Turning Point (Book 1): A Time To Die Read online

  “Yeah, I hear that.” The cop gave her one more look, and she shot him her best ‘hey cutie’ smile. He chuckled and waved her through. Kathy stepped on the gas, sending the Chevy coughing and wheezing down the road.

  She cut back and got on the freeway a few miles later. Less than 100 miles north of Brownsville, she picked up her first curious police officer. He’d been following her for a while before she noticed. Kathy took the next exit and drove down the ramp. It was a dead exit with no services, and the cop followed her.

  “Shit,” she cursed as she glanced at the road signs and then her smartphone. There was nothing for miles and miles, other than a small town to her left. She signaled and turned right like she’d done it a thousand times. Casually glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the cop stop at the sign and watch her go. After a long moment, he went across the road and back onto the freeway. She considered doubling back, then decided she’d tested her luck enough for one day, and stuck with the side roads.

  The cell signal was getting progressively worse the further south she drove. The roads weren’t much better. It took her four hours, well past nightfall, to make it another 50 miles, putting her within 10 miles of the outskirts of Brownsville. There, she pulled into a tiny gas station/grocery/post office where locals crowded a front bench, gossiping and drinking beer. Kathy glanced at her gas gauge, appalled at just how much she’d used in only seventy miles, and decided to fill it up.

  “Don’t think I’ve seen you ‘round here,” said a man who was filling up a truck bed full of gas cans. She looked at him. He was in his forties, tan and fit, short-haired and handsome, and wearing typical clothes for a rancher.

  “I came from Victorville,” she said, remembering the sign she’d seen when she’d exited the freeway. She glanced at the gas cans he was filling, then noticed the station was charging almost $7 a gallon and decided to pad the story. “Our station is out of gas.”

  That seemed to fly. “Yeah,” the man said, “I’ve heard a few places are out. Deliveries have been late. Torrance says if no one shows, by tomorrow night he’ll be down to diesel and super, so I figured I’d come in and fill up for the ATVs.”

  ATVs, she thought, an idea stirring as she filled. “I’ve been looking to buy an extra one for the farm,” she said. “Had one die a few weeks ago, and the mechanic says it’ll cost a fortune to fix. Know anyone who has one for sale?”

  “What are you lookin’ for?”

  “Oh, something for under a thousand or so,” she said. He laughed, and she did too.

  “I have an old Honda I’d let go for that. It ain’t pretty, but I’d throw in a little utility trailer and a full tank of gas.”

  “Add two cans,” she said, gesturing at his truck bed, “and we can talk.”

  “I reckon we could,” he agreed and offered his hand. “Cobb.”

  “Kathy,” she replied and shook his hand. It was warm, strong without being rude, and heavily calloused. The nozzle clicked, and she returned it to the pump just in time to see what was coming down the road. “Well there’s another one,” the man said.

  The tractor-trailer was massive, blocky in a way civilian trucks weren’t anymore. The truck was light tan and belched smoke as it cleared a little hill just before the station. On its low trailer were a pair of six-wheeled tanks. On the tanks rode dozens of soldiers in combat gear.

  Kathy didn’t think about it, she just reached in through the passenger window, grabbed one of her miniature camcorders, and filmed the tractor trailer as it passed. Several of the soldiers saw her, but not the camera. A chorus of whoots and wolf whistles floated on the wind, barely audible under the roar of the big Army diesel and its massive load. A second tractor trailer followed right behind, and another, and another. Twenty-nine went by before a solitary Humvee with a simple red and yellow flag flying from its long whip radio antenna passed the gas station. A man sat in the passenger seat, and she could see silver on his epaulets. She calmly put the camera in her pocket as it passed by; the man in the passenger seat looked at her, and she gave him a little wave. He nodded in reply.

  “People over in Victorville are a tad strange,” Cobb said, once the Humvee passed.

  Kathy took out the camera, made sure it had saved the recording and stashed it in her pants pocket. Looking at the rather handsome farmer, she shrugged. “I like Army stuff. Let me get a Pepsi, and I’ll follow you to your place and check out that ATV.”

