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  Bishop remained motionless and unsure of what to do for a few minutes. His mind was moving a thousand miles an hour, trying to figure out his next move. Whoever was in charge of the electric lights just over the ridge in front of him wanted to know if someone were approaching that position. The device looked to be a common roadside flare like the police used to warn traffic around an accident. Rigging such a flare to a tripwire would have required some skill. The position of the wire further indicated someone who knew what they were doing. Was there a sniper scanning the area for trespassers? Was a bullet going to slam into his body any second now? Was a team on the way to search the area, or was everyone’s attention simply drawn to the flare?

  The sound of voices floating over the hill answered his questions – a team was on the way. The random beams of flashlights cresting the hill soon validated that fact. Bishop slowly backed away from the crest and retreated back down his original path. He made it to the bottom of the hill and turned to his right, scanning through the night vision looking for some place to hide. The light from the flickering flare wasn’t as pronounced this far down the hill, and he needed the night vision to find a narrow gap between two formations of rock. Bishop squeezed his body between the rough stone surfaces, drew his pistol, and waited. If they found him here, there wasn’t room to use the rifle.

  He had managed three or four deep breaths before the voices became clear. There were at least three men checking on the tripped booby trap – maybe more. Bishop was perplexed by the casual approach to the area as the men were using flashlights and talking at normal volumes. Those actions didn’t match the professionalism and field craft used to set the wire.

  The words, “It was probably just another fucking deer,” followed by, “Who knew we had the clumsiest rabbits in west Texas around here?” solved the puzzle. Bishop exhaled and relaxed. The men had evidently investigated so many false alarms they no longer took the flares seriously. His reprieve was short lived however as one of the voices announced in a serious tone, “Hey! Is that a boot print over here?”

  Footprints? Oh shit, did I leave footprints? Bishop held his breath and waited to hear the answer from above, but everything had gotten very quiet. That wasn’t good news at all. The reaction team had gone silent, which meant they thought someone was within earshot. Not good – not good at all.

  The sound of crunching soil nearby told Bishop the area was now being searched and without flashlights. Bishop’s thumb was on the pistol’s safety, his figure holding off the trigger. Without thinking, he tried to squeeze a little further back into the rocks.

  After 10 minutes, a whispered voice broke the silence. The men were surprisingly close by. “I ain’t no fucking Indian tracker, but that sure as shit looked like an indentation from a boot up there. What do you think?”

  The response almost made Bishop laugh out loud. In a very good impression of John Wayne, someone responded, “Well, pilgrim, I reckon we needed to check it out. Ya never know when them redskins might be get’n ready ta bushwhack us.”

  A third, more authoritative voice found no humor in the situation at all. “Would you two ass-clowns shut your pusses and finish the damn sweep?”

  “There ain’t nothing out here, Sarge. I haven’t seen any other sign – it was probably another deer. Besides, I just cut the hell out of myself on one of those damn thorn bushes. Let’s reset the wire and head back. My shift is about up, and I’m beat.”

  Evidently, the men turned around because the voices became muffled, and Bishop couldn’t make out any more of the conversation. He remained hidden in the crevice for what seemed like hours, finally exiting his hiding spot when his leg started cramping. Bishop slowly moved across the valley floor until he found a good place to hole up for the day. An ancient stream had eroded a glass smooth indentation a few feet into the side of a shallow canyon. The overhang would keep the sun off of him and provide good cover. He pulled some dead bundles of scrub and blocked the view of anyone casually patrolling the area. It was a huge relief to get out of his gear and boots. He sat up the solar battery charger and switched to fresh night vision cells. After a quick field cleaning of his rifle and pistol, Bishop scarfed down a cold meal, took a long drink, and made a pillow out of his pack. He took his survival net and folded it into the shape of a bed. It wasn’t very thick, but it provided some cushion. The cool sensation of the rocks underneath him was a welcome relief after hours of sweating in a cocoon of body armor and chest rig.

  He entered REM before the sun broke over the mountains to the east.

  Chapter 7 – Shades of Brown

  Pete woke before first light, as usual. The modest apartment, located in the back of the bar, had been one of the building’s biggest selling points when he first arrived in Meraton a few years back. Recently divorced, he didn’t want or need a lot of living space to keep clean and relished the thought of a simpler life. The only belongings he had brought with him from back east had fit in the back seat and trunk of his Nissan Altima.

  Pete shifted his legs over the edge of the single bed and stretched his arms high over his head. As was his habit, he congratulated himself on making it through another day. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, while his mind was already running through a mental checklist of the day’s priorities. There was a fresh batch of rye aging in the still, and soon he’d need to barter with old man Johnson for another load of firewood. While the bar’s glasses had been washed and neatly stacked after closing last night, his personal dishes still needed attention. He wondered if Betty had finished his laundry and smiled at how she didn’t want anyone knowing she enjoyed a little nip now and then. Being a bartender is a lot like being a priest, he thought, sometimes people confide their deepest secrets, and you can’t violate the trust. Betty did Pete’s laundry every week in exchange for a covert canteen of his bathtub gin.

