Less Of Me

  Chapter 15

  Andy got to his mothers place at 6:40 pm. It took forever to get out of the City at this time of day. People scattered in all directions like a bomb was ticking down. “That’s why I live in town,” he thought, “leave this craziness to these Loons. Let them spend half their lives on the freeway, ‘Not I, said the Cat’,” Andy said, quoting a nursery rhyme he couldn’t remember. There was another car in the small driveway besides his mothers, which made him consider backing out and taking a pizza back to his own place.

  He knocked on the door, which frustrated his mother who wanted him to feel at home, but he couldn’t bring himself to just walk in. He felt like an intruder wherever he went. Andy told himself he was just respectful of others privacy, when, in truth, it was just poor self image.

  “That’s Andy, he always knocks...” he heard his mother say as she approached the front door.

  “You made it!” She said, opening the door wide.

  “I made it,” he said without enthusiasm and stepped across the threshold.

  “Andy, you’ve met my friend Marg,” Andy’s mother said by way of introduction. “And this is Margs niece, Debbie Williams.”

  “Nice to meet you, Debbie,” he said shaking her hand. She nodded and smiled. “Williams?” Andy said, cocking his head to the side, “Are we cousins?”

  “What?” Debbie said, caught off guard, “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, sure. Williams is my maiden name,” Janice said. “I hadn’t really made that connection. Funny.”

  Marg went in to some story about how her family was from Kentucky and how her sister met this boy at college who swept her off her feet and promptly moved her back to his father’s dairy farm in the middle of cheese country, where she raised about a dozen kids and a million cows. Marg moved to California after high school to become an actress, which never quite panned out. She ended up in the Bay Area and her big sister never left the farm. Andy was only half listening as he was noticing how nice Debbie Williams’ smile was and how stupid his comment must have sounded.

  Andy didn’t want to be attracted to the girl; he had too many complications in his life. But he found himself being quieter than usual and he somehow resisted the urge to fill his plate a second time. So he knew his feelings were moving ahead without permission. After everyone but Marg was finished, and, according to his mother, she would never be finished, Janice and Debbie stood to clear the table. Marg was regaling the group with stories of auditions and parts she nearly got in movies that they may have heard of, between occasional bites of cold food. She was entertaining, in a goofy sort of way - somewhat eccentric. Andy always liked her. And she didn’t require you to listen closely, she didn’t really care, she just wanted to tell the story. As long as you laughed or nodded when she paused for effect, she knew you were still with her and that was enough. Andy’s mind was loosely following Marg while his eyes were trained on her niece.

  Debbie was pretty. She seemed older than she probably was due to the confident way she carried herself, stepping right in to rinse dishes and put things away, asking Janice what went where and hunting herself if Andy’s mom was talking to Marg. She had chin length brown hair, parted in the middle, a teachers cut, Andy decided to call it. She had a beautiful smile which, when fully engaged, pushed her round cheeks up against her big blue eyes in a way that forced them shut a little, into an engaging kind of squint - very cute. She dressed refreshingly conservative, wearing slacks and a thin cardigan sweater over a buttoned knit top. Andy thought that if he had had a teacher like “Miss Williams” he would have probably fallen in love and married at twelve. Debbie Williams was the kind of pretty that you had to watch for a few minutes to appreciate. You had to watch her move, hear her talk, see her smile. After watching her from a distance you found yourself wanting to know more about her - listen to her story and find out what how she thought about life.

  Andy was self-conscious and sad. This was the type of girl he would really like to know. But the feeling was never mutual. Why would his mother put him through this torture? Sure Debbie was great. Sure he would like her. But that was precisely the problem. Because that inevitably led to letdown and disappointment when she found out what a self-absorbed idiot he was. Sense of humor aside, Andy was a dysfunctional mess and girls could size him up like dresses on the sale rack. He wanted to leave and avoid the pain. Unfortunately, pie and coffee served in the living room stood between him and escape. He willed himself to resist becoming interested in her. He would try to separate himself from the situation and think about Albert Martin, or try to peek in to the Rance Broadback room in his mind - anything but allow himself to be sucked in to longing.

  “So Andy,” Debbie said from the couch as she sat down her half-eaten slice of pie.

