woke up slowly, "Where are we, and how long was I out?" "Farm supply store across town from your hotel, we need to do some shopping. You slept for about a half hour." Lauren rubbed her eyes and stretched. "You've got a little drool." "What?" Lauren sat up and pulled the sun visor down. She turned her face from side to side checking her face in the mirror. Scott's grin gave the game away and she threw her empty water bottle at him. "Come on," he said. "I'm always hearing how shopping is a cure-all. Let's put that to the test and see what kind of damage we can do inside." "What do they sell here?" she asked as she hopped down from the truck. "Everything, don't let the name fool you." "So what is it you need to get here?" "I'm going to buy you a case of something with electrolytes in it, a big floppy hat, and whatever else I can think of to keep that pasty white Chicago skin of yours from developing heat stroke." Lauren sputtered over the pasty description, but followed him into the store and quickly forgot about it as she engaged in some retail therapy. Scott grabbed a couple of cases of a sports drink in assorted flavors. Lauren browsed until she found some straw cowboy hats. She tried several on declaring them, "adorable." Scott found the big floppy hat he was looking for and held it out to her. "I'll look like an old lady in that," she complained. "You'll be an old lady who doesn't get sun stroke." "You don't think I look cute in this cowboy hat?" she pouted. He was trying to decide the safest way to answer that when he was interrupted. "Hello, Scott." He turned, "Hello, Mrs. Gregory." Lauren came up beside him and snaked one arm in with his. Mrs. Gregory stared at him expectantly, "Aren't you going to introduce me?" "Oh right, this is my friend." "Lauren," Lauren prompted. "Right, my friend Lauren, from Chicago." "First time to Fort Stockton?" Mrs. Gregory inquired. "Second time actually. It's a charming place to visit, and I always enjoy getting to spend time with Scott," she said as she squeezed his arm. "I see," Mrs. Gregory replied. "Lovely to meet you," Lauren said. "And you," Mrs. Gregory said before she walked away. Lauren waited until she had disappeared from sight before asking, "Who was that woman?" "Mother of a friend of mine. Not a big supporter." "I want to hear all about it, but first we need to shop some more. What do you think about a fan?" "Blowing hot air on you isn't a good idea," Scott told her. "You need a misting fan," another voice said. He turned to see one of the store employees hovering nearby. The man showed him two different models of misting fans. They fed water through the fan and were both portable. "How long could I run one of these off a Rhino?" he asked. The employee looked thoughtful, "You know, I have just the thing." The thing turned out to be an auxiliary battery kit and isolation switch that another customer had ordered, but later returned. Scott was intrigued so they started haggling over price. He got out of the farm supply store a few hundred dollars poorer. He wondered how long it would take for this expensing deal to reimburse him. Lauren made him wear the cowboy hat she had picked out for him. Scott checked his watch as they left the parking lot, "I'm going to stop by the office and pick up my text book before I head to class." "I could go with you." "You do not want to spend almost three hours watching me, watching a class being taught in another city." They reached the law office and Scott parked up front for a change. Lauren looked around, "I've been here before." "It's where we first met." "You have an office here? I thought you meant office at the college or something." "They let me have a small study area in the back." Scott took Lauren down the hall and waved to Joseph. He grabbed his text book and checked a few of his notes. Lauren browsed through the closet, pulling a shirt out to look at it. He excused himself to say hello to Joseph. "Honour's already left for California, so you'll have to put up with me if you need anything. Who is that?" Joseph asked. "That's my friend, Lauren, from Chicago," he explained. "I'm good. Wanted to say hello is all." "My wife doesn't let me have any friends who look like that." "I think you did okay," Scott replied. "I did, didn't I?" Joseph said with a grin. "Is Honour going to be okay in California?" "Don't worry about her. She's as tough as they come. Besides, she's staying with some friends from law school. She'll be fine." Scott took Lauren back to the hotel before going to class. It was a short session for a change and the instructor informed everybody, including the distance students, that Tuesday was an optional review day for Wednesday's exam. He made it back to Mr. Piotrowski's before five, but Donna and Victor had already left for the day. Scott washed the Rhino removing all the accumulated dust. He let it dry as he laid out his new purchases and read over the documentation. The auxiliary battery kit looked easy to install. He was going to have to drill a few holes in the frame rails to fit the new battery tray. He started by disconnecting the battery, and went to find a drill and the right drill bit. Mr. Piotrowski finally came to see what he was up to. He looked around at the scattered equipment and partially disassembled UTV, "Is something broken?" Scott was tightening a drill bit and looked up, "Broken? No nothing like that." He sat the drill down and showed Mr. Piotrowski the installation instructions. Then he showed him the portable misting fan and explained what he purchased it for. "It's a good plan," Mr. Piotrowski said as he rubbed his head. "How much did you spend?" Scott showed him the receipt and told how he'd gotten the store to knock the price down. "It almost brings a tear to my eye. You've done well. I may have to start letting you do the dickering from now on. Now, what can I do to help?" "Hold the flashlight?" Scott asked. The misting fan was a huge hit the next day as temperatures were hovering around 104F. Lauren wore the big floppy hat and kept herself hydrated. Nobody minded a few extra breaks in front of the fan. Scott's final, Wednesday afternoon, was anticlimactic. He'd handed the test to the proctor and said good riddance to the last telepresence class he hoped he'd ever take. By early Thursday afternoon they had the tracks cleared. Donna and Victor were ecstatic, carefully brushing dust and silt out of each track with fine brushes. The group spent over two hours carefully measuring each track and charting out every nuance. The rock shelf was a mass of nylon grid lines running the length of the tracks with colorful bits of tape carefully organized by each impression. There were paper black and white scale markers scattered about. Donna had an expensive digital camera on a rig that she placed over each track so they could be documented photographically. Victor was busy with a laptop building a virtual model of the dig site. Donna had been standing and looking out over the tracks before she asked, "Scott, how much plaster of paris do you think you can find in a reasonable amount of time?" "How much do you need, and what kind of time are we talking about?" Donna did some quick calculations in her field notebook. "I need ten pounds per foot of casting. Can you get me at least three hundred pounds?" "Three hundred pounds?" "I want a cast of every track we have exposed. We'll ship them to Chicago and I'm going to reassemble them in situ back at the university. I'd like to get started tomorrow." She was serious, he realized. Scott took out his phone and called Mr. Piotrowski. They talked for a few minutes before he hung up. "Mr. Piotrowski is going to make some calls. We'll probably need to make a run to Odessa or Midland, if it can be found locally." Donna was a bit frustrated by that, but she accepted the news with grace. She explained that it would take the good portion of a day to set the casts. They'd have to wait at least two hours for each cast to dry before attempting to free them, and then there was the packaging and shipping to deal with. It was a full scale production. "That could take us into early next week, depending on when we can get your supplies. What else is there to do?" Scott asked. "Plenty. We need to scan the surrounding area. Do a couple of test holes. There's more than enough to keep us busy before our flight out." "Why do you need to do that?" "Scott, you don't think those tracks just stop do you? We could spend years studying this area. My department will need to form some sort of partnership with a local university to spread the work load. Maybe we'll even get the National Science Foundation involved, who knows." "It's that big of a deal?" "Are you kidding me?" Donna asked. "Victor will probably write his dissertation on these tracks. He won't be the only one. The data uncovered here will feed into multiple fields; geology, paleontology, climatology, you name it. What did you think would happen?" Scott looked around and tried to see what Donna saw, "I guess I thought you would do your thing and leave. Then we'd put up a fence or something and school kids, maybe tourists, would come and look at it." Donna patted him on the back, "Someday, they might just do that." After cleaning up and securing the gear, they headed back to the house. Mr. Piotrowski had made some fresh cornbread which was eagerly devoured by the crew. He also had news. A supply store in Odessa could get the plaster of paris in the quantity Donna wanted, but it wouldn't be available for pickup until late Saturday morning. Donna sat down and drew up a list of materials needed for building the forms and for shipping the casts back to Chicago. Mr. Piotrowski said it could all be obtained in town. "Building the crates to ship back to Chicago is going to take some skilled labor. I think you should consider letting us bring in a few folks to help out," he added. Donna looked concerned, "They'd be people you trust? I don't have to tell you what will happen of word gets out about this." "What do you think, Scott?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Bill Mason and a hand select crew?" Scott nodded, "I could stop in town and talk to him if you want. We could keep it in the family and knock those crates out. Donna, can you write up a description of how you want the crates built?" "I can do better than that. I'll print off some diagrams. The university has shipped crates of fragile materials from all over the world using the same method. Somebody probably got their doctorate writing a paper on optimum shipping crate design back in the 1930s." Lauren spoke up, "So what do we do in the meantime?" "I think the only thing to do is to take Friday off and relax," Donna announced. "Let's kick back and spend the day at the pool. What do you think?" There weren't any arguments. Lauren wanted to leave immediately to go shopping for swimming attire. Scott suggested they go to the larger city pool in the morning instead of the tiny pool at the hotel and that was quickly agreed upon. The girls tried to talk him into coming shopping with them in town. He begged off and said he'd meet them at the hotel around ten the next day. After they left he called Joseph to check on Honour. Joseph surprised him. He said that he was flying out Saturday to go see his wife. They planned to fly back together Wednesday afternoon. "Is everything okay?" Scott asked. "These things take some time even when the wheels are greased," Joseph reassured him. "I'm going to meet her in San Francisco, and we'll enjoy a day or two for ourselves. Once everything is signed, we'll be on our way back." ------- The girls had purchased matching bikinis and cover-ups and were raring to go Friday morning. It was trouble from the start. Lauren wanted to ride on the back of his bike over to the pool. Scott wouldn't allow it telling her that he didn't have a spare helmet and the flimsy cover-up wasn't any kind of protection. She huffed, and puffed, and as distracting as that was, he held firm. At the pool the two young women strolled in and were the undisputed centers of attention. They commandeered two sunbathing chairs. They made a production of removing their cover-ups, and stretched and posed themselves as only young women can do. Lauren held up her suntan lotion and motioned toward Scott. He managed to get his voice to work and suggested that the two girls could probably handle that task themselves. Donna and Lauren both pouted, but Scott wouldn't budge. "Are you sure they don't drive you crazy?" he asked Victor. Victor's eyes crossed for a moment, "Ah, no." "Why not?" "You honestly don't know?" Victor asked. "Know what?" "Scott, I'm gay," Victor told him. "You really didn't know?" "Nobody told me," Scott insisted. "Do I make you uncomfortable?" "You're not hitting on me are you?" Victor laughed, "No. What happens now? Do you call the posse and they come in their pickup trucks and take me out somewhere to beat me up?" "What?" Scott asked looking to see if Victor was serious. "We're pretty much a live and let live bunch out here. Besides, it takes time to form a posse." "I don't see many gay people around," Victor commented. "We don't make them wear signs or anything, so I'm not sure how you can tell?" "Trust me I know." "What can I say?" Scott said. "I guess most people looking for a different kind of life don't stick around in Fort Stockton." "See, not so friendly to my kind." "It's not just people like you, it's everybody," Scott said. "This is a small town, most young people leave." "And where do gay kids go in Texas?" Victor wanted to know. Scott thought about it, "I don't know. Austin, Houston, any of the big cities I'd guess." He wasn't sure if that was the answer Victor wanted, but it seemed to satisfy him for the moment. Scott jumped into the pool and swam a couple of laps. He stopped near Victor and looked toward the girls. They had rolled onto their stomachs and untied their bikini tops. "Maybe you should go put suntan lotion on them before they burn?" Scott suggested. Victor smiled, "They don't want me for that task. I think I am going grab some sun and check out the local meat. How about you?" Scott glanced at the girls once more, "I think I'll stay in the pool a little longer." He put the distractions aside and swam laps. He hadn't worked out much beyond his morning calisthenics routine since the dig had started. It felt good to use his muscles as he put in lap after lap. He only stopped when Lauren jumped into the pool in front of him. "How many laps are you going to do?" she asked. "I guess I'm done for now." "You're really not going to come and play with us?" Lauren teased as Donna did a cannon ball right next to them. Scott wiped the water from his face, "I think you two play in a different league." Lauren pointed toward the diving board, "Want to see who has the best dive?" He turned back and both Donna and Lauren were flashing him. He felt his ears burst into flames, and treading water became a little more difficult. "Go right ahead. I'll stay here and judge." The girls laughed and climbed from the pool and ran to the diving board. The girls did a couple of dives before Scott had things sufficiently arranged where he could safely leave the water. The girls were standing at the edge of the deck arguing, playfully, over who had the best dive. Scott scooped Donna up in his arms, and she smiled triumphantly, right before he tossed her out into the deep end. Lauren screamed as he repeated the move with her. "You realize they can get out don't you?" Victor said from his lounge chair. "Yeah, but I can throw them right back in again." The girls climbed out of the pool with fingers waving. The lifeguard nearby had shouted something about no horseplay when Lauren pantsed Scott. He reached down and calmly pulled his trunks back up. The girls were smiling from ear to ear, and Donna was about to make a comment when he heard, "Nice view." He turned around to see Lacey, her giggling little sister, and both Mendoza girls. The girls were loaded down for a day at the pool with beach bags and towels. He might have had a mini-stroke, or time could simply have stopped, but he blinked and they were still there. "Hey guys," Scott said, amazed that his mouth was working. "This is Lacey and her sister Charlie, and my best friend's sisters, Lilly and Janie. Guys, these are my friends from Chicago, Lauren and Donna, and that's Victor over there on the chair." The girls exchanged greetings, but Lacey was staring daggers at him. This could get ugly. "Lauren, we met Lacey's mother at the farm supply store the other day." "That's right we did," Lauren said. "You girls must know a lot of his secrets. How about we compare notes?" The girls looked at each other before coming to an agreement using methods of communication that were beyond any mortal male's ability to perceive. They moved toward Donna and Lauren's lounge chairs, and in no time a serious confab was underway. Scott sat, feeling dazed, next to Victor. He watched the gaggle of girls and shook his head. "So this gay thing, how hard is that?" Scott asked. Between fits of giggles, Victor managed to get out, "No help I'm afraid. It's even worse on my team." After the girl talk broke up Scott couldn't say that Lacey was hostile, but she was certainly cold. Lauren whispered that she'd get over it, "or she wouldn't." It was advice he could do without. For lunch, Scott took the Chicago trio to the taqueria. He deserved a frequent diner discount with as much business as he was bringing to the little eatery lately. The conversation veered from topic to topic. One that seemed the most animated was about the local cost of living compared with Chicago. He listened with interest. It wasn't a subject he'd thought a great deal about. ------- Scott and Mr. Piotrowski made a quick trip to Odessa late Saturday, and returned with boxes of plaster of paris. Sunday morning they had a full house at the dig site. Donna gave a very informative briefing explaining what they were trying to accomplish, and what they had left to do. Mr. Piotrowski was impressed. Mr. Mason was on hand, the only other worker he brought was Bo. The Masons had dropped a load of lumber and packing straw at the storage building. Bo was interested in the dinosaur tracks, but he was fascinated by the girls. Scott had to poke him to get him to stop staring. "No wonder Lacey was so pissed," Bo said. "You heard about the pool?" Scott asked. "You are the smartest dumb guy I know," Bo said. "Rene and Molly both called to quiz me on what I knew. I didn't know what they were talking about. I mean I understand all the secrecy with this dinosaur stuff, but holy crap man. Lacey's supposed to be your girlfriend." "I've seen Lacey a grand total of three times this summer. She can't call me, and I can't drop by and talk to her. How the heck was I supposed to tell her anything," Scott protested. "I'm not even sure I should have had to tell her anything anyway. I don't ask what she's up to or who she sees." Bo smacked him in the back of the head, and then nodded toward Lauren and Donna. "So, which one have you ... you know?" Scott popped Bo back, "I'm going to go over and get a bottle of cold water. Then I'm going to come back and pretend that you didn't ask me such a stupid question." He brought back two bottles and threw one to Bo. Bo was apologetic, "Sorry man, but look at them. They don't make girls like that around here." The boys continued to watch the activity. "They really are something aren't they?" Scott said. "Yeah," Bo agreed. Mr. Mason put the idle boys to work building frames for the casts. It was amazing what you could accomplish with a speed square and a portable saw. The tracks and surrounding rock were treated with a quick release material. As each frame was complete, plaster was poured, a wire mesh was added for stability, and the operation repeated. When the plaster started to set up it was inscribed with a number assigned by Victor. They took a two hour break and let the plaster dry completely. The process was aided by the scorching summer sun. The first cast was successfully released and Donna declared it a work of art. It took the guys until lunch the next day to get all the crates built. The casts were swaddled in cheap blankets they had purchased from the farm supply store and cut to fit. The crates were packed with clean straw obtained from a local farmer. Victor was run ragged tagging and marking casts and crates with their individual numbers. He would check, and double check each one. Donna's plan for an extensive survey with the ground penetrating radar was cut short. She ended up only being able to dig one test hole through a section of desert floor which hadn't been stripped back by the spring flood. She didn't find a dinosaur print, but she did find more of the same rock shelf shown by her scans. Scott had looked at the squiggly lines produced by the GPR, but they didn't mean much to him. His brain had tried to show him something, but he cut it off so he wouldn't be distracted. The decision was made to take advantage of the Mason's presence and crate the rest of the equipment. The temporary camp site was torn down. The last thing to do at the dig site was to take the piles of screened dirt and sand and put it back down over the tracks. It was an odd feeling to cover the tracks again, but as Donna explained it was the best way to protect them. It would probably be a year, or more, before a complete excavation could be conducted. It would take lengthy planning and extensive funding before that happened. With two trucks it still took six trips to haul the crates to Meritt's Corner. They had to call the shipping company to make sure they were sending a larger truck for the pick up. The university's credit card was practically smoking when the clerk handed it back to Donna. The entire shipment was insured, and it was going by airfreight. It would beat the trio back to Chicago if it all went right. All the hard work was done. Tuesday was going to be a light day for paperwork and notes. On Wednesday Scott would take them to the airport. The Chicago group hit the diner and loaded up on milkshakes before jumping into their rental and heading back town. Scott was enjoying a quiet evening at Mr. Piotrowski's before he headed to the ranch. The school district had sent him a thick packet on concurrent enrollment. He read it a couple of times, but it was a confusing mess and contradicted itself in a couple of places. He was going to register for his one fall class later in the week. He had considered taking an online class, but decided he'd see how the first semester went. If he could handle high school and college, he'd look at the online offerings again. His phone dinged several times indicating text messages. He finally checked it to see what was going on. The first was from Donna, then one from Lauren, and another from Donna again. They wanted him to come to the hotel where they were having a small party. "Take the truck," Mr. Piotrowski said when Scott told him about it. "They're celebrating. Make sure you don't drink and drive. If you do have a couple, stay in town and come back in the morning." "I'm not going to drink," he insisted. "I'm only saying if you do, then don't drive. Understand me?" "Yes, sir." "Go, have a good time." Scott arrived at the hotel and found the party in Victor's room. They had been playing card games, and had music playing over a small speaker set. There were a couple of boxes of local pizza, and a large jug of vodka. The trio was in a pretty good mood. In fact, they were well on their way to being drunk. It looked like they had been mixing the vodka with cranberry juice. "You're alright for a straight guy," Victor practically shouted as he pushed him into a chair. "I approve!" "Thanks," Scott said. Lauren saluted him with her drink. Donna shoved a paper plate with a slice of pizza and a plastic cup of juice toward him. He took a sip and set it aside. They were playing poker and everything was funny, or so they kept saying. They played for a while by which time Scott was sure they were all cheating, wildly. A popular song came on and Lauren demanded that they get up and dance. Scott laughed and danced with her. She was happy, so he was happy with her. Donna grabbed him and demanded to switch partners. She wrapped an arm around his waist. Then she leaned in and ran her tongue along his ear as she started to fondle him with her other hand. Scott didn't know how to react. She breathed into his ear and asked in a husky voice, "Have you ever had a woman?" "Whoa! You are so cut off," Lauren yelled as Victor grabbed Donna and peeled one of her eyelids back. "She's wasted," he declared. Victor and Lauren maneuvered the inebriated girl out the door and down the hall to her room. She slurred suggestive statements the entire way. Scott stood in the middle of the empty party room and reassessed his personal goals. Lauren returned a short time later. "Are you alright?" "I think so," he replied, "but my private parts feel all tingly." "Don't you dare make fun of her, she's really drunk." "I won't, she took me by surprise though." Lauren walked over and gave him a surprisingly intimate kiss, and rubbed his cheek with her thumb, "She's had a long week. This was her first time to be in charge all on her own. It's tough for a woman competing against the boys club, and she needed to blow off some steam. Plus, I think we all wish you were a few years older." "You can tell Victor to keep dreaming." Lauren smacked him on the back side. "Is she going to be okay?" "Victor and I will take turns watching her tonight. She'll pay for it in the morning." Scott looked around the room, "I'll clean up here and then head back. If you want to make it a late morning I don't think anybody will object." "You're a good guy," she said as she squeezed his arm. "Hey, I almost forgot," Scott said. He took off his necklace and put the paracord over her head, lifting her hair out of the way. Lauren held the arrowhead, still warm from the contact with his skin. "What about one for Donna?" "I think she got enough of me tonight." "Behave," Lauren said with smile. She kissed him again, tucked the necklace into her shirt, and left. Scott pulled the liner from the trashcan and walked around the room picking up trash. He left a short time later. It was close to eleven when the crew from Chicago showed up at the house the next morning. Donna sat at the kitchen table and talked about some of the things Mr. Piotrowski could expect to hear over the next year as the university negotiated permission to continue activities on his property. She wasn't betraying any confidences, but instead was giving him an idea of what usually happened in these cases. Lunch was an attempt to finish off the extra supplies that Mr. Piotrowski had laid on for the crew. They all ate heartily except for Donna who picked at her sandwich. When she was finished she asked if she could talk to Scott privately. He took her to the front room. "I'm horribly embarrassed, and hope you can forgive me," Donna said. She was unable to meet his eyes. "Already forgotten. I'm going to miss you guys when you go back to Chicago. I've learned so much this last week. You are an amazing person." "You really think so?" "I do." "Do I get an arrowhead?" Scott pulled a length of paracord from his pocket and put it around her neck, "Repeat after me. Vodka is not my friend." "You bastard," Donna said as she examined her arrowhead. She kissed his cheek and they went back to the kitchen. There wasn't much to do after that. The trio went back to town and turned in the rental car. Scott picked them up early the next morning and delivered them to the airport. It was a quiet goodbye. He got a handshake from Victor and hugs from the girls. Scott didn't know if he'd ever see either of the two girls again. It seemed to end so quickly. By lunchtime, Scott was back at Mr. Piotrowski's trying to clean out the storage building. There was loose packing straw and bits of wood everywhere. Tools needed to be cleaned. Jobe hung around seeming to sense that Scott was a little down. Scott was pushing a broom when Jobe scrambled to his feet and went to greet Mr. Piotrowski who had come out of the house. He held the phone out to Scott and said that it was Honour. "Hello?" "Scott, we're back from California. Can you come to town?" "Can I come in tomorrow? I'm kind of tired, and I need to register for my class tomorrow afternoon anyway. You don't mind do you?" "No, I don't mind at all. Are you alright? You sound a little down." "Tired is all. Been a long week. How about you? Was California, okay?" Scott asked. "It was fine. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. Get a good night's sleep." Scott finished cleaning up and locked the storage building. He had a conversation with Mrs. Delgado after he returned to Broken Creek. She had wanted to take him shopping for school clothes, but he assured her that he had all he needed. "Even socks and underwear?" she asked. "Do I need new underwear?" "Mijo, if you have to ask." What followed was one of the more embarrassing conversations he'd ever had with Mrs. Delgado. She eventually decided that what he wanted, instead of tighty-whities, were boxer briefs in any color but white. She measured his waist and told him he'd have something new by the time school started Monday. Somehow this awkward conversation with Mrs. Delgado settled him down. The next morning he got back into his routine. He ran four miles and Jobe walked with him on his cool down lap. Before his shower he took the Rhino out to the dig site for a look around. You could tell that there had been human activity, but you'd be hard pressed to guess what that activity had been. He took his shower, and went to visit with Mr. Piotrowski before he rode into town. "You're going to register for your next Midland College class after you see Honour?" "Yes, sir." "Paperwork all squared away?" "I think so. I guess I'll find out." "Say hello to Honour for me, and tell her I need a little of her time when she can find the chance?" ------- Scott was barely through the door at Black & Black when Joseph pushed him toward Honour's office and made him sit down. Honour had folders spread all over her desk, but smiled when she saw him. "Mr. Piotrowski says hello, and can you spare him some time when you have a chance?" She shook her head, "That man. I was on the phone with him for ten minutes last night. He's teasing me because I spent all that time out of town. Now, how are you?" "I'm good." Honour looked at him trying to divine the truth of that statement. Finally she said, "Joseph, why don't you go first?" "Alright. The government must really have wanted this over with quickly. The only thing they asked was where to send the check and how it should be made out. They have some very complex formulas for how they pay out when they've screwed up. Frankly, I think they've short changed you, but here it is." Joseph handed him a green check that was larger, physically, than any he had ever seen before. Scott looked at what he was holding. His brain tried to process what he could possibly do with eight hundred and seventy-eight thousand dollars and change. He'd never have to worry about tuition again. "Do I deposit this in my checking account?" Joseph smiled, "We'll come to that. What are you thinking?" "I don't know. I guess I'm shocked. Do I need one of those tax people now?" "We'll get people to help you with all of the paperwork," Joseph explained. "You don't have to worry about income taxes on this money. It would be a bit cruel for them to pay you, and then take a big chunk of it back in taxes. According to the people I spoke with at the Justice Department there's a special tax exemption for any payouts on this matter. It's not that unusual as they've done it in other reparations cases." "Does the government screw up that much?" "I wouldn't say that, but when they do it's usually pretty spectacular. Honey, I think it's over to you." Honour had been busy straightening up her desk as Joseph spoke. "Is there anything you want to ask me before I begin?" she asked. Scott had lots of questions he wanted to ask, and he kept glancing back at the check making sure it hadn't disappeared. "Did you see him, and how did they treat you?" "Oh, before I answer that, we've got a present for you," Honour said. She handed him a small package. He unwrapped the flat object which turned out to be a picture frame. It contained a small black and white photograph of a smiling couple, his parents. "An investigator for my friend's law firm in California found it in a newspaper photo archive. I'll have my investigator check the Lubbock papers. You never know, he might find another photo or two." Scott gripped the frame and nodded his thanks to both Honour and Joseph. "Okay, where was I, California? California was fine. They treated me professionally. All the negotiations were conducted by lawyers. There wasn't any question that Carson would settle, but the devil was in the details. I had some friends who are financial experts help draft the settlement deal. That was when I saw Mr. Carson, and it was only for a few minutes. He signed the agreement and left." "So it's all over?" "It's over. If it helps any, I don't think Mr. Carson will be around much longer to trouble you even if he wanted to. He was a very frail, sickly looking man. I think signing the settlement about broke him." Honour handed him a stack of documents held together by a large metal clip. "Do I have to read all of this?" Honour smiled, "At some point you probably should. I'll give you the high points. There are three sections. There's a property settlement, a straight cash settlement, and an annuity." "I guess you better explain it to me," Scott replied. He held the government check in one hand, and the big file of legal papers in the other. "The property settlement was what they fought us on the hardest. The property was part of Craig Carson Jr.'s inheritance." Scott interrupted her, "I don't want anything that belonged to him." "You can sell it. It's the principle of the thing. Losing money is not something that bothers these people. It comes and goes, although what we've done to them will hurt. The property, now that was a tangible thing. It was part of his son's legacy. Now it's yours to do with as you like and he hated letting it go. You'll also get a two hundred thousand dollar annuity for twenty years. There's no reason for it other than I want those bastards to see the line entry on their statements so that they don't forget after the old man is gone. You'll pay taxes on the annuity, and on the sale of the house and property, if that's what you decide to do. The big punch is the cash settlement, thirty-six million straight up. You'll pay taxes on a portion of that. It's all complete. Everything has been transferred. All we have to do is get you to sign your name about fifty times." Joseph spoke with pride at his wife's coup, "You should read it. It really is a thing of beauty." The buzz was back in his head, "So I just have to sign?" "That's all you have to do. We'll need to find you a banker, somebody to manage the money and watch out for your interests. Right now the money's held in the firm's name, that's purely procedural, until you sign," Honour explained. "You should have taken the money and gone to Europe, or found a nice island somewhere." The couple laughed. "Thanks, Honour, I really appreciate all you've done for me. You too Joseph, I mean it. Thank you. I think it would be only fair if you billed me for the time you've spent on this, whatever you decide." "Where are you going?" Honour asked. "I've got to go register for my English Composition class." "Sit down, please," Honour practically cried. "Joseph?" Joseph sent Scott to his study area and stayed to talk with his wife. After a few minutes he walked down the hall and sat across from Scott's desk. "Scott, do you understand everything Honour told you?" "I think so. I'm not a hundred percent clear on some of the technical things, like the taxes, but I understood." Joseph rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, "Honour is ... emotionally invested in this. That can be good and bad for a lawyer. She really wanted this to fix things for you. She wasn't kidding when she said she wanted to punish the Carson family." Scott wasn't sure what to say. "We've been trying to get pregnant," Joseph said. "I suspect some of those emotions, aided by the hormones she's on, have crossed over onto you in her mind." "Honour would make a great mom," Scott replied. "I think so too." "I wasn't just saying that I appreciated what she's done, and what you've done, I mean it. I don't know how I'll ever repay you," Scott said. "I think part of the problem is that she didn't get the reaction from you she expected. Frankly, I'm a little confused myself." "I don't know what more you want me to say?" "How about jumping up and down for starters?" "Joseph, what does it change?" "It changes everything." "For me? I'm still a fifteen year old foster kid. I can't see how it changes anything." "Ah," was Joseph's comment. "I'm starting to see the shape of the problem. Here's what we're going to do. We're going to march down to Honour's office. You're going to give her a big hug and ask her what she has planned next. You are going to eagerly agree to the plan, and I'll handle the rest. Sound good?" What choice did he have, "Sure?" Hugging Honour wasn't difficult. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "What do we do now?" "No I'm sorry, I think I got a little over my head a bit. Sit, before I start crying." Scott sat and took a swig from the soda he'd left behind. "What we need to do now is find a banker. A private banker who will manage your assets and make sure all those pesky things like taxes are taken care of," Honour said. "How do we do that?" Honour grabbed a piece of paper and typed something into her computer. "We go interview them. This Saturday we'll fly to Dallas, Houston the next weekend, and so on until we find the right fit for you." Scott looked over at Joseph who gave him a meaningful look right back. "Honour," Scott said, "it sounds like a good plan to me. Can I do anything to help?" She was all smiles now, "Put together a little travel bag. We'll fly there and back on the same day. Leave the details to me." Joseph and Scott left Honour to continue her work in peace. Scott went back to his office and checked his backpack. He took the grant applications he had been planning to mail in. He walked to the firm's big document shredder and fed them in one by one. He looked at the picture and closed his eyes. The photo was in black and white. When he tried to picture his parents the image was bathed in red. He carefully wrapped the frame and placed it gently in his pack. Joseph sat down and put his legs up on Scott's desk, "Crisis averted. The specialist said the side effects of the hormone treatments she's on could have unpredictable results, but today caught me by surprise. Are you okay with her plan?" "I guess," Scott replied. "School starts Monday. It's going to make for a hectic schedule if I'm travelling on the weekends. Do I really need a stranger for this? Couldn't you guys handle it for me?" Joseph shook his head, "You need a professional for the kind of money you're dealing with." "What about paying you for your time? Honour spent over a week away from the office, and you were gone for days as well. Shouldn't you get a percentage?" Joseph stretched and rubbed his face, "They'd probably try to take my law license away for saying this, but no. We won't take a dime. I feel just as strongly as Honour does on this point. You remember Mr. Demps talking about 9/11?" "I don't think I'll ever forget it," Scott replied, trying to follow Joseph's abrupt shift in topics. "I kept thinking as he was talking about 9/11. I didn't know anybody who died, but Honour and I both knew a lot of the kind of people who died in the towers. Not all of them mind you, but the young professionals, the overachievers. They were chasing the dream. Work hard, play hard. We had successful careers, but I can't say we were happy. After 9/11 both of us swore we'd change our lives. It took a couple of years to extract ourselves from our law partnerships and obligations, but eventually we found Fort Stockton and moved here." Scott listened closely. "We did very well as big firm lawyers, so money isn't something we have to worry about. We can practice the kind of law we want. We're members of the community, and we want to raise children here. California was a visit back to the rat race. Honour stayed with some law school classmates who still measure their success by the toys they have; big house, foreign cars, and children who call the nanny, 'Mom.' We had a good weekend in San Francisco, but neither of us relaxed until we landed back in Texas." "Maybe you guys should take another vacation, a longer one?" "You never know," Joseph replied. "What are you going to do now?" "Register for class. Put my travel bag together and wait to see what comes next." That's what he did. At the extension campus he stood in line for twenty minutes waiting to register only to be told he needed a special form from the finance office. It took another thirty minutes to get his concurrent enrollment situation sorted out, and then he had to go back and stand in the registration line again. His only laugh of the day was returning to Broken Creek to find freshly laundered underwear on his bed. He looked around the tiny room and mentally kicked himself. He put the underwear away and stretched out on the bed. The ceiling never changed. He started to count the nights he had slept in this particular bed. Eventually he closed his eyes. So this is what having money felt like, he thought as he fell asleep. ------- Chapter 19 August 25, 2007 Scott arrived at the law office bright and early Saturday morning. He'd slung a travel bag over his shoulder in lieu of his normal backpack. He didn't know what Honour told the judge, but he had blanket permission to travel with her. When he mentioned to Mr. Piotrowski that he was going to Dallas, he didn't even bat an eye. Scott had the feeling that the fix was in. "Why did you bring the bag?" Honour asked when she saw him. "You told me to?" "Oh, well you don't need it now. Is that what you're wearing?" "Uhh—" "Show me what you have stashed in your office closet." Honour flipped through the three or four hangers he had. She grabbed a shirt and a pair of pants and held it up to him. "These will do. Go change." She eyed him critically when he emerged from the bathroom, "Those boots are a little rough, but it's a look." "I didn't know I was supposed to dress up." Honour gave him a look. She was wearing her battle clothes; a tight skirt, long enough to be respectable, but short enough to catch your eye, an intriguing blouse covered by a jacket, and a pair of power heels. "It's okay. We're interviewing them, not the other way around. Still, you want to look nice. Your youth allows you to get away with a lot. Ready?" "If you say I am." "See," she grinned, "you're learning." Honour drove straight to the Fort Stockton Airport where they boarded a small twin turboprop and were soon airborne. "Isn't this expensive?" he asked. They were the only two aboard aside from the pilots. They had privacy to talk since the pilots were wearing headphones, and were busy with the business of flying. "Not as much as you might think. We got this charter for well under two grand an hour, and Dallas is a fairly short hop away. We'd pay a little more for a small jet. It will save us a ton of time, so it's more than worth it. Besides, you can afford it. Trust me." "I do." "Any more questions?" she asked. "Only about a million," Scott replied. Honour laughed. "What's the first one?" "What does a private banker do, and why do I need one?" "I guess I haven't explained this very well have I?" Honour said. "A private banker deals with individual clients on a one on one basis, it's very personal. It's how the wealthy do business, and it's how they hang onto their money, in theory at least. You don't need business services, what we're after is the investment and asset management side of things. You'll have access to a lot of benefits with a private banker, better interest rates, more investment opportunities, financial advice, tax planning, and so on." "So how do we pick one of these private bankers?" "The banker needs to be somebody you can communicate with and trust. Are they trying to sell you a load of bullshit, or are they being honest with you? That's something that can be difficult to determine. It's why we're going to have these meetings so you see them up close. The people we're going to meet are supposed to be at the top of the game." "So are we going to drive around to different banks?" Honour explained, "A bank isn't just a place with a drive through and some tellers. These people never handle cash, or see a vault. The places we're going will look like business offices. Remember to follow my lead, but if you have a question ask. They're going to be your banker after all." Scott sat back and mulled over what Honour had been telling him. He couldn't really draw any conclusions; he'd play it by ear. At the Dallas airport their airplane was met by a car and they were whisked straight to the business district. Honour cautioned him against saying anything in front of the driver that he wouldn't want repeated to other ears. They were shown into a waiting room of a large office on the twentieth floor of a glass faced building. The banker's administrative assistant invited them to sit down. Scott couldn't get comfortable on the oddly shaped couch. There were a slew of magazines he'd never seen before so he started browsing. Honour kept checking her watch. She grew more agitated the longer they sat there. "Honour, what does a bidet actually do?" She squinted at him, "Didn't you take French last year?" "Yeah, but I've never actually seen one. Look at this." He held up the magazine he had been reading. "You are going to have to figure it out on your own, or better yet, look it up on the internet with your phone." "My phone doesn't do internet." Honour glared at him. "Let me guess, I can afford it now?" "Got it in one," she said. He found an equestrian magazine that would have made Mrs. Rewcastle purple with envy. According to one article there was a couple somewhere in the Dallas area that had a horse barn nicer than any house he'd ever seen. Honour continued to fidget before she stood up, "Come on. We're leaving." "What?" "We've been waiting here for almost thirty minutes. It's unacceptable." Scott had to hurry to keep up with her as she marched toward the elevator bank. The administrative assistant scurried over. "I'm sure he won't be detained much longer," the assistant pleaded. "We're taking our business elsewhere." "Would you care to reschedule?" she simpered. "You have got to be joking," Honour said as the elevator dinged. She pulled Scott into the elevator. "Honour—" She held up a finger, "If you were interviewing somebody for a job, would you wait thirty minutes for them to show up after their scheduled appointment?" "No." "Well then." How did she move so fast dressed like that? He had a brief image of a group of women in tight skirts and high heels having a race using the quick little shuffle they all seemed to use, but never getting very far. In the car Honour told the driver to take them to another building and gave him the address. She got on her phone to see if they could get an earlier meeting than had previously been scheduled. She was pleased with the answer. The new building could have been a clone of the other one. They had barely been seated before they were escorted into the private banker's inner sanctum. The office had corner windows and offered an impressive view of downtown Dallas. The banker was nothing like Scott had imagined. He was young and wore a slick suit. His smile was full of brilliantly white teeth. The man eyed Honour hungrily, and launched into a fast paced presentation. A warning light went off in Scott's head. He focused on the man's movements and watched his eyes closely. "How big an account might we be talking about?" the banker inquired. "Somewhere in the seven figure range," Honour replied. Scott started at Honour's mistake, but she was concentrating on the banker. He realized that instead of watching him, she was listening carefully to every word. Was that her training as a lawyer, he wondered? The words were more important than the presentation? He'd have to think about that. It was clear she wasn't seeing what he did. The banker offered them drinks and asked to be excused momentarily. "What do you think?" Honour whispered. "We can leave any time." "Why?" Honour asked. "Focus on his face when he gets back," Scott whispered. Honour was puzzled, but she sat up in her chair and waited for the banker to return. He wasn't gone long, but was full of apologies at the interruption. The banker continued his spiel. He used buzz words and terminology that Scott was having trouble following. Honour was watching the banker's every move. She started to frown. "Shit!" Honour exclaimed. She stood up, grabbed her purse, and Scott's arm, and started to stalk out of the office. The banker was completely confused. He followed them asking what was wrong. Heads turned in the outer office area. Honour rounded on the banker and put a finger right in his chest, "Wipe the coke from your nose. We won't be doing business with you. Go to rehab and get straightened out because your conduct is inexcusable. Nobody wants a banker who can't even manage his own life." The banker was covered with a sheen of sweat. He protested his innocence, but Scott saw that the banker's administrative assistant knew the score. Everybody else was gawking at the spectacle, but she was trying to look anywhere but at her boss. Honour didn't say a word in the elevator. If she had been a cartoon, steam would have been coming out of her ears. In the parking garage, as they were waiting for their car to arrive, she asked him how he knew. "Substance abuse seminar at the sheriff's department," he replied. She accepted the answer, "What did you spot first?" "He kept grinding his jaw, and the way he rubbed his nose. Did you notice how he seemed to be operating at a different speed than the rest of us? It all added up, particularly after that little break." "Well, I apologize," Honour said. "It looks like Dallas was a bust." "Wasn't your fault, Honour." "Is there anything you want to do while we're here?" "Lunch?" Scott asked as their car arrived and the driver opened the door for Honour. "Yes, let's do lunch. And since Joseph isn't here, let's have something spicy." She leaned over the front seat and asked the driver if he knew a good Thai or authentic Indian restaurant. "I know just the place," he said. "Excellent," Honour said, smiling for the first time in hours. They had a great lunch. Thai food was hot, and he loved it. If Scott has been allowed to breath into the plane's fuel tank, they could probably have picked up another 50mph in airspeed on the way home. After they landed back in Fort Stockton, Honour promised that Houston would be a different story. The trip was a week away so Scott wasn't going to worry about it. Monday, August 27th, 2007 For Scott, the school semester started by catching the bus at Meritt's corner. The only kids riding this year were from Broken Creek. It didn't bode well for the future of the rural bus service. The first thing he did upon arriving at school was to go by the front office. He needed a pass to leave school grounds for his concurrent enrollment class. He saw Principal Reynolds only briefly. The principal thumped him on the shoulder and shouted, "Great job on those summer classes," as he hurried down the hallway toward the gymnasium. Scott hadn't looked closely at his high school schedule, so he did some quick route planning in his head locating all of his classes and where he'd have to be when. He made a side trip to find his locker and make sure the combination worked. He walked to the technical training center for his morning college class. There were more people around the campus than during the summer months. As a multi-use facility, it was packed with a wide variety of working men and women taking classes at the training center in addition to the college extension campus students. He realized about five minutes into the professor's lecture that English Composition was not going to be his favorite class. It wasn't really a lecture; it was more like a highlights reel of the professor's life. If his students were lucky they might learn something from him, or so the professor claimed. Scott endeavored to keep his mouth shut and do the work. It was a short walk back to the high school after the class wrapped up. He spent some time in the library reading about economics, and basic business fundamentals. The lunch bell rang so he headed for the cafeteria. He looked around but didn't see any of his old crew. He took a chance on the baked chicken offering and stood around holding his tray until he spotted Rene. She scooted over and made a spot for him. He squeezed in and sat down. The chicken was passable. "So, how've you been?" Rene asked. "Busy," he replied as he took a final bite of the chicken. "I figured." "Why do you say that?" he asked. "You've seem to have forgotten something," she said. Scott put his fork down and pushed his tray back. He tried to figure out what she was referring to. "Well, you've got me, what have I forgotten?" Rene hummed and tossed her head from side to side. "Not helping, " he said. She tapped her shirt. He stared at her chest. There had been some improvements in the area, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out why she was drawing his attention to the fact. "Up here wise guy," she said tapping the area above what would have been her breast pocket. His brain was so busy running through the possibilities that he didn't find the obvious. "It starts with 'Fort Stockton Cross Country' like the shirt says and ends with 'Coach Zell is pissed.' Hello, smart guy. Are you in there?" Oh crap! He'd totally blown off the preseason cross country team meeting. "We have our first meet Saturday," she added. Scott banged his head on the table top a couple of times. It didn't help. "I'm going to be in Houston on Saturday," he told her. "Not if you want to be on the cross country team," she replied. Scott shook his head. "Ohhhh, well who the heck am I going to run with?" "I don't know," Scott replied. "I've still got final period athletics on my schedule. I guess all I can do is throw myself on coach's mercy. How pissed was he?" "Very," she replied. "What are you going to be doing in Houston anyway?" "Personal stuff." "Stuff? You're usually more eloquent than that," Rene said. "Eloquent? That's a big word for the first day of school." "Hey, I've got to catch up with you geniuses. You guys all took advanced placement classes last year. Now you're taking college classes. I've got to pick up my end of things." Coach Zell was disappointed, but not terribly angry when Scott managed to sit down with him and discuss cross country. He wasn't going to be on the cross country team this year. He was going to miss too much of the season, and he'd already missed several mandatory meetings. "Maybe next year," Coach Zell said. Scott sighed, "Coach, I'm doing concurrent enrollment. I'm afraid my schedule is only going to get worse. I think this means I'm finished with Fort Stockton athletics." Coach nodded, "I'm glad you're pursuing your academic goals, but I'm sorry to lose you as a runner. Don't let that stop you from working out. It's a good way to keep things balanced, healthy body, healthy mind and all that." "Thanks, Coach." "If you want to talk, you know where to find me." It was midweek before Scott managed to meet up with Bo and Ed in the hallway at school. It was weird not to have any classes with at least one of his friends. They decided they'd try to at meet at the same spot at least a few times each week. "Have you guys seen Lacey around?" Scott asked. "I have," Ed replied. "She's in my American Lit class but we don't talk. She's in our lunch period too, but she's been sitting with some band people." "She's playing the piccolo this year," Bo explained. "She's in marching band?" Scott asked. "You didn't know?" "No, add it to the list," Scott said. "This sucks, we're not even in the same lunch period." The warning bell rang for their next class. "Listen, if I don't see you guys before the weekend I'll see you next week," Scott yelled as he headed to class. When he returned to Broken Creek after school, Mrs. Delgado was beyond pleased when he asked her to help him pick out some dress clothes and shoes. They made a mad dash into town and he ended up with three new collared shirts, a couple of pairs of slacks, and two pairs of dress shoes. According to her latest measurements he was five feet, ten inches tall, and had grown an additional inch around the neck. Scott had Mrs. Delgado drop him at Mr. Piotrowski's after their shopping trip. She didn't question why he was storing his new purchases there. When Scott showed Mr. Piotrowski his new clothes, he excused himself and returned from the bedroom closet with a hanger full of ties. "Verna used to buy ties for my birthdays and for Christmas, mostly as a joke. Most of these are too out of fashion, but I think there's a few here that might work for you." They held ties up against his new shirts and tried to figure out if they matched. He ended up with a handful of ties in basic colors, a Christmas tie featuring dancing snowmen, and a black tie because, "you should always have one." ------- Saturday's trip to Houston went smoothly. There was no drama like there had been in Dallas. They actually met three different bankers. One didn't act like he was particularly eager for their business. The other two seemed competent, but Honour said that she couldn't find a reason to recommend one over the other. "Do you like either of them?" she asked later. "I didn't dislike either of them personally," he replied. "I'm not much of a gambler though, and I got the feeling that they were." "That's pretty much how I feel, and that's not good enough. It's time for plan B." "I'm afraid to ask," Scott said. "Funny. Plan B is to tap into the old boys' network," Honour explained. "So keep next Saturday open and we'll see what happens." The start of the second week of school was a little better than the first. Six students had already dropped the English Composition class, but Scott knew he had to stick it out. He felt lonely going from class to class at the high school. School hadn't been that way for since he'd first become friends with Ed and Bo. He hadn't even managed to catch a glimpse of Lacey, and that was saying something in such a small school. By midweek Scott was ready for a break, he got one when Mr. Piotrowski handed him an envelope the minute he walked in the door Wednesday afternoon. Mr. Piotrowski stood up stiffly, "That's for you, and two other things before I forget; call Honour, and call Elijah." "Are you feeling okay?" "I'm fine, but my knees have been giving me grief ever since I stood around at the dig site." "Maybe you should go see the doctor?" "I'm seventy-eight years old," Mr. Piotrowski said with a smile. "My parts aren't getting any younger. I plan to take it easy and stay off my feet. I'll tell you what it is. We're going to have a cold winter. I can feel it in my bones. Now open your envelope." "It's from the University of Chicago," Scott said as he tore it open. "With an itemized list of the expenses I claimed, and a check for twelve hundred dollars. How about that!" "I was pleasantly surprised," Mr. Piotrowski said. "I thought we might not see any money out of them for months." "You got a check too?" He patted his shirt pocket, "I did indeed." "What do we do now?" "You have some phone calls to make," Mr. Piotrowski said. Scott called the judge who insisted that they have their quarterly lunch soon. "How about I come by the courthouse one day during the week?" Scott suggested. "I've got morning class at the extension college. The only reason I'm eating lunch at the school is because it's convenient." The judge checked his calendar, "How about Wednesday the 12th?" "Yes, sir. That would be perfect." The call to Honour was even quicker. She told him they were on for Saturday. Thursday morning, Scott rode the Yamaha into town with the intention of running errands after school. English Composition class changed his mind. He needed to clear his head instead. He enjoyed getting on his bike and riding away from school in the middle of the day. He remembered what Honour said about a new phone so he headed over to the electronics store. He was shocked at what he found. Lewis Heating and Air was closed and the lights were off. There was a paper note taped to the front door. It said they had closed for good, and directed customers to a rival business across town. The Lewis Interiors store was closed as well, but had a big 'Under New Management' banner. Scott went into the electronics store. "When did all of that happen?" he asked pointing next door. "Buy something or get out," was the quick reply from the owner. "You've taken a customer relations class since the last time I was in." "Screw you," the man muttered. "I wanted to upgrade my phone, mostly to get internet, what can you suggest?" "Order one of those new iPhones online, or get one in Midland." Scott waited for the man to say something else, but the eccentric store owner turned back to what he'd been working on when Scott walked in. "Thanks for the information, I guess," Scott said. It didn't hurt to be polite, "Have a nice day." "Fuck off," the man said in parting. Scott started laughing as soon as he hit the parking lot. That crazy guy was still in business, and the Lewises were gone. ------- Saturday, September 8, 2007 He didn't know if he was more surprised to find that Honour had cleaned out the interior of her car, or that she headed north out of town instead of driving to the airport. "We have a meeting in Midland," she explained. Scott settled in for the drive. He was about ready to close his eyes for a short nap when Honour decided that she wanted to talk. "How's school?" she asked. "It's okay," Scott replied, trying to stifle a yawn. "I spend the first part of my day over at the extension campus, but I only have one class and the professor isn't going to win any educator of the year awards. Then I spend my afternoons at the high school. The classes are okay, but it's odd going from the college atmosphere back to high school rules and assigned seating." "How are things with the girlfriend?" she asked. "Glacial." Honour smiled and shook her head. "Who are we going to see in Midland?" he asked. "I called an old friend earlier this week," Honour began to explain. "He's a judge I clerked for out of law school. He's retired and living near Austin now. I guess you could say he was my mentor. I gave him a hypothetical about a financial situation and he got me an introduction to a power player in Midland." Scott had long ago figured out that part of being a lawyer was the ability to answer a question without actually answering, and Honour was clearly a great lawyer. "Have you told any of your friends about the money?" Honour asked. "I haven't told anybody," he said. "Why do you ask?" "You need to be careful," she answered. "Go on." "Money makes people do crazy things. When I was a freshman in college I had a roommate. She came from a really wealthy family and she liked to drink a lot. She always used to say that when people found out she had money they would kiss her ass, and when they found out that she had a lot of money they would kiss both cheeks." "So what happened to her?" "She transferred to another school and I never saw her again." Scott squeezed the bridge of his nose and tried to figure out where the conversation was going. Honour continued, "What I'm trying to say is that you need to be careful with what you tell people. Money will make friends act differently. Strangers will want to be your friend, but for all the wrong reasons. And women, women will want all kinds of things from you." The car was silent while each thought about what they wanted to say. They stuck to small talk all the rest of the way to Midland. Honour parked on the street in front of a stately building that looked like it belonged to an earlier time. It was five stories tall, dressed in stone with grand windows, and detailed tile work topping the doors and the roofline. There were few people around since it was early Saturday morning. Scott and Honour's footsteps echoed as they walked into the ornate lobby. They were shown to an office on the top floor. It was spacious, but warmly appointed. There were several different seating areas. Wood paneling and leather chairs were prominent. One wall was dominated by a large oil-on-canvas painting depicting a cowboy sitting astride a horse. The cowboy was casually holding a rifle while he surveyed a distant herd of buffalo. The man they were there to meet walked into the room. His eyes quickly assessed his guests. He had streaks of silver in his hair, but Scott had trouble pinning down his age. He was dressed casually and wore a pair of boots. "I'm Everett Wahl. You were able to find us without trouble?" "I'm Honour Black, and this is my client, Scott MacIntyre. The directions were very clear, thank you." "Why don't we have a seat?" the man asked as he steered them toward his desk. "Comfortable?" "Yes, thank you," Honour said as she set her portfolio on her knee. Mr. Wahl scratched an ear and looked closely at them. "I'll admit I'm intrigued. When an old friend of the firm calls and suggests that we take a meeting, people listen. Particularly when this friend is not prone to asking for favors." Honour smiled politely. "You are in need of financial guidance, and I take it that you have explored other options?" Honour explained, in general terms, their visits to Dallas and Houston and how she had not been satisfied with any of the meetings. "What kind of numbers are we talking about?" Mr. Wahl inquired. "Let's say it's a seven figure conversation," Honour replied. Mr. Wahl tapped a finger against his desk absently. He turned and looked at Scott, "What do you know about Midland?" Scott glanced at Honour before he replied, "It's a town built on oil." "Yes, oil. Boom and bust, that describes Midland wouldn't you say?" "Yes, sir." "The people you've visited represent specialty service groups working within large banking firms like JP Morgan or Bank of America, and so forth. They're fine institutions with far reaching resources. You could do very well by them." There was silence as the moment stretched out. "I found them lacking," Honour said. "You found them lacking," Mr. Wahl echoed. "You know what sets our group apart? Boom or bust, we have endured for over a hundred years. We do not accept walk in clients, and we are not going to double your money in six months." "What is the name of your company?" Scott asked. "It's not on the building." Mr. Wahl's eyes gleamed, "That's by design. We're called the Western Group. At our founding there was an Eastern Group, and a Southern Group. One has long since been absorbed by a conglomerate, and the other ceased to exist when certain governments turned unfriendly in the southern hemisphere. You won't find our name in the trade papers. We pride ourselves on our discretion and our service to our clients." "How many clients do you have?" Mr. Wahl considered him for a moment, "I personally represent sixteen clients. I intended to interview you, but now you are interviewing me and we've veered into confidential territory. I think if we are to continue, we should put our cards on the table." "Would you accept me as a client?" Mr. Wahl's mouth twitched while he tried to suppress a smile. "As a favor to our mutual friend, I think the firm could be persuaded to take your account on." Honour looked at Scott and raised an eyebrow, "What do you think?" Scott thought it over. He liked what he had seen and heard. He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated. He opened his eyes, "What do you think the cowboy is thinking?" Honour looked confused while Mr. Wahl smiled and started to chuckle. He sat up in his chair. "Everybody seems to have an opinion. I've changed my own mind over the years." Honour turned to look at the painting. Mr. Wahl folded his hands, "When I was younger I thought he was a hunter, but I discovered that's not how buffalo hunters dressed. For many years I told people I thought he was protecting the herd." "And now?" Scott asked. "Now I think he's sad because he knows what will happen to the buffalo. What do you think it means?" Scott chewed on his lip, "I think he's on a journey and he stumbled across the buffalo, but doesn't know what do." "Interesting," Mr. Wahl commented. Scott looked at Honour and nodded. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Yes." Honour took out several different folders. She handed two of the largest to Mr. Wahl. Mr. Wahl took a pair of reading glasses from his desk drawer and put them on. He turned his desk lamp on and opened the folders. He looked at Honour and returned to the documents. He flipped through the pages and took out a pad from his desk drawer. He made several notes. "This is considerably larger than seven figures," he said looking at Honour. "And do you know when this document was signed?" he said looking at Scott. "Approximately, yes." "Do you understand that your lawyer has had total control over these assets? She could have transferred them and you wouldn't have been able to do a thing to stop her." "I tried to get her to run away with it, but she wouldn't do it," Scott replied. Mr. Wahl removed his reading glasses and stared at them, "This is a fascinating document. Is there more?" Honour handed him another folder. Mr. Wahl opened it, "We seem to have a rather large check from the Federal Government." "You can deposit checks?" Scott asked. "Of course," Mr. Wahl replied. Scott removed a check from his wallet, and handed it over. Mr. Wahl put his glasses back on, "A check for twelve hundred dollars from the University of Chicago." "Summer job," Scott explained. "I get the feeling that you are going to make a very interesting client, Mr. MacIntyre," Mr. Wahl said. "However, we are at an impasse. You are too young to purchase financial instruments, and cannot sign any binding agreements. There are no parents or guardians present. How are we to proceed?" Honour handed him another folder. Mr. Wahl read the contents very carefully. "A financial proxy allowing Mrs. Black to act in these matters signed by ... Elijah Upcott? Judge Elijah Upcott is your guardian?" "He is the legal guardian, but does not have physical custody," Honour explained. "So you would know his wife?" Mr. Wahl asked as he fixed Scott with a look. "Bea Upcott," Scott replied. "She's not an easy woman to forget." It was Mr. Wahl's turn to nod. "I'll need our in-house counsel to take a look at these." "By all means," Honour replied. Mr. Wahl pushed a button on his desk. They were joined shortly thereafter by an elderly man wearing jeans and a Rice University sweatshirt. The lawyer read through all of the documents, and occasionally asked Honour for points of clarification. The three adults threw a lot of terminology around, and eventually came to an agreement. A couple of younger employees were summoned and they left to make copies of the different documents. Mr. Wahl introduced Scott to a middle aged woman named Karen who appeared out of nowhere, or so it seemed. She looked like she should be teaching school somewhere. Karen, he was told, was the one who ran Mr. Wahl's life. She smiled at that. "Scott, do you have a bank account?" Mr. Wahl asked. "Yes, sir." "Would you please give the details to Karen? Mr. Wahl excused himself to make a phone call. Scott gave Karen his bank ATM card and borrowed a piece of paper to write his checking account number down. "You have your checking account number memorized?" Karen asked. "I have a good memory," Scott replied. "Wish I could borrow it," Karen said with a smile. "I'll return these to you in a couple of minutes." Scott sat down and watched the activity. Honour came over to check on him. "How are you doing?" she asked. "I'm good. What's happening?" "You are in the process of becoming one of the elite." He frowned at that. Mr. Wahl returned. The other lawyer asked Scott to sit at a small table. They handed him a huge stack of paperwork and a fancy pen. With Honour looking over one shoulder, and the in-house lawyer looking over the other, they pointed at places where he was to sign. Scott signed his name for ten straight minutes. The lawyers took the papers and examined each signature. The young associates were sent to make more copies, and Karen notarized the copies. The in-house lawyer shook his hand and left. Scott's mouth was dry and he asked for a glass of water. Karen rattled off a list of different bottled water brands he had to choose from. "I'm good with tap water, or whatever's easiest." The group reconvened across the room at Mr. Wahl's desk. Honour had visibly relaxed. Mr. Wall pushed his glasses up on his nose and composed a thought. "Do you have any big purchases planned? I need an idea of what kind of expenses we're going to be dealing with," he asked. Scott thought about it, "Well, I was going to buy a new phone." Honour turned to look out the window. "A phone?" Mr. Wahl asked. "One of those smart phones. Maybe an iPhone if we have time to stop before we head back to Fort Stockton. Honour says I need one with internet on it." Mr. Wahl pushed his intercom button, "Karen, please bring in one of the client gift boxes." He turned to Scott and smiled, "What I meant was something like a house, or a fleet of Ferraris, perhaps a small country?" "Oh, no. Nothing like that." Karen arrived with drinks and a box. Mr. Wahl tossed the box to him. It was an iPhone. "One of our associates thought they'd make good client gifts. What he didn't take into account was that prior to today, our youngest client was at least thirty years older than you, and not what you'd call an early adopter." "Thanks," Scott said as he turned the box over in his hands. What followed was the most in-depth discussion of money and wealth management that Scott could possibly have imagined. Mr. Wahl preached diversity, and low risk investments. Scott's portfolio would be widely distributed to hedge against inflation and the twists and turns of the economy. Scott was overwhelmed by the numbers. Percentage of return on investment, exposure to risk, dividends, and the list went on. His mind's eye went a little crazy showing him graphs and charts of what it all represented. He was still trying to shut the charts down in his head, when Mr. Wahl knocked him over with another statement. "Say that again?" Scott asked. "I estimate, on the low side, that you'll earn between two and three million a year in return," Mr. Wahl repeated. "That's with a very conservative position." "I don't think I'd know what to do with it," Scott said as he tried to absorb it all. "I would strongly suggest that you spend some time here with us. We can offer you personalized classes in wealth management. You'd be amazed at the number of people who get rich, but the unfortunate reality is that many don't stay that way." "School takes up most of my time," Scott said. "We'll work around your schedule," Mr. Wahl said. "Let's change topics for minute. Do you have any charitable interests?" Scott thought about it, "You can donate money anonymously, right, and give some kind of instructions on how you want the money used?" Honour looked at him curiously. "Certainly, what is that you would like to do?" asked Mr. Wahl taking up his pen. "Could I donate one third of the government check to family services in San Bernardino, County, California, on behalf of the victims of Craig Carson? The rest I want to go to the creation of a residential facility for foster kids, to be built or purchased within the city limits of Fort Stockton. And I'd like it all done anonymously." "The victims of Craig Carson," Mr. Wahl repeated. "The heir to the Carson family fortune murdered Mr. MacIntyre's parents along with two others. That is not for public consumption," Honour said. The banker cleared his throat, "Of course, it goes without saying. Your secrets are my secrets." Mr. Wahl fumbled with his intercom button, finally pressing it down, "Karen, if you have the cards ready please bring them in." He went on, "It will take a few days to get the legal work sorted out, but I'll be happy to take care of distributing the funds as you've requested. Our clients support some very diverse charities. We encourage it. It's not only good tax policy, it's also good citizenship." Karen delivered two passport sized folders. Mr. Wahl examined them and asked her to stay. "This first card replaces your old bank card. It will act like a debit card, and can be processed by most any merchant card service here or abroad. For the rest of your life, shred any credit card applications you receive, you'll never need one. There's a number on the back. If you need help with concert tickets, chartering a plane, any sort of personal service, call it. You'll get straight through to a human if you input your personal code." Honour interrupted, "Does he have to spend a minimum amount to keep the card active?" Mr. Wahl chuckled, "No, and whoever thought that scheme up and convinced the glitterati of Hollywood they needed one as a status symbol is a mad, mad genius." "I'll explain later," Honour told Scott. "This other card lists important numbers here at the office; my private line, and emergency contacts. Karen answers my phone a lot. She's indispensible as you will come to learn. The final card contains pass codes. The pass code card and the debit card should never, ever, be kept together. Lock it away, preferably in a safe." "Mr. MacIntyre appears to have a prodigious memory," Karen supplied. "Even better," Mr. Wahl said. Honour leaned over and whispered something in Karen's ear. The two women excused themselves. Scott waited till the ladies had left, "Mr. Wahl, I have thought of something I need to take care of." "Yes?" "What would be an appropriate retainer fee for a lawyer of Honour's caliber?" "She's certainly a diamond in the rough," Mr. Wahl said. "Clerked for a well regarded jurist, successful assistant prosecutor, highly sought after private counsel at a prestigious firm, now semi retired to the wilds of Pecos County with her equally impressive spouse. How much have you paid her so far?" "Five dollars?" Mr. Wahl had a coughing fit, and had to down a glass of water before he recovered. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. "Scott, I have the feeling that you're going to provide me with years of adventure," he worked a few figures on his notepad. "Does a hundred and fifty thousand sound right?" Scott shrugged, he really had no idea, but if Mr. Wahl thought it was a good figure, "It works for me." Mr. Wahl made a note, "The check will go out Monday." "Thank, you." "No, thank you," Mr. Wahl said as he stood up to shake Scott's hand. "Don't hesitate to call if you have questions. We will talk frequently over the coming months." Scott and Honour left the Western Group's offices loaded down with parting gifts. Honour looked to be carrying several pounds of legal papers, and Scott had a big bag filled with information packets, the iPhone, and a book. Mr. Wahl was everything Honour could have hoped for, and she wasn't shy about saying so to Scott as they headed out of town, "You have breathed some rare air today." "I don't know about the air, but I manage to get a homework assignment." Honour laughed, "What's that?" "Mr. Wahl wants me to read this book and be prepared to discuss it the next time he sees me." "What book is that?" "It's called, 'How to say no and maintain your fiscal sanity, ' do you think he's trying to tell me something?" Scott replied. "No is a powerful word." When they returned to Fort Stockton, Scott locked all the financial material in his desk at the law office. He took the special cards to Mr. Piotrowski's and secured them in his lock box after he committed the contents to memory. A vigorous workout helped to settle his nerves. After a shower he sat with Mr. Piotrowski in the front room. It was a fun evening as they laughed at the antics of the people on the TV. Jobe was curled up in his bed, sleeping, but his ears would perk up every now and then. Wednesday, September 12th, 2007 Scott exchanged small talk with Judge Upcott's secretary waiting for the judge to get out of a meeting. The woman was a fountain of Pecos County gossip. "Hon, can you do me a favor?" she asked. "Sure." "Would you take these packets down to the mail room for me? I think the judge will probably be another ten minutes at least." He found the mail room in the basement of the courthouse. A friendly man took the large packets from him. "Are you the new intern?" "No, sir. Only a conscripted free body," Scott replied. The man gave an exaggerated shudder, "This is a government building, don't use words like 'free'. Bad things could happen." "How does this work?" Scott asked. "You put it here, I send it out there. As long as the envelope is properly secured, and has the correct office code, it will make it to its destination in Austin usually within forty-eight hours." "Cool. Have a nice day," Scott said as he started to leave. "Have a nice day? What do you think this is the private sector?" the mail worker laughed. "Oh I love my job." Scott went back to Judge Upcott's chambers. The secretary laughed when he told her about his visit to the mail room. The judge finally arrived and apologized that he didn't have as much time for lunch as he hoped. They went to the nearby canteen and got hot dogs. They weren't very good plain, but when covered with chili and onions they took on a magical quality. The judge took a long drink of tea, and started to give him the abbreviated version of his quarterly quiz. "School?" he asked. "No problems," Scott replied. "College class?" "It looks like the best I can hope for is a B. There's no danger of me becoming a writer." "Keep after it," the judge said. "Health?" "Fine." "Girlfriend?" "Since when did that get on the checklist?" Scott protested. "Answer?" the judge insisted. "Defunct, I think." "Sorry to hear it," the judge said. "Now, let's jump ahead to the bonus question. How on earth did you get hooked up with a crook like Everett Wahl?" "Crook?" Scott asked, his voice climbing to an unusual pitch. "Forgive me, I'm kidding of course. Everett and I go back a ways. We were both active in state politics in our younger days, fundraising, that sort of thing. There may have been some question over the affections of a certain future Mrs. Upcott." "You were rivals for Bea's affections?" Scott tried to picture it in his mind. "Everett would say we were rivals, I would say that I was victorious," the judge smiled. "On a serious note, if Everett Wahl is involved in your life in some way then I'm very happy for you. He's a good man." "I'm glad to hear it, your opinion means a lot," Scott said. The judge acknowledged the compliment. "Am I going to hear about emancipation any time soon?" Scott considered his answer, "I'm not ready for any big changes. I guess you could say that I'm considering my options. I might have a different solution." "Something for your calculations," the judge said, "it would take about a year for the application to go through the court even with Honour at your side. The court will always err on the side of caution in these cases." ------- Scott's big excitement for the new week was being confronted at the law office by a furious Honour. She was holding a very official check with Scott's name on it. "What is this!" she demanded. Joseph was standing slightly back from her trying not to smile. "It's a check," Scott explained. "I know that. What's it for?" she growled. "I told you I wouldn't take a dime for the work I had done." "It's a retainer against future work," Scott replied. Honour tried to speak, but couldn't. "He's got you there, Honey," Joseph said. Honour turned and marched down the hallway muttering dark things about men who thought they were smart. Scott's life settled back into a routine. It was a regular rhythm of school, working out, and studying the materials Mr. Wahl began to send him on a weekly basis. The weekly paper finally printed an article about an anonymous donation to the county to be used for a residential foster care home. Scott discovered a big drawback to doing something anonymously. You couldn't call up the county and demand a progress report. October brought cold winds with it. Scott had finally found some balance between college and high school. Principal Reynolds had warned him that he might feel lost between the two. It wasn't an uncommon feeling for concurrent enrollment students. It was Mr. Piotrowski who had the best advice when he tried to put it into words. "So what you're saying is that you don't feel like you're part of the high school set, but you're too young to fit in with the college crowd?" "Yes, sir." "Then get off your butt and do something about it. Go see your friends. Do some of those movie nights, or get together and eat at the diner. When was the last time you went to a football game?" "I've been busy." "Horse hockey. What about Homecoming? Do you have a date yet?" "I hadn't planned on going." "Good grief boy, go stag. Dance with all the pretty girls hiding along the wall. You might even have a good time." Scott knew Mr. Piotrowski was right when he showed up at the diner after the football game Friday night and both Bo and Ed greeted him with, "Hey, stranger." He made it a point after that to spend at least one evening in Fort Stockton during the week. Homecoming caused the usual amount of chaos within the student body. Scott surprised everybody by going stag. He didn't want to be the proverbial third wheel to his friends' dates so he stood around with some of the other bachelors until the music started. He picked a surprised girl at random and asked her to dance. He ended up dancing with eight different girls. They were suspicious at first, but he was polite and a decent dancer. He asked one girl to take his photo with his phone. He sent the picture to Lauren and Donna. He got photos back about thirty minutes later of each girl in pajamas and matching bunny slippers. Lauren held a sign in her picture that read, 'Still have my prom dress, call me.' Monday, November 12th, 2007 Veterans Day, it was one of Scott's favorite days. He loved the parade through town and the festival hosted by the VFW. Getting the day off from school was a bonus. The Korean War vets had their own float again, and this year Scott got to drive the tow vehicle. The men regaled him with profane stories as they walked to the carnival grounds at the VFW hall following the parade. These were proud men. Their war may have been forgotten by the general public, but not by them. Scott was sent to bring back beers while the group claimed a table. The beer man wasn't going to serve him, but he pointed to the veterans and the man obliged. "I remember those characters from last year," he said. Scott set the tray of plastic beer cups down. "Scott, if you want to wander around go right ahead. I think I'm going to sit here for a spell and swap more bull with these characters," Mr. Piotrowski announced. The carnival looked to be the biggest yet. He was hungry so he looked around for something that would be a unique treat. One booth was selling the biggest turkey legs he'd ever seen, but a neighboring booth was selling burnt end sandwiches. Massive turkey leg, or barbeque sandwich, he wondered? He was tempted to try both. "Hey, Scott." He turned to see Lacey's sister, Charlie, holding a turkey leg that looked larger than her head, "Hey kiddo, where's your sister." She shrugged, "On a date." "Okay," he replied as he thought that one over. "Tell her I said hello." Apparently the rule prohibiting Lacey from dating only applied to dates with Scott. He wandered around in a bit of a daze after that. It was easy to be distracted by the sights and sounds. He quickly realized what was confusing him was that he wasn't mad. Maybe that told him all he needed to know about his relationship with Lacey. "Want to try a sample young fella?" a man in a bright yellow shirt and a rainbow colored top hat asked. "What is it?" "German sausage." Scott selected a toothpick and tried a bite, "It's good." "Three dollars for a big one on a stick." "You've got a deal," Scott said as he dug three dollars out of his pocket. "Mustard?" "Why not?" Scott replied. He walked away chewing the spicy meat. The mustard was a nice touch. He checked his watch and decided it was time to head back and see the veterans. The table was covered with empty plastic beer cups, and spirits were high. "What have you got there, Scotty?" "German sausage." Scott broke a piece off and handed it to Mr. Piotrowski. He ate it and promptly belched, "That's good." "That character makes good sausage," replied one of the other men, "but those people selling the turkey legs are making money hand over fist." "I don't know about turkey legs, but my legs are headed home. Scott, where are we parked?" Mr. Piotrowski asked. "Why don't you wait here and I'll bring the truck around?" "You talked me into it," Mr. Piotrowski decided sitting back down. On the way out to the house they talked about the parade, and the things Scott had seen while walking around. He didn't bring up Lacey and her supposed date. Mr. Piotrowski was as happy as he'd seen him in a long time. "You know, you could go back to town tonight. It's always better at night. Take the truck if you want. There's bound to be a few free range females cruising the boulevards. I used to love the county fair. The smell of popcorn, the lights, those were the days my boy." "I think I'll pass, it was fun though. I really like listening to the stories." Mr. Piotrowski smiled, "The lies we tell might get bigger every year, but there's not one of those men I wouldn't drop what I was doing to go help. We didn't know each other then, but we shared something few men will ever know. When I watch the news I sometimes see the same look in the eyes of our younger veterans." Jobe was a ball of energy when they arrived at the house, and kept jumping about. Mr. Piotrowski announced that he was going to watch a little TV and rest, "Why don't you take the dog for a run and burn off some of his exuberance. He's wearing me out just looking at him." Scott changed into a pair of shorts and stepped outside. It was brisk, bordering on cold, and he still had a half hour or so before the light would begin to fade. Jobe took off like a shot and Scott ran to catch up with him. They only did two circuits of the old property line. Jobe was a little more relaxed but still eager to play. Scott tossed a stick to him for a few minutes before deciding to hit the heavy bag. He pulled on his sparing gloves and went to work. Jobe stretched out on the concrete and watched. Jobe jumped to his feet and took off toward the house. "Don't bother him if he's sleeping!" Scott called after the dog. He put away his gloves and locked the storage building. He glanced up into the early evening sky and thought it would be a perfect night to do a little star gazing. In the kitchen he finished off a big glass of water. He needed a shower, and went to tell Mr. Piotrowski that he was done for the day. Jobe was standing guard by Mr. Piotrowski's reclining chair, and Scott immediately realized something was wrong. His hands trembled as he pulled the headphones aside and felt for a pulse. He knelt down and put one hand to the forehead and another to the chest. He reached inside of himself and started to push with all the strength he had. He drew so much power that his body began to vibrate. Jobe erupted into a growl and sank his teeth deep into Scott's forearm. Scott stared in shock as the shepherd barked violently in his face. He realized that all he could feel was emptiness. The spark, the energy that was his friend had been extinguished. What remained was a cold, lifeless shell. A cry of anguish echoed through the house. He collapsed to the floor, his body wracked with violent sobs. He curled into the fetal position with Jobe beside him. The dog licked the wound on his forearm as it healed. He cried until he had no tears left to cry. Jobe got up and padded away. He returned a few minute later, and curled back up against the broken boy. He was aware of sounds, but they came from far away as if in a tunnel. Lights from the driveway flickered against the windows of the house. Sheriff King called his name. When the sheriff didn't get an answer he picked the teenager up, carried him to the kitchen, and placed him in a chair. Jobe resumed his post next to the recliner. A man in a coat arrived. He went to the front room, and returned a short time later. He looked into Scott's eyes and snapped his fingers around his head. He sat at the kitchen table and filled out a form. There was a squeal of a tire and the crunch of gravel as a car slid to a stop in the driveway. Honour and Joseph came through the kitchen door followed closely by Judge Upcott. Honour cupped his face in her hands and said something but he couldn't make it out. There was a rapid conversation taking place, but it was just sounds. Out of nowhere Mrs. Delgado appeared. She had a hot cloth and used it to wash his face. She put a cup to his mouth and he drank. The conversation stopped when two men in dark suits arrived. They brought a wheeled stretcher in through the front door. There were muted whispers as they took their charge away. The man in the coat left a copy of the paper he signed on the kitchen table, and departed. Hands led Scott up the stairway to the guest bedroom. Somebody put a blanket over him and Jobe jumped onto the bed. It was late morning when Scott opened his eyes. He felt stiff, as if his insides had been taken out and put back in the wrong order. He took a hot shower and brushed his teeth. He walked downstairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Mendoza gave him a hug and steered him to the table. She sat a plate down in front of him and handed him a fork. "Mrs. Delgado was here during the night, I took over this morning," she explained. "I can't taste anything" he said after a bite. "You need to eat." He nodded. "Have you fed Jobe?" he asked. The big dog was resting his head on Scott's thigh. "It's all taken care of." Judge Upcott arrived and had a whispered conversation with Mrs. Mendoza. He came over and put a hand on Scott's neck. "Hey, big guy, how are you?" "I've been better." "Do you feel up to a trip to town? We have things we need to take care of, but first I need to take a look at something in Mr. Piotrowski's office. Would you walk me up there?" They went upstairs and Judge Upcott sat in Mr. Piotrowski's chair. "Do you know where he kept his estate papers?" "Filing cabinet, bottom drawer," Scott replied. The judge opened the drawer and pulled out a folder. He opened the folder, turned it around and showed it to Scott." A hand written note read, 'If you're reading this then you need to go see Honour Black.' The note concluded with the law firm's address and phone number. "That's a good thing. It means he was organized, and he hadn't prepared any last minute changes." They went back downstairs. "Are you stuck here?" Scott asked Mrs. Mendoza. "No sweetie, this is my shift. Somebody else will be here this afternoon. Don't you worry about a thing." Judge Upcott wasn't feeling very talkative, and Scott appreciated the quiet on the ride into town. The mood was somber at Honour's office. She had been crying, and she hugged him for a long time. Joseph shook hands with the judge, and they all settled into their seats. "Scott, there are some things that we need to address. I know this is the last thing you probably want to do, but let's try to get through it, okay?" "Okay." "Mr. Piotrowski was prepared for this, perhaps more so than anyone I've ever known. He left very specific instructions. He wants a closed casket and a grave side service conducted by the VFW chaplain." "I'll stop by the funeral home and check on the arrangements," Judge Upcott said. "Thank you," Honour said. "Scott, Alex designated Elijah as his executor. That means he will see to it that all of Alex's wishes are followed, and that the probate issues are resolved. As his lawyer I'll run most of that, but Elijah will be there all along the way. There's no other way to say this, but Alex left everything to you. There are a few small bequests, but everything else will fall to you." "Why me?" "It's what he wanted," Honour explained. "Scott, you were closer to him than anyone after his wife died." Joseph said. "All of us could see that. I think most people thought Alex would slip quietly away. You came along and it was like he was a younger man. Don't begrudge him his final wish, or the good times you two had." "Honour, maybe it would help if you told Scott some of Alex's instructions?" Judge Upcott offered. "Yes, of course," Honour said. "The will is very specific. He wants you to sell the county house and property, minus anything you might want for yourself. The sale of the household contents should benefit the women's auxiliary. That's all the property except for that portion which he wants you to donate to the county." "The county?" Judge Upcott asked. "What's that about?" "Dinosaurs," Scott said. "They found dinosaur tracks on the big parcel of land he purchased," Honour clarified. "We'll address it later, he left some complex instructions." "Well, leave it to Alex to pull a surprise like that. He never mentioned it to me when we talked about his estate," the judge shook his head. "This next instruction is in regard to the Fort Stockton property. It is not to be sold, and Mrs. Monroe is to retain her employment. He also has a small bequest for her retirement." "I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about," Scott said. "What Fort Stockton property?" "The old house?" Honour prompted. "The Piotrowskis lived there before they moved out of town. He never showed it to you?" "No, never." "And you've never met Mrs. Monroe?" Honour asked. "Never." "Adele Monroe," Judge Upcott said. "It tells you what kind of man he was, to take care of her like that." "There are a few other instructions, things he wants given to the VFW, but we can talk about them later. He also left a letter for you." Honour took a letter from her desk and handed it to him, "You don't have to read it now." Scott put the letter in his pocket. "The only other thing today is that you need to sign this," Honour said holding a pen out to him. "What is it?" "The title to the truck. He gifted it to you, that means you can drive it now. You have a month to take care of the title, but get it on your insurance as soon as you can. Park the motorcycle, that's my request." Scott signed and started to hand it back. "Put it in the truck," she told him. "Does that meet with your approval, Elijah?"' The judge nodded. "When will you start probate?" he asked. "I could go before the court today if I had the current bills. I have a complete inventory, the estate is debt free aside from any pending utility bills, and the will is solid. It should be very straight forward. We could go before the probate court next Monday if that works for you? My first act will be to apply for a Muniment of Title to get the property transferred and skip a lengthy probate proceeding. The probate judge could wrap the entire thing up in a couple of weeks if his calendar is clear." "Monday is fine," the judge said. "Scott, probate will take about four months if the muniment isn't granted, that's our