Back on the Road Again

8/6/2019 Back on the Road Again

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Part 1—Westbound

Columbia, MO to St Cloud, MN

735 miles, 15 hoursThere are two things about the weather in the mid-

west. It is usually intense and is often violent. Hot, cold, wet or

dry, doesn't matter, it overlays the prairie at full bore.

In all the years I've lived here, there have beenmaybe two days of gentle rain. Today isn't one of them. Wind

and rain combine to make the worst possible highway conditions

and today the weather is a mix of blinding rain and hammering

hail pushed by powerful gusts of wind. Wind that can turn a

tractor-trailer on its side can easily do the same to my thirty-foot

motor home.The rain comes down so hard I can't see the dividing

line. I pull off the highway without bothering to get permission.

The man sitting at the table behind me sways up behind the

driver's seat as I came to a crunching stop on the shoulder. He's

waving that little pistol of his at me. Like there's some real

choice between blind-siding a semi in this rain and being shot.He's been threatening me with great success ever

since he used it to force his way into my RV three hundred miles

ago. He doesn't have to wave it to scare me, I'm scared enough

just knowing there's gun within a mile of me. Bullies are like

that though.

The little guy with him doesn't have a gun; he has a

look about him that comes right out of Mafia TV. Their speech

is hard to understand it's so thickly accented. I'm an American.



Never been anyplace outside the country. Never heard other

languages spoken except on television. The one with the gun

sounds like a TV Russian. The little one maybe Cuban. Whatdo I know, I'm too scared to breathe nine-tenths of the time much

less analyze anything.

We are stopped somewhere along Interstate-35

north of Des Moines waiting for the worst of this storm to pass.

I've driven over three hundred miles today. My usual limit is a

hundred. I'm not telling them that my foot is starting to crampand my neck is getting stiff. There is something worse than

living literally under the gun and that's being shot as a useless

nuisance and tossed out the passenger side door. I have no idea

where we are going, but they're in a big hurry.

The worst of the storm finally passes. The hard rain

has backed off to a gentle shower. I start the engine, put it ingear and only a slight touch of gas is enough to tell me I'm

probably in trouble. There is no need to panic, people get stuck

all the time. It’s getting close to being the worst thing that could

happen though. We aren't bad stuck, just in a little depression…I

hope.

The big guy gets out to see for himself. After someshouting back and forth, some sticks and rocks laid in front of

the rear tires, he yells and I apply a little gas to the problem. I

swear I don't know how it happened. I didn't gun the engine to

leap away from him. I wish I'd thought of doing that, but I

didn’t.

The big Russian gets back in the RV all muddy

holding his right wrist. He got hurt somehow and I'm hoping he

doesn't blame me. I'm trying not to let him see me grinning. I'm



not exactly filled with sympathy. I couldn't help it, it wasn't

really funny, but then maybe it was. I'm just tired, scared and

totally frayed.The RV eases back onto the highway. The two of

them are yelling at each other in Russian and Spanish. Fear

pushes tears down my face blinding me like no rainstorm could.

I'm laughing and crying at the same time. It occurs to some

distant part of my brain that I may be in shock. I ought to be

able to use this chaos to some advantage, but I can't think straight. And of course, that's funny too. I just want to stop

laughing, stop being afraid all the time. The rain dies down and

with it the bedlam behind me quiets. The last six hours have

been more like six days and I have no idea when it will end.

Three more hours of exciting cornfields and the

thrilling flat nothingness of Iowa and we cross into Minnesota.I've never been in Minnesota. But then today there have been a

lot of 'I've never beens'. We stop for gas. Both tanks are empty.

When I don't produce credit cards the passengers come up with

the cash. That they do this without comment gives me a sense of

control. Not much mind you, just a sense.

The Russian's wrist has begun to swell and the twoof them have spent the time while I was pumping fussing with

each other over it. I don’t know why I didn’t run away. This

injury seems to have changed whatever their plans were.

Eventually, some decision seems to have been

reached because the little guy gets on the phone over at the edge

of the gas station’s concrete apron. The conversation is short but

seems to have put them back on track and in a better humor.



With the Cuban back in the passenger seat, my

instructions are 'go straight'. He waves and points out directions

that work us north.It's beginning to get dark when we come into

Minneapolis. I've driven about 700 miles today. If they shoot

me I won't care, as long as I can die laying stretch out, I’ll make

a happy corpse.

More gestured directions put us at a restaurant

parking lot next to a small strip mall. That's where they got me,in a mall parking lot. I follow the directions I'm given and we

stop along the outer edge of the mostly deserted parking lot. The

only other vehicle within sight is a big black Ford pickup parked

several spaces beyond the RV.

We sit parked for about an hour, the streetlights

come on. I know I must have slept in the driver's seat for maybeforty-five minutes. How beats me. Just too tired to be scared.

To numb to attempt escape. Not that I would. This RV is my

home, my house, everything I hold dear rides on these tires. I’m

not giving up my home without a fight. Where I’ll get the

chutzpah to do that, I have no idea.

A bit of a verbal scuffle between my passengersstartles me out of my reverie. The little guy takes off to use the

phone at the restaurant entrance. He comes back huffing and red

faced; angry. More arm waving and yelling in Russian and

Spanish. This time I get the gist of it. The Cuban's brother has

changed his mind and decided not to help them after all. Now,

with the Russian injured and without the brother, they need two

more good hands. What for? Beats me.



They are standing in the parking lot next to the RV

arguing over what to do. Across the parking lot strolls a gray-

haired man who seems to be headed for the black Ford. Henotices the rhubarb going on at the RV, I see him turn his head

toward it, but then he turns away. No fault in minding your own

business.

Amid their disagreement, these two brothers in

chaos also see the man approaching. When the sound of arguing

abruptly ends, I know exactly what they're going to do. The mansenses it a moment too late. They take him down hard on his

knees and from behind. They have his arms pinned behind him

before I can believe what I've seen.

The man struggles until his head is forced down

hard onto the asphalt. I've never seen anyone hurt like that

before. When they shove him limp and stumbling through thesmall RV door his head is bleeding; his eyes are closed. They

toss him onto the bed in the back. I could have scooted out the

open door while they were busy in the back if I'd had legs under

me that weren't too scared to move.

The Cuban re-takes the passenger seat and arm

waves me out of the parking lot away from the deserted mall andonto Interstate-94. When he says St Cloud, I can’t imagine

driving another mile, I pretend not to understand. That was a

mistake.

I've never been hit before. His open hand slashes

across my face with force enough to twist my neck and drive my

teeth into my inside cheek. It's over in a second. He doesn't

acknowledge the damage when I spit blood or realize that I

might not have understood his instructions.



They want to add over a hundred more miles to

today's driving. If fear had kept me awake until now, absolute

terror keeps me alert for the time it takes to get to a campground just south of St Cloud.

They have me park on the edge of the campground.

I've been pushed and waved into the rear of the RV. The Cuban

sleeps in the drivers' seat. His partner, who is twice his size,

sleeps blocking both the RV door and the passenger side door.

They really didn't have to force me. Too many miles, too muchconfusion. Funny how the body can be worn out but the mind

just keeps racing.