  “See, I could never do that,” he told himself as he watched her. “I’ve never put down a plate of dessert without finishing it. She’s in a different league, protect yourself.”

  “The other night after coffee with my aunt and Janice, I went out and bought your book,” she said.

  “Oh, you’re the one,” he deadpanned.

  “Yeah, right,” she joked.

  “Which one?” Janice chimed in.

  “A Ring and a Prayer,” Debbie said, looking back at Andy. “It was really good. Exciting.”

  “They aren’t for everybody, I guess,” he said in defense of something.

  “No, really. I liked it. And you have more, I mean, it’s a series?”

  “Only because of the publisher. I’d like to write something else but they keep asking for the Secret Agent stuff.”

  “How many are there?” Debbie asked.

  “Four,” Janice said proudly. “And the fifth will be done any time now, right Andy?”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “You are actually writing one right now?”

  “Between dinner engagements, you know, the glamorous life of the Best Selling Author,” he said with noticeable sarcasm.

  “Can I ask what it’s about? The current book, I mean.”

  “Same thing, you know. The world is going to end and at the last second the hero steps in to save the day and everybody lives happily ever after.”

  “So you don’t really want to say.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just...” Andy trailed off. Nobody really asked him stuff like this. His stories were locked in his head until they made their way to a computer screen and from there to a printing press somewhere and eventually to a book store shelf. That’s when they became public property. While they were still locked in the secret room of his mind the story was ongoing. It would be wrong to expose it to the world before it happened. It would be like knowing how your own life played out before it happened. You could make different choices and change the ending. That’s playing God. Andy couldn’t articulate it quite that way, but he found that he couldn’t really talk about the story either. Maybe he was just protective of Rance Broadback. Maybe he was embarrassed to talk about making a living writing what he sometimes viewed as empty-headed tripe.

  “But does the hero get the girl?” Marg put in to break any tension.

  “Well he sure did in the book I read,” Debbie confirmed.

  “He usually does, I guess,” Andy said, knowing even as he spoke the words that he had said too much. “Sorry Rance,” he thought to himself.

  “All the books are good. I’m a little biased, I know, but I think they’re great,” Janice said. “I sometimes wish there was less cussing, but...”

  “Mom, I’ve told you a million times, it’s not me, it is the characters. I’m not the one cussing.”

  Janice held up a hand in protest, “I know, I know. It’s just that you are their voice, you know, they only cuss because you allow them to.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Andy said feeling an inquisition coming on.

  “No, I understand what he is saying, Janice.” Debbie said. “It is like that in all good fiction. If the author projects too muc
h of his or her personal morals or personality in to a story then the characters never become real to the reader. It works for, say, the hero, or star of the story to be somewhat of a projection, but the other characters, they have to be themselves. If not, then the book will be, uh,” she looked at Andy for help.

  “One dimensional?”

  “Exactly,” she affirmed. “And that’s what made “A Ring and A Prayer” so good. The people were real, we know people just like each of those characters.”

  “That’s what Andy always tells me,” Janice said smiling. “But I still don’t like it.”

  “Nobody is holding your eyelids open forcing you to read them,” Andy joked.

  “Are you kidding? I can’t wait to get the next one!” his mother laughed. “I’m in love with Rance Broadback, I can’t help it.” That broke up the room and gave Andy an image that he would have rather not had, of Rance Broadback, his alter ego, as his mother’s boyfriend.

  “On that note,” Andy said moving his weight to the edge of the chair, “I’ve got to get going... Mom, thanks for a great meal. Marg, always a treat to hear your stories.” He stood, as did Debbie Williams. He shook her hand, “Thanks for sticking up for the writing,” he smiled.

  “Not a problem. And I wasn’t kidding, I liked it.”

  “I’m glad. Really,” he said, realizing he hadn’t yet let go of her hand, which was awkward. “Anyway, uh,” he let go as quickly as he could, “it was really nice meeting you.”

  “And you, Andy. I hope to see you again,” Debbie said.

  “Okay,” was all Andy could manage, he kissed his mom on the forehead and walked to the door, “See you later,” he said.