average here in Fort Stockton when there are no disputes between heirs and debtors." Scott nodded as if he understood what they were talking about. "Why don't I head to the funeral home now? Make sure everything is okay there." Honour agreed, "Then I'll take Scott to meet Mrs. Monroe, and I'll also tell her about the bequest." It was a short, but quiet ride over to the house. Scott realized he had been by the house before, but without knowing its connection to Mr. Piotrowski. It was a well kept, two story house with an attached carport. An elderly black woman emerged from the side door as Honour parked. She was rail thin, but she walked with a strong step and her eyes were clear. "Hello, Adele," Honour greeted the woman. "Honour, this must be young Mr. MacIntyre." "You've already heard," Honour guessed. "This morning at the beauty parlor. Have you come to evict me?" "Adele," Honour said. "You know better than that. Alex left specific instructions for your continued employment. He's also left you a retirement fund. Scott will be responsible for the house now, and I thought you two should meet." "Well let me get a look at you boy," Mrs. Monroe said. "You're a strong one. I can see what Alex meant. Do you know who I am?" Scott realized where he had heard the Monroe name before, "Your sons were friends." "They were hooligans together. Alex and Verna's boy, Jack, killed himself with the drugs. My boy went to live with his father's people in Kansas City. Got himself thrown into prison, and then the AIDS killed him. Only Billy Mason made something of himself. Everybody else shunned me, but not Alex and Verna. They gave me a job." "Mrs. Monroe, what is it that you do here?" "Call me Adele," she said. "I'm the landlady, and cook. We rent rooms out. No drinkers or smokers allowed." "I see," Scott said as he tried to process what Mr. Piotrowski had set up here. "Do you need anything? Are there any repairs that should be seen to, something that you've wanted done around the house or property perhaps?" "The house is in fine shape. You could have knocked me over when Alex brought Billy Mason around last year. They put a new roof on, painted. Did all kinds of repairs." "Mr. Mason does good work. If you need anything, please call me," Scott asked Honour for a piece of paper so he could write his number down for the woman. "That Bill Mason turned into a fine man," Adel was saying. "You should see what they did to the garage apartment." "Garage apartment?" "Let me show you. They came and worked on it this summer. It used to be packed full of boxes with an old dingy apartment above the garage, but Alex had it cleared out and they redid the upstairs." The detached garage was set back from the street. Mrs. Monroe produced a set of keys and handed it to him. I don't feel like climbing the stairs." There was a brand new staircase built on one side of the garage. They were wide steps that led to a second story deck which ran the length of the side of the garage. There was room for some deck furniture, and maybe even a barbecue grill. Scott unlocked the door at the top and went in. The interior was spacious and brightly lit by the numerous windows and a well placed skylight. It looked to be new construction, not a remodel. There was a decent kitchen open to the living room, separated by a combination island and bar top. There were wood floors throughout the apartment. The open plan apartment with its vaulted ceiling had space for an office. The bedroom was modest but functional, and the bathroom had a large tiled shower. "Did you know about this?" he asked Honour. "No," she answered. They went back down the stairs and Scott opened the main garage door. The floor had been finished with a durable synthetic product, and there was a system of shelves and storage space bolted to the walls. "Adele, is there a tenant for this apartment?" Scott asked. "It was only finished a couple of months ago, and Alex hadn't told me to list it yet." "Do you like dogs?" "Some dogs I like, some I don't." "Have you met Jobe? Mr. Piotrowski's dog?" "That's a fine animal." "Would you mind having the two of us as tenants?" "Would you really move in here?" she asked. "As fast as I can," he told her. "Do you like gumbo?" she inquired. "I don't think I've had any," he replied. "You'll like mine," Adele said. "What day is the service?" "It should be Thursday," Honour said. Mrs. Monroe patted Scott's arm, "You come by afterwards and we'll have gumbo. It'll take the chill from your bones." Honour drove Scott downtown where they met Judge Upcott. Honour went back to her office and the judge took Scott to lunch. The judge ordered, and Scott went with a simple salad. "Everything go okay at the funeral home?" he asked. "I hate those places," the Judge said. "Alex spelled out his wishes very clearly. He's prepaid for everything. The damn ghoul still tried to sell me a more expensive coffin." Scott looked at the judge over his glass. "He has since apologized," the judge said with a grim smile. "What did you think of Adele Monroe?" "She seemed nice." "I don't think those three boys were close friends, but they managed to get themselves into some pretty big trouble. Her boy and Alex's boy were the instigators. Bill Mason was only along for the ride. After they got caught there was hell to pay. The community was in an uproar. The fires had everybody on edge and the farmer whose barn burnt down was put in a financial hole." "She said her son died of AIDS in prison." "Yep. Word of that went around. It's tough enough being one of the few African Americans in the county. That's kind of sad considering our history. People shunned her as if somehow the HIV virus had been spread by her. It was the 80s, people didn't know any better, or so we say. There wasn't much common sense being used I can tell you that." He must have had a puzzled look on his face because the judge explained, "Buffalo soldiers. You should read about them if you haven't. They were garrisoned here." "Mr. Mason turned out okay," Scott said. "His old man beat the hell out of him. We'd call that abuse today, but Bill's the only one who turned out to have any sense. It took him a long time to earn the town's respect back though." The judge was taking him back to Mr. Piotrowski's house when Scott worked up the courage to say what was on his mind. "Mr. Piotrowski had the space above the detached garage at the house in town remodeled into an apartment," Scott said. "More rooms for Mrs. Monroe to rent, that's good for both of you. Nice investment." "I'm going to move into it," Scott announced. "Mrs. Monroe will be close by if I need any hands on adult supervision." The judge was quiet for several minutes. "What do you think?" Scott asked. "Well, I was thinking that you have just established de facto emancipation as opposed to de jure. I'm your legal guardian, but we both know it's a technicality. The physical custody by Broken Creek has been effectively rendered moot by our friends at the Justice Department. If you don't already have the resources to support yourself, you certainly will after the estate clears probate." "But what do you think?" Scott repeated. "I'm thinking I'll miss our quarterly lunches." "I wouldn't want to stop having lunch. Who else am I going to brag to about my grades?" Scott asked. They rode in silence for a few more miles. "It's a temporary solution, and not completely legal, but I'll agree to it on two conditions," the judge said. "No drinking and no wild parties." "Agreed." "And you park your motorcycle," the judge added. "Not you too?" Scott complained. "Honour says the same thing. Mr. Wahl hates them with a passion that borders on the scary, and now you." "Why does Everett hate them?" "He calls them a rolling death benefit." The judge snorted, "I'll have to remember that one." Sheriff King was waiting for them when they arrived at the house. He was having coffee with Mrs. Delgado on the back steps. Jobe was hovering nearby. Mrs. Delgado gave Scott a big hug, "How are you?" "I've been trying not to think about it." The judge and the sheriff had a private conversation. "Abuela, I'm not going to live at the ranch anymore." "You're not?" "No, I'm going to move into town. Do you know Adele Monroe?" "I know Adele," Mrs. Delgado said. "A room at Alex's old house?" "How come nobody ever told me about her? Anyway, there's a full apartment above the garage and I'm going to move in. I'll go by the ranch tonight and collect my things." Mrs. Delgado hugged him again, "Good!" The sheriff came over and pulled him to one side. The men explained that they needed to move Mr. Piotrowski's guns. Their removal was tricky as a matter of law, but the Sheriff had some leeway when it came to firearms, or so they claimed. Scott didn't feel like fighting over that point since he couldn't legally own the rifles until he was eighteen or the pistols until he was twenty-one. The problem was that the sheriff had looked for the safe, but couldn't find it. Scott smiled for the first time that day, "Follow me." He took the men into the storage building and revealed the hidden safe. "Now that's pretty damn slick," the judge commented. "Alex collected some very fine guns," the sheriff said, "and the man could shoot." Scott helped them load the weapons into the back of the sheriff's truck. Sheriff King had a copy of the estate inventory that listed each weapon and its serial number. He checked them off and wrote a receipt for Scott. He signed it, and then had the judge sign it as a witness. "I'll store these for you. When it's time, you come see me and I'll turn them back over to you." "What about my .22?" Scott asked. "Where is it?" the sheriff asked. "Upstairs closet." "Every young man should have a .22, Walt," Judge Upcott said. "Better let me have it," the sheriff decided. "You're underage, and without adult supervision, being found with any of these weapons would get you arrested." He went in to visit with Mrs. Delgado after the two men left. She fixed him some hot cocoa and they sat in the kitchen talking. She told him stories about when she knew the Piotrowskis in the early days, the fun times they had, and how Mr. Piotrowski never could resist a garage sale. Jobe came through the pet door and bumped Scott's elbow with his head. "I guess that's my signal. I'm going to take Jobe and we'll go clean out my room at the ranch." Jobe jumped into the truck and they headed up the road. On the way Scott told the dog about how they were moving to town. He parked by the barn and walked to the rundown bunkhouse. It didn't take long to gather his things. He took the flag down from the wall and folded it. The last thing he did was take a wrench and unbolt the pull-up bar from the rafter. He walked out onto the bunkhouse porch and peeled the strip of tape with his name on it from the chalkboard chore board. He headed toward the barn with Jobe at his heels. He tossed the pull-up bar into the bed of the truck, and put Jobe in the cab telling him that he'd be right back. Scott went in search of the foreman and found him by the paddock. "Thought I'd let you know that I'm leaving the ranch." "You too?" the foreman replied. "I won't be far behind you. Good luck to us both then. Maybe I'll see you around." They shook hands and went their separate ways. Scott never did see the Rewcastles. He'd ask the sheriff, or the judge to explain things to them. Back at the house, Mrs. Delgado had assembled a list of what he'd need to furnish an apartment. Most were things he'd never considered. His own apartment was going to require some serious shopping he realized. "The contents of the house are yours right?" she asked. "Then let's look around for some items that you could use." "Isn't it ... too soon?" Scott said, feeling uncomfortable. "In a time like this, the busier you are the less time you'll have to sit and brood. You my sweet boy are a brooder." He couldn't argue that point. "Besides, what would Alex be doing at an estate sale right now?" she asked. "Looking for bargains." "So let's make him proud, and find you some bargains." She started in the kitchen and told him what items he needed. He was taking the bread box, she decided, it was handmade. He'd have to buy new tableware of course. She wasn't going to let him be one of those one fork one plate bachelors. He should take a side table. Everybody needed one eventually. He wouldn't go into the front room. She took a look and returned. She hadn't seen anything he'd want or need. Upstairs Scott said that he wanted the office furnishings. She took a while to survey the two bedrooms. Finally she decided that he was taking the antique dresser, or his future wife would kill him if she found out he'd passed it up. He'd have to buy a new bed set, something modern she suggested. It wasn't so painful he decided. He'd still need to do a lot of shopping. Mrs. Delgado busied herself setting aside some boxes of dry goods for him. He'd need cleaning supplies she informed him. Jobe sniffed at Scott's pocket, he reached to rub the dog's nose and felt the letter. "I'm going to take Jobe for a walk. We'll be a half hour or so." "I'll get supper started," she told him as he walked out the kitchen door. Scott walked until he couldn't see the house. He found a favorite rock and sat down. He took the envelope and tore it open. He returned to the house an hour later. "I was starting to get worried," Mrs. Delgado said turning to him. "What's the matter?" Scott held the envelope up, "He wrote me a letter." "What did he say?" "A lot. He wants me to be happy. I'm going to miss him so much," he said as his lip began to quiver. "Come here," she said as she pulled him to her. "He'll always be with you. Remember the good times and treasure the things he taught you. Now go wash up. I need to get some food into you." They had a nice dinner. Mrs. Delgado said she was waiting for somebody to show up and then she'd go home. Her relief came in the form of two sheriff's deputies. The deputies expressed their condolences. "What are you guys doing?" "We're going to leave a spare sheriff's department car parked out at the top of the driveway." "Okay, I'll bite. Why?" "Deterrence," one of the deputies explained. "When there's a death, sometimes people seek to take advantage." "Theft," explained the other. "An empty patrol car?" Scott asked. "Hey, it works. Are you going to be okay here on your own?" "I'll be fine. Thanks guys, really it means a lot." He had to admit, seeing the marked patrol car sitting by the road would make you think. At worst it would slow the occasional speeder down. He got up around one a.m. and put on his running clothes. He put on his old backpack and let himself out of the house. Jobe wanted to follow him but he told him to stay and guard the house. He returned shortly before four a.m. There was no chance of going back to sleep, so he used the time to move furniture and prepare for his move to town. His babysitter for the day showed up around eight. He was surprised that it was Bea Upcott. She asked if he minded her company. "Of course not. My goal today is to stay so busy that I can't think of anything else." "Good plan," she told him. "So what are we doing?" "I'm moving to a new apartment in town." She offered her shopping skills and he accepted. He showed her the furniture pieces he was taking, and she complimented him on his taste. "That was mostly Mrs. Delgado's doing," he explained. "How do you plan to move it all?" "I'm going to call the 'two guys and a truck' movers." "Oh they're great," Bea said. "They're always so eager to help." He was sure her outfits had nothing to do with their motivation. The movers brought blankets and furniture dollies and made quick work of the job. They still had room on the truck and asked if he had anything else to move. "You have any tool chests?" one of the brothers asked. "Those are a pain to move by yourself." It was a good idea. He opened the storage building and pointed out what he wanted to take. The smaller items he could get on his own. He filled a box with a few miscellaneous things and put it on the truck. They got the first rolling chest to the truck. Scott helped them get it on the hydraulic lift gate. A few more loads and they were done. They even managed to fit his bike on the truck. He gave them the address in town and told them he'd meet them there. They had a caravan with Bea Upcott bringing up the rear. Mrs. Monroe had a big smile when he showed up with the moving truck. She gave him a set of keys. Bea Upcott moved through his new apartment checking every nook and cranny. "It's nicer than the first couple of apartments I had," she proclaimed. The brothers put the tools in the garage and unloaded the furniture. Bea directed as they moved the furniture upstairs. She even tipped them before he could get it taken care of. "Bed, couch, some bar stools, maybe some deck furniture," she ticked the items on her hand that she thought he needed. "Linens, you'll need linens." "Hey if they don't throw in free delivery, call us and we'll give you a good deal," one of the brothers said as they climbed into the cab of their truck. "Thanks guys," he waved. "Shopping?" Mrs. Upcott said with a gleam in her eye. "How about we meet for lunch, then go shopping. I need to stop by the tax office, and see my insurance agent." She quickly agreed. Karma seemed to be on his side, he got the truck title taken care of in record time. They would send a new title to his new address. That reminded him; he needed to fill out a change of address card. This was good, he was staying busy, he realized. He had the truck added to his insurance, and got a couple of quotes on renters insurance before he realized he wasn't really renting. He was going to own the thing. He would need to get the insurance on that figured out. Lunch with Bea Upcott was interesting. She asked if it was true that he knew Everett Wahl. When he said that he did she asked to be remembered to him. Bea cut a swath through the local stores with a vengeance. Scott tried not to gawp at the first receipt; it was longer than his forearm. She even talked him into buying a queen sized bed after rejecting his attempts to buy a single. He'd never seen a bed where the mattress was taller than his waist. She assured him it was the latest thing. His furniture would be delivered that afternoon the stunned salesman agreed after Bea brushed her charms against him. He had time, so he dropped by the high school and left a note for Principal Reynolds. At the extension campus he went in search of his English professor's office. The man shared an office with another instructor who politely ignored him. "Are you dropping the course?" asked the professor. "I've only missed two days. I'm burying a friend tomorrow, so I won't be back in class until Friday." "This isn't high school, I don't assign make up work." "I'm not asking for any." "You better think about what's important. I don't hand out easy grades," the professor sneered. "Maybe you should think about those evaluations we'll be filling out at the end of term," Scott snapped. "What do you mean by that? Is that a threat?" "Just something to think about, Professor. See you in class," Scott turned and walked out of the office. The other instructor's eyes were wide as he passed him by. When he got back to the apartment the furniture guys were throwing the remnants of the furniture's protective wrapping into the back of the truck. "Your landlady let us in," one of the guys explained. "Do I need to do anything?" he asked. "Just verify that nothing was damaged and sign off on it." They gave him a quick tour. It all looked good and he readily signed the delivery confirmation sheet. He looked around, locked up, and went to go get Jobe. It didn't take long to grab all of Jobe's supplies. On the trip back to town he explained about the apartment and that for the time being he was going to have to ask to be let out like a regular dog. He'd check with Mr. Mason about having a pet door fitted. Jobe sniffed every inch of the new apartment while Scott put out fresh water and food for him. Scott realized he still needed a ton of things before the apartment could be considered livable. He unwrapped a new pillow and hit the couch. He'd figure out how to wash his new sheets later. It was strange waking up in a new place. Outside it was cold and grey and he could hear the wind whistling. It would take a while to get used to city sounds. There were messages on his phone from several people. He returned calls and assured all that he would be at the service on time. Jobe got an improvised bath in the shower. He tolerated it when Scott told him he had to look his best. Scott brushed him, and declared him to be the best looking dog in Pecos County. Jobe returned the compliment by licking Scott's face. He dressed in his best clothes and tied the black tie Mr. Piotrowski had given him. He ran a cloth over his shoes like he'd been taught. He checked the time on his Omega watch. He let Jobe out and told him not to get messy. Mrs. Monroe emerged from house wearing a long coat over a black dress. He asked if she wanted to ride with him, but she declined. He took a deep breath and backed out of the driveway. There were a lot of vehicles at the cemetery. Scott got Jobe out and clipped on his lead. He kept a tight grip as they walked over to the gravesite. The casket was sitting there covered in an American flag. The vivid colors transformed the object into something almost majestic. One of the veterans from the VFW was fussing with the flag's corners. The flag had been secured to the casket to keep it from flying away in the wind. There was an honor guard from the VFW, they had formed a line. All the VFW vets were recognizable by their garrison caps festooned with buttons and badges indicating their service. He walked over and shook their hands and thanked them for coming. There were faces he recognized, and those he didn't. Bo and Ed were there with their parents. They came by and mumbled their condolences. Lilly and Janie were in black dresses. He almost didn't recognize Honour; she was huddled against Joseph and seemed to disappear into a large black coat. The judge was there and Bea nodded at him. Jorge came over and grasped his hand. Mrs. Delgado handed him a piece of paper. "Names of those who sent flowers," she whispered. He thanked her. It wasn't something he ever would have thought about. He took a quick glance and was surprised to see Mr. Wahl's name on the list. Rico Gomez and Noah Easterbrook were there along with some other people from the engine shop. Scott had a warm memory about them all working together on his motorcycle, organized somehow by Mr. Piotrowski. It took him a moment to recognize Harvey Peterson, the gunsmith from Alpine, he had shaved and his hair was neatly trimmed. He walked up and said that he had something for him. He was carrying a large, highly polished wooden box. Scott gave his keys to Jorge and asked if he would put the box in the truck. He shook hands with Mr. Peterson and thanked him for coming. The sheriff arrived along with several deputies. Scott saw Adele Monroe arrive. She stayed at the back, until Mr. Mason spotted her. He went over and guided her to stand with his family. The chaplain stopped and had a few words. He assured him that the ceremony would be brief. There was a small group of chairs next to the gravesite. The judge had him sit in the one closest to the casket. Jobe took up position beside him. He wasn't sure how the seating order was determined, but Honour sat next to him with Joseph. Jorge handed his keys back and sat down with Mrs. Delgado. The judge and his wife got a seat, and there was one left over for Sheriff King. The chaplain spoke. He told the story of the Piotrowski family. It had highs and lows like a lot of families. The chaplain emphasized Mr. Piotrowski's service to country and his pride at having served as a Marine in the Korean War. He offered a brief prayer. He asked those seated to stand, and he stepped to the casket. "Sergeant Aleksander Piotrowski has gone to be with his wife and son. We honor him this day." He called attention and backs and legs scattered throughout the gathered mourners stiffened in response. He commanded, "Hand salute," and a dozen hands flashed through the air. Men representing all different branches of service from different eras and wars executed the same snappy salute in perfect synchronicity. It would have made any parade ground instructor proud. A bugler from the high school began to play Taps. The final notes of the haunting melody echoed amongst the stones. The chaplain intoned the words: Day is done, gone the sun From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky All is well, safely rest God is nigh. Fading light dims the sight And a star gems the sky, gleaming bright From afar, drawing near Falls the night. Thanks and praise for our days Neath the sun, neath the stars, neath the sky As we go, this we know God is nigh. The honor guard moved to the casket and proceeded to fold the flag. Their task done, the leader handed the flag to Scott, and the honor guard filed out. The ceremony was over. Scott and Jobe stood by the casket and he shook hands as the mourners filed by. The crowd had gone. "Scott, why don't you go home?" Judge Upcott asked. He looked tired. "I'm alright, sir. I think I'll see it through. You go on home. I'm sure Bea would like to get out of the cold." The judge nodded, and patted his arm. Scott and Jobe stood by the casket and waited. Minutes passed, perhaps dozens of them. Finally one of the cemetery workers walked up and removed his cap. "Sir, would you mind if we ... continued?" "No, of course not. You go right ahead. You don't mind if I stay?" "No, sir. If you'll stand aside a little we'll finish up here." There's nothing noble about putting a casket into the ground. The two men worked quietly, their motions practiced. Their first task completed, they removed the straps from the casket and pulled back the large tarp covering the dirt that had been removed to make the grave. He spotted a shovel. "Would you mind?" he asked. The two workers exchanged looks, "No, sir. You go right ahead." Scott removed his jacket and placed the flag on it. The wind was colder, and the clouds had gathered. It was quiet in the cemetery. Scott tucked his tie into his shirt and put the watch away for safe keeping. Jobe, and the workers, watched as he grabbed the shovel and dug in. ------- Chapter 20 Afternoon, November 15, 2007 Scott closed the truck door and watched as Jobe went to investigate a bush. He balanced the folded flag on top of the polished wooden box and walked toward the apartment stairs. Mrs. Monroe came out of the house and Jobe trotted over to her. He sat politely while she patted his nose. "I thought it was a nice service," Mrs. Monroe said. "It won't be the same without him around." "No, it won't," Scott agreed. "I thought it was a good turn out." Mrs. Monroe murmured her agreement, "Get yourself sorted, and then come over and visit for a spell. I'll feed you some of my gumbo." "Yes, ma'am. I'd like that." He whistled for Jobe and the dog scrambled up the stairs. Scott took a hot shower and changed into a comfortable pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt. The apartment needed a lot of work, but he'd have the weekend to get it into shape. There were multiple messages on his phone so he spent several minutes returning calls, reassuring friends that he was okay. He was going to have to call Chicago at some point, but he put it off. Jobe made circles in his favorite doggy bed, trying to get comfortable. "I'm going next door. I'll be back." Jobe completed another circle, and flopped down. Mrs. Monroe showed him to a chair at her kitchen table, and set a bowl of warm goodness in front of him. The kitchen had a lot of character. He wanted to look around, but the flavors that flooded his mouth distracted him. "This is really good, Mrs. Monroe," he exclaimed. "Adele," she insisted. "It's my chicken gumbo recipe, I do a traditional version, but it's easier with chicken." "What is this sausage?" Scott asked as he puzzled over the flavor. "Andoullie," she said. "My sister's boy in Lafayette makes it. He's got his own store and he ships it to me special." "Well it's really good." He made quick work of the gumbo, but declined Adele's offer of seconds. The warmth radiating from his stomach was going to put him to sleep if he didn't get up and start moving around. "Is the laundry place down the road any good?" he asked. "The washateria? It's clean, and the men here use it. You need to do laundry? I've got a little washer and dryer I could let you borrow, if it's an emergency." "Thanks for the offer, but I've got a bunch of new sheets and towels that I need wash. I am going to have to start doing some regular laundry, but not today. I don't mind going down the street." "I go to the washateria when I change the bedding. You can't beat those big commercial dryers. If you had your own machines there's a place in the garage for them." Scott tried to remember if he'd seen laundry hookups in the garage, "I'll look into it, thanks. What kind of people stay here anyway?" "Temporary workers mostly. We have two oilfield men on a six month lease. You won't see them much. They leave early, and stay out late. There's another man. He's a long term renter, been here about three years now." "I'll try to make it a point to say hello then. Thanks again for the gumbo, it was a real treat." Mrs. Monroe told him she also made a pretty mean étouffée that she'd fix for him sometime. He didn't know how he could repay her for the meal, but told her if that she needed any work done around the house to let him know. She also agreed to keep an eye out for Jobe while he was at school. At the washateria he got a pile of change from the coin machine and carefully read the instructions on the plastic packaging the sheets were in. He purchased a miniature box of soap from the vending machine and started loading the oversized washer. "Don't use that much soap," a voice commanded. The voice belonged to a middle aged woman. "Use about a third. Then add some fabric softener." He held up his new measurement. "That's better," she picked up her hamper of dry clothes and started to leave. "Thanks." "You're welcome." He was alone in the washateria. The bright overhead lights buzzed, and the machines put out a steady beat of noise. Somehow he found it comforting. There was too much to think about, so he did his best not to think about anything. Eventually the wash cycle ended and he moved his load to the dryer. Back at the apartment he let Jobe out to visit the fence line while he made the bed with freshly laundered sheets. The toll of the day quickly caught up to him, and he had no trouble dropping off to sleep. It was dark when he woke up. One side of him was warm, the other was cold. "You have your own bed you know," he told Jobe. Jobe jumped down and ran to the front door. Scott let him out and went to investigate the thermostat. He discovered that the heat wasn't even turned on. There was a drawer in the kitchen full of booklets about the appliances. He dug through the drawer until he found the directions for the digital thermostat. Jobe slipped back in through the partially open door, and came to see what Scott was looking at on the wall. Eventually he got the temperatures set and the heat kicked on. There was a musty smell as the warm air began to circulate. He put on his running clothes and went out into the cold morning. There was frost on the rooftops. He ran slowly taking in the houses around him. He needed to learn this new neighborhood. Jobe trotted along with him. He completed a circuit and picked up the pace. After his shower he tried to make headway on the apartment. He unboxed the new kitchenware and started a load in the dishwasher. He couldn't think of any other way to configure the couch and chair so he left them where they were. The nook where he was setting up his office was separated from the living room by a knee wall. The area was perfect for the desk and credenza. He had all of Mr. P's files in a box. He wondered if he should give them to Honour. He plugged in a power strip for the laptop and desk light. He was going to have to find out about getting an internet connection. The sun was coming up, and he considered skipping school. It was Friday. He could start a three day weekend and get a lot done out at the house and here in the apartment. He thought about what Mr. Piotrowski would have said, and got ready for school. Scott had never truly appreciated the benefits of living in town. He was halfway to campus before he realized he'd never have to ride the bus again. If he wanted, he could leave school and have lunch at the apartment. A little of the black cloud that had been surrounding him faded as he considered how much easier things could be. English composition went about as expected. The professor ignored him, and Scott was thankful. He only had five more weeks until the semester ended. Things at the high school were better. His teachers made sure he knew what to catch up on. Friday meant a home football game against their biggest rival. Scott used his pass to skip the final period pep rally. He had things he needed to do. He went by the apartment, changed into some work clothes, and took Jobe to the house. The marked patrol car had been