I make my way to the rear of the RV in a mental

haze ready to collapse. The streetlight coming through the side

window casts shadows across the bed lighting the captured man's

face. His features reflect age; he’s past his prime, and strength, but not much else. The high forehead, wide mouth and thin lips

pressed tightly together trace faint lines of humor. Deep set

brown eyes open and stare at me. The brownest eyes I've ever

seen. I'm a push over for brown eyes. It's a weakness. There

isn't a brown-eyed dog or puppy I've ever met that goes hungry.

Finally getting the hang of the rough underside of life, I keepquiet about him being awake. He raised his finger to my lips to

insure silence. He needn't have worried; I wasn't capable of

speaking.

He wasn't in nearly the state of confusion I expected

having been knocked out and hauled into a strange place. He

spoke into my shoulder to muffle the sound. "We'll get out of

this okay, just follow my lead." There is no tremor of fear about

him. His voice is almost gentle, controlled and clear even at a



whisper. For no reason at all, I nodded that I trusted him. He

smiled and nodded back. He might have been Attila the Hun in

disguise for all I knew, but I trusted him.It surprises me that just having him here, I find that

I can actually think straighter, maybe even sort out what's

happening. It's a cruel thing to be glad of someone else's

misfortune, but I am. I’m almost comfortable with his presence.

Close to my ear, he whispers, "You can sleep, I'll keep a eye on

them.”"I don't think I can sleep," I whisper into the

shadows. "When I close my eyes, I see seven hundred miles of

highway, when I try to lie still, I feel the vibration of every

mile.” In the silence that follows, this man who doesn't know me

from Martha Washington, puts his arms around me drawing me

close the way a parent would comfort a sick child. It works. Imust have drifted off almost immediately.

St Cloud, MN to Billings, MT

783 miles, 16 hours

Sometime a bit before daylight, the guardians in thefront of the RV decide it's time to be moving. No breakfast, no

coffee, no shower, just drive. Something is pushing them. I

drive.

They acquire a name by their own behavior. They

are the Chaos Brothers to me. At any rate, they are soon at the

table bickering again as usual. They are making some kind of plan. They have maps spread out on the cabinet and table and a

color photograph they wave in each other's face. They aren't



paying attention to the front seat. I'm driving and the brown-

eyed man has come to the passenger seat nursing a swollen knee.

"I didn't have a chance to ask your name beforeclimbing into your bed," he's talking to me but his eyes are on

the two in the back.

"Harriet," I tell him, trying to get the morning gravel

out of my voice, "my name is Harriet."

"I'm Jack."

For about two hours, we head north and west awayfrom St Cloud. Jack and I agree that if we don't insist, those two

in the back won't consider stopping for breakfast. I'm starving

now and find that what was fear yesterday is turning to rebellion

laced with anger. The next place to eat, I stop. Before the two in

the back can react. Jack stands to face them. "Lets just get a

bite, behave like civilized…people, then we can go on."My mouth drops open. They agree. The Russian

will have the gun in my back to keep everyone in line. His wrist

is so swollen, I'm not sure he could pull the trigger if provoked,

but I'm not experimenting. It's awkward moving around in the

restaurant glued to the Russian. If I weren't nearly dead from

hunger, I probably wouldn't have been able to eat.In short order we are back on the road. I'm

disappointed in Jack. Maybe I've got a coward on my hands. I

thought the restaurant would be where we'd make a break. But

on second thought, maybe he's waiting until the swelling in his

knee subsides. This just needs to be over; I don't care how, just

over.

Jack is in the passenger seat again for short while.

Because of his knee, I'm still driving. Despite my



disappointment at his not making any attempt to get away, I'm

still glad he's here. If he turns out to actually be a coward, I'm

really going to be disappointed in this brown-eyed stray.We don't talk. What is there to say? I just drive.

Jack has managed to get the boys in back to show us

their picture. It's a picture of something that looks for all the

world like some kind of missile with lettering I don’t recognize

on its skin. There is no way of knowing what size it is as there

no reference item in the photo. This is what they are in such arush to get? It must be incredibly valuable to them. The

lettering isn’t exactly Russian, I don’t think…but it might be.

Why would the Russians recover their property using these two

incompetents? The only thing I can figure is that they’re

hoodlums in a race with someone to retrieve the missile and then

probably ransom it to the highest bidder. In my imaginationnothing else would warrant their efforts. I wonder what Jack

makes of this.

Out of the corner of my eye, I swear he’s smiling to

himself. I reach to touch his arm to get his attention without

involving anyone else. He recognizes my raised eyebrows as a

question. He shrugs and shakes his head implying that he doesn'tknow what it is. It's a lie. I don't know how I know it, but I do.

He knows what the thing is and right then I know why he's here.

He doesn't intend to get away. He doesn't know where the

missile is and this 'ride' is his way to find it. He’s the Chaos

Brother’s competition, I’d bet on it. And they haven’t got a clue.

I’m smiling myself.

One realization leads to another. Jack (if that's his

real name) probably wasn't in that parking lot in Minneapolis by



coincidence either. If I’m lucky he knows karate, has a knife

taped to his shin and a tiny powerful pistol in his armpit. If I’m

lucky that is; if I’m not, he’s just some ordinary guy in the wrong place at the wrong time and I'm in the middle of something that

is way, way over my head. As close as I've ever come to cloak

and dagger is sneaking up on friend in Walmart. I wish Ian

Flemming had put this trip together. Then at least, Jack would

be more James Bond than Joe Blow.

Near Fargo, we get lunch using the restaurantroutine again. The one where the Russian keeps his pistol buried

in my back and Jack and I behave so I don’t get shot. Maybe I

can find a way out on my own if I'm willing to abandon the RV.

I know I can't run fast and there doesn't seem to be any way to

sneak off. How come the rest rooms in movies all have windows

big enough to wriggle out of. I know it's cool and windy outthere and I'd probably wish I hadn't run away, but if there's a

window, I'm going for it.

There isn't.

We leave the restaurant all bunched up under threat

of the gun grinding into my ribs. The weather is picking up. A

chilly wind whips around the RV. Jack loses his hat and goestrotting off after it. I'm dumbfounded; I'm going to get shot over

a windblown hat. This whole thing is looking more like a

comedy than anything serious. Who knows how far he'd have

chased it?

The biggest man I've ever seen, a football player for

sure, scoops up Jack's hat with a slow downward sweep of his

arm. This man is dressed for the weather with his own cap

pulled down over his ears. Jack gets his precious hat back before



the Russian can take it all in. Dusting and re-shaping it, Jack

turns back toward the group. If looks could truly kill, he'd be

dead by my expression. If he doesn't have any respect for hisown safety, that's not my business, but my safety is my business.

"You do anything like that again and I'll shoot you

myself," I surprised myself by the harsh sound of my voice. I'm

not a violent person. But they say you are the company you

keep. I need some new company.

Jack passes me and waits at the open RV door bowing to me in exaggerated courtesy. I can see that he's

smiling to himself. His lips are tight, but his eyes are dancing

with delight at something. I can't help but return the smile. Yep,

I'm in way over my head. I can't figure out how to get out,

worse, I'm beginning not to care.

