Lonnie stepped onto the large, covered front porch overlooking a long
meadow and mountains beyond wishing he were back in juvenile hall. So
began week two of his 24/7 solitary confinement. It wasn’t his
fault getting into trouble. The guys got bored and thought to
brighten a stupid wall. Someone ratted.
Community service complete
and
the judge’s harsh lecture/threats burned into long-term memory, his
parents moved to the country, miles from the city and friends.
He had nothing to do except eat, sleep, and watch one TV
channel, an educational channel to make up for classes he flunked.
And chores. Couldn’t forget the chores. An endless list of chores.
His parents off to work left him with one mode of
transportation – walking. The nearest neighbor, some grunge dude in
his twenties, lived in a ratty-looking shack two miles down the
gravel road. The highway lie a mile beyond that. He considered
running away, but his dad placed a location device on his left ankle.
It sent an alert if he ventured more than a hundred yards from the
house. His dad worked as a technology engineer and Lonnie couldn’t
figure out how to circumvent the controls.
Taking a bite of toast, he watched a ground
squirrel skitter among rocks out by the split-rail fence encircling
the house. Except for a stupid blue jay or the wind moaning in the
pine trees, the absence of noise drove him crazy.
About to scream to at least hear the echo, a
high-pitched whine rose above the unbearable silence, the distinct
sound of a motorcycle. The noise peaked as the dude roared into view
astride a dirt bike. Lonnie watched as he passed the house, skirt the
north edge of the meadow before disappearing into the forest a
quarter mile further on. Desperately trying to hold onto the sound,
depression slammed back into his head as it faded into oblivion.
Going back inside, Lonnie flopped onto the sofa to
watch TV and begrudgingly finished the day’s school assignments,
and then sleep. At four-thirty his mother called. “Your dad and I
are stopping at the grocery store, and then we will be on our way
home. Please put the casserole in the oven.”
He followed instructions. The second day of week
one in prison he refused to start dinner. Sent to his room with two
slices of plain bread and a glass of milk, it finally sank in as his
stomach knotted and complained bitterly. Disobedience and
consequences were a tag team.
Certain his parents were asleep, he tiptoed in
socks down to the kitchen to deactivate the house alarm system.
Returning to his room, he climbed out the window intent on walking to
the highway and thumbing a ride back to his friends. Having never
experienced true darkness, he could barely see the gravel road, and
then there were the sounds. Lonnie made it a hundred yards before
scurrying back.
Latching the window, he started to cower under the
bed sheets when the light came on. His dad stood leaning against the
wall next to the light switch. No words of reprimand, but that stunt
saw his high tops locked in a heavy, steel cabinet in the garage. A
fair consequence. At least he was safe from whatever lurked in the
dark out there, watching, waiting to pounce.
Spurred by citizen complaints, everyone
over-reacted to self-expression in the form of graffiti. Despite the
abuse from other kids, five days in juvenile hall proved a cakewalk
compared to what happened at home. His dad finally stepped up to
fatherly duties. Lonnie had never been spanked, although he should
have long before. Teenage boys are too old for such punishment and
the ordeal took him by surprise. Although large, his father didn’t
appear strong until lying the fifteen-year-old over his knee and
applying three swats with the flat of the hand on a bare butt.
Lonnie thought himself tough until the first
strike. The second elicited a squeal. Squirming to evade the third
didn’t work. Tears trickling down both cheeks. He did not want to
endure that again.
Closing the oven door, he remembered his dad
saying last night, “Split a cord of firewood before I come home
tomorrow.”
A quick glance at the clock sent him flying off
the porch still in boxers. He had two hours. It didn’t take long to
realize his arms wouldn’t last, but kept swinging the ax until
becoming impossible to raise the heavy head anymore. Drenched in
sweat, he took a quick shower and dressed for the first time that
day. His parents arrived as he came downstairs. They looked tired but
in a good mood.
“I’m sorry, dad. My arms just gave out. I’ll
stack it after dinner.”
His dad surprised him by saying, “That’s fine.
I’ll help.”