  As soon as he shut the door behind him he could feel his ears burning with the thought of them talking about him, mercilessly. “Oh, that Andy, he’s so insecure. He’s so sweet, what a marshmallow.” They would feel sorry for him and hope that he found his way in life. “Grrr,” he said out loud as he buckled in for the ride home.

  It was nearly 10:30 pm when he finally got the Buick parked and made his way up the ever-increasing number of steps to his living room. He knew that if he decided to post a blog entry right now it would be completely void of anything positive, so he resisted the urge, deciding instead to sip on a bottle of water and re-read a little of the story he had accidentally prostituted earlier in the evening.

  ----------

  Appalachian Malady

  “...The Bluegrass state. Fly in to Nashville and rent a car, I’ll meet you in Somerset, KY tomorrow afternoon. Here’s a cell number, call when you’re close.”

  “Any special tools?”

  “We might use that GPR thing you were telling me about.”

  “Ground Penetrating Radar? Uh, you want to explain?”

  “We’ll get to it,” Rance said.

  “On my way.”

  Rance hung up the phone and dialed another number from his mental Rolodex.

  “Detective Tate.”

  “Jim, Rance.”

  “Hey dude, thought we had a game set for Saturday.”

  “Bigger name on the other line. You know how it is,” Rance said.

  “You get pulled in to the Hagin thing?”

  “Not sure if it’s connected or not. Just wanted you to go ears up, I might have something for you in a few days.”

  “Room for one more?”

  “Not yet. I’m in a place where badges are not very welcome. Just be ready to get on a plane.”

  “Will said airplane have a particular destination?”

  “Kentucky.”

  “Ah ha...”

  “Don’t ‘Ah he’ me, now... And listen, don’t try and look over my shoulder. If my hunch is right, what I’m working on might have D.C. connections. You start trying to figure it out and it might draw some attention.”

  “Excuse me, partner, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to preach.”

  “No worries, I’ll be ready. Anything else?”

  “Has Kramer come up with anything else on the Hagin case?”

  “Not that I am aware. Rumor was they were trying to bump him off the case, but he put his foot down, seniority.”

  “Why wouldn’t they want their best man on the biggest case?”

  “I don’t know, but somebody didn’t. They lost the pissing contest, though. He’s on it big time.”

  “Good. Well, I may need an update on that sometime, can I call you?”

  “I’ll be right here, Ran. About all I do is play racquetball and sit around waiting for you to call,” Tate said with extra sarcasm.

  “Nice to know.”

  “Bye.”

  “Yeah.” Rance clicked the disconnect button and sat back on the loveseat in his comfortable suite. He decided to make one more call before turning in.

  “Hello?”

  “Spin, Rance,” he said.

  “Hi Ran. Hey, I don’t know what time zone you’re in, but it’s late here,” Tami Beatty yawned.

  “Sorry. You still down south?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know if this guy has anything or not. It seems really far-fetched, if you ask me.”

  “When you coming home?”

  “I’m going to snoop around a little more tomorrow and head back in the evening.”

  “How about wine and bread at The Cure?”

  “Now that’s what I need. Nine-ish?”

  “Sounds good.” Rance ended that call figuring it was better if Tami Beatty didn’t know they were within a stones throw of one another. If he were being watched he would rather be seen getting on an airplane than meeting a reporter at some Louisville club. He would meet with John Sanchez in the afternoon and then grab a puddle-jumper out of Knoxville and be to D.C. and back before the shifts changed at the hotel. He opened a satellite map on his iBook and began to search the Daniel Boone National Forest for clues.

  Rance had breakfast in the hotel cafe at 6:05 and was casually reading the newspaper in the lobby when his cell phone rang at 8:15 am.

  “Michael Pena,” he said, instinctively.

  “Mr. Pena. It’s Sophia Garza, I am sorry for calling so early,” she said self-consciously.

  “Not at all,” Pena/Broadback replied. “What can I do for you, Dr. Garza?”

  “Sophia, please.”

  “Sophia, then.”

  “I - I just wanted to tell you what a nice time I had last night.”

  “As did I, thank you. You were the perfect hostess.”

  “You are not the typical gambler that James invites to the ranch.”

  “No? He probably invites the winners,” he offered.

  “No. Listen, I would like to see you.”

  “Officially? I mean, is Mr. Rafferty suggesting that you see me again?”