  His eyes still closed, Pete reached his hand over the nightstand, locating the partially used book of matches resting there. A luxury for most folks now, he purchased two cartons of them in celebration of the grand opening of his new establishment. Each brightly colored box displayed the words “Pete’s Place,” inscribed in a fancy script generally associated with old West saloons and matched his street front signage. He still had several boxes left, and they were no longer used as giveaways to loyal customers. The little packages of cardboard, phosphorus and gelatin were simply too valuable now. He carefully scratched one stick across the emery board on the back of the cover and ignited the small flame. A few moments later, a votive candle resting on a saucer illuminated the dark bedroom.

  After pulling on a pair of well-worn jeans, Pete padded barefoot into the tiny bathroom, carrying the candle with his hand cupped in front of the flame. He brushed his teeth using a bucket of water brought in fresh the night before. A couple of handfuls of the cool liquid quickly smoothed what remained of his hair. Pete headed to the kitchen and readied his wood-burning stove for making breakfast. There were two five-gallon buckets nearby, one containing dry kindling and the other cured splits of pine. The stove had originally been a metal box constructed to store mail while it was being transported across the country. Evidently, Pete’s Place had once housed the Meraton Post Office, because he had found three of the old containers when he bought the building. Roberto, down at the gas station, cut and welded the heavy, steel box, converting it to a perfect kitchen sized heat source. That little job had cost him six beers, and he never regretted the investment.

  Pete grabbed a bit of kindling and tore off a small scrap of paper, which he ignited in the candle’s flame. In a few minutes, a small smoldering fire provided a warm glow in the kitchen. Pete opened the makeshift chimney and watched as the smoke was drawn outside. He felt a sense of pride at having accomplished his morning routine while using only one match. He thought it probably would be a while before any salesman visited Meraton and tried to sell him more.

  Coffee was the next order of the day. While that first cup of hot brew was one thing he looked forward t
o the most, lately it had been a little depressing as well. His supply of coffee was running low. His storeroom normally held about twenty pounds back-stocked for the bar and fortunately just received a shipment on his last regular order. There hadn’t been any more deliveries, and he was down to the last, precious canister. That was a problem he would have to solve later, after his brain was functioning at full speed.

  He grabbed a small iron skillet in one hand while he dipped a finger into a cup of bacon grease sitting on the back of the stove. A year ago, he wouldn’t have gone anywhere near the cholesterol-laden stuff. Now, cooking seemed to depend on lard, and he happily smeared the surface of the pan with the slippery substance. A brown chicken egg quickly followed the grease into the pan, and was soon popping and sizzling above the open flame. Pete rubbed his eyes again, adjusting the coffee water and frying pan so each got its fair share of heat. He liked his egg with his coffee.

  He sat down at the small dinette and waited on his breakfast to cook. Glancing over at the sink, he was reminded of the forgotten supper dishes, and stood up quickly to wash and dry the few items there. Glancing at the now steaming coffee water, Pete strode out back and refilled the kitchen bucket from a five-gallon cooler resting on the back porch. He paused when a hoot owl sounded off to the north. He waited a bit to see if it had attracted a mate’s return call, but heard no response. Don’t sweat it none, pal, he thought, I’m in the same boat, and we’re both probably better off.

  Returning to his egg, Pete flipped it over and waited a few moments until it was perfectly golden on the edges and still soft in the middle. Wrapped in a kitchen towel and sitting on the counter was a small loaf of bread, recently baked by one of the local women. Her husband had a taste for moonshine, and Pete liked her bread. The barter had been one of the easy ones. Pete sliced off a hunk of the crumbly loaf and poured his coffee into a well-used porcelain cup. He returned to the dinette and tasted the first mouthful of his hot, fresh meal. The hoot owl had reminded him of his ex-wife and despite how the woman had treated him, he couldn’t help but wonder for a moment how she had managed after the collapse. His attention shifted as he lifted his coffee cup and glanced at the faded emblem on the side. The golden badge of a Police Detective, City of Philadelphia adorned the old mug. Pete remembered the celebration when his promotion had been posted. The coffee cup was one of many gifts of congratulation that had followed the event. As far as he knew, this memento was the only reminder he had left from that happy day. The real shindig had been when he was promoted to a district captain. Pete smiled at the memory while thinking, “Now that was a serious party.”

  It was all behind him now. The marriage, career, retirement to the Jersey shore, and fishing with the pensioned cops who flocked to the area in droves – it had all vanished into thin air. Pete looked down at his egg and sliced off another bite. Now, Pete, he thought, you’re probably better off than any of those people back in Philly – you have eggs and bread.

  Leaning back in his chair, he thought about those last few months on the force for the thousandth time. He had been a rising star, making captain by age 32. In five short years, rumors started spreading that his name was under consideration for commissioner. Pete hadn’t believed the rumors at the time, but one of his rivals had. Pete had always been an honest cop. He had never taken a bribe or performed a favor for anyone. There had been times where he had circumvented the system or manipulated a few rules in order to achieve justice – but never to benefit his family or himself.