The boy had a generous second helping of
casserole. Working together was a first. So was talking. Returning to
the house, his dad put an arm around his shoulders. No, he hadn’t
split a full cord but came close.
“You did good, Lon. If you do a little
throughout the day tomorrow, it won’t be so hard. We’ll need to
lay in at least ten cords for the winter.”
He split wood after breakfast, between school
assignments, and after lunch. Working at a slower pace filling the
steel rack used to measure, eighteen-inches wide, eight-feet long,
and four-feet tall. He even topped off yesterday’s attempt.
Again dripping sweat, he barely finished stacking
the pieces when the sound of the dirt bike demolished the silence.
The weird dude again, this time returning from the mountains. Had he
spent the night out there? Lonnie didn’t see any sleeping bag or
backpack. Maybe he had a camp already set up. The guy drove passed
without so much as a glance.
Over the couple next weeks, Lonnie observed this
guy’s routine. He’d drive up one afternoon and return the next
morning, always three days between trips. Curiosity a prime mover,
the morning of the fourth week after he returned, Lonnie dressed,
tossed a couple sandwiches and cokes into a backpack. So long as it
didn’t involve heading toward the highway his dad gave permission
to take a day hike. Despite having earned his shoes back he headed
out barefoot along the trail.
Following the bike’s nobby-tire tracks, he came
to a large area of flat rock, spending much of an hour searching for
the bike’s trail with no luck. About to give up, he heard the
high-pitched motorcycle whine, sending him to take refuge among a
cluster of boulders and small pines. The dude had come a day early.
Driving across the rock, he parked in another cluster of pines not
far from Lonnie. Walking into heavy undergrowth at the edge of a
ravine, the guy vanished. Lonnie eased out of hiding to creep to
where he had disappeared.
A sinkhole in an otherwise smooth limestone plain
appeared to be a hundred yards wide and three times that long filled
with vegetation, mostly pines. Lonnie hadn’t thought it possible to
get down there as the sides were vertical until pushing through the
brush as the weird dude did. Here, a hidden trail angled toward the
bottom. He could see the top of the dude’s blonde head as he worked
down the narrow trail and disappear into the thicket.
Looking at his watch, his heart jumped. His folks
would be home in three hours and he hadn’t done his chores.
Trotting home, he’d just began repairing the fence when the bike
whine filled the valley. Despite standing next to the trail the biker
shot passed without looking.
That had been on Friday. The family left on a
weekender to Big Trout Lake. Going to the city and civilization was
not an option. Grousing and sulking prompted serious threats from his
dad. Within the hour of arriving, he met teens his age. After a full
day of swimming and flag Frisbee football, Lonnie slept all the way
home having lost the battle to stay an extra day.
Monday morning the dude drove past returning
around four. Feeling it safe, Lonnie took off minutes after his
parents left for work Tuesday arriving at the sinkhole by seven and
carefully worked his way down the steep trail into the brush,
determined to find the guy’s camp. It was almost ten when he heard
the distinct sound of a dirt bike. His heart began pounding—he’d
returned early—then realized he could easily hide. The blonde guy
appeared at the top of the cliff and made his way down. Lonnie
hunkered in the thickest vegetation he could find to watch as the
tall, lanky neighbor strolled passed within twenty-feet of where he
lie.
To the boy’s surprise, the dude stopped not
thirty-feet away and began removing piled brush revealing a large,
rock-lined ring. Lonnie had walked by it a half dozen times. Removing
a leather pouch from around his neck, he dropped a pinch of the
contents in one of five metal cans inside the ring. As he did so a
wisp of smoke began curling up. When the last can ignited, the guy
stood back and waited as the smoke increased, curling up in
ever-denser columns before swirling counterclockwise, entwining like
grayish ropes. As it began swirling faster Lonnie glanced up. The
smoke rose no more than ten feet as if contained in a six foot
diameter cylinder. When the neighbor stepped into the ring and
disappeared Lonnie’s jaw dropped open.