moved. It was sitting in the driveway closer to the house, but appeared to have done its job. The house was quiet. Jobe sniffed around, but stayed close to him. It didn't take long for Scott to assemble a few boxes. There were plenty left over from the old online auction days. He went through the kitchen and grabbed a few things he needed. Upstairs he got all the pictures and photo albums down from the closet. Some of the photos would go to the VFW, and a few would go to the Pecos County Historical Society. He had no idea what would become of the rest. He knew he wanted a few for himself. In the laundry room he took a good look at the washer and dryer. They were old machines, and Mr. Piotrowski had considered replacing them. Scott decided to stop at the multi-purpose hardware store in town when he had a chance and see what they had in stock. How much did a new washer and dryer cost anyway? He had no idea. His exercise gear was still in the storage building. The heavy bag was easy to take down. He loaded it and the rest of his exercise gear onto the back of the truck. He secured the weights between the heavy bag and weight bench so they wouldn't slide around. Jobe sniffed around his dog house and Scott went to look at it. It was bulky, and fairly heavy, but could be moved. He could lift it himself, but it would be a problem if Mrs. Monroe happened to be looking out her window when he unloaded it. "We'll get it this weekend," he assured the dog. They went for a long walk around the property. He was going to miss this place. He found his rock and sat down to make a phone call. "Lauren?" "Scott! How are you, this is a surprise." "Where are you?" "I'm at the apartment. Donna's out, and I'm thinking about ordering Chinese." "Listen, I have some bad news." He went on to explain about Mr. Piotrowski's passing. They shared a few teary moments. He assured her that he was going to be okay, but confessed it had been hard on him. He told her to tell Donna not to worry about the dinosaur tracks. Mr. Piotrowski had left provisions in his will for the land to be preserved. He was glad he didn't have to call anyone else. He stopped at Meritt's Corner to fill out a change of address card, and checked his post office box for the last time. Jobe barked when Scott turned into the driveway at the apartment. There were two cars parked to the side of the driveway and the Mason and Mendoza families, minus the boys, were waiting impatiently. Jobe trotted over to greet the girls while Scott shook hands with Mr. Mason and Mr. Mendoza. "What's all this?" Scott asked. "You are coming to dinner with us, and then we're going to the football game," Mrs. Mendoza informed him. "But—" "But nothing." "I need to unload the truck." Mrs. Mendoza took over from there. She demanded his keys and had Lilly and Janie carrying boxes up the stairs before he could even think of protesting. The men helped him unload the bed of the truck and move the workout gear into the garage. "How do you like the apartment?" Mr. Mason asked. "This project helped keep our heads above water this summer. I was real thankful to Alex for thinking of us." "It's great. Listen, I have to ask, did he tell you what he had planned for it?" Mr. Mason shook his head, "When he first mentioned renovating the garage I thought he was thinking about a ground floor apartment, maybe something to use in case his health took a turn for the worse and he needed to be closer to the hospital. The upstairs apartment was a surprise to me." Scott ran his hands over the motorcycle parked in the corner. He wondered what else Mr. Piotrowski had planned for. "We better get up there before the ladies rearrange your furniture," Mr. Mendoza said. The ladies were poking around the kitchen, opening cabinet doors and making comments. The girls were stacking boxes neatly near his office area. "Where do you want this?" Janie asked pointing to the box and flag he'd left sitting on top of the knee wall. "That's okay Janie, I'll get it." He moved the box over to his desk, smoothing the folded flag as he set it down. "You've made a good start here," Mrs. Mendoza decided. "Thanks." "It's a little dark in this kitchen, Bill," Mrs. Mason complained. Mr. Mason walked over to the counter and moved a box of dry goods. Task lighting hidden under the counters flickered on. He pressed another button and lights over the island bar lit up that area. "I didn't even know that was there," Scott said. Mr. Mason spent a few minutes showing him the light controls and explained a few other features of the apartment. He also said that he could install a pet door for him, which Scott gladly took him up on. Being at the football game was good medicine. The Masons and Mendozas were an enthusiastic cheering section, but Bo's mother put them all to shame. There was something about the pitch of her voice that carried over the crowd. Scott could see Bo wincing a few times down on the field, and that was with his helmet on. After the game they met the tired football players and took them out for pizza. Bo and Ed were curious about the apartment, and quickly agreed to help Scott move the dog house Saturday morning. Saturday, November 17, 2007 Scott picked the guys up a little after eight and headed out of town. Conversation was awkward at first, and each expressed their condolences again. "Let's not dwell on it, okay guys?" Scott asked. They agreed to change the subject. "I can't believe you're going to be living in an apartment by yourself," Bo said. "It's not that much different than at Broken Creek." "No way, it's a lot different," Bo said. "You have your own place, nobody telling you what to do, you could have an awesome party." "Party?" Scott tried not to laugh. "The three of us and Jobe? We're a real party bunch. Listen, I can't have any parties, no crazy stuff. I'm going to need your help to put a stop to any of that kind of talk if you hear it going around, okay?" "Sure man." "How are you going to afford it?" Ed asked. "Mom wondered if you were getting some money from the state?" Scott sighed, it was inevitable he knew. The problem was that he didn't want to lie to his friends. He settled on a partial truth, "I can trust you guys, right?" "Of course," they both insisted. "Mr. Piotrowski left me the house and some other things in his will. I'm going to own the apartment, so I'm not paying rent." "Wow," said Ed. "Yeah," Scott said. "Wow about sums it up." "You know what you need," said Bo. "A huge flat screen." "And a game system," Ed added. "I'll get right on that." Between the three of them they managed to lift the dog house and get it on the truck. The old house seemed small without Mr. Piotrowski, and Scott didn't know how many more times he could come out here. He treated the guys to an early lunch at Meritt's and then they continued on to town. At the apartment Scott backed the truck in and the guys bailed out to unload the dog house. "Where do you want it?" Ed asked. Jobe was running back and forth between the garage and the house. Scott made a quick decision. "Let's put it by the side door to the garage. That way it will be under the deck." They struggled with the bulky dog house, but were able to set it down without anybody getting hurt. Jobe came over and sniffed around. He seemed pleased. Scott threw open the main garage door, and showed them around. "What are you going to do with the motorcycle?" Ed asked. "I don't know. Everybody wants me to stop riding it. I guess I'll drain the fuel and store it. I don't think I could ever sell it." The guys helped him set up the workout gear. They hung the heavy bag, and drilled holes to bolt the pull-up bar to one of the exposed ceiling joists. Ed shook his head at the crudely made pull-up bar, "Scott you should come by the shop and get one the ones we're making now. This thing is rusted and I think this weld even has a crack." Scott took the bar and looked at the weld, "Hey this was the prototype. I should probably donate it to the Fort Stockton Historical Society." Ed laughed. "Seriously, I like this bar. I'll run by and see Rico, give him some grief about the weld." "This is a great workout space," Bo said. "You weren't here with your dad's crew this summer?" Scott asked. "I told you it was pretty slow. He idled me so he could spread the hours around to his crew. Otherwise we wouldn't have had that bit of fun with the Lewises." Scott snorted, "Yeah that was a real ball. If you guys want to get together and lift, let me know." They talked about working out in the off season as Scott showed them upstairs. The guys really liked the apartment, but ragged on him for not having a TV and for the serious lack of snacks to munch on. "Man if this was my place I'd get rid of all the furniture and put in a pool table and some video games. Then I'd have a big popcorn machine in one corner and a slurpee machine in the other," Ed declared. They laughed and talked about the crazy things he should do with the apartment. The guys goofed around for a while longer and then Scott ran them back home. After dropping them off, he drove downtown to the hardware store. He was inside browsing when his phone rang. "Mr. Wahl?" "Scott, did I catch you at a bad time?" "No, sir. I'm in the appliance section of the local hardware store looking at a washer and dryer. I'm seriously thinking about getting a washboard and a laundry line." Mr. Wahl chuckled, "Listen, I was thinking about driving down to see you this afternoon. Are you going to be around?" "I've moved to an apartment, if you have a pencil handy I can give you directions." "Mrs. Black gave me the address. So you don't mind if I come down?" "Not at all, come on down. I'll take you to eat some great Mexican food if you do." "Now I'd like that. Scott?" "Yes, Mr. Wahl?" "Buy the washer and dryer." Scott hung up and turned to the salesman, "Can you deliver this today?" The salesman took his card and ran it through the reader. His eyebrow twitched in surprise when the transaction cleared. "We'll deliver it this afternoon." ------- The hardware store delivery people were just leaving when Mr. Wahl arrived. Scott was surprised to see him driving a big Crown Victoria. It was a nice car, good for long drives, but it wasn't the Mercedes or BMW he'd imagined a banker would own. Mr. Wahl retrieved a large framed object wrapped in heavy brown paper from the backseat. He had a soft leather case slung over one shoulder. "Housewarming gift," he explained lifting the frame. "I like the new washer and dryer. That's a bold color choice." Scott smiled and shook hands with Mr. Wahl. "They've been trying to unload the pair. I guess nobody else wanted neon-turquoise. Come on up and I'll show you around." Mr. Wahl froze when Jobe scrambled from his doggy bed. "You okay with dogs?" "As long as he doesn't try and eat me." Scott had Jobe come over and make his manners. "He's a beautiful dog. I've seen some of this same breed, but they weren't nearly as friendly as your Jobe appears to be," Mr. Wahl said. "You've appealed to his vanity, he'll be a friend for life now." Mr. Wahl handed the housewarming gift to Scott who started unwrapping it. "It's by the same artist that did my painting." Scott set the painting on the couch and stepped back from it. The star of this piece was a beautiful palomino horse and its rider. The cowboy was sitting forward in his seat gripping the reins as if he was making a decision. Saddle bags and a bed roll helped fill out the story. The rider was looking out over the prairie watching a rain shower in the distance. The clouds were lit up by the sun, and the artist's use of color had made it a truly dramatic piece. "Mr. Wahl, it's amazing." "I thought you'd like it. Set it against a wall for a couple of days and see if you like where it's at. Then move it to another spot. When you're happy with it, hang it up." "I'll do that. Thank you." Scott offered Mr. Wahl a drink, and they sat down at the bar top. "So what brings my private banker down from the big city?" Scott asked. Mr. Wahl nodded and removed a few documents from his leather case, "First, I wanted to extend my condolences on the loss of your friend." "Thank you, and thank you for the flowers at the funeral. It was very thoughtful." "It was the least that we could do. Obviously I've been in touch with your lawyer. She explained the nature of the estate, and several issues that are going to arise from it. I'm here to help sort those out." Scott nodded his understanding. Mr. Wahl gathered his thoughts, "Scott, I'm still not sure you appreciate your new standing. You have access to an amazing amount of resources for lack of a better term." "You're disappointed that I haven't purchased a big mansion yet?" "Quite the opposite in fact, and I think this apartment is perfect for you. What would you do rattling around in a big old place anyway? No, what I mean is that you don't have to worry about whether or not you can afford a washer and dryer, or anything else for that matter." "I've been reading the materials you've been sending me. You don't think being frugal is a good thing?" Scott asked. Mr. Wahl studied his client carefully, "No, I'm not saying that. I worry about a lot of issues for my clients; bad investments, shady people after their money, relatives who keep wanting more and more, and all the other things that can go wrong including out of control spending, but with you there are so many more things to worry about." "Because of my age?" "Exactly so, but I agree with Mrs. Black and Elijah Upcott. You've got a good head on your shoulders. I don't want you to go crazy, but you shouldn't be afraid to spend money when you need to, or want to." Scott got up and refreshed Mr. Wahl's water glass. "Mrs. Black sent me the highlights of Mr. Piotrowski's estate. Do you have any questions for me before I get into it?" "No," Scott replied. "I'd like to hear your thoughts on it." Mr. Wahl referred to some notes, "Let's talk about property. Normally I'd advise you to hang onto that big piece of land outside of town, but I understand its sale is a condition of the will. Do you know why?" "Mr. Piotrowski knew me pretty well." "I'd like to have met him," Mr. Wahl commented. "I think you would have liked each other. Anyway, he wrote me a letter. One of the things he mentioned was that if I had my choice I'd probably stay out there in the country and become some sort of hermit. He didn't want that, but his will specifically mentions keeping this property, although he never showed it to me. He loved his surprises. I can only guess that he wanted me to move into this apartment someday." Mr. Wahl patted Scott's arm in sympathy, "So let's talk about this property. The boarding house has some expenses; taxes, miscellaneous costs, a modest salary for Mrs. Monroe, but the mortgage was paid off long ago. Solid investment I'd say. There are some problems." That surprised Scott, "What kind of problems?" "Nothing we can't take care of. First issue would be insurance coverage, you could probably get it but it would be prohibitively expensive. Your employee, Mrs. Monroe, doesn't have a health plan. The utility companies won't let you put anything in your name, as a minor. In short, lots of little complications." "I didn't think it was that bad." "It's not really. We'll setup a small property management company for you, a subset of the firm's own company. Mrs. Monroe can remain as the agent. Anything she needs will only be a phone call to Midland away, and we'll get her on a benefits package. The management company can handle all of these little day to day issues. This setup will come in handy when you go away to college. We can even use the company to handle the sale of the other property." Scott let a breath out that he didn't realize he'd been holding. "What else?" he asked. Mr. Wahl looked at his notes again, "There are estate taxes to deal with, but you'll have to let probate run its course. The bank accounts and investments from the estate we'll handle as they're released to you. You've got a good lawyer so I'd say you're set." Jobe came over and bumped into Scott's leg. He excused himself and let the dog out. He explained that he was going to have a pet door put in so Jobe could come and go as he liked. "Show me around this place," Mr. Wahl said. Scott gave him the grand tour, it didn't take long. Mr. Wahl nodded his approval when Scott showed him his box of receipts. "You mind a few suggestions?" Mr. Wahl asked. "Please." "Get a couple of rugs to throw down on these wood floors. It will be more comfortable for you and it will help cut down on noise. Find an artist you like and get a colorful print to hang up. That will help brighten up the space." Scott looked around, "Okay, I can see that." "No television?" asked Mr. Wahl. "I'm not a big TV watcher. I thought about one for movies, but what I really want is something to play music on." "You like music?" "I love music." Mr. Wahl smiled, "I know some people. Would you let me handle it for you?" "You have stereo people?" "Of a sort. I'll have them come by soon and get you setup. Consider it a house warming gift from the firm." Mr. Wahl watched Scott's face and waited for his reaction. "It's very considerate, thank you," Scott replied. "You're learning," Mr. Wahl said. "Is that a display box for the flag?" Scott walked to the desk and carefully set the flag aside, "Actually I don't know. A friend of Mr. Piotrowski's gave this to me at the funeral." He opened the box and looked inside. Mr. Wahl walked over for a closer look. He whistled when he saw the contents, "That is a beautiful handgun." Inside the highly polished wood box was a glass display case trimmed in the same kind of wood. Fixed to a blood red velvet background was an elaborately engraved 1911 pistol. The pistol had an ebony finish which was highlighted by gold engraving. The grips were the same richly colored wood as the case, in a burl pattern, offset by an inlaid gold medallion representing the United States Marine Corps. With Mr. Wahl's help, Scott carefully removed the display case from the box. They admired it in silence. Mr. Wahl reached into the box and pulled out a stand that would allow the case to be displayed on a flat surface, or as he showed him, it could be flushed mounted to a wall. "Is it a problem for you to have this?" Mr. Wahl asked. "I was thinking about that. I can't legally own the weapon as a minor, but it's a bit of a grey area. If it was under the control and direct supervision of an adult guardian then it would be okay. This one though, I'd say it's more a work of art wouldn't you?" "It is certainly a work of art. Perhaps you could remove the firing pin from it? There'd be no lasting harm," Mr. Wahl said. "A call to your lawyer and the friendly sheriff seems to be in order." They talked for a while longer and then Mr. Wahl followed Scott over to the taqueria. Mr. Wahl appreciated the simple, but honest fare. It was a great meal and Scott enjoyed getting to know Mr. Wahl a little better. Mr. Wahl made Scott promise to call if he needed anything, and then headed back to Midland. Scott thought about calling Honour to ask her about the gun. Instead he put the display case in a drawer and put the box it came in on top of the antique dresser. Monday, November 19th, 2007 It was a short holiday week, and it showed. People were focused on Thanksgiving. Scott had a lot on his mind, but it wasn't the holiday. Honour and Judge Upcott had their first appearance before the probate court. Scott could have gone, but he had another mission. After leaving the extension campus he drove to the courthouse. It was late morning, but the Judge's secretary was apparently on break which made his task easier. He sat at her desk and took three of the large document mailing envelopes, and filled them. He carefully sealed the envelopes, and found the addresses he needed on the secretary's computer. In the basement he waved to the mail guy, and held up the packets. "Conscripted to deliver more mail? What's the good word?" the man asked. "Power to the workers!" Scott joked. The mail worker started laughing, "Not bad." He looked at the packets and tossed them onto the outgoing pile. Afternoon classes dragged and Scott was more than happy to leave. He headed straight for Honour's office to find out how the probate hearing had gone. He saw Joseph first and took the opportunity to catch up. "How's Honour been?" "Funeral was rough. Today it was all about probate, so I think she's working through it. How are you doing?" Joseph asked. "Mostly numb, but staying busy helps." Honour yelled for them to stop gossiping, and to get their butts into her office. Scott found his seat and sat down. Honour glared at Joseph until he held his hands up in surrender. "Now, how are you?" Honour asked him. "I'm okay," Scott replied. "How did it go in court today?" "The probate court granted my motion for a Muniment of Title. We'll be having another hearing next Friday. You'll need to be there." "It's excellent news, Scott," Joseph said. "I don't want to say that having friends in high places helps, but face it, having friends in high places helps," Honour said it with just a hint of a smile. "Honour, I have no idea what you're talking about." "Scott, Mr. Piotrowski planned for this eventuality very carefully. A Muniment of Title is a unique option here in Texas that allows for a streamlined probate and rapid transfer of property. There must be a will, and there can't be any debts or dispute between heirs." "I wish he had included me in some of those plans," Scott said. "Maybe I'd have a better idea of what I'm supposed to be doing." "Scott, all of his plans this last year were for you," Honor told him. "I also talked with Mr. Wahl this morning and he told me about the productive meeting the two of you had. The property management company is a particularly good idea. You need to come up with a name for it." Scott and the Blacks batted a few names back and forth. Scott wanted to name it after Mr. Piotrowski, but Honour said that would only confuse people. She wanted MacIntyre in the name, but Scott turned that down flat. Joseph kept coming up with fun names; "Lost Property Management" was his favorite. "What about your initials?" Honour suggested. "SWM?" Scott frowned. "It would sound like a pool company." "Or a personal ad, what's the 'W' stand for?" asked Joseph. "Wayne," Scott replied as he puzzled over the personal ad remark. "Wayne Property Management," Joseph tried the words out. "That's it, I like it." "I'll run a title search and see if it's available," Honour said. "Scott, is the name alright with you?" "It's as good as anything I can think of, why not," Scott decided. After he left the law office he went to go see Rico Lopez at the new welding shop. He didn't recognize any of the workers, and received a few suspicious stares when he asked to see the boss. Rico got a big kick out of seeing the original pull-up bars he had built. He had one of his guys take it to the media blaster and clean off all the rust. The welds were redone and they even painted the bars so they wouldn't rust again. "Come back anytime and I'll teach you to weld," Rico insisted. ------- Thanksgiving was spent with the Mendozas. Robert Mendoza was back from Arizona State, and the family was in high spirits. Jorge and Mrs. Delgado were in attendance as well. It was a full house and Scott couldn't help but be cheered by the family atmosphere. The Cowboys were playing and the living room was packed with diehard Cowboy fans. Janie announced her support for the opposing team, and soon found herself under a pile of bodies made up of her siblings. They tickled her until she swore her allegiance to the Blue Star. Scott kept his mouth shut since he preferred the other team in Texas, the hapless Houston Texans. He snuck into the kitchen in hopes of finding something to tide him over. He was taking a close look at what had been one of Mr. Piotrowski's favorites, jalapeno-cheddar cornbread. Mrs. Delgado slapped at his hands. "Hungry?" she asked. "Starving. Everything smells so good." "Then you'll just have to wait like everyone else," Mrs. Delgado replied with a smile. "Scotty, I thought you should know, I quit working at Broken Creek." "When?" "I gave my notice the day after you moved out. Mrs. Rewcastle said there was no need to drag it out and told me to go ahead and clear out my things." "The place won't be the same without you. What will you do now?" She smiled, "With Jorge's county job I don't have to work unless I want to. Maybe I'll volunteer somewhere." "Happy Thanksgiving, indeed," he said sharing her smile. Scott left the Mendoza's hours later weighing a couple of pounds more than he had when he arrived, or at least he felt that way. The ladies had made sure that he had several containers of leftovers to take with him. Jobe was full of energy when Scott got back to the apartment. The big shepherd had been on a tear since Mr. Mason had come over earlier in the week and installed the pet door. Mrs. Monroe claimed to have spotted him roaming all around town. In response Scott had purchased a high visibility collar and made sure that Jobe's tags were prominently displayed. Jobe was keenly interested in the Thanksgiving leftovers and Scott had to buy him off with a few treats. He flopped onto the couch and closed his eyes with a groan. He was almost asleep when Jobe dropped one of his running shoes right on his crotch. "Hey!" he protested. Jobe sat there panting. Scott cracked an eye open and looked. The dog wasn't going away. "Good grief." Scott got up, grabbed his coat, and took Jobe for a walk around the neighborhood. It was cold, but the light exercise was exactly what he needed. One neighbor was already stringing Christmas lights and waved as the duo passed by. Invigorated by the walk Scott decided to tackle a project he'd been avoiding. He opened the boxes of photos and started to sort through them. He had one pile for the VFW, and another for the county historical people. Mr. Piotrowski had taken a lot of photos of Fort Stockton in the 1960s and 70s. There were pictures of parades and various other events that might interest the historical society. Each photo had a date and often a cryptic remark or people's names written on the back. He was keeping a photo of Mr. Piotrowski in uniform, and another of him after a boxing match. The black and white photo showed him covered in sweat, but Mr. Piotrowski had a huge smile and held one gloved hand up by his head in victory. Scott was happy to find a photo of the Piotrowskis and Delgados posed together. It must have been taken in the mid 70s and it looked like they were at a dance. He set it aside to give to Mrs. Delgado. Scott rubbed Jobe's head as they both sat on the floor looking at what remained. "What are we going to do with these old family photos?" Scott asked. Jobe didn't have any answers. Friday morning Scott and Jobe headed out early to take advantage of the holiday break. He wasn't sure how soon the household contents would be sold, but he wanted all of Mr. Piotrowski's personal items removed first. After a short call to Honour, she confirmed that there was no reason to retain the old bills or mail. Scott moved a couple barrels far enough from the house so as not to be a danger, and started a fire in each. He sat on an old chair and fed junk mail to the fire. There was several years' worth of old bills and statements, so it would take some time. A sheriff's deputy stopped by and told him that the department was going to retrieve the empty cruiser on Monday, but they would continue to keep a close eye on the house. Scott asked him to thank the other deputies on his behalf. He answered his phone on the drive back to town. "Hello?" "It's Ed, where have you been, I went by the apartment." "I've been out at the old house. Lot of work left to do, but I've called it a day and am heading back." "You still need help?" asked Ed. "Sure, if you don't mind spending Saturday moving stuff." "Come by and get me in the morning," replied Ed. "Will do." Scott treated Ed to a big breakfast at Meritt's in the morning. The waitress expressed her sorrow over Mr. Piotrowski's passing. Scott didn't have the heart to tell her that he'd moved to town and wouldn't be back that way much anymore. It was good to hang around with Ed. Otherwise spending all that time at the house would have started to get to him. Jobe went to the front room and curled up on his bed there. Scott hesitated to go into the room. "Is this where it happened?" asked Ed. "Yeah." It didn't take long to check the room over. They rolled up the rug and pushed the furniture against the walls. Next they opened the pocket doors to the living room. The room barely got any use. Mr. Piotrowski avoided it, like Scott wanted to avoid the front room. The only time Scott had been in it in the last year was to dust or vacuum. They repeated what they'd done in the other room. There was a lamp that Scott decided he wanted, so he put it in the truck. In the kitchen they emptied all of the cabinets, and stacked the plates and glassware on the countertops. You couldn't give away anything that had been opened, so they filled a trash bag with old spices and opened boxes of miscellaneous food stocks. For lunch they split a bottle of apple juice and some energy bars they'd found. They made quick work of the bathrooms leaving a couple of emergency toilet paper rolls, and the hand soap. The rest they trashed. The office upstairs had already been cleaned. They stopped and looked at the empty room. "This was a really nice office," Ed commented. "Mr. Piotrowski sure loved it." The beds had already been stripped of linens. It didn't take long to empty the closets of Mr. Piotrowski's clothing. They left it on the bed. They took a slow tour of the house checking to see if they'd missed anything. They finished upstairs when Ed stopped walking. "Scott?" "Yeah?" "Have you checked the attic?" Ed said pointing above his head. Scott looked up at the little square framed access hatch. "You just earned dinner, I never would have thought about it." The two of them retrieved a wooden ladder from the storage building and got it upstairs without damaging the walls. They both had flashlights. Scott went up the ladder first. After a shove he got the hatch open and stuck his head inside the dark space. "See anything? Ed called. "Yeah, there's a bunch of stuff up here," his voice was muffled by the dead air of the attic. Scott climbed the rest of the way. There were no lights in the attic other than the flashlight and the glow from around a vent. "What do you want to do?" Ed asked shining his light around. "You stand on the ladder and I'll start handing you boxes. Stack them in the old office. No need for both of us to be up here. I have a feeling it would be easy to slip and drop down through the ceiling." Ed wasn't going to argue over having the easier job. It took over an hour to clear the attic. Scott was covered in old insulation and dust when he climbed back down the ladder for the last time. Ed laughed, "You look like a ghost." Scott managed to get most of the crap out of his hair. He was surprised there wasn't more space taken up in the office. "It looked like a lot more in the dark," he remarked. "I don't think Mr. Piotrowski had been up there in years." "Yeah I can't see him going up a ladder like that," Ed said looking around the room. "It's still a lot to go through." "Sounds like a job for tomorrow. I can tackle it, let you enjoy some of your weekend." "Nothing doing," Ed replied. "You need the company, and I need to get out of my house." Sunday found them back in the upstairs office staring at the stack of dusty boxes. Ed had just finished telling Scott how his dad was moving the fabrication shop to town. The engine center was going to stay at Meritt's Corner until their lease on the building expired in eighteen months. It was surprising news, and he wondered what it meant for the future of Meritt's. "This shouldn't take too long," Ed said. "Let's get to it then." They found an old wedding dress and added it to the pile of clothes on top of one of the beds. There was an old record collection, but it was in terrible condition. Most of the vinyl was warped and something had eaten at the cardboard covers at some point in the distant past. Scott was the first to find something interesting. He carefully lifted the discovery out of the box and removed the paper wrapping. "What is it?" Ed asked. "It's an old tube radio. Man, it's a beauty. Heavy as hell. I saw Mr. Piotrowski trade one that I don't think was this fancy." "I remember that box. I almost dropped the damned thing when you handed it to me." Scott was all smiles. He plugged it in after checking the cloth wrapped power cord carefully. No light came on. He'd look it over in more detail after he got it back to the apartment. Ed found a box of used toys. Most stuff was junk that they couldn't figure out why it had been saved. There were some old appliances, and a film projector. They never found any film. One of the last boxes opened contained an old uniform and boots. It would go to the VFW. The final box contained a trove of letters. Scott looked at them closely and realized one bundle was all correspondence from Korea. They were love letters. He handed a stack to Ed and told him to look for photos. Out of the entire batch they ended up with only four photos. Three were of marines in Korea, and