  One morning while driving into the station, he noticed a black car pull out and begin following him. The Philly police were really putting the pressure on several drug gangs operating in the city at that time, and Pete stayed more vigilant than normal during those operations. The same black automobile reappeared on his trip home, again following a few car-lengths behind him. Calling the station for backup, Pete drove around for a little bit until he spotted the two patrol cars approaching the suspicious sedan from behind. Pete stopped right in the middle of the road and got out of his car with weapon drawn. To Pete’s surprise, the sedan contained two Justice Department investigators. Pete’s name had been mentioned in the wrong circles by the wrong people, and the feds had placed him under surveillance.

  Pete took another sip of coffee; his gaze lost in the space of the diminutive kitchen’s yellowed walls. Two days later, he was arrested on federal corruption charges, and his life unraveled almost immediately.

  When the headlines hit the newsstands the next day, he had already been released and warned by the federal judge not to leave town. Over the next few months, Pete was suspended without pay, his wife moved back home with her parents, and every single one of his friends seemed to abandon him.

  It took almost a year to clear his name, and during that time things looked pretty dicey more than once. For twelve and a half awful months, men he had served with since the academy avoided him. Phone calls and emails weren’t answered or returned. The favorite watering hole, frequented by dozens of cops from his district, was suddenly empty, a replacement having been chosen without his knowledge.

  When he did run into a co-worker, the response was frequently polite to his face but vague in commitment. “Let’s get together and have lunch Monday,” was often answered with, “I’d love to have lunch sometime Pete, but can’t Monday. I’ll get back to you once my schedule clears up.” They never got back.

  The worst of it all was his wife of twenty plus years. Despite his repeated assurances that he was completely innocent, she couldn’t handle the social poison created by the incident. Halfway through the ordeal, she left him withering in the storm by himself. Their divorce was finalized three months later.

  Pete absent-mindedly swallowed another fork’s worth of egg. Despite all of this happening over three years ago, he couldn’t help but relive the past now and then. There was some good news – it had been four days since he had thought about it last. The gaps between these little, bumpy trips down memory lane were growing longer over time, and he concluded that meant he was healing or whatever the politically correct psycho-babble was for the healing of his spirit.

  A couple more bites of egg and bread finished off breakfast, and he moved the dirty dishes to the sink. He decided to wait and wash them later. After he finished getting dressed, Pete unlocked the heavy metal door that separated his apartment from the bar. The sun would be up in a few minutes, and the early, gray light was already making Main Street visible out the front windows of the bar.

  As Pete set about readying for another day of business, he thought about how apologetic the mayor and commissioner had been when the feds finally dropped the charges. A rival officer had joined forces with one of the city’s most powerful drug lords and proceeded to set up a very sophisticated frame job involving bank accounts, digitally altered photographs, and fake email addresses. It had taken months to sort it out. The mayor had immediately ordered Pete returned to active duty with full pay and benefits, but it wasn’t enough. Those who had turned their backs on him were now embarrassed, and Pete couldn’t bring himself to trust them anymore. A police captain doesn’t function in a vacuum. He needs his officers, staff, advisors, and even street snitches working with him to be effective. Pete’s network was destroyed by false accusations and could never be rebuilt. Besides, he didn’t have the motivation or the heart to work with those people anymore. His lawyer approached the mayor and made his wishes absolutely clear; the city needed to cough up an early retirement and modest compensation, after which Pete would disappear. The mayor agreed.

  Pete had always wanted to see the great American West. He had spent all of his life in Philly, never venturing further than the Appalachian Mountains. He took part of his compensation and purchased a modest, late model sedan and packed it with a few personal items. With the tank filled and a stack of AAA roadmaps resting in the passenger seat, the former police captain began driving and only looked back now and again.

  It had taken a little over a year to burn
off his wanderlust. One by one, he successfully crossed off all of the household name national parks from his list. He toured California via the Pacific Coast Highway and spent considerable time in the northwest. He was walking out of a New Mexico truck stop after filling his tank and empting his bladder when something caught his eye. There, just inside the door, was a wire stand full of glossy, tri-fold tourist brochures. He was heading to Texas, and while he had seen hundreds of these advertising displays over the last year, this was the first one containing information about destinations in the Lone Star State. He browsed the dozens of choices and picked one touting Big Bend National Park and a small town he never heard of called Meraton. He casually flipped to the inside of the fold out, proudly featuring pictures of the Manor’s gardens. Their striking beauty and seeming tranquility made up his mind. After a quick cell phone call to verify reservations, Pete started driving toward his future.

  He had fallen in love with the dusty, little town immediately. The sheer beauty of the Manor was only part of the lure. The fact that he was becoming a little road weary, no doubt played a role as well. But what really sucked Pete in was the apparent lack of concern about his past. No one asked where he was from or commented on his out-of-state license plates. Everyone was polite and friendly – always offering suggestions about finding the best place to eat. No one ever even asked him where he was from or what he was doing in Meraton.