He could see through the whirling cylinder of
smoke, but the guy vanished. He made a run for it, gaining the top in
a lung-bursting minute. Arriving home he dropped exhausted on his
bed. It took nearly an hour to recover a normal heart rate. This
provided time to convince himself it had all been an illusion, a
trick of the mind. Still somewhat shaken, he began moving rocks along
the road, affording more time to ponder on what he had seen. The guy
drove passed the next afternoon. To Lonnie’s surprise, he waived.
Three days later the neighbor drove past, again
waiving, returning the following morning. Feeling it safe the next
day, Lonnie packed a lunch and hurried to the canyon and down the
slope. Carefully removing the brush cover he stared at the ring.
Looking inside, each of the five tins stood at the point of a very
faint, five-pointed star etched in the brown earth.
He stood there wondering about it when a voice
from behind said, “Hi.” Lonnie jumped so badly he nearly fell
into the ring. “I thought ya’d come back. I smelled ya here
yesterday.”
“You smelled me?”
“Yeah. The soap ya use to bathe.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I was just
curious.”
“No problem.”
“What’s it do?”
“It’s a transporter. Takes me anywhere I wanna
go. When I need some coin or stuff I trip to a place and time, steal
it, and come back. My names Tom and ye’re Lonnie.”
“Yeah, but how . . .?”
“I got ways,” he said smugly, removing a
leather pouch from around his neck and adding a pinch of powder to
each can. The rope-like, smoke columns began rising interlacing as
they swirled faster. Soon the cylinder of almost invisible, gray
smoke took shape. “Follow me,” he said and stepped inside.
Lonnie hesitated, debating, before stepping
forward, pulled by curiosity into the pale, shaddowy mass. Like
walking in a fog, he could make out Tom’s form. Stepping forward
took him out of the ring into a dark, smelly, tunnel-like alley
formed by old, tall brick apartment buildings.
“Come on,” Tom said, walking toward the bright
light at the end of the tunnel.
“How do we get back?”
“There’s a portal back there. All we have to
do is walk back into it. Jist remember where it is ‘cause you can’t
see it. Nobody can.”
“Hey, this is where I used to live.”
“Yeah. And that’s some of your artwork,” Tom
said pointing to green graffiti on the brick wall. “Not bad.”
They were about to enter onto the street when a
big kid appeared shoving a small ten-year-old. Once in the alley, he
pinned the child against the wall.
“Give me your money,” the older boy ordered.
“It’s to buy milk for my baby brother,” the
kid squealed, panic-stricken.
“Let him suck his momma,” the much older kid
said producing a switchblade.
“Let him go,” Tom said.
“Ain’t none of your business,” the boy
snapped, seeming emboldened with a weapon.
“I know.”
Tom struck like a cobra as fingers wrapped around
the kid’s knife wrist. Twisting elicited a cry of pain cut short
when Tom followed through by driving knuckles into his solar plexus.
Crumpling to his knees, unable to breathe, the kid stared wild-eyed
at Tom. With a strange smile, Tom wrapped an arm around the boy’s
throat, locking fingers with the other.
“If I told you once, I told you twice to leave
the little kids alone. Third time is the charm.”
The bully tried to loosen the grip to
no avail as Tom applied pressure until the body went limp. Released,
he crumpled to the filthy cement. The little kid’s mouth opened in
disbelief. Lonnie, too. Tom’s hand reached out to grab the boy
while reaching into his pocket. “He ain’t dead, but ya won’t be
bothered by him no more. Here. Buy somethin’ nice for your mom and
little bro. Yerself, too.” He handed him several $20 bills. “Tell
them what a nice man did for you.” Turned loose, the boy staggered
backward a few steps before bolting, eyes glazed with a wild look.
“Is he . . . ?”
“Not this time.” Tom used a foot
to turn the kid onto his back. “Let’s finish this. Take the
bottom and I’ll take the top. Strip him and throw his stuff in
those garbage cans.” Spread Eagle naked, Tom gave a soft, scary
chuckle. “Let’s see how he explains this. Let’s go shopping.”
A man sat on cement apartment steps across the
street from the alley. In faded jeans and tee-shirt he didn’t look
smart enough to rub two sticks together.