one was of a young couple but had no names listed on the back. The old appliances that might work they added to the kitchen counter. It took several trips to get all the old boxes to the burn barrels. It took nearly an hour to burn down the old letters and family photos that Scott had brought from the apartment. There was nobody to give them to, and it felt better to burn them than to throw them away. "Nobody writes letters anymore," Ed said. "It's kind of strange don't you think?" "You've got email and text messages." "Yeah but nobody saves them," Ed replied. "Modern life. It's easy to delete." "And I thought I was the cynical one," Scott retorted. They poured water from a bucket into the barrels and ensured that the fires were out. All they had left to do was haul away the trash bags and miscellaneous junk. Ed insisted he'd square it with his dad, so they used the dumpsters at the shop to unload their cargo. "So what's going to happen next?" Ed asked. "With the house." "There will be an auction and all the contents will be sold. Sometime later the house and property will go up for sale." The week after Thanksgiving started the mad rush toward the Christmas holiday. It was the same every year, but with his college class thrown into the mix he started to feel the pressure. If his composition professor didn't like his final paper, he might not pull a 'B' out of the class. He wasn't worried about his high school classes, on balance they were pretty easy, but everything took time. He still had papers to write, and even a group project to finish. A little sweat was required. It was too cold to raise the garage door while he worked out, but he left the side door open so Jobe could come and go. The heavy bag was great for working off some frustration. He'd been hitting the bag for about fifteen minutes when Mrs. Monroe interrupted him. "I'd recognized those sounds anywhere. You've got good power boy, but your footwork is lousy," she announced. "Excuse me?" "Your footwork. You move like an old man. You're slow and you shuffle when you need to be dancing." "You know boxing Mrs. Monroe?" "Adele," she reminded him. "My Daddy was a boxer. In truth he was never much better than a journeyman. He fought for money on the chitlin circuit, which is one reason why we grew up poor. He taught my brothers and a lot of other young wannabes. I know one thing, if you want to improve your footwork you'll go and buy yourself a rope and learn to pick up your feet." "I don't think I'd make much of a boxer." "Then do it to get your blood moving. Daddy always said there was nothing better for a man's heart than to learn to box. Course he died a drunk, broken down old boxer. You're not a drinker are you?" "No, ma'am." "Good," Mrs. Monroe said, and she turned around and left. Scott walked to the side door and watched Mrs. Monroe go into the house. "Do I really shuffle my feet?" he asked Jobe. Jobe responded with a yawn. "Everybody's a critic." By mid-week he was ready to load up the truck and drive toward the horizon. His composition professor was being a real pain, and his high school teachers all seemed to be catching the same disease. Rene suggested at lunch that the problem was really him. He growled in response. He did learn something useful. He got one of the wrestling coaches to show him some basic jump roping routines. He added them to his workout. Scott was in the high school parking lot waiting for a line of cars to turn onto the road when his phone rang. It was Honour. "What are you doing?" she asked. "I'm done with class for the day, and I'm thinking about going home and beating on my punching bag for a while." "You should try yoga," Honour suggested. "I wanted to call and remind you about Friday. We're on the calendar for 10:00 a.m. Don't be late." He hung up and inched closer to the head of the line leaving the parking lot. He spotted a city police officer waiting down the block. That explained the delay. Some kids had recently been ticketed for burning rubber out in front of the school. His phone rang again. "I'll remember to wear a tie," he said before Honour could remind him. "Mr. MacIntyre?" "Sorry, thought you were somebody else. Who is this?" "This is Jerry, with Austin Audiophile. We're about an hour from Fort Stockton, and wanted to know if it would be convenient to come do your install today?" "You guys came all the way from Austin and hoped I was home?" "We do installations all over the state. We'll be in the area for a few days so it's no trouble to fit you in now if that works for you." "Do you need directions?" Jerry said they had it in their navigation system and rattled off his address. Scott told him that it was a garage apartment and he'd be waiting for him. Scott was playing fetch with Jobe when a medium sized double-axle truck pulled into the driveway. Jerry looked like he should be teaching college. He had a salt and pepper goatee and introduced his two assistants as, "the guys." Scott showed him to the apartment, and Jerry looked around with a critical eye. He asked Scott to shut off the central heat and any other pieces of equipment or appliances generating noise. The visitors set microphone stands in different positions and proceeded to take various readings. "We're going to install some acoustic materials to help condition the space, that's not a problem is it?" Jerry asked. "No, go ahead." He was curious to see what it entailed. The guys, at Jerry's direction, proceeded to install an acoustic soffit above where the stereo was going to be placed, and some soft panels they attached to the vaulted ceiling and wall. The idea behind it, Jerry explained, was to soften or diffuse hard reflections. "Your wood floor isn't optimal, but we can work around it," Jerry informed him. Scott suspected that he had the same confused look on his face as Jobe did. The guys then began to assemble a stereo stand. It consisted of large, two inch thick glass shelves separated by flat black risers. The glass appeared to float when it was finished. The workers carefully leveled the stand, and took away the packing material. Over the next half hour they brought up some very heavy boxes, including two primary speakers that took all three men to carry up the stairs. Scott sat on the couch and watched. It was an incredible production. They brought in a big flat panel television and spent several minutes mounting a bracket for it to the wall. "It's on the order sheet," he was told. Jerry talked excitedly about the matched mono amps and the preamp. They ran cables between each device that looked to be at least an inch thick. The audio stack was topped off by a turntable that looked like it belonged on display at an art museum. There was a docking port for an iPod and the entire system could be controlled from a laptop. The wild looking speakers were made by a company with a name that sounded like it belonged to a British accounting firm. "Cross your fingers," Jerry said as he powered up the system. There were glowing lights and bouncing needles. Scott was mesmerized. Jerry initiated some sort of test and a series of atonal sounds moved from speaker to speaker. He had a laptop plugged into the system, and kept referring to it as he twiddled knobs throughout the test. The guys stood around and nodded as Jerry adjusted the system. "Okay, Mr. MacIntyre I need you to sit right here in this chair. It's the sweet spot." He got up and moved. Jerry unplugged a pad from the laptop and showed it to him, "This is your remote. It will control the TV, the Blu-ray player, preamp, everything. You can customize it to do all sorts of tasks through the USB connection on any computer. I want you to press this button." Scott pressed the play icon. Glorious sounds erupted from the speakers and filled the entire room. Jerry made subtle adjustments until the crew agreed that it was as perfect as they could make it. The guys had satisfied smiles while they listened. Jerry tapped a button and lowered the volume. "What do you think?" "I've never heard anything like it," Scott confessed. "Welcome to the club. Being an audiophile is a terrible and wonderful affliction. If you ever want to upgrade, give me a call." "What could I possibly upgrade?" Scott asked. Jerry laughed, "The possibilities are endless. You could get into tube amplifiers, just as one example." Scott smiled. He showed Jerry the tube radio he was working on, and Jerry got a big kick out of it. The guys cleaned up and advised him to keep the boxes for the stereo gear. He helped them carry the boxes down to the garage. Jerry had him sign the installation sheet, and the guys prepared to leave. "Any questions before we take off?" Jerry asked. "Do I want to know how much this cost?" Jerry smiled, "You have a very good friend." "Yeah, that's about what I figured. Thanks." Scott went back upstairs and sat down in the chair. Jobe curled up at his feet. He had a thick pile of component manuals to read through, but he'd tackle them later. He relaxed and let the music wash over him. The stresses of the week seemed to retreat. This, he could get used to. The stereo installation inspired him. That evening he sat at his desk and carefully checked the old tube radio. He had cleaned the wood veneer, and removed the glass bezel over the dial. There was dust and some foxing on the dial that he had cleaned with as delicate a touch as he could muster. The only thing he had left to do was to figure out what was wrong with the radio. He hoped it was a vacuum tube he could replace. He removed the back cover and examined the interior with his flashlight. There was a lot of dust caked onto the components. He flexed his fingers and snuck a peek at Jobe. Since Mr. Piotrowski's death he hadn't thought about trying anything unusual. He reached in and put his hand over a bank of the more prominent vacuum tubes. He concentrated and tubes lit up with power. There was a snap of air which sent dust particles all throughout the case, and a crackle through the speaker. He pulled his hand back and went to find his vacuum cleaner. He stuck the cleaner's nozzle into the back of the radio. Jobe wandered over and sat next to him, looking at the radio curiously. When he was ready he turned the vacuum cleaner on, and vacuumed up all the dust particles that were floating free in the air. He exerted a little energy and a smell that reminded him of solder wafted up from the back of the radio. He took a look and smiled. You'd be hard pressed to guess that the radio was from the 1930s. The interior looked like it was brand new and there wasn't a smudge of dust to be seen. He buttoned the back up, and plugged the radio in. The light over the dial came on and he quickly tuned in a local station. He'd like to see the crazy guy at the electronics store try that. Probate Court, November 30th, 2007 Scott was happy to skip his composition class, but not to be at the court house. Judge Upcott massaged his shoulders and told him the hearing wouldn't take long. Honour showed up and fussed with Scott's tie before they entered the small courtroom. It was a strange experience. The probate judge acknowledged that Mr. Piotrowski was in fact deceased. He had a back and forth with Honour over various technical matters. The hearing had been publicized in the paper ten days in advance as was required. The will was uncontested. All debts had been resolved. There were no heirs disputing, and so on. Judge Upcott testified that he was satisfied. The court clerk was a witness as Scott signed a series of documents. The hearing was over. Outside the courtroom Scott loosened his tie. "It's really over?" he asked. "Probate is over. You can thank Mr. Piotrowski that we weren't doing this four or five months from now. I'll get the paperwork overnighted to Mr. Wahl for you." Honour gave him a copy of the will for his records, and handed him another small envelope from her briefcase, "Safe deposit box key. You'll need to go over to the bank." "I can go with you if you'd like," Judge Upcott offered. "I'd appreciate it, thank you." At the bank they were met by the branch manager. Scott handed him a document the court had given him. The manager looked it over carefully and led them back to the vaults. The box was removed and the manager took it to an alcove in the next room. The manager and the judge gave Scott some privacy. The first thing he saw when he lifted the metal lid was an envelope with his name on it. He sat down, opened the envelope and read the short note: 'Scott. Always have a plan. The contents of this box are for you. If things have gone badly and you haven't been able to get away from Broken Creek, I want you to take what's here and run. Don't come back until you're eighteen. That place will suck the life out of you. I never said it because I didn't think I needed to, but you gave me a second chance at having a son. You'll grow up to be a fine man as long as you don't let the bastards keep you down. Semper Fi.' Scott folded the note and put it in his pocket and stood up to examine the box. What he found dropped him right back into his seat. Sure, he was a millionaire, on paper. This treasure haul was right in front of him. He could touch it. There were three packets of hundreds, each marked with a ten thousand dollar band. There were two tubes of twenty dollar gold coins, each contained twenty coins, and there were four watch boxes. Three of the boxes had never been opened. Scott recognized the vintage watches. Each could easily sell for one of the cash bundles, maybe more at a specialty auction. He stuck his head out of the alcove and asked if there was a box or a bag that he could have. It must have been a common request because the bank manager returned with a cardboard box. Scott transferred the watch boxes and left the rest. He arranged to put the safe deposit box in his name, and drove the judge back to the courthouse. "So are you going to tell me what was in the box?" the judge asked as he opened the truck door. "I think it was his rainy day fund. Some coins and some watches. I'm taking the watches home." That satisfied the judge and he headed back into the courthouse. Scott sat in the truck and thought about what he should do next. He gave serious thought to buying a safe. He picked up his phone called Midland. Mr. Wahl's assistant, Karen, answered the phone. She was cheerful and Scott enjoyed chatting with her until Mr. Wahl was available. "Sorry Scott, I was on the phone. I got an email from your lawyer, congratulations on getting through probate." "That's why I called. I opened up Mr. Piotrowski's safe deposit box." Scott told him about the money and the coins. "Coins, those can be fun. What did they look like? Scott described them, "They had Liberty on one side and an eagle in profile on the other." "Saint Gaudens double eagles, very nice," Mr. Wahl replied. "How much are they worth?" "Gold was at seven hundred and thirty-five dollars and fifty cents a troy ounce this morning," Mr. Wahl recalled the number from memory. "Depending on the condition, and when they were minted, each coin is worth at least that much and probably a bit more." Mr. Piotrowski had been some sort of genius, Scott decided. "What should I do with them?" "Keep them. Gold is on the way up and those Saint Gaudens are highly collectable. I'll declare the cash and cash value of the coins for you so don't worry about that. Keep the safe deposit box, you never know when it could come in handy," Mr. Wahl told him. "I'm taking the watches home." "Well you've already got some of the hobbies, why not?" "What do you mean?" "High end stereo gear, fine watches, next you'll be collecting classic cars." "Well, I have been thinking about trading the truck in." Mr. Wahl laughed, "Okay you got me. Anything else?" "No, sir. Thank you." ------- It was a cold day in December when the contents of the old house were auctioned off. It was small as such auctions went, and didn't take long. Scott recognized more than a few faces browsing around. It was sad to be on the other side of the auction process, but he knew that Mr. Piotrowski would have understood. After the sale was over Scott talked to the auction company representative and thanked them for a smooth sale. Wayne Property Management arranged to have the house cleaned, and there was a trickle of interest. Scott let the professionals worry about it. The semester ended and he was relieved to escape with a 'B' in English Composition. He signed up for Sociology and the companion course to the American History class that he'd enjoyed in the summer. Two classes were the maximum college course load he could take through concurrent enrollment. It didn't mean he couldn't explore his options as a regular student. He signed up for an online Macro Economics class, and the computer never complained. Christmas vacation followed and was a welcome break. Scott enjoyed the downtime. It was tough resisting the urge to go out and buy elaborate gifts, and spend some of his ever accumulating money. The statements that Mr. Wahl sent him were an embarrassment of riches. He settled for modest gift cards for his high school friends. He found an antique frame and gave Mrs. Delgado the picture of the younger Delgados and Piotrowskis he'd found. She loved it. After consulting Karen, Scott bought Mr. Wahl a coffee table book on cowboy art. He hadn't traditionally exchanged gifts with the sheriff, and the judge gave him a little cash each year. This year he treated both of them to a nice dinner. The best gift was learning from his favorite lawyers that they were pregnant. Honour was due in August and Scott couldn't have been happier for them. She wouldn't accept any gifts, but Scott conspired with Joseph and talked him into taking her on a cruise. When asked, he requested music in lieu of any other gifts. He got a nice haul of iTunes gift cards and some vinyl records. Mr. Wahl sent him what he called a 'starter pack' of jazz records. Scott had gotten in the habit of having music on whenever he was at the apartment. He'd purchased some rugs and they really helped to soften the apartment. He'd hung the cowboy painting and the old map of Pecos County. The tri-folded funeral flag was mounted in a case above his desk. He had framed pictures of his parents and Mr. Piotrowski sitting out. He'd even mounted a flag pole bracket to the deck, and regularly flew a flag as he'd been taught. The apartment was more than comfortable, and he had started thinking of it as home. January and the New Year got off to a cold start with four inches of snow. The big Dodge did not like the frozen stuff, and Scott managed to scare himself when the back end got loose on him. He added some sandbags to the truck bed to get some weight over the rear axle, but he did start to think about trading the truck in. The three quarter ton truck was bigger than what he needed, and it was a fuel hog. The college semester didn't start until halfway through the month, so Scott enjoyed some very relaxed mornings. It was late January when news of the dinosaur tracks finally went public. The Piotrowski property had been divided with a generous tract of land going to the county. Honour negotiated a rock solid deed restriction per Mr. Piotrowski's wishes. If Pecos County decided that it no longer wanted the land, the land reverted back to the Piotrowski estate. Donna was interviewed for an article on the discovery that ended up getting national distribution. Interest in the remaining Piotrowski property and house picked up considerably after the news. While it was important news, it was not the news Scott had been waiting for. On February 13, 2008, a Wednesday, the paper finally printed the story he'd been waiting on. When he found out he left the extension campus and drove quickly to the apartment. Jobe was excited to see him and wanted to horse around, but Scott was just making a pit stop to retrieve something. He promised to make it up to the dog later. Scott drove over to Pecos County Welding. "Is Rico around?" he asked one of the workers. "No, man, he went over to the other shop for a few minutes." "Mind if I leave something for him on his desk?" Scott asked. "Go for it." "Thanks." Scott left and made it back to campus in time for his afternoon classes. Rico Lopez returned from his trip to the other Mendoza shop. The recently relocated fabrication shop was going to generate a lot of new work for his welders. "Boss, that big white kid was here. He left something for you on your desk." Rico sat down and picked up his old lock pick set from the newspaper on his desk. He was wondering what it meant when his eye caught a headline circled in red. 'Broken Creek Boys Ranch Shut Down: Owners Arrested' 'Fort Stockton, Texas – Investigators from the Attorney General's Criminal Investigation Division, in conjunction with the Department of Family and Protective Services, arrested Lawrence and Roberta Rewcastle, owners of the locally operated Broken Creek Boys Ranch. Authorities were alerted to systemic irregularities related to the residential foster care facility when a whistleblower turned over copies of the couple's financial records to the State Auditor and the Office of Inspector General. Sources say evidence of the couple's pernicious fraud is extensive and indisputable. Funds meant for the care of vulnerable foster children were allegedly diverted to support the couple's equine ambitions and a vacation home ... Article continues on Page 2A.' Rico finished reading the article and stared at the lock pick set. "Gringo, you sneaky bastard," he whispered. ------- Chapter 21 Monday, August 11th, 2008 In the six months since the shutdown of Broken Creek, life had been a series of ups and downs. Scott found that he missed Mr. Piotrowski more the longer he was gone. There were friends he could talk to, but none of them had the same ability to look to the heart of a problem and ferret out the right bit of wisdom. He'd come to something of a crossroads, and he had a big decision to make about the future. Honour looked at Scott over her notepad and frowned at him. Family Services had been persistent in their desire to talk Scott about his unorthodox removal from the foster care system. A call to the Justice Department had finally put a stop to that line of inquiry. "So, you're off the hook on that count," Honour said. "Good, they've got more things to worry about these days," Scott replied. "Do you think the new residential facility is going to get any more anonymous donations?" Honour asked. "If they need it. Mr. Wahl tells me the only holdup is getting the final occupancy issues resolved on the expansion. For some reason the state is being a real stickler when it comes to agency regulations." Honour snorted. After the Rewcastles had committed fraud under the state's watch for over a decade, a bonanza of agencies were suddenly very attentive to foster care issues in Pecos County. The shutdown of Broken Creek had caused quite a stir, and the whole mess was headed to court. The new facility in Fort Stockton opened in late-spring. The residential compound, a renovated house, was at full occupancy from the start. Scott kicked in a bit more money, and the second anonymous denotation triggered an unexpected flood of community support. A neighboring house was purchased to expand the program. "Let's go see what that husband of mine is up to, and what he has to say about this other matter." Honour struggled to get up. Her due date was two weeks away but she insisted on coming to the law office a few days each week, despite being ordered to take it easy by her doctor. Scott followed her to the conference room and kept his peace. Honour had been very vocal about how she expected to be treated during her pregnancy. The conference room had been turned into a temporary command center. Joseph was the general-in-charge guiding a massive renovation of a home that the couple had purchased on several acres of land. Honour wanted a larger home where they could raise their children, and Joseph was giving it to her. Scott had driven by the week before, and it looked like they were nearly finished. The contractors were on a deadline to finish before the baby arrived. "How's the project going?" Scott asked. "Painters are behind schedule," Joseph muttered as he concentrated on a timeline he had pinned to the wall. Joseph finally noticed his wife and made a big fuss about having her sit down. Honour tolerated it, but waved him off when he started hovering. "What's the story on Scott testifying?" Honour asked. Joseph motioned for Scott to take a seat, "I don't think they're going to call him." The 'they' in question were the lawyers for the parents of Andrea Jones. The civil case against the Lewis clan was starting next week in El Paso after the Lewis lawyers had successfully argued for a change of venue. Joseph was taking a more active role in Scott's legal affairs because Honour had announced that she was only going to return on a part time basis after the baby was born. She's assured him that she'd be available for any serious legal work he needed, as long as he stayed out of trouble. "I don't know what they think I can tell them if they did call me," Scott groused. "I didn't work for the family for very long." "I wouldn't worry about it," Joseph said. "This kind of thing is routine. I'm sure they're just covering their bases. They've got your deposition, but I can't see how it advances their case. I hope to know for certain before Friday. If they think they might call you, you'll have to be waiting on standby in El Paso." Scott grumbled, "Yeah that sounds like fun." "Like I said, I don't think they're going to bother," Joseph said. "I feel like I'm forgetting something," Honour complained as she tried to get comfortable in her seat. "Luisa Delgado," prompted Joseph. "That's right," Honour said, brightening, "she's been a godsend. Thank you for suggesting her." Scott had been more than happy to bring the two women together. Honour needed someone she could trust to help her out after the baby was born. Scott couldn't think of anyone better with children, or more trustworthy, than Mrs. Delgado. He left feeling hopeful that he wouldn't be called to testify. Scott drove over to the farm supply store and picked up a new bag of dog food before heading back to the apartment. He parked by the garage, and hefted the big bag over a shoulder. "Scott, can you come over and look at something for me?" called Mrs. Monroe from the side door of the house. "Of course, what do you need?" "Some of the outlets in the house are dead." "I'll be right over." Scott dumped the bag in the garage. He knocked on the door and went inside. Mrs. Monroe showed him where a lamp was plugged in to an outlet, but wouldn't come on. "I've checked the bulb. It's only a few outlets here, and in the other room, as far as I can tell," Mrs. Monroe explained. "Have you checked upstairs?" he asked. "No I haven't, but I'll go take a look." The top floor was occupied by the renters. The front half of the bottom floor was common space split between the living room, and the dining and kitchen area. The back half of the ground floor was Mrs. Monroe's private domain. Scott waited until she was on the stairs before putting his hand over the outlet. He closed his eyes and concentrated. He thought of this skill as type of system diagnostics. It seemed to work with animate and some inanimate objects. It worked really well with electrical systems. "I couldn't find anything wrong upstairs," she announced as she reentered the room. "Can I see your bathroom?" he asked. Adele led him to her bathroom, and he spotted the problem, "When they did all the work on the house they updated the wiring. These ground fault interrupt circuits are a great idea, but sometimes they trip." He pointed to the little red breaker sticking out from the outlet. "Push that back in and I think you'll solve the problem." "Well I'll be," Adele said as she pushed the breaker in. "What caused it do you think?" Scott looked around, "Did you vacuum today?" "How did you know?" "Just a guess. If you remember what outlet you used, try to avoid using it for the vacuum next time. If the circuit keeps tripping we'll have the electrician come out. The GFI may be going bad or it's too sensitive." "I'll have to remember to give you a discount on your rent this month," Mrs. Monroe joked. "I can always be bribed with food." Inside his apartment Scott powered up the stereo system. Mr. Wahl had sent him another batch of records. Guitarists were the theme. The set included albums by Wes Montgomery, which he really enjoyed, and in a surprise nod to Scott's love for old country, a double album by Chet Atkins and Jerry Reed. He turned on his laptop and checked to see if he had any new notes from his classmates. He'd maxed out on the number of college hours he could take this summer by taking three classes for each semester, and finals for the last summer session were this week. Each class had their own discussion group. It was a great way of seeing what the class consensus was, but Scott tried to keep his own counsel on what material was most important. He read a few comments and started to edit the essay final for his literature class. Scott's head was bobbing along to Mr. Atkins guitar when Jobe poked his head through the pet door. "And where have you been?" Scott asked. Jobe ignored the question and went to investigate his food dish. "All that roaming around is going to get you tossed in the pound." Jobe meandered over and wedged himself in between Scott's legs and the desk. With a sigh he sat down. Scott worked on his essay for another half hour before printing a final copy and closing the laptop. He retrieved a brush and went to work on Jobe's coat. This was the only grooming he really had to do with Jobe. He checked the dog's ears and teeth regularly, but somehow the dog was remarkably clean and healthy. Jobe stood up and looked toward the door. "Somebody coming?" Jobe went to the door and stood in anticipation. There was a knock at the door and Jobe turned in a circle waiting on the slow human to answer. "Mrs. Monroe," Scott said in surprise as he opened the door. "If you don't call me Adele I'll be tempted to take these cookies back to the house and offer them to our renters," Mrs. Monroe said. "Adele, I'm sorry. Won't you come in?" "No time, but I wanted to get these over to you. They're peanut butter cookies fresh from the oven. The men folk always liked these with a cold glass of milk," she said handing him a warm, foil covered plate. "Thanks," he called as Mrs. Monroe walked back down the stairs. He took the plate into the kitchen and nibbled on a warm cookie. He'd never had a peanut butter cookie before, and they were a nice treat. He took mercy and tossed a piece to Jobe. ------- Scott survived his finals. He'd knocked out sixteen hours of college credits over the summer. Registration for the fall semester closed in a little over a week. He still hadn't made up his mind about what classes to take, but it was going to be an interesting semester. He would only have three high school classes in the morning and two college classes in the afternoon. It was Thursday afternoon and Scott put thoughts of school out of his mind as he rode the elevator to the top floor of the Western Group's offices. He'd spent a number of weekends in Midland over the last half year learning how to be wealthy. He was already rich, but wealth was something that took careful management. The details were left to Mr. Wahl and his team, but it was important for Scott to understand what they were doing and why. Today was something different because Mr. Wahl had suggested a series of portfolio review meetings. For the first, Mr. Wahl had a team of employees on hand. They spent two hours going over every one of his investments showing Scott exactly where his money was, and how he could verify the facts for himself. It was fascinating, but he didn't think he could take another round of charts about projected earnings. He waited for the team to gather their things and leave the room. "That was a heck of a presentation, but what was behind show and tell today?" Scott asked. Mr. Wahl took a seat beside him, "The economy is in turmoil. Compounded with a volatile election, things may get much worse. I wanted you to understand where the money is and what the risks are." "I appreciate that, but this still felt like something a little different," Scott replied. "You're right," Mr. Wahl agreed. "Private banking is in a strange place these days. There are some people flying very close to the sun and I'm afraid they're going to come crashing back down to earth." Scott tried to puzzle out what the banker was saying. "Let's just say that some investors are in for a rude shock. We won't let it happen here and we've shown you why. We've got a few minutes before our next meeting, what's new in music?" asked Mr. Wahl changing topics. "I'm really enjoying the Art Blakey album you sent," Scott replied. "And you were right about Dave Brubeck. I can see why it's a classic. I'm still working my way through the last batch. Thank you for the Chet Atkins and Jerry Reed by the way; it's a lot of fun." "So have you found anything interesting?" Mr. Wahl inquired. Scott had managed to turn him on to Alison Krauss and the modern blue grass resurgence. "I found something I really don't like, experimental jazz violin. Awful, cats mating awful." Mr. Wahl