I'm still driving. North Dakota is about four hundred miles along Interstate-94. Nothing to break up the

miles. It's proving to be a real test of my attention span. Some

day I think I'll come back and really 'look' at it. In the passenger

seat, Jack fumbles with his hat and in his hand there a slip of

paper. He looks at it like it was a winning lottery ticket. Then

he eats it. He ignores the blatant question on my face and getsthat satisfied grin again. Somewhere in the back of my mind I

imagine that he knew the football player and the note came from

him as good news. Shaking off the cloak and dagger aspects of

my wandering imagination is easy. It’s all too far fetched to be

real, I think.

Another fifty miles and I'm tired but not sleepy, my

face aches where the Cuban hit me and the inside of my mouth is

still raw. Jack isn't riding shotgun. Angry as I am with him, for



risking getting me shot, even if he had a reason, I miss having

him nearby.

The Cuban is in the back dead to the world. The bigRussian is mumbling over the maps again rocking back and forth

in pain cradling his wrist. There is a lounge chair behind the

passenger seat. Jack is slacked back in it with his eyes nearly

closed. I'm watching him in the rear view mirror. He isn't

relaxed or sleeping, I'd bet on that. He's watching the Russian's

finger trace over the maps. He wants to know where we’regoing. He’s seen the maps close up but for some reason still

doesn’t know where the Chaos Brothers are heading. I don’t

know where any of them, including Jack are headed and I don’t

care. I just want to get there and get them out of the RV.

The weather is howling again and it's hard to hold

the RV on the highway. I'm thinking of pulling over. In themirror, I see Jack looking squarely at me. His head moves

slowly from side to side. His lips shape 'Don't stop'. He gets a

pouting look back from me, a plea for relief. From him I get a

wink. Time is important to him too.

The storm will let up for a while and when I think

it's behind us, it comes roaring back. We are making aboutforty-five miles an hour during the worst of it. I am at my limit

and mentally coasting.

Seven hours and three stops later, we cross into

Montana and soon after we pass completely out of the storm. A

little sun sneaks through not much before dusk. By this time, the

Cuban is awake and up front glued to the passenger window,

watching miles and miles of nothing go by, it doesn't take much

to entertain him.



Jack is going over the maps left open on the table

while the Russian is sleeping in the back. I can't see Jack; he is

directly behind the driver's seat with his back to the Cuban tohide his interest in the maps. I stretch my arm out and back

between the driver's door and seat, reaching back trying to get

Jack's attention without alerting the Cuban.

I'm not really sure where my stretched out hand

comes to rest, but when I feel human warmth, I pat gently. A

hand takes mine and the little squeeze instantly embarrasses me.My subconscious puts two and two together before my tired

consciousness has a clue. Red faced, I nerve up enough to look

in the mirror, Jack is grinning ear to ear. The man has no shame.

Aloud, "I wanted to find out how much farther we were expected

to travel today."

The Cuban glares at me, "Billings."Another two hundred and fifty miles is just more

than I can wrap myself around. At the next off ramp, I get off

and select a drive-thru restaurant. I'm parked before the RV

stops swaying enough to allow anyone to get to their feet.

Experience being a good teacher, I'm leaning out the

window to avoid the expected slap. It doesn't come. Jack's armis raised between the seats deflecting the blow. "She's tired,

she's dangerous at these speeds. I'll drive."

The Cuban lowers his arm before Jack draws his

back. Out of the seat now, the Cuban goes to the back rousing

his partner. I toss my leg over the center console and slide into

the passenger seat while Jack takes the wheel. We do the drive-

thru, the food isn't that great, but it's hot and the coffee is good.



Out of the driver's job for the first time in over a

thousand miles and with hot food of any quality to eat, my tired

road-bored brain wakes up a bit. The two in the back are arguingabout something in the take-out bag. They would argue about

the color of the sky. I don't pay much attention to them now;

they just seem to like to argue. When they are in the midst of

one of these disagreements, I notice they don't pay attention to

anything else.

This is the best opportunity to find out what, if anything; Jack has learned from the maps and maybe get him to

share the message he risked my life to get from the football

player. "What did you find out?” I figure I've got a right to be

curious.

Jack heard me but doesn't answer right away. He's

trying to decide how to answer. I can tell by the way his face isworking. He says nothing. Okay, I think, fine.

"Never mind," I let him off the hook. "You were

probably going to lie anyhow." I put him back on the hook.

There is no need for further conversation but Jack

makes a surprising effort at small talk. I'm pretty sure this isn't

standard for him. "What do you do when you aren't escortingthugs and strangers across country?"

For no good reason, I don't suspect Jack of any

hidden motive, but it occurs to me that I don't really know him so

I opt not to be very open. If he’s someone’s version of James

Bond, he’s incredibly good at keeping it from me. "I'm out

rescuing stray dogs and lost souls. I'm a self-proclaimed 'do-

gooder.'"



"Is that your day job?" He's making a joke; or

trying to.

"Well, I answer only to my conscience and I used tosleep pretty good. I have what I need, that's enough for me." He

knows my answer is evasive. He will make of it what he wishes.

The last hundred miles into Billings are traveled in

the dark. There isn't much traffic on this part of Interstate-94 at

this hour. The quiet, the hum of the tires, Jack's profile at the

wheel, life isn't all bad and scary. It occurs to me that I’ve become an adrenaline junkie if I can think like that in these

circumstances. We make the transition from Interstate-94 to 90

without the frantic attention of the Cuban navigator. Jack

announces "Billings" like a bus driver would. With that, the

Cuban comes forward. I'm out of the passenger seat without

threat or incident. The Cuban sits down and begins waving andgesturing directions.

East of town on a riverbank, the Cuban's directions

end at a campground. There are other people, hot showers, and

fresh air. The others can't possibly be as sapped by fatigue as I

am.

Hot water is unquestionably one of civilization'smost valuable possessions. I gather up my things and I'm out the

door headed for the campground showers before anyone can

object. "If I don't come back, you can shoot Jack." I toss over

my shoulder. Maybe I’ll find a phone and call the police; put an

end to this. There isn’t one, as a matter of fact, this place is on

the edge of an isolated stretch of nowhere.

I'm gone less than a half-hour. Once back in the

RV, I open all the windows, put clean linens on the bed and just



generally make a nuisance of myself moving among the men.

Finally they all three get the hint and move outside to the picnic

table. House cleaning is the best distraction ever invented. Iwipe down the table and counter tops. There are fingerprints on

everything. I leave the refrigerator covered with their prints.

Cleanliness is one thing, being able to nab those two hoods later

on is worth a little grime.

Travel with considerate companions, creates its own

clutter. With those two Neanderthals, my RV has become arolling landfill. In about an hour, I've more or less reclaimed my

space. Thoroughly tapped out, I turn off the lights and crawl into

bed. Let them set whatever guard they wish I'm too tired to care.

I can hear them out there at a picnic table, threatening Jack,

posturing like the bullies they are. His voice mixes in with theirs

and they begin ranting at each other. They throw Jack into theRV.

The Cuban cracks the driver's door while I watch

from the shadows. He fusses under the dashboard. Takes the

keys and slams the door behind him. In a scuffle, he and his

injured cohort wrestle the poles free of my side awning and brace

the doors closed with them. Extra protection from a lame oldman and a cringing female. I’ve heard of people snorting at such

antics but I’d never actually snorted at anyone or anything. Until

now.