“Know him?” Tom asked Lonnie.
“Yeah. He’s called Junkie. We’re in my old
neighborhood! That kid knows me!”
“Relax,” he said, walking straight for the
guy. Sitting next to him Tom said, “Hi.”
“Whata you want?”
“A dealer.”
“Don’t know you.”
“Best that way.” He carefully showed a thick
wad of bills.
“Upstairs.”
Climbing three flights of stairs they entered an
apartment that hadn’t seen a cleaning rag in several decades and
smelled it, too. Once inside he turned to face them.
“Mind if I see if you’re wired?” He was more
aware than appearances suggest.
“Go ahead,” Tom said, holding his arms out
from his sides.
The druggie frisked Tom then looked at Lonnie who
held arms out. His skin felt to crawl as the man slid hands over his
body.
Tom reached into his shirt pocket and took out the
roll of twenties. The dealer went to the kitchen cabinet, reached to
the top shelf, and took down a cookie jar.
“That’s original,” Tom said. “I’ll take
all ya got.”
The dealer’s eyes lite up but had no time to
enjoy the sudden wealth as Tom’s hand shot out and collapsed his
windpipe. Dropping to knees trying desperately to breathe his eyes
bulged with disbelief and fear. His face turned blue as he crumpled
onto the floor.
Tom watched with dispassion until his victim
stopped moving, eyes and mouth open, fear and surprise frozen for
eternity. “I really enjoy doing that to these scum,” Tom said
happily, “and the best part is that they’ll never catch me.”
Scooping up the drugs and stuffing them into a leather pouch slung
over his shoulder, he rummaged around the kitchen until finding more
drugs and loads of money. “Let’s split.”
Lonnie stood petrified. He wanted to puke. This
guy had no qualms about killing the dealer and appeared to enjoy it.
Terrified, Lonnie’s mind filled with the question, could he be
next?
“Worried someone will recognize you?” he said
as they walked into the alley. Lonnie’s heart nearly stopped.
“Don’t. At this precise moment, you are standing before a judge
on the graffiti wrap. Perfect alibi.”
They passed the bully still unconscious until Tom
put a foot against his chest and gave it a couple not so gentle
pushes. Continuing on to where their portal waited, the two stood in
a dark, recessed doorway to watch as the victim began moving. Tom had
left one leg of his jeans hanging over the edge of a garbage can to
give him a hint where the clothes were. He had no time to dress
before a group of older guys walked passed the alley entrance and
spotted him.
“This is too rad,” Tom said, cackling softly
as they watched the gang take his clothing, waiving them in the air
while chasing him down the street yelling sexual insults.
Tom stepped into an imperceptible haze and
disappeared, Lonnie so close on his heels to nearly trip on them.
Four steps found put him over the edge of the fire ring and back in
the canyon.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Tom said, picking up a
small spray bottle at outside edge of the ring. A quick squirt in
each can doused the smoke. He then sat cross-legged on the ground,
opened one of the foil packets and snorted the grayish powder. “Want
some?”
“I’ve never done that,” Lonnie answered,
still dazed at what had happened.
“Then jist do a little.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Do it.” Tom’s voice lowered, eyes
narrowing.
Reluctantly Lonnie put a small amount on his
forefinger, hesitated a moment while staring at it, looked at Tom who
watched, then quickly inhaled. Tom instantly broke into a wide grin.
It was getting late when he awoke. It had been a floating trip that
made what happened seem like a bad dream. With Tom curled on his side
out cold, he checked his watch, barely enough time to get home before
his folks did. Still unsteady, Lonnie gained the top and headed home
best he could, head still spinning from the drug, and not feeling any
better upon reaching the yard.
His dad wasn’t pleased the chores hadn’t been
done, but claiming being sick wasn’t hard. He was. He spent a
restless night thinking about what had happened, finally convincing
himself it had just been a dream. That next afternoon Tom rode past
on his way home and waved.
Several days later, after Lon’s parents left for
work, he decided to stay in bed a bit longer until sensing something.