  “No. Not like that. He is my boss, not my father. I am saying that I would like to see you.”

  “I would like to see you again as well,” Pena/Broadback said.

  “It is kind of embarrassing. Making a call like this. But I wasn’t sure how long you would be in town.”

  “May I lessen the embarrassment by saying that I have thought of little besides you, since we parted last night?”

  “You are kind.”

  “Tomorrow? Lunch?”

  “I’ll come to the hotel,” she said.

  “I can’t wait... Sophia?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you,” Michael/Rance said.

  “Hasta manana,” she replied.

  Rance hung up the phone and folded the newspaper. His mind was spinning. Was the good doctor working him under orders from James Rafferty? Or was she just a girl that wanted to get to know someone. He thought the later, but suspected the former. It was his nature.

  He left for Somerset early, giving himself time to evade any possible tail by taking some sightseeing detours. He nearly made himself late with a stop at the National Corvette Museum in Bowling Green. He pulled himself away drooling and wishing he led the kind of life
where driving one of those beauties wouldn’t draw unwanted attention. It would, so his lust to go fast had to be satisfied on the saddle of his Buell. Oh well.

  ----------

  “Oh well,” Andy thought. “Oh well that Rance is stuck with a 140 mph motorcycle, saving the country. And with women chasing him, no less—it must be tough. Meanwhile, here I am, just a guy who meets a nice girl and knows he doesn’t have a chance in hell... Oh well.” Andy shook the image of Debbie Williams out of his mind and tried to focus on the story.

  ----------

  Appalachian Malady -

  Although John Sanchez was somewhat new to the spy game, he was a quick study and a solid right hand. Serving four peacetime years in the Army, he excelled in hand-to-hand combat before discovering his niche in mechanics. It wasn’t long before he was the lead wrench at the base equipment yard where he found the time to retrofit, upgrade and soup-up all the toys in order to give his guys competitive advantage in whatever games they decided to play. He could have had a pretty nice career in the Army, but he wanted to solve his own design problems, not those of Uncle Sam. His business, Elite Design, had quickly risen to the top of the architectural field, especially among high-end commercial builders in the South, which is where he caught the eye of the former first lady. He fabricated an addition and safe-room for the state capital, which was so well received that he was invited to fashion a similar project in D.C., which is where he met Rance Broadback, a man with no past and no apparent job. Their relationship had grown to the point where John Sanchez had become a somewhat regular part of Rance’s off-the-books work. John knew only that their work usually had to do with National Security, although his specific role was usually well out of harms way.

  Rance passed an envelope across the table. It was a background sketch and identification documents of a John Garcia. Sanchez read the brief, “At least I get to be Mexican this time,” he smiled. “John Garcia, huh? Okay.”

  “I brought a sat-phone unit for you to have in case you need to communicate. There won’t be many phone towers out where you’re going,” Rance began. He got out a satellite map and described the region to Sanchez. “It’s wilderness, man. It’s dense forest, mountains and rugged, rugged terrain. It’s all going to look the same, so I want you to concentrate on this perimeter, here, and kind of work your way in.” He drew a half-circle on the map. This community here, Rose Park, this is the center point, and we go about twenty miles north and spread out in a radius from there.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Drugs. Marijuana specifically - lot’s of it. But it’s going to be protected, big time. Watch for traps, guards, maybe quad-runners, land mines, some of these people will even cut the vocal chords out of their guard dogs so you can’t hear them coming. So be careful. The closer you get to gold, the more dangerous it will get.”

  “I thought they just ran ‘shine down here.”

  “Join the club. The other thing is, I don’t think it’s going to be obvious, you know. Actually, I think the big prize is underground,” Rance said.

  “Warehousing?”

  “And growing. I think the whole operation is underground.”

  “Hydroponics and lights?”

  “Something, I don’t know. But it’s got to be hidden somehow. The feds are flying this area all the time, confiscating tons of the stuff from forest growers. But the shear volume they’re talking about has to point to a bigger operation. Maybe it’s being imported and warehoused somehow, but I just don’t think that’s all,” Rance trailed off. He was out on a limb and he knew it. His gut was usually right, but he usually ran the ball a little further up the field before he let anyone in on the hunch. He was asking Sanchez to put his life on the line for an idea that was purely conjecture at this point. That was dangerous.