Jack lay quietly where they’d tossed him while we

are secured for the night, then he makes his way to where I’ve set

watching. "Okay if I try out your shower," is all he says, inviting

himself. I'm reminded of the Uncle Remus story in which Br'er

Rabbit pleads with his captors not to be thrown into the briar



patch. Once there, the wily rabbit scampers about with glee, the

briar patch is his home. He fooled his captors into doing exactly

what he wanted.More convinced than ever, I believe that somehow,

this man has orchestrated every detail of the last two days. I

listen to the pattering water in the shower determined to stay

awake and force the truth out of him.

Not determined enough though. Dawn’s first light

on my face and the smell of burnt toast close by wakes me.

Billings, MT to Spokane, WA;

545 miles

The Russian and the Cuban are up front rustling

their maps again. We could be going anywhere with those twonavigating but I’m too road-weary to care even after six hours of

uninterrupted sleep. I just want to get to wherever it is and be

done with them.

Jack is busy looking domestic in the little kitchen.

He opens three coffee cans before he comes to the one with the

instant in it. There is some grumbling about my organizationalskills. I don't offer to help. I'm watching; trying to learn what I

can about a man I scarcely know who has become my lifeline.

When he finds the small jar of instant, he pours

coffee into the largest cup he can find. By the time he takes the

few steps from the kitchen to the bed, I'm sitting up but in no real

hurry to start another day like the last two.He crouches down in front of me, at eye level,

handing me the hot cup. "I'm sorry I couldn’t keep him from



hitting you, but this is almost over. You've done great, just hang

in there a little longer," he isn't patronizing; he really believes

what he's saying. His hands cover mine holding the warm cup asthough to transfer courage by touch. I’m so desperate for

comfort that it works.

Jack drives. I try to go back to sleep, but not for

long. The Russian pokes me without ceremony and announces

that we are eating soon. I'm sleeping in my clothes and don't

care that my hair isn't brushed. I don't look in the mirror. I don'twant to know if there is handprint on my face.

When we stop at one of those 1950 style diners, I

automatically take up my position next to the Russian. It's one of

those days when I have trouble waking up. In the diner, we line

up on bar stools leaning on the counter reading single page

grease spotted menus.Then I see him. In the kitchen. The football player

who retrieved Jack's windblown hat a lifetime ago. Today he has

on a cook's hat pulled down to his eyebrows. I know it's the

same man. I absolutely know it. Jack wouldn't admit it, I'm

sitting close enough to him to ask, but what's the point.

I stare at the cook; point blank right at him. He putsa plate up on the pass window and I deliberately make my lips

form a small slow smile. His reaction is equally subdued. One

eyebrow raised and a smile of his own. He thinks I know what's

going on. Either that or he thinks I'm flirting with him. I'm still

perfecting my cloak and dagger stuff.

We eat the breakfast put before us. I'm sure he's not

a cook. Well at least not for much longer. The breakfast is

terrible. He'll probably quit or get himself fired within a few



minutes of our leaving. There is no hint from Jack that he knows

or even recognizes the man, but that doesn't mean anything. I

can’t believe the Chaos Brothers don’t recognize the him. Howmany fellows of his size can there be? I watch for some contact

between him and Jack. If it happened, it was so incredibly subtle

that I fancy these guys may just know what they’re doing. I wish

I did.

Jack continues to drive, I'm shotgun but not a very

good one. I've never been in Montana and won't remember much of it. Mostly I doze. More than once I shivered awake

with a sense of terror. Jack is there, reaching over, offering

comfort.

Finally, I must be all slept out. I'm awake; I'm just

not alert. I'd been able to get comfortable by tucking one leg up

under me. A couple of more days of this and I'd be traveltrained.

The Chaos Brothers in back have taken to playing

cards. They bet big, they cheat, and the inevitable argument gets

started. Jack nips it off, like a father settling a budding argument

between children in the back seat. They are taken off guard by

his tone of voice. It works. The arguing ends.The RV is beginning to struggle on the up-slopes of

the mountains. Jack nurses the engine and I cringe wondering if

I'll have an RV when we finally reach his promised 'It's almost

over' point. The engine begins to overheat.

Progress slows and I'm listening to the big Russian

berate American craftsmanship. I raise up turning in my seat to

tell him a thing or two. What have I got to lose. Before I can get



into position to have my say, Jack jerks me back into the seat.

He knows more about what’s at stake than I do.

An instant later, we head down slope, brakes gone,engine overheating, speedometer tapping ninety. Thirty feet and

five tons of RV weren't meant to do this. With both hands on the

wheel, Jack has all he can manage to keep the freewheeling

vehicle on the pavement.

There is a light flashing behind us but all four pairs

of eyes are glued to the next twist in the road and choose toignore it. As much as I have dreaded each climb, that's how

much I now pray for one steep enough to slow us down. I can

tell that Jack's teeth are clinched, his jaw is set solid. There is no

smiling crinkle at the corner of his eye. We have come to

something he didn't plan on. This is what he looks like when

he's at work, I'm sure of it. This focused expression fits the lineson his face.

The road straightens out and a gentle incline is

enough to bring us to a gliding stop. It's only now that we pay

any attention to the trooper behind us.

Like cockroaches running from daylight, the Cuban

and the big Russian jam themselves into the tiny bathroom. Iwait to see if Jack joins them. He doesn't. I'm betting those two

are either wanted by the law or are illegal aliens or probably

both. What I’m betting on Jack is that he has some kind of super

government identification.

He rolls down his window as the officer reaches the

RV. I am amazed that it’s a woman alone patrolling, but this is a

big state with a small population. She is surprisingly beautiful;

stunning to be honest. She asks for the registration and Jack's



license. I produce the registration; Jack bumbles around but

eventually produces what might be a license. "You're a long way

from home in an awfully big hurry," is all she says. "Please waithere." She takes the documents back to her patrol car and does

whatever they do before slapping on a huge fine and impounding

my vehicle. Or, maybe she’s calling for backup and preparing to

arrest the Chaos Brothers, and send me back where I belong.

We wait; the RV seems roomy with those two idiots

stuffed in the bathroom. Jack is quiet when he should be rattlingon making jokes, defending his driving.

"Why don't you just tell her that the brakes gave

out?” I don't understand his silence.

"If I tell her we have no brakes, she'll have us towed

to some wide-spot mechanic and we'll be stuck there for hours."

I don't buy the explanation. "But we have no brakes; we need some wide-spot mechanic."

Jack is irritated. "They can be fixed right here, and

it won't take me all day. Assuming that can of brake fluid under

your kitchen sink is really brake fluid."

I should let it go at that but I don't. "You're going to

get points on your license for this. If you'd tell her the truth youmight not even get a ticket.

The irritation becomes a grin. "I'm not going to get

a ticket. You wait and see."

"You were doing ninety miles an hour in an RV,

swaying back and forth over the center line. Jesus Christ

Himself would get a ticket." I'm enjoying this a lot more than he

is, but when I see the trooper start back toward the RV, I decide

to back off.



Jack sees her coming too. "I can get her to do

anything I want, he boasts," and he gets out. He's walking her up

the road ahead of us, gesturing and hanging his head, patting her on the shoulder, laying it on thick. No self respecting woman,

especially one beautiful enough to have heard it all before, is

going to cave under that. But I see her weakening.