Tom stood at the foot of the bed, staring at him. He sat up with a
start.
“Pull on yer pants. I got a treat for ya.”
Stepping from the smoke, Lon realized they weren’t
in the 20th Century. Not far away, several small, wood shacks stood
across from large corrals with cows and horses milling about. As they
approached, a woman ill-covered by a thin, white garment came out of
one door.
“Tommy. Where has you been? She squealed.
“Hi, Veronica. Brought a friend. Name’s Virg .
. ., as in virgin.” Lon felt her eyes play over his body. “Nice.
Come to break the curse? Well, I have just the lady fer ya. Jasmine.
Gotta customer. Come on in.”
Alcohol had never passed Lon’s lips and after
one sip of the foul-smelling, brownish liquid, he mentally vowed to
abstain forever. He easily avoided taking another expected sip thanks
to Jasmine nibbling his ear and stirring all sorts of excitement
racing down his spine. Stepping into the bright, noon sunshine, his
mind felt cloudy, body tired as if he’d run a marathon.
Returning to the chamber of smoke, Tom said, “For
peace of mind, yer folks left for work a hour ago and a guy is
dumping a load of wood for ya to split. Have fun.”
A push expelled Lonnie from the smoke to fall face
down on the ground in front of a pile of un-split logs. Rolling over,
he saw a laughing Tom disappear. Stretching out on his back, he took
in a deep breath and let it out slowly as the adventure re-played in
his mind.
Tom didn’t invite him on another trip until the
following week. “Yer turn. Where you wanna go?”
“Could we visit Veronica’s?”
Tom nearly collapsed from laughing, taking some
time to get control. “So, ya like that, huh? Well, let’s not wear
out our welcome there. But, if that’s what’s tickling yer jewels,
we’ll go somewhere that’ll knock ya out”
With Tom’s control of time, the two stayed three
days somewhere in the Middle-east attended by a bevy of young women.
When the proprietor came to collect his money, both he and the girls
were dismayed to find the pair had disappeared. Lon liked these last
trips. He got physically satisfied and no one got killed; however,
the next trip the following week was not as pleasant. Handed a rifle,
they entered the smoke chamber to emerge among some rocks overlooking
a boulder-lined pool where a group of men skinny dipped. Onshore, a
half dozen women sat on the ground, arms and feet bound.
“This is World War II and them are Japanese
soldiers. The women are captives being takin’ to their compatriots.
They’ll die unless we help,” Tom explained.
As he spoke, a soldier stood up from behind a
bush. Walking to the shoreline, he called to another who swam ashore
and proceeded to the bush.
“Look through the scope and you’ll see what’s
goin’ on,” Tom whispered. Two pairs of feet protruded from the
bush. Tom showed him how the rifle worked. “Take aim on the bush.
He’s gonna come up real fast and run to their guns. Don’t let
that happen. Understand?” The way Tom said “understand,” made
it clear he wouldn’t tolerate disobedience. “This is war, Lon.
Kill or be killed, and them vermin like to hear their prisoners
scream.”
Lon sighted on the bush. When Tom’s rifle
cracked, the man on the beach lurched backward, falling partly into
the water. As warned, the one in the bush popped up and ran for the
guns. Lon didn’t even remember pulling the trigger. His rifle
bucked. The man stumbled to sprawl face down on the ground. He began
crawling.
“Shoot him again.” Lon chambered another round
and squeezed the trigger. The body jerked and went still. “Okay.
Now, we shoot them pigs in a barrel. Don’t let ‘em get ashore.”
Lon sighted on one scrambling out of the water.
Two steps and he dropped. Tom stopped three swimming in the water.
Another went deep to hide, but the clear water provided no cover.
“He’s yers. Take him,” Tom said, laughing.
Lon fired. The figure stopped swimming as a dark
cloud began to encircle the body as it surfaced. He shot again.
“Okay. Let’s turn the girls loose,” he said,
climbing down. They were scared beyond belief and grateful which Tom
expected. “They want to show their appreciation for bein’
rescued. Which one do you like?”