  “So I go native and find the stash without getting strung up by a band of hillbillies, is that it?” Sanchez summed up what he knew so far with his unique spin.

  “I guess that’s about it,” he smiled along with Sanchez. “I hope that GPR can give us an outline of the underground facility, if there is one. You find the big prize and then you get back home, that’s the plan.”

  “So what do you get to do while I’m out scratching chiggers and picking ticks off my ass? Or do I want to know?”

  “Thanks for the visual,” Rance said, shaking his head. “Me, I’ll just be doing what I do, chasing girls and taking all the credit.”

  “Right. Somehow I don’t think so,” Sanchez said.

  “The thing is we have to stay way under the radar, here. If this is as big as I think it is, it goes all the way up line—maybe connected to the Hagin thing.”

  “No shit?” Sanchez said, “That is way up the food chain.”

  “Yeah,” Rance agreed. “Here’s some cash, rent what you need down here and take a back road into the target zone. Stay away from the towns, they are all wired, everybody is connected in some way. Target a five-mile radius northwest of the Cedar Ridge Mine. That’s where they seem to be the most anxious. And John, be careful. These rednecks shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Sanchez grinned sarcastically.

  “Trust me John, they are going to know those ‘hollers’ and mountains like the back of their own hands. If you are exposed and they track you, the wolves will find you before I ever do. So, are you with me.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes I wonder why.”

  “Just so we’re clear,”

  “Sounds like Baghdad meets the Amazon.”

  “That’s probably not too far from right.”

  Sanchez found an army surplus store, it wasn’t hard, it seemed like they were on every corner, and stocked up on camo and supplies. He rented a truck and trailer from U-haul and bought a used Quad-runner from a Yamaha dealer. He bought a turkey permit from Wal-Mart and a Savage turkey gun with Winchester ammo. He got three days worth of gas and headed east. He picked his way around the eastern perimeter of the target zone before parking the truck and trailer behind an old General Store that looked like it hadn’t been open since the turn of the last century. He changed clothes and climbed aboard the quad. He looked like any other hunter, except for the fact that he was traveling alone. He picked along fire roads and trails until he determined by the map that he was about three miles outside the target perimeter. He dismounted and covered the quad with brush. The sun was nearly down and the forest tree cover was so dense that it was nearly dark by the time he stashed his gear. He donned his night-vision goggles and GPR pack and set out west on foot. He didn’t need the goggles yet, but he would inside an hour. The terrain was everything Rance said it would be and he had to be careful with every step. The forest floor was covered in a bed of moist grey and brown leaves that gave in like a pillow under the weight of his step. Sapling trees were nearly as dense as the thorny blackberry and other wait-a-minute bushes that grabbed at his clothing from every side.

  After an hour of careful negotiation, Sanchez turned on the GPR and began scanning the surface in front of him in slow, sweeping passes. Ground Penetrating Radar was a fairly new technology that was being developed for city and county jurisdictions as a way to help city workers determine the exact locations of things like electrical and water lines. Hand-held units like the one John Sanchez had invented weren’t available yet, but as soon as they were, the risk and resulting financial losses connected with digging across buried cable and lines would be dramatically reduced. John’s unit used a super low frequency transmitter that was able to conduct a signal as deep as fifteen to twenty five meters depending on the substrata. As long as the geological maps were correct and the terrain around here was largely limestone base, he knew he would be able to achieve optimal results. And, if he actually located an underground bunker or structure made of metal and concrete, the pulses of the electromagnetic radiation would allow him to visualize the target in precise detail. He swept the area from East to West and then from South to North without result. He
hadn’t seen or heard any security personnel, either, so he figured he might have started in the wrong place or be a little too far outside the perimeter. He made his way back to the make shift camp and crawled in to a pine-branch shelter for some sleep.

  ----------

  Andy rolled his head around to loosen and crack his tight neck and looked at the clock. 1:15 am. He decided that if John Sanchez was getting some sleep that he might as well do the same. “Only, while Sanchez is flicking ticks in the forest, I’ll be here in the comfort of my bed,” he said to the computer screen. He clicked Apple-S and put the iBook to sleep for the night.