  Nearby turned out to be almost 20 miles. People in Texas used a different kind of yardstick to measure distance. Cobb’s quaint little ranch was nearly forty thousand acres of free range cattle land scattered southward in a rough crescent shape. “Comes to a stop about a mile from the border. Used to own it all the way down that-a-way, but I got tired of having guests every time the politicians started talking about amnesty, so I sold it to another guy.”

  She didn’t know much about ATVs, but it looked like she was getting a bargain. The Honda was older, with only one headlight and almost no instrumentation. That said, the seat was soft, and it purred right to life when Cobb pressed the electric starter, applied a little choke, and shifted it with his left foot, just like a motorcycle. She watched the whole operation carefully. Luckily for her, a boyfriend in college had taught her to ride a motorcycle. When it was her turn, she looked like a pro as she tooled around the shed a couple of times.

  Not being able to lean into corners scared her a bit. She made a mental note to be careful about that as she revved it a bit and felt the wind in her hair.

  “You’ve got a deal,” she said when she came to a stop next to her truck. He helped her unload the bales of hay, a bonus she gave him, and restack the gear she’d liberated from GNN in the front (secured with bungies he found behind her seat). He didn’t comment on the gear as he used a couple of two-by-six boards to load the ATV onto the truck and added two full five-gallon cans of gas, the little trailer, and a funnel for easy refueling.

  “It’s pretty late,” he said as she handed him ten crisp $100 bills and shook his hand. “Victorville is quite a haul this time of night. You’re more than welcome to stay in the guest room, start out early if you want.”

  “What would your wife say?” she asked, fishing.

  “Don’t got one,” he admitted, then shrugged.

  “In that case, you got a deal.”

  His house was about what you’d expect on a south Texas ranch less than ten miles from the Mexican border. There was lots of sturdy old furniture that had once belonged to his parents. Scattered about were pictures of siblings, older relatives, and such. There was also a picture of him, younger, in an Army uniform, holding an assault rifle in the desert and giving a thumbs-up. He went into the kitchen, and when he came back, he caught her looking at that picture. He handed her a beer. It was domestic, but it tasted great. “Gulf War?” she asked. She’d guessed he was about 40, but in the light, she realized he was closer to 50.

  “First one, yeah,” he admitted. “Me and a bunch of buddies were Guard back then. Fun weekends of shootin’ and drinkin’. Then that fucker Saddam invaded and quicker then shit we were in Saudi getting Scuds fired at us. Don’t get me wrong, compared to what them boys went through after the Second World War, it wasn’t too bad. All we did was shoot a few rounds and drink for six months.” He gestured to an old recliner which she sat in, and he sat on the ottoman in front of her.

  “Kathy,” he said looking at her closely, “if you are a farmer, I’m a flying pig.”

  She took a swig of beer and pretended to look over his shoulders for wings. He chuckled. “What made you say that?”

  “No one this far south would be hauling hay around in April,” he started. “Grass is already growing like crazy. I’ve had to bush hog my truck lot twice already. That pickup has Green County plates, that’s north of Houston. Your accent is all wrong. This here Southern accent is as contagious as the common cold. I know transplants, and they pick it up fast. And finally, farmers don’t have a truckload of camera gear from a
network hidden under hay bales.”

  “It’s a long story,” she said, finishing her beer.

  “So, suppose you tell me about it?”

  “Can I have another beer? And maybe a bite to eat?”

  Cobb considered her for a long moment, then shrugged. “Come on into the kitchen,” he said. There was a formal dining room like in older country homes, but the kitchen had a nice little well-used table for two. She noted the wear on both chairs, and the spots on the table where plates had scarred the finish during decades of use.

  “So,” he said, taking down a pan and fishing around in the fridge. “Beef or chicken?”

  “Surprise me,” she said. He nodded and pulled out a pair of steaks in Ziplocs that he transferred to the microwave. “My name is Kathy Clifford, and I’m a reporter with GNN.”

  “Thought you were familiar,” he said.