“I think we should forget that. There could be
others around who heard the shots.”
“True. Come on girls, let’s find a more
hospitable place.”
The girl in the bushes was dead. The guys he shot
not a whole lot older than he. One hadn’t died outright. The girls
saw to that. The girls dressed in the uniforms. They scrambled back
up to where they had arrived in this time. Not long after they heard
shouting. More soldiers. Sheltering in a nearby cave, two girls kept
Lon warm that night in their fire-less camp, returning to their
village the next morning. Back in their time, Tom insisted Lon take
the grayish powder. There was no hesitation. He began liking the
floating sensation.
Awaking, Lonnie found himself lying on his side on
the ground naked, Tom pressed against his back, an arm draped over
his chest. Straightening his legs, Tom kissed his neck.
“That was fun, too,” he said with a breathy
voice.
“Did we . . . ?”
“Oh, yeah. Bet ya don’t remember.” He
laughed.
Lonnie continued accompanying Tom on acquisition
raids. The sexual encounters were great, the drug trips upon
returning, pleasurable. The killings continued, mostly for sport. Tom
enjoyed killing, knowing he would never be caught. During those times
Lonnie continued to fear that he might be next, spurring him to find
a way out of the ordeal. When he saw Tom talking with his dad one
Saturday panic gripped his gut.
“Just met our neighbor, the kid on the
motorbike. Pleasant sort. An artist. Has a show at the museum
gallery. Likes hunting, too. We may get together this fall. He knows
where the elk hang out. I invited him along next week when we go to
the lake.”
Lonnie dreaded that next week, but Tom didn’t
make any runs. The last score left him with a substantial supply.
During the fishing trip, Tom endeared himself to Lonnie’s parents
so when he invited their son on a three-day hike for that mid-week
there wasn’t any problem. There was no way out. Any excuse would
endanger provoking Tom’s unbalanced anger.
They set out on his bike early Wednesday morning
with the intent of returning Friday night. Tom’s behavior began
deteriorating, becoming dark and menacing. Lonnie hopped he would
return. As usual, they went to the sink and uncovered the fire ring.
“Where you wanna go?” he asked, seeming
cheerful.
“I dunno know. I’ve been meaning to ask. How
does it work?”
“I read this book on black magic that had the
formula for the travel powder. I have a specific time and place in
mind, and when I enter I just say it, and there I am.”
“Can a guy get trapped on the other side?”
“Only if someone puts the fire out on this side.
Nobody comes around here so that’s pretty safe. If it does happen
this shows other portals,” he said, indicating a greenish ring hung
around his neck. “So, where ya wanna go?”
Lonnie tried to think of someplace, but his mind
was blank. Too much fear. He shrugged.
“Well, think about it. I wanna nice, warm body
to curl up with. You will do for now.”
Before Tom, sex had been an
increasing subject on his mind, but too afraid to actually attempt
anything not to mention people were now too far away. Inhaling a bit
of the grayish powder, he let Tom have his fun as he drift along in a
dreamy haze. With the jet fuel spent, he slowly landed. Lying on his
back, he turned his head to see Tom finish dressing.
“Well, play with yerself while I pay a call on
an old friend,” he said, beginning to place a pinch of powder in
each can and start up the cylinder of smoke. “See ya later.”
Lonnie thought about putting the smoke out, but he
had to be sure Tom would never come back. It was nearly dark when he
returned, exhausted, but happy. After snorting a line he slipped into
his sleeping bag and began snoring leaving Lonnie sitting curled next
to a real fire.
The next morning Lonnie knew where to go.
“Custer’s Last Stand?”
“I thought it’d be neat to see how they died,”
Lonnie answered, playing to Tom’s sick mind.
“Hum-m. Never watched that many guys git wasted.
That’d be gnarly.”
“But how do we avoid getting caught?”
“Go early enough and find a good hidie hole.”
Exiting the smoke, they found themselves near a
thicket in a draw and quickly slipped inside. It was early, nothing
much happening as the soldiers were several miles away so Lonnie
asked, “How does that portal finder work?”