He's fixed on her large blue-gray eyes. I'm sitting

there, mouthing a warning to her, but she takes off her hat and

shakes out her short blonde hair. I can only imagine what Jack says to her next. She draws back and slaps him hard enough to

make his head snap. I'm grinning.

She's thrust her ticket book at him to sign. As she

passes the RV headed back to the patrol car, she drops the

citation into the driver's seat. She is not smiling. I'm trying

really hard not to laugh. I'm not doing a very good job of it. Ican't see the side of his face where she made contact, but it's got

to be stinging. I'm betting that he deserved what he got.

The patrol car makes a U-turn behind us and

disappears, leaving us alone on the highway shoulder and to our

own devices to get running again. Jack goes to work on the

brakes. He wastes no motion and gives clear concise instructionsas to what I should do to be useful.

On the quiet Montana roadside, the bathroom

eventually erupts into an earthquake, rocking and swaying the

RV. Those two hiding in there couldn't keep the peace if their

lives depended on it. Jack tells me go in and sort it out. When I

protest that they aren't going to listen to me, I'm their captive, he

tells me, "They are a couple of idiots who are onto something so



big that they are way past their limited wits end. Talk to them

like the klutzes they are. It's what they're used to."

I'm on my hands and knees looking at Jack workingand giving orders under the front end of the RV. I'm fastened to

the ground by a phrase he has used...something so big… He has

slipped up. The conversation with the trooper, maybe even the

slap and the brakes have all combined to put him off. The light

touch of humor, the comforting grin is gone. That fixed lined

expression is back. I'm trying to adjust to the two sides of theman.

His patience evaporates. "Go." He says. It's almost

an order. I'm put off by Jack's brisk behavior but I go…my own

good humor fading under his commanding tone.

When I step into the kitchen, the pair are out of the

bathroom and on the verge of a shoving match. They havestumbled headfirst into the buzz saw of my irritation with Jack.

They picked a bad time to even look cross-eyed at me.

"You two are guests in my house and you will

behave or I swear I will find a way to hurt you while you sleep."

It's a pretty weak threat considering they still have the only

weapon, but I'm fed up with the lot of them. If possible, at thatmoment, I'd have driven off and left all three of them standing on

the highway with nothing but their attitude for transportation.

I'm slow to boil but I simmer for a long time. I am

still simmering an hour later when we finally make Missoula.

It's late afternoon. We'd left Billings before daylight and just

barely covered 350 miles. Tempers are short. The Russian is

waving his gun around believing that threats will shorten the

distance to the next stop.



I'm just barely aware when we cross into Idaho. In less than two

hours, just past dusk, we cross into Washington at Spokane

having made less than 600 miles. The Cuban points out Exit293, north.

Jack confirms his instructions aloud. "Exit 293

north."

In a matter of minutes, the RV has pulled into a

small campground south of Spokane.

I don't care where we are. I'm used up and I haven'tdriven a mile today. I make my way around the two at the table

and back to the bed. Stretched out facing the rear wall, I

concentrate on the crickets outside.

The standard security routine is in effect. Crack the

window, take the fuses, and brace the door. They plan on

spending the night in one of the small cabins across the road.Why I wonder do they slam the door. For emphasis I guess.

Trapped inside again, I'm too numb to care.

Alone. It's a luxury I had forgotten existed. The

peace of being alone. The day's events tumble around in my

mind without any sense of organization. If I can organize things,

I can usually deal with them, but too much has happened for sleep to easily knit up this ravel.

I want to be rid of them, but I can't leave--the RV is

my home. Why I can't abandon it must be a kidnap syndrome of

some kind. It doesn't make sense to me. I will figure it out later.

The sky here is clear and moonlight highlights the

interior of the RV. When I was a child, I used to sit at the

window in my room and watch the moonlight through the trees



create shifting patterns around me. There has always been

something soothing in the dappling of moonlight.

The silence and false sense of freedom combine towork out some of the heat of fear, anger and humiliation. It

would be perfect if I had been the one to lock the doors, but I am

something of a prisoner of my own making insisting on staying

with the RV. Once I acknowledge this I content myself with

what comfort I find. Odd how the truth affects my attitude.

Without turning on the lights, I heat some water andmake a cup of coffee. Cross-legged on the bed at the back

window, with a hot cup for comfort, I watch the shadows around

me and feel myself becoming more human. I need to believe

that I can get my life back if I can hold to my sanity on until this

is over.

I don't hear or sense any movement until the bedshifts. I know it’s Jack. I can hear him breathing now, but I

wonder where he's been that I haven't been aware of his

presence. Probably slouched in the passenger seat. Odd that I

don't feel that he has invaded my sanctuary, I should, but I don't.

Without intending to overlook his earlier abrasiveness, I find

myself doing just that.He speaks slowly; fatigue is evident in his voice for

the first time. "I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier. I know I can be

an ass. If you can bear with me one more day, I promise I'll tell

you all that I can. Please don't try to make a break for it. I

would have to go with you if you did and I really need to be

there when those two reach their destination."

It's not like I have another choice or even want one.

I reach for him with both arms. He yields easily. Curled



together, we sleep like innocents; serenaded by crickets and

blanketed by dappling moonlight.

Spokane, WA to Waldport, OR

482 miles

The morning fog is so thick that I'm not even sure

it’s dawn. By the time I've closed the windows and Jack has lit

the pilot light in the little propane furnace, the campground

outside is beginning to stir along with us.

Jack makes coffee and decent toast this time while I

fuss around up in the cab. When he goes to take a shower, I take

the passenger seat. We are still “locked” inside so for the second

or is it the third or fourth time in my traveling history, I watch

the sun come up from inside the RV rather than out in themorning quiet.

Watching people who don't know they are being

watched is stalking of sorts. I sit with my coffee, watching our

'neighbors' start their day. Days that will be filled with the

ordinary things that people do when they travel together. They'll

stop for lunch, take pictures to send home, walk their dogs, filltheir gas tanks, and talk to each other about simple things. I was

once one these people. I wonder if I will ever be again.

Directly across from me, a great-great-grandfather

creaks down the two small steps from his RV to the ground

pulling on a leashed Great Dane. Such a big dog belonging to

such a twig of a man. Simple things I would never have noticed before now amuse me with their sweetness. Until the dog heads



for my RV. I rap loudly on the windshield to alert his owner that

maybe this is an RV not a tree.

Outside it begins to warm up. The birds are up, that proves it’s a new day doesn’t it? The Cuban wanders out of the

little cabin toward the RV. He indicates that he has the pistol in

his pocket. I shrug. He removes the awning brace blocking the

passenger door and pushes the fuses through the crack at the top

of the window, then heads toward the central latrines.

Wondering what good the pistol will do him inthere, I replace the fuses, unlock the doors and take up station at

the picnic table next to the RV. There is a faint breeze ruffling

the leaves overhead. Speckles of sunlight on the splintered table

capture my attention. Hypnotized by the pattern of light and

dark, for a few moments I’m dangerously unaware of my

surroundings.This campground is actually no more than a narrow

rutted road with vehicle stations for parking and plumbing on

either side. A young man, hardly more than thirty, in heavy

clothes and a ragged hat, comes wandering down the narrow lane

into my peripheral view. He didn't come from any of the RV's,

I'd bet. Homeless probably and foraging at this campground tosurvive. Normal cautions that have served me well most of my

life, no longer apply. When he slows at the sight of me, I

indicate to him that he's welcome at my table.