  Kathy nodded. “A few days ago, I saw something that would curl your hair.”

  He cooked, and she talked. She left a few things out, like how she sent the story without authorization, how she stole the camera gear, and how the government was looking for her. He asked intelligent questions in all the right places. She couldn’t tell from the Gulf War picture what his rank was, but she guessed he’d been an officer. She was just finishing her story as he slid two plates onto the table, loaded with medium rare T-bones, baked potatoes, and all the fixings.

  “Wow!” she said, cutting off a chunk of steak and biting into it. The meat practically melted in her mouth. “Em me gawd,” she said around another bite.

  Cobb grinned and nodded. “You want good steak, go eat with a cattleman. Butchered that one day before yesterday for a cousin.” The thought that it had recently been a living animal didn’t slow her down a bit. Reporters learned to roll with the punches. She’d watched Kurds kill and process a goat for her once in Iraq.

  “So, they have all the roads cut off up north?” he asked. She chewed and nodded. “And you just bought this truck and blew the roadblocks pretending to be a farmer?” Nod. “And they bought that?” Wink and nod. “You’re quite the woman, Miss Clifford.”

  “Oh,” she said and swallowed, pointing the knife at his face, “call me that one more time, and it’s game on.” He laughed and held up his hands in surrender, and she laughed too. He started in on his steak, and, for a while, the only sounds in the old kitchen were clinking knives on plates and grunts of satisfaction (mostly from Kathy).

  “I know you had a wife,” she said after a while.

  “How do you figure?”

  “This kitchen speaks of a woman living here. So does the living room, and the care with which it was decorated. It screams happy farm wife. And, you’re working hard to maintain the flower beds, but falling behind. Someone once labored over those azaleas. Your turn.”

  Cobb didn’t look up. “She died of cancer two years ago.”

  Kathy felt like an ass. “Shit, I’m sorry,” she said, “that wasn’t fair of me.”

  “So, we were lying to each other,” he admitted. “Guess that makes us even. Another beer, Kathy?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly. A little later they moved into the living room, and he put some music on a hi-fi that dated back almost as far as the house. She perked up in surprise as the mellow sounds of cool jazz emerged from the speakers. “I would have never picked you for a jazz fan,” she said as she sipped the beer.

  “After the service, I lived in Memphis, working for a car plant for a few years. It was Beale Street for dinner, dancing on the weekends. I met Maggie there. I guess you could say it got into my blood.”

  She nodded, silently cursing herself for not being able to stay away from that subject. Finishing her beer, she found herself on her feet, swaying with the rhythm of the music. Cobb watched her with a smile on his face, and she wondered what he was thinking. He got up and went to the kitchen, returning with another couple of beers. Kathy sashayed over to him, her hips swaying with the music and took a beer.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” she whispered into his ear.

  “You seem to be doing a fine job of that without my help,” he said, a laugh in his voice.

  Her arms went around his neck, and his around her waist. He was just a little bit taller, and the bristles of his beard were rough against her cheek. He smelled like honest work, hay, and a little bit of animal musk. It was the smell of a man, and it instinctively drew her to him. It was an unusual revelation for a city girl.

  “I know what you’re doing,” he said, his mouth inches from hers.

  “Do you?” she asked and kissed him. He tasted like beer. Kathy imagined she did as well. After a second, he responded and returned the kiss.

  He pulled her closer, and she unconsciously molded to the leanness of his body. They danced and kissed for a minute, then the song ended, and he gently untangled himself from her arms.

  “I need to get your room ready,” he said, a little out of breath. She watched him go and sighed, then finished her beer.

  “It’s not much of a guest room,” he apologized, coming back. The sheets looked like they hadn’t been out of storage in ages, and the dried flowers had a good layer of dust on them. Still, it was a bed and better than sleeping in the truck as she’d originally planned. “I’ll be down the hall if you need me,” he said. He hesitated, almost like he was uncertain of his resolve, then turned and left.