Tom handed Lonnie the ring while looking through
binoculars. “Hold it up with both hands. Look through it with one
eye. When it shows red you go in that direction and run into it,”
he said beginning to shiver with excitement as the massacre began.
The aftermath was too gruesome for Lonnie to watch as bodies were
stripped and mutilated. Tom squirmed and giggled with glee totally
fixed watching through the binoculars. That was Lonnie’s chance.
With him occupied, Lonnie slipped back into the portal and jumped
clear of the smoke, grabbed the spray bottle to doused the cans,
closing the door.
For the next few hours he sat with arms wrapped
tight around both knees off to one side. Staring at the smokeless
ring, he expecting to see Tom appear at any time, but Lonnie had the
finder. By the following morning, Lonnie wondered what might have
happened to him. Did the Indians find him? The thicket was pretty
dense. He could hide, but for how long? By afternoon he decided to go
back. He had to know if Tom was still alive. Recovering a spare pouch
of dust from the knapsack, he armed himself with a switchblade also
in the pack and ignited the ring.
Arriving in the thicket, he cautiously looked
around. He didn’t see Tom. Scattered over the rolling prairie were
the remains of the soldiers. A haunting stillness lie over the
prairie as he eased from the thicket constantly scanning for Indians.
There were two bodies nearby. One look, he wanted to throw up. They
were stripped, riddled with arrows, mutilated, and scalped. Further
down the draw another body haug by his heels, a naked pincushion.
Tom. His end hadn’t been easy by the looks of things. Lonnie
justified it as retribution for the wanton killing he had done.
There were many questions about Tom’s
disappearance. Lonnie said they had gone to a lake miles from the
canyon and Tom went hiking alone. When he didn’t return, he got
worried and came home to tell his folks. Teams searched for better
part of a week, but of course, they found no trace and finally gave
up. Lonnie slowly breathed easier as time passed.
Knowing where Tom hoarded the gray powder, he kept
it stashed in the canyon where he returned a couple times a week to
use it, but too frightened to start up the column until that
following summer. Having used the last gram of the drug, he uncovered
the fire ring.
The next few months Lonnie journeyed about time
finding rewards and pleasures galore. Of course, resupplying the drug
became the first trip. After reading a news article, he studied
online maps of the area and positioned near the route mules traveled
in south-central Arizona. What the article didn’t mention, the mule
was fourteen years old. Tom would have killed him. Lonnie offered a
handsome sum to continue north sans drugs. That’s not to say he
wasn’t prepared. A small semi-automatic pistol tucked in the small
of his back, he became proficient and no longer had qualms about
using it. What he didn’t count on? The Border Patrol.
A helicopter began circling the area several miles
to the east as they discussed the exchange. The boy wanted to seek
refuge with an uncle who farmed in Western Nebraska and having no
drugs would be good if caught. Lon figured he’d probably not make
it with or without the drugs. Persuading him at gunpoint to inhale
some gray powder knocked him out. Lon then dragged him into the
transporter moments before the chopper’s spotlight canvased the
area. The boy woke up within sight of the uncle’s house with a
story chalked up to hallucinations.
The haul netted one-hundred pounds, far more than
he would use, being a judicious, recreational user. Selling the
excess netted a huge profit. During one drug trip, he felt to revisit
Custer’s aftermath, feeling a perverse satisfaction watching from a
safe position, Tom’s surprise at being stranded, his capture, and
slow torture. He’d murdered a lot more people than Lonnie knew
about and felt the punishment fit the crimes.
During a repeat trip to watch Tom die, a strange
sensation gripped his gut. Turning toward the portal he saw movement
on the other side. Someone had come to the fire ring. Staring, he
tried to make out who had found the secret place. It appeared to be
someone in green trousers and a bright yellow shirt. A Forest Service
firefighter. Lonnie had left a real campfire burning. The guy began
spraying water on the fire ring. Lonnie scrambled for the portal. It
disappeared. He had the locator ring and magic powder, a white guy in
the middle of hostile Indians searching for trophies.
#