He sits down across from me. "I'll get you coffee if

you'd like some." I've seen some sad things. For civilization to

cast off this man must be the worst. Large gentle blue eyes

crinkle at the offer. A soft cultured voice speaking with a nod

says two precise words. "Yes, please.”



each other, it's in the air. I'm looking for a clue, but other than

my sixth sense there is nothing.

"People have been sneaking up on me for the lastfew days," I tell my guest but I'm looking squarely into Jack's

face. "I ought to be getting used to it."

The Russian comes grumbling out of the cabin at

the same time the Cuban struts back to our campsite. So much

for anything quiet and normal for this day. They rudely shoo my

guest away while herding us back into the RV.The Cuban grabs my arm just long enough to

command, "Portland."

I take the driver's seat without permission or

comment. I've been a non-person for about as long as I care too.

If the Cuban is going to beat me, I'm going to fight back. It's

only pain. If the Russian is going to shoot me then I won't haveto deal with the pain. If Jack's going to use me…well, Okay! If

they see the grinning expression on my face, let 'em try to figure

me out for a change.

This courage comes from only brief contact with the

gentle creature at my breakfast table. I will not be thrown away.

Human beings should not be considered disposable. I've gothind legs under me and now thanks to him I damn well intend to

stand on them.

The passenger seat is empty. This adds to my sense

of control. A thin veneer of control admittedly, but I feel better

being committed to self-determination than I did dodging

around.

The silence in the RV is unusual to say the least.

No bickering. Jack is sitting on the bed studying the same folded



slacks, tweedy jacket and open neck shirt, the homeless man is

still something of a waif. With a lost look he spots me. "Oops"

is all he says.It's too late for them to cover this meeting. Rooted

to the spot, I take on the brown eyes and then the gentle blue

ones without moving. "You are so busted," I tell them both. I'm

smiling at what I think I've learned as I re-take the driver's seat.

In truth all I know is that more and more of this 'surprise trip' is

happening by design.When everyone is back on board and I'm ready to

pull out onto US395, Jack takes the passenger seat. He doesn't

speak, just settles in propping up his tender knee. We are headed

south and west. For some reason this pleases Jack. I remember

he promised to tell me what this was all about so I hold my

tongue.At Pasco or Kennewick or whichever, we cross the

Yakima River into Oregon. We can't be going much farther

without water wings. We are about to run out of countryside.

The Cuban, awake and short-tempered, spits out

"Portland" to remind me which road to take.

Jack points out the ramp and in silence we areheaded west again.

I decide to give up the wheel. Driving without

permission was all about retaking some control over myself. I've

made my point, at least to myself. As soon as the traffic thins

and on a level spot, I pull over. We trade places without

comment, even from the two in the back. Portland is less than

seventy-five miles from the ocean as the crow flies, the high

flying crow that is.



It turns out to have been a good idea to give up the

wheel. We are back in mountains; twisting never ending curves

and at speeds that stop my heart for minutes at a time.Twenty-five miles of silence is enough for me. All

is not forgiven; Jack’s meeting with the young man served to

warn me that I had probably been deceived repeatedly and now

he surely realizes that I know it. He had promised to clear the air

but that doesn't help to lighten the mood now, and I can't keep

silent forever. They say women need to speak on average fivethousand words a day, while men are content with no more than

a thousand. I have my work cut out for me.

I want to hear Jack's explanation but right now I will

settle for his voice making jokes and twisting the circumstances

into something funny. I need to hear that he is in control of

whatever is to come. I need to forget the violence of yesterday, but I can't tell him this. Maybe my cloak and dagger persona

will work. Jack makes jokes, maybe I can too. I turn in the seat

to face his profile. Then for lack of inspiration, I just sit there

watching him wind down-slope at seventy miles an hour and

then up again at forty. He's fixed on the job at hand, but I notice

after a bit that a little crease has appeared at the corner of hismouth, a little wrinkle at the corner of his eye.

The next short flat stretch, he turns to face me.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," is all the information I share.

The afternoon wears on and Portland comes and

goes out my window with only the additional instructions called

from the back sending us toward US101 south. From Jack there



is not much conversation, just an easy smile and warm touch

every so often.

East of Otis Junction, the Cuban stirs to alertnessagain and comes forward. Leaning between the seats he satisfies

himself that Jack is headed toward US101 south.

Without wanting too, I tremble at his nearness and

cringe when his eyes touch me. I think no one has witnessed my

involuntary reaction but when the Cuban turns back toward the

kitchen, Jack reaches for me. With the lightest pressure, he runshis hand down my arm stopping with his hand covering mine

where I'm gripping in my seat. He knows something has

happened involving the Cuban. He can't know it from me, my

determination to deal with it myself was solid; but somehow he

has found out. I begin to suspect that the “not-so-homeless

young man has passed Jack some information.This madness has got to be over soon, it just has to

be.

Lincoln City is on the ocean. A beach town. The

kind of place so crowded in July that you can't drop a pin without

pricking someone. Jack has relaxed his grip on the wheel and is

taking in the variety surrounding us.It's nearly 4:00 PM and I'm thinking that maybe

something to eat would be a good idea. If it's ready when the

Russian wakes up, maybe he'll eat and take another of those

knockout pain pills.

I keep the meal simple; I'm not laying out my best

for a couple of hoods. When they see me in the kitchen area,

they come forward and seat themselves at the table like pigs

hanging their heads over the trough.



Jack, steering with one hand, swallows his sandwich

whole.

While I'm clearing up, the Cuban takes the passenger seat. I catch my breath, this may be where those two

want to be, make that those three. Where they want to be is

where Jack has been headed right along with them.

Newport, Oregon is a strip town lying up against the

Pacific Ocean. US101, its main artery, is just barely seven

blocks from the lapping surf. The highway shoulder is pepperedwith businesses of all kinds. The Cuban motions Jack into a

Texaco station with a huge attached garage.

The Cuban leaves the RV to meet with a young man

who has recognized him. The Russian cradles his injured wrist,

the pistol in the left hand pointed in Jack’s general direction. In

front of the garage, a lot of arm waving and overheated babbledrifts toward us. Business Cuban style. Jack and I are permitted

to leave the RV. The Cuban is distracted and the Russian doesn't

seem to care what we do. I want to know what they are

planning, Jack wants ice cream.

I know from the last few days that Jack isn’t

planning anything here, we aren't going to try to get away, so Ifigure ice cream might not be a bad idea. Jack can turn anything

into a party when he puts his mind to it.

Coming back across US101 from the ice cream

stand, dodging determined drivers, we climb up on some old tires

piled up under a tree. We have a clear view of the RV and the

full front of the gas station. Both the Russian and the Cuban can

see us.