laughed. Scott explained that it was something he found online, but it was too avant-garde for his tastes. Mr. Wahl told him his theory about how it was only other fringe artists who appreciated some of what he called the 'how weird can we make it' jazz. The next meeting was starting. One of the men who worked for Wayne Property Development came into the room with an eager look on his face. "I thought the deal was nearly completed?" Scott asked. Several serious offers had been made on the remainder of Mr. Piotrowski's property. There was some talk of trying to turn the land into a state park. Scott didn't think there was much chance that the area would become a tourist destination, but he had agreed in principle to the offer made by the state. He had no idea how they were going to integrate the county's portion which held the key find, but it wasn't really his problem. "It's the California property, there's been an offer we think you should consider," the man said. "Fourteen-five." The million wasn't needed in these conversations, but Scott liked to add it in his head. It didn't make the unreal numbers any more real, but he tried. "That's a significant bump over the last offer," Scott said as he tried to figure out why. Property prices were down all over, but especially in California's depressed market. The property group had gotten him to back off his demand that they unload the property no matter the price. He'd reluctantly agreed that it wasn't a good decision on his part. The last offer they wanted to sit on was for a little over nine million. The house itself was only worth four million. The rest of the value came from where the property was located. "It is a healthy increase," the property guy agreed. "The offer came from the prior owners, the Carson family." This was not something he had been expecting to hear. Scott looked over at Mr. Wahl who was studying him closely. It took all of the theoretical investment and business decision making concepts they'd been talking about for months and made it very real. "What do you think, Scott?" asked Mr. Wahl. "This feels like a final exam question," he replied. He wondered what Honour's reaction would be. "Go back to them and ask for fifteen even. If they'll go for it, take it. How does that sound?" Mr. Wahl and the property guy both nodded. They discussed a few more details about the transaction and the property guy left them. "Your instincts were right on target. They'll meet the price and I imagine we'll have final paperwork in hand before the end of the month," Mr. Wahl explained. "I thought you'd say I let it go too cheap considering what they offered." "In another deal, perhaps," Mr. Wahl acknowledged. "However, their offer was well over where the market is. Your modest increase says you're willing to deal, and that you're not going to be punitive. It's a good resolution." They went over the provisions of Scott's will since he'd asked for several changes. Honour was handling the will, but since the majority of it dealt with financial issues, Mr. Wahl and the Western Group were contributing most of the language. It seemed crazy to be sixteen and need a will, but as Mr. Wahl pointed out, if something happened to him, his money would end up in the state's hands unless he said otherwise. They also talked about the two scholarships he was endowing. One was for foster kids and the other was a general scholarship for Fort Stockton High School graduates. The awards could be put toward college expenses, or any type of accredited vocational training. Scott was also going to see to it that the Mendoza and Mason families had scholarships. Joseph Black would visit the families after the winter holidays and explain that the estate of an anonymous benefactor was providing the money. If they believed it was at Mr. Piotrowski's hand, then so much the better. It had the benefit of being true, at least as to the source of the money, although his friend had left no specific instructions in those regards. The money would be distributed through the law firm, and Mr. Wahl confirmed that the necessary funds would be transferred after the New Year per Scott's instructions. He had a lot of time to think on the drive back to Fort Stockton. His affairs were in order, and he was one step closer. The best news of the day came when he received a text message from Joseph informing him that he wasn't going to be called to testify in the civil case. It also meant that he could enjoy the last week of summer vacation. Friday night was movie night. The entire gang was getting together and meeting at Ed's house. Molly and Ed were still a couple. Rene was there, but she and Bo had broken up yet again. Fortunately they were still friendly. Both Mendoza sisters were excited to be included in the outing. The teens congregated in the kitchen waiting for Bo to arrive. "Scott, stand right there and don't move," Mrs. Mendoza instructed him. She dragged Ed over to him and made them stand back to back, "I thought so. Scott, you're a hair taller than Ed now." That put him a little over five feet, eleven inches. Ed had an amazing growth spurt the summer before their freshman year. He hadn't grown any taller since, but had filled out. Scott was finally catching up. Bo eventually arrived. He'd purchased an old Chevy pickup in April and the guys had put a lot of hours in on it ever since. They'd replaced everything under the hood except for the engine, as various parts broke over the summer months. Now the truck was running reliably, although it looked a little rough. It was originally black, but now it sported one blue door, a rust red hood, and a primer grey tailgate. The truck body was a series of primer blotches showing all the areas they had worked on. "Where are you going after the movies?" Mrs. Mendoza inquired. "We'll probably get pizza," replied Ed. "Do you have enough money for your sisters?" she asked. "Mom!" Ed complained. "I'll treat," Scott insisted. "Dating sisters is usually frowned upon, especially at the same time," Mrs. Mendoza teased. "Mother," the girls chimed simultaneously. Ed and Molly went with Bo, while the Mendoza girls rode with Scott. The girls gave him a hard time about his dating life, and he accepted it with good humor. The pizza place was packed after the movie. With a week left before school started, Fort Stockton's youth were trying to fit every last minute of freedom in. It was a raucous atmosphere and you almost had to shout to be heard. Tables only quieted down when fresh pizzas were delivered. "There's Lacey," Rene said poking Scott in the ribs. He turned to look and gave her a little wave when she spotted him. Lacey was dating a senior on the basketball team. Scott has been sorely tempted to go over to her house and ask her out on the day she turned sixteen, just to see the look on her mother's face. He stopped caring about it, or so he told himself, but it took effort not to think unkind thoughts about the girl. He returned his attention to the pizza. Monday, August 25, 2008 A low roar filled the gymnasium. It was the first day of school and the student body was busy catching up on a summer's worth of gossip. Principal Reynolds walked to the podium and the crowd slowly quieted down. He gave his standard greeting and welcomed the new freshman. Scott was sitting with his friends and the rest of the junior class. It was going to be a fun semester. For a change from last year he was going to share two of his three classes with friends. "So I worked out a deal with that auto body place," Bo was saying as they walked toward their first period class. "That's great," Ed replied. "There's only one problem," Bo said. "I have to sand and prep the truck first. All they're going to do is spray it." "When are you planning this sanding party?" Scott asked. Bo grinned, "I was hoping Saturday would work for you guys?" They gave Bo a little grief, but both friends agreed they'd be there on Saturday to get the truck ready for paint. Scott had to run by the front office to get his pass to leave campus. Principal Reynolds spotted him and signaled that he wanted a word. "Scott, how was your summer?" "Excellent, sir. Thank you for asking." "What are you taking this semester from Midland College?" "I decided on History of the Cold War, and Introduction to Psychology." "Sounds good," Principal Reynolds said. "Let me know if I can do anything for you." Getting back into the rhythm of class wasn't a big adjustment. If anything, the high school classes were a bit of a break, and he got to spend time with his friends. Scott got an odd text from Joseph on Wednesday. He drove over to the office. The receptionist shook her head, no baby yet. She buzzed Joseph and told Scott to go on back. "Have you been following the trial?" Joseph asked before Scott could even sit down. "No, they haven't changed their minds about calling me as a witness have they?" "That's not going to happen," Joseph assured him. "It's gotten crazy in El Paso. My sources tell me that in court they're saying Buck Lewis couldn't have buried Andrea Jones. They dug up some old medical report about Buck being on crutches at the time because of a badly sprained knee from some misadventure." "How did they find that out?" Scott frowned remembering a conversation he'd had with Mr. Piotrowski. "And if Buck didn't bury her, who did?" "The family hired private investigators and I guess they've been earning their money," Joseph replied. "As to who, it has to be one of the sons I would think. Either Albert or Bernard, but suspicion will be pointing toward Bernard since he was Junior's father." "What can they do about it?" It was Joseph's turn to frown, "I don't think a criminal prosecutor will touch it. With Junior dead the best they could charge would be something related to mishandling a corpse, even if they could figure which one of the brothers was responsible. There's no reason for either one of them to confess now. Since it's a civil trial the burden of proof is less than in a criminal trial, so I think the Joneses are going to prevail. It may end up like OJ. He got away with it in the criminal trial, but was found guilty in the civil trial. They never recovered much money since he was ruined financially." "OJ?" Scott asked. "OJ Simpson?" Joseph prompted. "Football great, killed his wife and her friend. Got away with it, but was found guilty by the civil trial? Trial of the century, '94 or '95?" "Oh that guy. I would have been two or three years old at the time." Joseph mumbled something about getting old. "Speaking of kids, where's yours?" Joseph held up his phone, "I'm on standby." ------- There was still no baby news when Scott went to pick up Ed Saturday morning. The three boys sanded every inch of Bo's truck. They were at it from early in the morning until mid afternoon. It was a productive day, but they were filthy when they were done. Scott borrowed a couple of trash bags to line the seats of the truck before he dropped Ed back at his house. At the apartment Scott climbed tiredly from the truck, and stood in the driveway trying to knock some of the dust from his clothes before he went upstairs. Jobe ran over and sniffed him closely. The dog sneezed which made Scott laugh. "Is that your dog?" called a familiar voice. Scott turned to see Charlie and her older sister, Lacey, walking down the street. "It is. Do you like dogs?" he asked politely. "Yes. What's your dog's name?" "Jobe, would you like to meet him?" Charlie nodded eagerly. The girls walked over to the driveway and Scott introduced Jobe. "His nose is cold," Charlie said. "How come you're so dirty?" "I've been helping a friend." Charlie and Jobe played games while Scott and Lacey talked quietly. It was a strained but civil exchange. Scott looked up when he heard the squeal of tires. An old red pickup truck was screaming toward them swerving almost out of control, black exhaust belched from the tail pipes as the driver accelerated. Scott was frozen in horror as he saw that Charley was directly in the path of the speeding truck. At the last possible second Jobe flashed by and knocked Charlie out of the way. There was a terrible thump as Jobe was thrown by the impact. Charlie was down in the street crying, and Jobe's body lay crumpled a short distance away. The truck was nearly out of sight as Scott ran into the street. Lacey ran to her sister, while Scott ran to Jobe's side. The damage was terrible. Scott could see glistening bone and intestines. Jobe wasn't moving. Tears filled his eyes as he turned to check on Lacey. "Is she hurt?" he shouted. "Scared, but okay," Lacey shouted back. Scott turned and started to prepare his energies. Nothing was going to stop him from trying to bring Jobe back. Before he could begin he got the shock of his life. The damage was repairing itself. Fur rippled and bones were slipping back under skin. "How?" he whispered looking at his hands. Lacey shouted, "Is Jobe okay?" Jobe lifted his head and took Scott's wrist gently in his mouth. He could see blood streaming from the dog's mouth and nose as bone and organs shifted under his fur. The noise in Scott's head and the pounding of his heart faded away. He had a flash of large eyes watching him before everything faded to black. "Scott, what about Jobe?" Lacey shouted again. Scott blinked. What just happened? Lacey and Charley were both shouting. He shook himself and looked down at the dog. "He's cut real bad, and I think there's something wrong with his leg," Scott managed to reply. It was a miracle that Jobe hadn't been more seriously injured. Mrs. Monroe came out of the house, "What's going on out here!" Lacey explained about the speeding truck while Mrs. Monroe rushed to check on the little girl, satisfied that she was okay she moved to Scott's side. "How can I help?" she asked. "Open the passenger side door on my truck," Scott replied. "I'm going to take him to the animal clinic. Can you see that the girls get home?" "I'm going to call the police too," Mrs. Monroe shouted as she ran to Scott's truck. "What kind of maniac speeds down a quiet street like that?" "Sorry, boy, this is going to hurt," Scott gathered the big dog in his arms and lifted. Scott carried Jobe to the truck and placed him gently down on the garbage bag that still lined the passenger seat. Mrs. Monroe came rushing back and handed him a towel she had grabbed from the garage. He pressed it down over the wound in Jobe's side. Scott ran to the driver's side and jumped in. He made sure the girls were clear, and then backed out and turned onto the street, tires squealing. He steered with one hand and looked for the veterinarian's number on his phone with the other. "Animal clinic," the voice at the other end of the phone answered. "This is Scott MacIntyre, I'm bringing my dog, Jobe, in. He was hit by a truck. I'm about five minutes away," he practically shouted the words. "Okay. Dog hit by a truck. Please drive safely, we'll be waiting." Scott had glanced at the speedometer and backed his speed down. He reached over and put a hand on Jobe's flank. He tried to push some of his healing into Jobe, but the energy kept bouncing back to him. "It'll be okay, boy," Scott said more to himself than to Jobe. "The vet will know what to do." Scott brought the truck to a screeching halt in the clinic's parking lot. The vet's assistant held the door while Scott carried Jobe through. The veterinarian was holding the exam room door open and pointed toward the table. Scott set Jobe down as gently as possible while he explained to the vet what had happened. The vet looked at Scott and told him to wait outside. Scott realized he was still covered in dust and filth from working on Bo's truck. He paced back and forth in the waiting room. A woman with a little toy dog complained about her appointment being delayed. The receptionist calmly explained that the vet was dealing with an emergency. Finally the vet came out and asked to speak with him. "I was able to stop the bleeding and sew up the laceration. There's nothing broken, so he's very fortunate in that respect. Unfortunately, x-rays showed that the femur was completely dislocated. I anesthetized him, and reseated the femur head into the hip socket. We have the hip tightly wrapped to keep the ball joint in place. If we are very lucky, it will heal on its own and he won't need surgery." Scott thanked the vet profusely, "When I can take him home?" "I'd like to keep him overnight for observation. He's going to be very sore, and you can expect some significant swelling and bruising to develop over the next twenty-four hours. You'll need to keep him penned for at least a couple of weeks so he doesn't reinjure himself. I'll need to see him again in a week to do another set of x-rays. Go home, take a shower, and I'll see you tomorrow at ... let's say nine?" "Can I see him?" "Tomorrow, he's still not conscious from the anesthesia." Scott stopped at the receptionist's desk to take care of the bill. It was going to be big, but it was one bill he would happily pay. The closer he got to his apartment the angrier he got. He was going to find the driver of that red truck. Mrs. Monroe was outside when he pulled into the driveway. "He's alive, but banged up. The vet's keeping him overnight," Scott explained. "We're not going to be running any marathons anytime soon." "I called the police," Mrs. Monroe said. "The person I talked to said there wasn't anything they could do since the little girl wasn't hurt. Jobe doesn't count under the law, if you can believe that. I took the girls home, and their mother actually tried to blame you!" "It figures, she's not my biggest fan. Thanks Adele, for everything, I'm going to go grab a shower." Scott stood under the shower for a long time. He got dressed slowly and grabbed his keys. He didn't know what he was going to do if he found the truck and its driver, but he'd figure it out as he went. Fort Stockton wasn't very big, but he spent two hours driving around without spotting the red truck. He called Bo and Ed and told them what had happened. He described the truck, and both guys promised to keep an eye out for it. He was early to the animal clinic Sunday morning. At nine the vet unlocked the front door and told him to come on in. Jobe was ready to go home and his tail was thumping loudly as Scott rubbed the big dog's head. Jobe's side had been shaved around the laceration for the stitches. A big bandage and sling were wrapped around the hip joint. The vet gave Scott a bottle of pain pills and a series of aftercare instructions. Scott carried Jobe to the truck and took him home. Jobe walked around the garage stiffly and nosed at his food bowl, but didn't eat. Scott had moved his favorite bed down to the garage and put out fresh water and food. Climbing the stairs was out of the picture for some time. Mrs. Monroe came over and fussed over Jobe before leaving. Scott set up a folding chair and retrieved his laptop from the apartment. He worked on homework while keeping an eye on Jobe. The dog seemed content to sleep. Bo came over with his dad a little after noon. They brought a length of nylon construction fencing and helped Scott build a pen around the garage side door. It would give Jobe enough room to take care of his business, but not so much that he'd be tempted to run around and do more damage to his hip. They stood around outside the garage and talked about the mystery truck. "It could have come from anywhere," Scott said. "I don't know about that," Mr. Mason replied. "This isn't a street somebody from the interstate is likely to end up on. I'd bet it was somebody local." "You said you thought the driver might have been drunk?" Bo mentioned. "Yeah." "I wonder where he was trying to get to?" "I'll be sure and ask when I catch up to him." Mr. Mason cautioned him against doing anything stupid. Scott tried to assure him that he wouldn't. Later that afternoon Jobe got up and managed to water some grass. He moved stiffly, but wasn't acting like he was in pain. He sniffed the fencing and Scott told him that it was only temporary. Scott found his sleeping bag and decided he was going to camp out in the garage with Jobe for the night. It was hot, but he eventually fell asleep. He woke up stiff and sore. The concrete floor had not been comfortable. He stretched carefully and loosened up with some quick calisthenics while Jobe watched sleepily from his bed. The dog started to get up, but Scott told him to stay put. He changed into his running shorts and went hunting. He returned an hour later. He'd covered a lot of ground, but found no sign of the truck. Scott managed to get Jobe to take a pain pill hidden in a treat and went to take a shower. Lacey was waiting with Scott's friends near the parking lot when he arrived at school that morning. She rushed over as soon as he opened the truck door. "How's Jobe?" she asked. "Sore, but alive," Scott replied as he locked the truck with his key fob. "Thank god. Charlie's been driving my mother crazy asking about him. She's calling him her hero. I still can't believe what he did." "Charlie's okay?" Scott asked. "She's fine," Lacey assured him. "Jobe knocking her out of the way scared her more than the truck did. She forced my mother to promise to bring her by so she can see him. Would it be okay?" Scott blew a breath out, "Sure. Let's give him a few more days to heal up first?" Lacey agreed and then hurried off to her first period class. Scott friends gathered around him and peppered him with questions. "Did Jobe really save her sister's life?" Ed asked. "I guess you can say he did," Scott replied as he watched Lacey disappear into a crowd of students. "The truck would have hit her for sure." "He deserves a medal," Molly said. "Bo saw him and can tell you how banged up he was if you really want to know." Scott drove back to the apartment after his last morning class. Jobe was waiting in the fenced in area for him. Scott checked the stitches and the wrapping on his hip. He carefully brushed the rest of his coat removing bits of dirt. Jobe complained when Scott went upstairs to fix his lunch. He brought a paper plate down to the garage and ate sitting in the lawn chair. He tossed a bit of his sandwich to Jobe. Jobe shuffled over and mouthed his treat before flopping down in his bed with a sigh. "I've got to get to class. You behave yourself," Scott told the dog. He enjoyed the college classes he was taking this semester. Both professors made the material interesting. The Introduction to Psychology class was straightforward like any survey course. The history class was more challenging and there was a lot of extra reading material. Sheriff King's truck was parked in front of Scott's garage when he returned. The sheriff was talking with Mrs. Monroe over by the construction fence. "Scott, why is it that I have to hear about this through the grapevine. You couldn't call me?" "It's been a little crazy around here. How did you hear about it?" Scott asked "The little Gregory girl told her entire fourth grade class about Jobe the hero dog, a class which happens to be taught by the wife of one of my deputies. You know how Fort Stockton is. Word travels fast, and a great story travels even faster." Scott pulled the fencing back and let Jobe greet the sheriff. "He's moving better than I thought he would be. What did the vet say?" "That he's damn lucky. Dislocated leg is the worst injury. The wrap is supposed to keep the joint intact. I don't think he'd be moving as good if it wasn't holding. We go back for more x-rays Friday." The sheriff grunted as he took a close look at the long row of stitches, "What can you tell me about the truck?" Scott shrugged, "I've looked for it. It was old, maybe '89 or '90 Chevy two-door short bed. It was painted red. Had dual exhausts and smoked when the driver was on the gas." "Scott," the Sheriff said. "Sir?" "For some of us 1990 wasn't so long ago. Maybe you can take it easy on us old timers?" Mrs. Monroe cackled. The sheriff said he'd have his people keep an eye out for a truck matching the description. Law enforcement was sure to run across the driver again. "The sheriff is a nice man," Mrs. Monroe observed as he drove away. "Yes, he is." "You sure have some interesting friends," she added. ------- Scott woke up with a furry dog pressed up against him. He had slept in his bed after deciding that another night on the concrete floor of the garage wasn't doing him any favors. "How did you get up here? You're not supposed to be climbing stairs." Jobe licked his face. Scott climbed out of the bed and looked at Jobe. The dog was doing his best to look innocent. Scott scooped him up and set him down on the floor. He kept a careful eye on the dog as he walked to the kitchen. Jobe seemed to be moving better, but the complicated sling wrapped around his hip slowed him down. He poured himself a glass of water and put fresh water and food in Jobe's bowls. It was a little after 4:00 a.m. He went and changed into his running gear. Jobe was stretched out on the rug in the living room trying to clean himself, but looked hopefully toward the door when he spotted Scott's running clothes. "You can stay in the apartment until I go to school, and then I'm taking you downstairs." Jobe ignored him and tried to follow him to the door. Scott moved Jobe back to the rug and told him to stay. "No running for you until the vet says it's okay." His morning run turned up nothing. After a shower, he decided to expand his search pattern and went for a long drive before school. He was on the opposite side of town when he realized that he'd better head for campus. He pulled into an abandoned gas station and turned around. This side of town was a bit of a wasteland with empty lots and a few closed businesses. He glanced down a side street and spotted the red truck. It was parked at an angle in the middle of the road with the driver's side door wide open. Scott jumped out of his truck and took in the scene. The driver of the red truck was bracing himself against a light pole while he took a piss. "Hey!" Scott shouted. The driver zipped up and stumbled back to his truck. "You there, stop!" Scott shouted as he ran toward the truck. "Hey asshole, I wanna talk to you!" The truck lurched as the driver tried to put it into gear. The truck peeled out and started to speed down the street. Scott looked around and found a piece of brick. He picked it up and fired it like a shot at the truck. The projectile struck the back window, and the truck swerved off the road and into a shallow ditch. Scott stopped and looked around. There was no one around. Between the abandoned gas station and a burnt out old tire store, there were no witnesses. He ran down the street and approached the driver's side of the truck. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel. Scott opened the truck door and felt for a pulse. The man was alive, but unconscious. Scott could smell stale beer and there were several empty, cheap whisky bottles scattered around inside the truck. There was a jagged hole in the rear window. It had turned opaque and crazed cracks ran all through the safety glass. A bloody lump at the back of the man's head testified to Scott's accuracy. He looked for the piece of brick and found it on the dashboard. Scott picked it up and threw it as far as he could. The man groaned. Scott grabbed him by the face and used the back of his head to knock the remaining glass from the back window into the bed of the truck. Scott held the man by the hair and got a good look at his face. He was just some nameless drunk. Scott let go of his hair and the drunk's face bounced off the steering wheel. There wasn't any revenge to be found here. Scott closed his eyes for a second and made sure he wasn't leaving any fingerprints behind. He jogged back to his truck and went to school. ------- Charlie Gregory finally got to see Jobe. She brought him a big bone which Jobe gamely tackled, and she presented Scott with a picture she had drawn of Jobe wearing a cape. He promised to put it on the refrigerator. Charlie hugged the big shepherd and proclaimed him a friend for life. She made Lacey take a couple of pictures of her and Jobe. The girls' mother stayed in the car the entire time. On Friday the veterinarian announced that he was pleased with Jobe's x-rays. He said the joint looked like it was holding nicely, and there didn't appear to be any ligament or joint capsule damage, so surgery was not going to be needed. The vet changed Jobe's sling and insisted that he wasn't to do any vigorous activities. Scott got a text message as he was walking Jobe to the truck. He lifted the dog into the truck and checked his phone. 'Catherine Alexandra Black born this a.m. 7 lbs, 9 oz. Mother n child doing well. Dad worn out.' He sent a congratulatory note back to Joseph. The local paper published an update about the Jones v Lewis trial. A settlement was reached before the defense was to begin their case. Court observers theorized that the plaintiff, the Joneses, had done very well. Whatever the settlement, the Lewises had escaped additional jeopardy by avoiding a verdict. It was a week before he was invited to see the baby. Scott carefully loaded Jobe in the truck and drove to the new house. He opened the passenger door and watched as Jobe awkwardly climbed down. The sling around his hips made it difficult to move. Mrs. Delgado met him in the driveway and gave Scott a big hug. "Mijo! It's been too long," she exclaimed. She looked over Jobe with a critical eye, "And you need to stay out of traffic." "How's Honour?" he asked. "Come see for yourself." Scott left Jobe outside and told him not to wander off. He appeared content to lie in the sun. Honour was resting in the living room next to a bassinet. She reached into the bassinet and carefully cradled a small bundle. "Cathy, look who's come to visit. This is Scott. Scott, meet Cathy." Scott took a close look at the little pink bundle. She had tiny fists and scrunched her face at being disturbed. "Hello, Cathy. I'm pleased to meet you. "Want to hold her?" Honour asked. "Oh, no thanks." "Go on," Honour urged. Before he knew what was happening, Mrs. Delgado and Honour were coaching him on how to hold the baby. He held her stiffly, afraid to move. "For heaven's sake. Scott, she's just a baby, they're not contagious." Honour said shaking her head at his manner. Mrs. Delgado took Cathy and put her back in the basinet and Scott breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Would you like a drink?" she asked. "Please," Scott replied. Scott sat in a chair and watched as Honour straightened Cathy's blanket. "The house looks great," he remarked. Honour nodded, "I think this baby was waiting for the contractors to finish before she made her appearance." Mrs. Delgado brought Scott a glass of tea and they talked about the house and the new baby. Honour planned to do some work from home. She had an office down from the baby's room. Scott checked his watch and said he'd better get going before Jobe got into too much trouble. "Jobe's here?" Honour asked. "Outside." "I've got to see what this hero dog has done to himself," she decided aloud. It was a big production getting Cathy out of the basinet and suitably bundled before they went outside. Jobe had found a patch of sun and was enjoying the warmth. He ambled over and Scott held him still so Honour could see the long wound in his side. The stitches had come out and the fur was starting to grow back in. Jobe was interested in the baby, but he behaved himself. "He's in a lot better shape than I'd thought he'd be when I first heard," Honour said. She had given Scott a bit of guff over trying to shield her from the news. "I think he's had second thoughts about playing the hero. The pay is low and the medical bills are outrageous." "So what are you going to do about it?" asked Honour. "I was thinking about retiring him to some friends who had a nice house and a few acres of land," he said. "Were you now?" "Not right away of course, but it's probably unfair to go from being a country dog to a city dog." 