  There was a three-quarter bathroom off the room, and Kathy stripped and went in to use the shower. The hot spray and Ivory soap washed away the day’s grime and left her feeling human again. There was an oversized robe hanging on the back of the door, so she put it on and went back into the room. Out in the living room the record player was still going. It had loaded another LP after the last one finished. The scratchy sound of the old vinyl was somehow soothing, and it helped her make up her mind.

  Cobb looked up from the book he was reading in his big bed. Propped up on a pillow, his hairy chest looked freshly washed. “You need something?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said as she pushed the door the rest of the way open and dropped the robe to the floor. She padded over slowly and stood next to him. He looked her up and down and sighed, before pulling back the sheets so she could slide in next to him. He was naked as well.

  “It’s been a long time,” he admitted as her hand traced a line down his muscular torso.

  Kathy’s hand found what it sought, and she was delighted to realize he wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him. “I hear it’s like riding a bicycle…” she purred as she straddled him, and it turned out to be true.

  * * *

  The flight back to the States was agonizingly long, even in an A380. The rear of the lower deck behind the four massive engines was a little noisier than other areas, though immensely better than a C-130 would have been. Andrew had flown so much in his military career, he figured he could probably sleep if the plane was taking fire.

  He spent the first couple of hours checking out the video offerings on the seat-back entertainment system. Ward was playing on his smartphone while Prescott produced a paperback novel from his bag and fell into it. Andrew got a chuckle out of the looks the two airmen got when they went to the restroom and people saw the M9s in their flap holsters. Finally, he found himself zoning out and decided to sleep for a few hours.

  “I’m going to catch some sack time,” he told Ward. The man nodded, put his phone down for a minute and produced a handcuff key. He unlocked one of the cuffs. Andrew half expected him to cuff the other one to the seat arm or something, instead he put it on the same wrist as the other, effectively making them useless.

  “Orders said you were to be transported in cuffs,” Ward said. “They didn’t say how you were to be cuffed.”

  Prescott snorted and gave a nod.

  “You don’t approve of what’s going on, do you?” he asked the staff sergeant.

  “Not at all, sir. Not at all.”

  Andrew thanked him, got comfortable, and was asleep i
n minutes, just like any other soldier used to deployment would be. You learned to rack when you could or not at all. When he woke, it was to the sound of flight attendants moving laden carts and cutlery on plates.

  Ward was picking at his plate desultorily. Prescott had already given up. He took some beef jerky from his pack and was gnawing on it with a disappointed, yet resigned, look on his face.

  “I tried to warn you guys,” Andrew said with a chuckle.

  “Want some?” Ward offered, gesturing to his plate.

  “Nah. Like I said, I got my fill. Besides, that sub wasn’t too long ago, and the damned seasoning isn’t sitting well with me. In fact, I better hit the little boy’s room.” Ward nodded as he got up and headed toward the nearest lavatory.

  There was quite a line waiting at the set of three bathrooms, and it looked like most of them were ill. Andrew sighed. Not only was he facing a court-martial, now it looked like he was going to get some nasty Middle Eastern bug and spend the next month shitting his lower GI out.

  He was next in line and trying not to listen to the sounds of distress coming from behind the thin door, when the guy behind him gasped and started rambling on in another language.

  “You okay?” he asked the man who looked at him with half-wild, feral eyes. The door next to them opened, and a woman staggered out, sweat covering her forehead, and bits of vomit clinging to her chin. “Jesus,” Andrew exclaimed and took a step back, fetching up against the bulkhead.

  The woman mumbled something as she stumbled past, and the crazy-looking guy jumped ahead of Andrew into the wretched-smelling bathroom. “No, go right ahead,” Andrew said under his breath. He looked at the next person in line, a thin Asian man with a vacant stare and sweat on his forehead. Shit, shit, shit, he thought. The next bathroom opened, and he quickly slid in before someone could bump him again.

  The bathroom smelled like an army latrine after an entire squad just back from the jungle visited it. It was wretched in the extreme. The last person hadn’t even bothered to flush, something he did immediately upon locking the door. The mess disappeared with a snap and a loud sucking sound that left the bowl covered in a thin layer of blue water. He sat down and did his business.