The Chaos Brothers & Co. are wrangling over

hooking a trailer to the RV. It has never towed anything so they

have to install lights and a hitch.It would be hard not to admit that this stop is a nice

break. From our spot on the tires, we can't miss the arrival of the

tiniest red sports convertible anyone ever saw. I don't know

squat about sports cars but I know I like this one. "Once the RV

is fitted for towing, maybe some day I'll tow something like

that." I dream aloud."You and two Rockefellers couldn't afford that

baby," is just out of Jack's mouth when the tiny door opens. Out

come the longest legs even I have ever seen. Jack's mouth has

dropped to his knees. Slowly the rest of the driver unfurls from

the low slung front seat. A movie star shape with very little of it

concealed by a bikini whose proportions match the tiny car. I'mthinking that driving wearing that has to be uncomfortable.

I take a peek at Jack, clearly that's not what he's

thinking. His ice cream is forgotten and dripping. She turns

toward the gas pumps and takes her sun hat off. Her hair is short

and blonde. I know who she is right away.

Jack didn't take even that long to recognize theMontana trooper. Five will get you ten that she is not only not a

trooper, she's likely not from Montana either. She's pumped her

gas and melts back into the red car. Jack is red from his gray

roots to the open button on his shirt. I pay really close attention

to my ice cream because I'd rather Jack didn't see me grinning.

It takes an hour to get the trailer hitch and the RV

matched for towing. I'm wondering what they need a trailer for.

The young man comes out of the garage clumping and struggling



under the weight of a hand winch. The Cuban comes out behind

him with a coil of cable--for the winch I assume. To Jack all this

seems to be just another predictable piece of a puzzle. A lot of money changes hands and this seems to delight them all.

We are motioned off the pile of tires and back into

the RV. They want Jack to drive. I take the lounge behind the

passenger seat. I see Jack looking at me in the rear view mirror.

He is positively glowing with delight. The blonde or the trailer

and winch, I can't tell which. But I know he's back solidly incontrol and orchestrating to his hearts delight.

It is after six now and three hours till dark this time

of year. I'm guessing whatever they are going to do with that

winch requires cover of darkness. The Cuban is up front issuing

the usual tirade that has been passing for directions.

Jack makes a wrong turn into a dead end. The frontseats turn into a circus getting thirty feet of RV plus trailer turned

around in tight quarters. Once Jack gets headed in the approved

direction, all is forgiven.

Making one more turn as instructed, we stop at a

Marina type store. We sit tight, the Russian, Jack and I. We

wait while the Cuban takes care of whatever his business is here.I can't catch Jack's eye.

Seems this stop was to pick up scuba gear. Jack

looks up now and nodding slowly puts on a little smile. This is

it. Whatever they are after, it is big, it's probably heavy, it's

underwater and I figure pretty valuable considering all they've

spent so far and don't have dust to show for their money or

trouble, I'm further convinced Jack was right, they are a brick

shy.



Twenty minutes south of Newport is Waldport. We

enter the campgrounds at exactly 7:00 PM. The setting is

secluded, surrounded by fir trees and tall undergrowth on threesides.

Inside the RV, anticipation is like a low electric

current running through everyone. That undercurrent sends the

three men out to work it off milling around the trailer, drinking

sodas, and kicking the RV tires. Killing time the way men do.

I'm sitting on top of the ever-present picnic table just staring off into nothingness. In my field of vision something

moves unlike the bushes or tall reeds. I look away so as not to

call attention to what I think I've seen. I pick out a squirrel to

study. When I sneak a second look, I'm sure there is someone in

the tall undergrowth.

I glimpsed the football player’s shape in the bushesthen he seemed disappear, but I know I saw him. Somewhere

out there just beyond the camp clearing I know there is also a tall

blonde woman and a young man in a jacket and slacks. They

belong to Jack in some way and I'm guessing they are waiting for

his signal.

The Russian has wandered off across the road anddown to a spit of sand. We can see him at the water's edge

bathing his right hand and wrist in the cool surf. There are vivid

red streaks running up his arm. Cool water isn't going to make

much difference.

Dusk comes slowly. Then it’s time to move. The

Cuban puts us to work getting the winch down to the beach. I

figure if I can lift my end it can’t be all that heavy for Jack, but

he is moaning to the Cuban about his back and knees, performing



with a clumsiness even I recognize as affected. Finally, he gets a

handhold on his end. I've learned that anything with Jack that

'doesn't fit' usually has a reason. I think he's buying time. Heneeds darkness; he can't call his people out when there is light

enough for them to become targets.

Once we have the winch at the water's edge, we

head back for the cable.

Jack points me toward the RV jerking his head in

that direction. I can’t see the expression on his face, it’s toodark, but he’s indicating that I’m expected to wait in there. Sure,

like I’m going to miss the show down on the beach because he

wants me holed up in the RV for some reason. Then it dawns on

me why the hurry, why the push to reach this destination. They,

the Chaos Brothers and Jack’s group, had to be here tonight and

I’m guessing it’s because this is a night when there is no moon.My “I don’t think so", delivered point blank, settles

that. If he doesn’t want me to see what’s about to come out of

the water, he should have taken steps to exclude me before now.

“I’m in.” I spit at him. “I’ve paid the dues to be here.”

The Cuban goes into the RV to get into the rented

wet suit. I point to the man as he enters the RV and glare at Jack."Besides, there’s no way I'm going in there."

There isn’t time for any more argument. Jack is put

to work winding the cable onto the wench drum. It will be dark

soon.

The Cuban struts down the beach with swim fins

and lengths of rope in one hand and the extra air tank in the

other. Before I realize it, the Russian has the gun buried in

Jack’s neck. I’m not prepared for this level of hostility after the



relative harmony of today. The Cuban drops his fins and the

tank. He jerks my arms behind me, tying my wrists tightly

together. He pushes me toward where Jack and the Russian areat the winch. When I don’t fall, he trips me deliberately;

winding the rope around my crossed ankles, tying my feet

together.

I’m thinking it’s time for Jack’s people out there to

show up, but they don’t. Why are they waiting? The Russian

stands between Jack at the winch and me on the sand, the gun is pointed at Jack.

I get into a sitting position. We are watching the

Cuban’s underwater light out about fifty yards from shore under

the water. We can’t see what he’s actually doing just his light

moving. He surfaces after about fifteen minutes and shouts

something I don’t get.The Russian kicks Jack and the winch squeals to

life. The cable begins to strain under the weight of the item.

Nothing happens. The cable is taut but the item isn’t moving. It

occurs to me that with this bunch, they may be lashed onto a

piece of the Oregon coast rather than a movable object.

The Cuban comes ashore stomping and cursing.Stomping in swim fins is a funny thing to see under any

circumstances, a man cursing nature always amuses me, but I

don’t feel like laughing. Jack’s people should be coming. If,

that is, they have time!

Seems the item has been sucked into the sand. They

need to break the suction. There is the traditional heated

discussion, arm waving, gesturing, and shouting. You gotta love



the way these two sneak around. At any rate, I find this familiar

scene somewhat soothing. All is well; they are at each other.

Surely this ruckus will get Jack’s people down here.It doesn’t. Jack is no longer doing things that smack of stalling.

He takes up the extra air tank, vents it for effect, shoves it at the

Cuban and goes back to the winch. The Cuban gets the hint and

they agree to use the compressed air to break the sandy suction

on the item. I’m wondering if I’m ever actually going to see this

thing.The surface of the water erupts like an explosion

and the tension on the winch cable causes it to go slack for an

instant before Jack catches it and takes it up taut. The item is

moving. Both Jack and the Russian are glued to a point on the

surface waiting to catch first glimpse of something they both

want enough to risk kidnap charges. I can’t see and I try to standup with my ankles tied crossed, but lose my balance and roll

forward, bumping the Russian's right side just at the level of his

coat pocket.