'Mmmmm, ' was Honour's response as she adjusted her grip on the baby. Scott opened the passenger side door and they watched Jobe jump carefully into the truck. Mrs. Delgado had run into the house and returned with a foil wrapped package. "Tamales," she explained as she handed the package over. He thanked her, and waved to Honour and the baby. ------- September turned to October and Scott's friends were actively conspiring to get him a date for homecoming. When he complained to Ed about the interference, his solution was simple, "Get your own date." Scott looked at Ed and said, "You know, you're right." After classes were over for the day Scott drove home and took a shower. He changed into a nice pair of slacks and carefully combed his hair. He picked a nice collared shirt and checked over his appearance in the mirror. He drove to the Mendoza house, walked up the front steps, and knocked on the door. Mrs. Mendoza answered the door, "Scott, well don't you look nice. Ed's at a scrimmage." "I know. Is Janie home?" Mrs. Mendoza's mouth twitched, "Come on in. I'll see if she's home." Scott walked into the house and stood nervously in the living room. "Janie, company to see you," Mrs. Mendoza yelled up the stairs. Janie came running down the stairs followed closely by her sister, Lilly. "Hey, Scott," Janie said as she looked around the house curiously. "Janie, I was wondering if you'd like to go to homecoming? With me, I mean?" Janie looked at him and shrieked something incomprehensible. "Yes! I mean, yes, I would like to, very much," she gushed. "Okay, great. It's still two weeks away, but I'll pick you up and we'll go, and ah ... well I guess I'll see you then." Janie turned to her sister, and the two girls ran upstairs chattering the entire way. Scott smiled and shook his head. "You realize you've made her year," Mrs. Mendoza said. "I took Lilly two years ago. I figured it was time I took Janie." "You be careful with Janie," Mrs. Mendoza said. "She's not like Lilly." "I will be. I'm just glad there aren't any more Mendoza sisters." Mrs. Mendoza shot him a look, "There are a bunch of Mendoza cousins." Scott made his escape before he said anything else. Friday, October 17, 2008 The two weeks leading up to homecoming had been chaotic. His friends were disappointed that they hadn't gotten to set him up, but they were intrigued by his selection of Ed's little sister. For his part, Ed was taking it in good form. Scott had, after all, taken Lilly at his insistence two years earlier. The group turned their attentions on Bo and Rene. Each was going 'stag' or so they claimed. Ed and Molly planned to ride with Scott and Janie, so it made perfect sense then that Bo was picking up Rene, since they weren't going as a couple, or anything. The day before homecoming, the guys got together at Scott's apartment and spent the afternoon detailing their trucks. Bo's truck had a shiny new paint job, and they all felt pride at how it had turned out. Later, they sat on the balcony and relaxed. Scott had purchased some deck chairs for just such an occasion, and it was nice to sit in the cool evening air. "Wait till prom, we'll have to rent tuxedos," Ed said. "Maybe even a nice car." Bo groaned. "I'm not going, so count me out," Scott replied. "Not going? We're upperclassman, we have to go," Ed insisted. Scott bit his tongue. "Let's survive homecoming, I'm not going to worry about prom until next spring," Bo said. The homecoming dance was chaos. The DJ insisted on playing rap song after rap song. That didn't sit well with the portion of the student body that wanted country and the other that wanted rock n roll. Past dances had done well at balancing the musical offerings. The friends held a quick conference and decided to bail. They'd leave early and head to the pizza place. Word quickly spread among their classmates and there was flood of students leaving the dance. The group managed to get to the pizza place before the crowd and they secured a couple of tables. Scott talked with the manager. She agreed to let them move some tables to create an impromptu dance floor. A half hour later the junior class had successfully taken over the pizza place and the jukebox was cranking out hits. It was a great scene with some kids snarfing down pizza and others boogieing away on the dance floor. Janie was an enthusiastic dancer and Scott tried to keep pace. The breathless couple returned to their table and gulped cold drinks. "This is the best dance ever," Bo proclaimed. He got quick agreement from his table and the tables around him. Kids at another table coined the phrase, "Pizza Fest" and there was widespread laughter. "Who needs homecoming?" another shouted. "Pizza Fest rules!" Scott shouted, "Bo Mason and Rene Keebler for Pizza Fest king and queen!" "Don't you dare," said Rene. By then it was too late. The chant spread and Bo and Rene were forced to take a circuit of the pizza joint. Bo ate it up, giving his royal blessing to all who desired it. Rene kept a stiff smile and glared at Scott every chance she got. They finally ran out of gas and decided it was time to call it a night. Bo left to take the queen home, and Scott drove to Molly's. Scott and Janie sat in the truck as Ed walked Molly to her door. "Did you have a good time?" Scott asked "I had a great time," Janie said. "It was really great how you guys decided to leave the dance like that. The pizza place was so much better." "It was pretty great wasn't it?" Scott replied. "That's something to remember. You'll probably be on a bunch of homecoming and prom committees in the next few years." Janie smiled at the thought. Ed climbed back into the truck and Scott headed for the Mendoza's. It was a short drive. Scott parked and got out. He walked Janie to the front door with Ed following. The three of them stood there for an awkward moment. "Ed." "Yeah?" "Would you go inside so I can say goodnight to your sister?" Ed looked startled, "Oh, sure. Yeah, goodnight. Thanks for driving." "No problem," Scott replied. Scott waited for Ed to close to the door. "Are you going to kiss me?" Janie asked. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "That's not the kind of kiss I was hoping for," she complained. Scott laughed. "It's pretty good for a freshman at homecoming. Thank you for going to the dance with me." "Thank you for asking me," Janie said. He kissed her on the cheek and sent her inside. The following week nearly every junior at Fort Stockton High would claim they had been at the now legendary Pizza Fest. ------- The vet finally cleared Jobe's hip after one last x-ray. The sling had been off for a couple of weeks and Jobe was much happier. The vet warned that Jobe would be at risk for arthritis, and Scott wasn't to let him go running for at least three more months. Scott had taken down the fencing and Jobe was allowed to roam free. He worried about the dog, and he was certain that convincing Jobe to stay home while he went for a run was going to be problematic. His solution was to ask Coach Zell if he could run on the school track after his morning classes. Coach told him that as long as he stayed out of the way of any gym classes, he was welcome to use the track. In decent weather the bleachers were a favorite hangout spot for a couple of different cliques during lunch periods. He got a number of catcalls from them while he ran laps. After a while they gave up. During his first week of using the track some guys from a gym class tried to pace him, but he left them gasping. The first week of November was surprisingly balmy. Scott was pushing into his third mile thinking about the paper he was going to write on the Cold War. Suddenly his senses flashed a warning. He turned in time to see a figure rushing toward him with a sharp knife. He grabbed the assailant's arm and twisted it violently, disarming the attacker. He continued the move and planted the attacker face first into the cinder track. His attacker was a man. Scott twisted the man's arm up behind his back and torqued the wrist until he stopped struggling. Students in the bleachers were shouting, "Fight!" Scott used his free hand to turn the attacker's head and get a look at his face. "Guzman?" Nazario Guzman began struggling again and tried to get at something with his other hand. Scott kneed Guzman in the kidney and twisted his wrist until the thug screamed in pain. "Make another move and I'll break the damned thing!" Scott shifted his position so he could block Nazario from grabbing whatever it was he was after. Scott felt carefully under Guzman's body and discovered a pistol he had jammed into the front of his pants. He looked around until he spotted a girl he recognized from class, "Run to the front office and tell them we need the police here." The girl took off running. "Somebody go find a teacher or a coach," Scott yelled. Guzman tried to struggle again so Scott ground his face into the cinders of the track and whispered in his ear, "You are such a dumb shit." Scott couldn't believe that he had to deal with Nazario Guzman once again. Somebody had found a teacher, but it was Mr. Channing, the freshman math teacher. "Scott MacIntyre, you let that student up right this instant!" Mr. Channing yelled. "He's not a student." "Let that person up now!" "Mr. Channing." "Now I said, now!" the man shouted as he tugged at Scott's shoulder. Scott shoved the teacher away with his free hand and returned his attention to Guzman. Mr. Channing was stunned, "How dare you?" "Mr. Channing, this is Nazario Guzman, and he has a gun! Would you like me to let him up now?" Mr. Channing squawked, "Gun?" The teacher backpedaled, turned and ran off. Scott was being charitable when he decided that Mr. Channing had run to get additional help. Word of a gun spread rapidly through the on looking students. He heard someone running toward him and looked to see Principal Reynolds followed closely behind by a city police officer. "Nazario Guzman," Scott indicated the figure he had pinned. "He's got a gun in his waistband, small revolver, maybe a .38, and he had a knife." Scott looked around, "It's over by the edge of the track." Principal Reynolds stood by the knife and made students back away, telling them to return to their classrooms. The police officer took Nazario's free arm and quickly cuffed him. The officer indicated that Scott should continue to hold Guzman while he searched him. The officer carefully removed the pistol. He called for transport on his radio, but a second and third officer had already arrived to provide assistance. The other officer bagged the knife, and then the gun after carefully clearing it. They took a snarling Nazario Guzman away. The remaining officer told him that Guzman had only recently gotten out on parole. The violation was going to send him back to jail. Being a felon in possession of a gun, and bringing a gun onto school grounds was going to result in some very serious charges. The officer asked if Scott could come down to the station and make a statement. Scott agreed, but told the officer he was going to shower first. The first thing he actually did was to call Joseph. "Scott, make it quick. I'm about to walk into court." "Did Honour tell you about Nazario Guzman? He's the guy who sent threatening letters to the paper telling them he wanted to kill me. Anyway, he got out of jail and showed up at the high school today with a gun." "What? Was anybody hurt?" "No injuries," Scott replied. "The local police would like me to come down and make a statement though." "Statement? Why? Never mind, don't say anything until your lawyer gets there, understand?" "Yes, sir." Scott made it to the police station. He told the investigating officer that he was happy to speak with them, but they needed to wait on his lawyer. The officer was getting a little impatient when Honour showed up. She had a diaper bag and her leather attaché case over one shoulder, and a full baby seat in her other hand. Scott and the officer sprang to their feet to help her get situated. "Honour, what are you doing here?" "I'm your lawyer aren't I?" she said. "Yes, but I was expecting Joseph." "Well, you got me." Scott looked at the investigating officer, "Can we keep this short? She charges me extra when she brings the baby." The statement didn't take long and Honour had no complaints. Even baby Cathy was well behaved. He could have handled the statement by himself, but Mr. Wahl had been very specific about what he could and couldn't do these days. Money changed a lot of things, and not all of them for the better. Scott was carrying the diaper bag and Honour's case as they started to leave the police station. Scott spotted Mrs. Guzman standing next to a familiar looking man. Both of them looked worn down. Mrs. Guzman was nodding reluctantly as a detective explained the facts of life to her and her companion. They looked right at Scott and Honour, but there wasn't a glimmer of recognition. Mrs. Guzman turned and walked out of the police station. It looked like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Scott felt a little sorry for her as she climbed into the passenger side of a battered old red pickup truck. Scott got finally got back to the apartment and crashed on the couch. Jobe jumped on the couch with him so Scott told the dog about his crazy day. "What do you want to do?" Jobe barked, jumped down and ran to the door. They went for a casual walk. It was cool and breezy as they meandered around the neighborhood. ------- On Veterans Day Scott went by the VFW hall. They had a large display featuring photos of every Fort Stockton veteran the group could track down. They'd done a good job with Mr. Piotrowski's photos. The display even included a shadow box featuring his medals and insignia. There were a couple of professional looking dioramas displaying uniforms from different periods. Scott thanked the elderly veteran who was curating the collection. He drove the tug for the Korean War veterans float one last time. The group was smaller this year and he shook each man's hand after the parade. He wasn't going to the fair. Instead he went home, turned on the stereo and relaxed with Jobe. He felt more comfortable with his decision, but worried about its impact on Jobe. The next three weeks passed without any drama. On one weekend he drove to Midland to have an extensive physical and a full cardio workup, as well as a series of detailed scans conducted. The full body scans were en vogue by the well-to-do set looking to get a jump on any hidden health issues. Mr. Wahl's assistant, Karen, hadn't even questioned Scott when he asked her to recommend a discreet clinic for a complete checkup. He was in excellent health, but he knew that already. What he really wanted to know was what kind of evidence had been left by his physical injuries as a boy, and of course if anything unusual popped up on the tests. His cardiovascular results were outstanding. The specialist informed him that he had the resting heart rate of a world class athlete. Other than the scar on his side, and some slight shadowing on two ribs, there was no sign of any past injury or scaring in his thoracic cavity. He got a clean bill of health along with a hefty bill for his trouble. December's colder temperatures brought the holiday to mind, and the crush of finals. Scott was busy double checking his footnotes on the paper he'd written for his History of the Cold War final when his phone rang. "Mr. Wahl, what can I do for you this afternoon?" "You're the only client who hasn't called since the news broke, so I thought I'd call and check up on you," Mr. Wahl said. "What news?" "The Madoff scandal. Scott, you have been watching the news haven't you?" "Oh that," he replied. "I read the story online. Should I have called? We didn't have any money tied up with him did we?" "Of course not, but it's an investment scandal. A lot of people invested their fortunes with him. I've had to calm a lot of client nerves this last week." Scott shrugged mentally, "To be honest, it never crossed my mind. We did that big review of all the investments not long ago." Mr. Wahl chuckled, "We did the same with all our clients this last year, but you're the only one who hasn't been rattled. Are there any questions I can answer for you?" "I don't think so. What are you doing for Christmas?" "Big family gathering, spoil the grandkids, that sort of thing. What about you, and have you told anybody about your plans yet?" "I'm going to play one of Santa's helpers at the foster care group home with a friend of mine. As to my plans ... I might tell Honour after Christmas, but I'm not sure about the others." They exchanged holiday wishes and hung up. ------- Scott hadn't done much decorating for Christmas the previous year, so this year he was determined to do it right. He took Jobe for a walk around the neighborhood looking for inspiration. Temperatures had dropped considerably in the last week. While it was a sunny afternoon, the neighborhood still had the holiday feel thanks to the numerous decorations. Scott stopped to watch a family decorating their front lawn. They had already assembled a blow-up Frosty the Snowman, which was easily twelve feet tall, positioned next to a traditional manger scene. The big Belgian shepherd strained against Scott's restraining hand, eager to explore what he was seeing. "Howdy," the man in the yard called. "Afternoon," Scott replied, "I was admiring your decorations. I've been thinking about stringing up some lights of my own." "Ah," the man smiled. "Then I'd suggest a visit to the hardware store. They've got the best selection in town. Start small, because it can get out of hand." He waved to the chaos around him as proof. Scott bid the family goodbye and got Jobe redirected toward home. His landlady, Adele Monroe was taking some trash outside when Scott and Jobe arrived back at the garage apartment. "Jobe is looking pretty spry these days," she commented. "I think he's almost back to a hundred percent," Scott replied. "Adele, do you put up any Christmas lights or decorations for the holiday?" She stopped and got a thoughtful look on her face, "I usually put a string of lights around the inside of the big bay window, and in years past I've put a wreath on the front door. I hate to display it anymore since it's gotten so ratty." "Would you mind if I put some lights on the garage, or up on the balcony? I'm thinking about going to look for some decorations, and I could pick up a new wreath too." "Would I mind?" Adele shook her head. "Of course not, boss." That got Scott laughing. He may have inherited the rental property, but Adele was clearly in charge of things. Downtown Fort Stockton was surprisingly busy. He finally found a parking spot about a block and a half away from the hardware store. Across the street a local church group was having a fund raiser. They were selling fresh Christmas wreaths so he walked over to take a look. A very efficient woman had him loaded down with a couple of wreaths and matching door hangers before he knew what hit him. The hardware store had an entire section devoted to holiday decorations. Scott selected a box of lights, thought about it, and grabbed another. He escaped from the store before he bought anything else. Back at the apartment, Adele was delighted with the wreath. Scott quickly helped her hang it on the front door of the house. Jobe sniffed the wreath Scott had for his apartment door and judged it acceptable. He was very curious as Scott wrapped the light strings around the stair banister and down the length of the balcony. Scott plugged the lights in and walked out into the yard to admire his handiwork. "You know, it's not bad at all," he told Jobe. Jobe didn't appear to be terribly impressed. "Don't be a scrooge." In the apartment Scott turned on some Christmas music, and organized his thoughts. He was going to have a busy couple of weeks after the holiday, and a lot of packing to do. His phone rang, it was Mrs. Delgado. "Mijo, are you ready?" "I wasn't planning on leaving for another thirty minutes yet," he protested. "Get dressed, and come by the house." Scott sighed, and told her he would be there. He got dressed in the Santa costume. He looked at the full length mirror and shook his head. Only Mrs. Delgado could get him to dress up like this. He was about to leave when he remembered something he had been meaning to do. He took the lockbox down and opened it. At one time this money had meant the world to him. Since his change in fortunes, he'd almost forgotten it. He took the money, folded it tightly, and placed it in a pocket of the costume. Jobe woofed at him when he walked into the living room. "Don't laugh, come here." Scott knelt down and secured a pair of soft felt deer antlers on Jobe's head. Jobe shook his head, but the antlers weren't going anywhere. Jobe gave him a woeful look. "Behave, it's for the kids." It wasn't a long drive to the Delgado's place. The pair got some really funny looks from other drivers. A group of kids in a car they passed pointed and smiled. Scott glanced at Jobe, between his Santa costume and Jobe's antlers, they made quite the picture. Firefighters from the volunteer fire department were out in force at the intersection by the firehouse. Scott rolled his window down as one of the volunteers approached. "You two are certainly in the spirit," the fireman said cheerfully. "Thanks, how's the Christmas drive going this year?" Scott asked as he dug into his pocket. "Great, we've had a lot of donations." Scott reached into the fire boot the volunteer was holding and let go of his bundle of cash. "Merry Christmas!" the volunteer said as he shook the boot approvingly. "And Merry Christmas to all of you," Scott replied. He hoped the fireman wouldn't check the boot until the end of the day. He waved to the other firefighters as he drove away. The neighborhood that the Delgados lived in had really gone all out for decorations. It might be worth driving back by at night just to the see the lights. Jobe eagerly led the way to the front door. Jorge smiled broadly as he opened the door, "Come in! I'll get Luisa." Mrs. Delgado laughed when she saw them, "You two are adorable! Jorge, get your coat and we'll go." The Delgados were wearing matching green elf costumes. "How come I'm Santa and not Jorge? You guys could have been Mr. and Mrs. Claus." "You were the only one with your own reindeer," Mrs. Delgado replied. "Come on, we don't want to be late." The two Fort Stockton residential foster care homes were located next to each other and were each tastefully decorated in generic holiday themes. So far the scrooges hadn't succeeded in taking Christmas away from the kids, but that was a worry for another day. The home supervisor had a group of assistants on hand to help unload presents from the Delgado's trunk. The plan was to load Santa's gift bag after they were inside. The kids were highly strung even though they had just eaten a big meal. Scott glanced around at the large common area and admired the festive feel. This was such a drastic change from the way things had been. He felt a moment of regret and wondered if he shouldn't have put an end to the Rewcastle's scheming at Broken Creek years ago. Scott spotted a menorah and asked the supervisor if they were supposed to have organized Chanukah gifts as well. "Not this year, but it's something we should be mindful of," she replied. Scott added the thought to a list of mental notes he was making about the residential center. He'd pass his concerns on to Mr. Wahl. While Mr. Wahl was happy to take charge of Scott's charitable interests, Scott knew he'd eventually have to find someone who could look after such issues on a more permanent basis. Mrs. Delgado nudged him, "Smile, Mijo." He shook his head and focused on the party. The kids sang carols until it was time to pass out the gifts. Between the two houses there were currently eighteen children in residence, it hadn't been difficult to get gifts for all of them. Scott sat in a chair playing Santa, as Jorge and Mrs. Delgado tried to keep order. The joy on the young faces was infectious. He could really get to enjoy this Santa thing. He was particularly happy to see that the adults running the houses didn't try to rein the younger boys in too much, and let them have their fun. Jobe and his antlers were a huge hit. That many boys in such a tight space produced a lot of noise, he thought they were all happy noises until he noticed one younger boy trying very hard not to cry. Scott caught Jorge's eye and motioned for him to bring the boy closer. "Hey there little guy, what seems to be the problem?" Scott asked. The boy proffered the contents of his hand. It was a beat up toy, some sort of 'transformer' type character wearing armor, and what looked to be one broken jet wing on his back. "You wanted a replacement?" The boy nodded shyly. Behind the boy's head Mrs. Delgado mouthed the name, 'Mathew.' "Well, Mathew, let me check with the workshop and see what the problem is," Scott said in his best Santa voice. The boy's eyes grew large as Scott stuck his head inside the big red velvet bag. "Hey, what's the hold up on Mathew's Christmas gift?" Scott shouted, his voice muffled by the bag. He pulled his head out of the bag looked at a very surprised Mathew, "Would you mind if I showed them your old toy so they know what to look for?" Mathew held out his hand. Scott took the toy and reached to the back of the bag, and waited for a few moments. Mathew, and the Delgados, were all looking at him as if he'd lost his mind. He cocked his head to one side, "Hang on a minute, sounds like the elves have a question." Scott poked his head back into the bag. He had a mental picture of what the toy should have looked like without the damage. He concentrated and used a bit of energy to refurbish the broken toy. It grew warm in his hand. He ducked back out of the bag for a moment, "Mathew, what colors did want on your transformer?" "Red and silver," the boy mumbled shyly. "Okay, let me see if they've got it all sorted out," Scott replied as he returned his head to the bag. He grabbed one of the extra gifts at the bottom of the bag and quickly unwrapped it. It was a model car. Plastic was plastic, wasn't it? He thought about a new transformer toy, and concentrated some more. The toy was scalding hot during the transformation, but Scott kept a grip on it. "Here," he handed the original toy to the boy, "you don't mind if the elves touched it up while you waited do you?" Mathew turned his like-new transformer over in his hand, his mouth open in surprise. "Sorry for the mix-up, the elves discovered that your gift had been misplaced over in the wrapping department. You don't mind if it's not gift wrapped do you?" Mathew shook his head again. "Okay," Scott pulled the new red and silver transformer character from the bag. It had cooled enough to hand to the boy. "Please accept my apologies on behalf of the elves for the mix-up. We'll try to get it right next year." Mathew smiled and held both toys up for his examination and whispered, "Thank you, Santa." Scott nodded and the boy ran off to show the gifts to his friends. The early-evening event had come to a close. Scott and the Delgados went out their vehicles while the children and staff stood outside the doorway as they prepared to leave. He wondered if it spoiled the effect to learn that Santa drove a big pickup truck. "Scotty, how on earth did you pull that off?" Mrs. Delgado whispered. "Santa is always prepared," he replied. "I'm serious, how?" Scott held out an empty hand, turned it over, and with a flourish, revealed a Christmas cookie he had been given earlier, "Sleight of hand. Santa is thinking about picking up some side work as a magician." Mrs. Delgado smiled and shook her head. The children shouted, "Merry Christmas!" Scott turned with the Delgado's and they shouted back together, "Merry Christmas!" ------- January 2009 Scott rented a storage pod at Fort Stockton's lone climate controlled storage facility. He spent the first week of 2009 packing up his possessions. He moved everything that he could reasonably move by himself, and then called the two brothers and a truck moving crew. He was surprised at how much stuff he had accumulated. Mrs. Monroe was sad about his choice, but she understood his reasoning. She wasn't the only one. He had a terrible fight with Honour after Christmas about his future plans. She refused to understand his point of view, and she was even more furious when Joseph said it was Scott's choice. Mr. Wahl refused to take a position, but offered advice for any contingencies that might arise. Scott got together with Bo and Ed and told them what he had decided, and then he swore them to secrecy. He was hoping it was a done deal before word spread. He had a Friday meeting scheduled with Principal Reynolds, and a Saturday morning meeting with Judge Upcott. Scott parked in front of the high school and went in to the office. He sat down in a chair and watched students coming and going. Finally one of the secretaries told him to go on back. "Mr. MacIntyre," the Principal said by way of greeting. "Sir." "You've done an incredible amount of work. I've verified your Midland College transcripts. You've completed all the requirements, including the state assessment test. Congratulations, you're a high school graduate," Principal Reynolds said as he handed Scott his diploma. "Thank you, sir," Scott said as he stood up to shake the principal's hand. "Have you decided what college you're going to go to?" "Not yet, I have a few things to accomplish first," Scott temporized. "Do you think I can get a notarized copy of this?" "The school secretary can do that for you. Scott, good luck, I hope to hear from you again." "Thanks," he replied. Saturday Morning, January 10th, 2009 Scott was wearing simple blue jeans and a t-shirt under a coat. He handed his apartment key to Mrs. Monroe and she wished him good luck. He tossed his sleeping bag into the back seat of the truck along with a small bag of dog food. He held the passenger side door open for Jobe, and they headed out of town. He stopped at Meritt's Corner and got hot chocolate to go. Jobe sat up and barked when he pulled into the gravel driveway. The house looked good. They took a slow walk around. The wind whistled around the storage building. The kitchen door had been replaced and there were new locks. He could have opened them, but looked in through windows at the empty house instead. They walked around the property until Scott found his rock. He sat down and watched the dried grass and scrub trees wave in the wind while he thought about the past. "Ready to go?" he asked Jobe after a few minutes had passed. It was a mellow drive back into town. At the cemetery he got out and put Jobe on a lead. They walked over to the grave site and stood quietly. The big double headstone for Mr. Piotrowski and his wife was complete. The engraving on Mr. Piotrowski's side still looked fresh. Scott knelt down and brushed away old leaves and grass from around the stone. He found some dried lilies that someone had left. They were alone in the cemetery so he expended a little energy and laid the rejuvenated flowers back down on the headstone. He stood up and said a few quiet words of thanks. He'd already said goodbye to his friends, and only had a couple more stops to make. Scott drove the truck over to the law office and parked it in the side lot. He took his truck keys, the signed registration, and cell phone and sealed them up in an envelope. He dropped it through the mail slot. With Jobe on his lead they walked the short distance to the courthouse. The man he was meeting had parked his white van in front of the courthouse. Together they went up to Judge Upcott's office. He loved this old office. It hadn't changed much since his first visit all those years ago. "This was not the seventeenth birthday party that I had envisioned for you," Judge Upcott said. Sheriff King was there too, and shook his hand. "I know," Scott replied. "You're sure about this? You won't change your mind?" "I'm sure. Thank you sir, for everything you've done for me, both of you." "Well," the judge said stretching the moment out. "I must admit that it's a slick way of resolving your emancipation issues, and it's your choice." "He's a man now, Elijah, time to let him go," the sheriff said softly. The judge reluctantly signed the piece of paper. He stood up and walked over to Scott and shook his hand. Then he handed the enlistment papers to the marine staff sergeant. "You look after my boy." "Yes, sir," replied the marine. They left the judge's office. Judge Upcott sat down with Walter King and poured two generous glasses of whiskey. "Where's this last stop that you need to make?" the marine asked. "We'll pass right by it on our way out of town," Scott said as he opened the side door on the government van to let Jobe in. It was quick trip over to Joseph and Honour's house. The marine stayed in the van while Scott and Jobe walked up to the front door. He rang the bell and Joseph let them in. "I can't stay long," he said. "I know. Let me see if I can talk Honour into coming out," Joseph replied. "I'll go get Jobe situated." Scott took Jobe through to the back sun porch. He'd helped Mr. Mason install a pet door after Christmas. Jobe's favorite beds were already at the house. One was near the fireplace in the living room, and the other here on the enclosed porch. Scott took Jobe outside and showed him the dog house that he had the movers deliver from the apartment. Jobe sniffed everything. The placement of the dog house met with his approval and he sat down. Scott squatted down next to him and took the dog's head in his hands. He told him that he was going to have to look out for Joseph and Honour, and especially baby Cathy. He'd try to come see him when he could. Jobe licked Scott's face, and Scott wiped away a tear with his coat sleeve. "Come on, let's go inside." Scott went into the living room. Jobe went to the fireplace and his favorite bed. He turned a few times until he was satisfied and flopped down with soft, 'woof.' "It looks comfortable," Scott said to him. Joseph returned from visiting Honour and shrugged. Scott stuck his hand out. Joseph took it, "You watch out for yourself." "I'll try." Mrs. Delgado emerged from the bedroom area and grabbed Scott in a smothering embrace. A red eyed Honour appeared. She handed the baby to Joseph and hugged Scott tightly. He had a catch in his voice, but he told her that he'd be back. He rubbed his hands over his face trying to push back the tears, and smiled. Scott opened the front door and walked toward the white van and his future. ------- The End ------- Posted: 2012-12-07 Last Modified: 2013-03-11 / 12:19:38 am ------- http://storiesonline.net/ -------