I’ve never heard a human being howl like an animal

in pain. Jack reacts with impressive speed. The gun is tossed up

the beach; the Russian is down with his right throbbing armtwisted behind his back by the Montana trooper. The football

player is literally carrying the little Cuban up out of the water.

Jack is kneeling in the sand behind me untying my hands. The

well-dressed homeless man is cutting the rope at my ankles.

The two of them are arguing about who screwed up

what and how bad. About who was going to get this mess

straightened out. Now they are going to have to be the ones to



do the heavy work. What is the report going to say? They

remind me of the Russian and the Cuban when they squabbled.

With the football player on the winch, somethinginches its way up the beach. It doesn’t really look like the

picture. Whatever it is, it is wrapped in what might be that

netting from a fishing trawler. In the darkness, the item looks

about eight feet long and a couple of feet in diameter. I can’t see

it well enough to know for sure what it actually is, for all I know

it could be a mini sub or a chunk of space debris. Of course, before reality took it’s place, I had a vivid imagination.

An SUV driven by the blonde woman arrives with

the trailer from the RV hitched to it. She backs along the hard

ground avoiding the sand. Once in place, I expect them to start

manhandling the thing up onto the trailer.

I can see that they have worked together before.The way they individually move in harmony to accomplish each

task. Their actions meshing smoothly as they joke among

themselves. Who ever else they may be in their own lives, they

are at heart, Jack’s people.

There are handholds on each side of the thing and

through the tangled netting Jack, the young man and the football player easily lift the item onto the trailer. The woman herds the

hog-tied Chaos Brothers into the rear of the SUV. She has my

sympathy.

Watching them go about their assigned tasks, leaves

me nothing to do. I clearly no longer play a part in this. I will

likely never be allowed to know what came up out of the Pacific

Ocean snarled in netting or why it merited such effort. I have

only been a part of this by a fluke. A fluke which Jack and his



people were clever enough to take advantage of. They have what

they wanted. What I wanted was my life back. I guess I have it

now, I’m just not sure.At the water's edge, the Pacific Ocean buries my

feet deeper with each wave, I feel abandoned and used. Jack is

no longer under any constraint to explain this business to me.

For four days, I've felt every heart beat, measured every breath.

Now that it's over, this must be what empty feels like. The sand

is up to my ankles, I think it's cold but I'm not sure.I have lost who I am. I knew who I was not long

ago, but that's not me now. I need time to find some answers, to

just be alive without fear or anger for a while. I want to stir

awake from this whole terrible dream. I want it all to go away.

Except Jack, him I'd like to be real. Just to confirm that there are

decent people who do the things that need to be done even theugly things. I couldn't ever be such a person. I lack the courage.

Behind me up on the beach, I hear Jack's people

finish cleaning up the area. Probably removing all trace of what

has transpired here. The SUV doors slam, the vehicle engine

cranks and fades away up the road. The silence they leave

behind is roaring. Just like that, it's over and I have no idea whatit was all about.

The sun will soon be coming up. It’s still behind

the mountains at this hour barely a glow in the east. If I start

home now, north up US 101, I won't be driving into that sun until

it's much higher. All I have to do is walk up the beach to the

RV, get in, close the door, turn the key in the ignition. The rest

of getting home is easy. Just walking up the beach, however, is

going to take some doing.



I just can't seem to gather my wits enough to act.

This is probably some kind of shock that will wear off as soon as

I get moving. But I can’t find the motivation to act. So I standthere in the surf, an hour, a minute, who knows how long before

I realize that Jack is standing next to me. I thought he’d gone.

He has his shoes and socks off and his pants legs

rolled up having waded down to where I'm planted in the surf.

He looks down at my feet buried in the Pacific Ocean.

"You have sand in your shoes," he clues me in withthat grin that I've come to understand serves as a smile.

"You missed your ride.” I'm telling him something

obvious too.

"Yeah, I was kind of hoping you'd give me a lift.”

He risks my life repeatedly, lies outright to me without shame

and then has the nerve to beg for a ride!Ignoring my dulled internal warning system, I nod.

"Sure.” I'm getting myself ready to actually move now. I can

take him to the police station in town or wherever he’s meeting is

people, the airport most likely, and then I'll head east. "Where

do you want me to drop you?"

His hand has taken mine pulling me up the beachtoward the RV. He lifts his chin toward the rising sun.

"Minneapolis.” There is more than just a hint of enthusiasm his

voice.

Part 2—Eastbound



Waldport, Oregon to Coeur d'Alene Idaho

550 milesLate summer dawns arrive cold and damp on the

northwest coast. This one finds me sitting on a picnic table…

again, waiting for Jack to check us out of the campground. I

can’t even begin to deal with the last four days. The table is

uncomfortable under me. The bench is splintery under my bare

feet. The cool morning dampness is biting at my skin. If I work

at it, I might be able to convince myself that I'm waking up from

a nightmare.

Focused on nothingness, I can feel myself mentally

drifting without purpose. The shock of quiet solitude must be

doing this to me. A rusty spot on the hood of a car parked at the

edge of the woods becomes a focal point just because it's there.

Like so much else lately, it's something to take in and either discard or store up to deal with later.

Jack shuffles back toward the RV and boosts

himself up onto the table next to me. For a few minutes, we stare

into the dawn. I guess we are adjusting to being out of harm's

way. At any rate that’s what I’m trying to do. In a few minutes

Jack is fidgeting. He doesn’t like inactivity.“You drive first.” I suggest. “I'll get some

breakfast going." I don't think he wanted to drive but I've eaten

his version of breakfast so I offer him no other option.

We head north and then east aiming for Portland.

By the time we are within shouting distance of Interstate-5,

breakfast is ready. Stopped in a rest area, we sit at the little tableacross from each other and eat without hurry or tension. Jack's

silence leaves room for the question I've been waiting to ask.



"Was it a missile? Some advanced weapon? Was it worth it?"

Jack knows that I mean.

His answer isn't as much a lie as it is evasive. "Itlooked like a missile. But advanced? I don’t know. I was under

orders to retrieve an unspecified item which had become a matter

of interest to foreign nationals. A trawler had snagged it and

dragged it to where civilian divers took pictures of it. Once it

was identified it as an item of interest, well, that's where I came

in. It's not something I've ever seen before. I'd tell you if Icould."

He doesn't say 'if I knew'; he says 'if I could'. There

is a difference I've come to recognize.

"When do you have to be where ever it is you have

to be?" I'm not prying, just making conversation.

"I'm not due anywhere for several days. We can seethose sights we missed on the way out. How do you feel about

fishing?"

"Around here? You mean a stick and a string or

charter a boat and tie yourself to a chair kind of fishing?" I know

a loaded question when I hear it.

"No, not here. In Minnesota I have a little cabin,it's…" He begins to elaborate but is interrupted by knocking on

the side door. "Who would come over without calling and on a

Saturday morning yet!" Swinging the side door open, Jack grins

at his own brand of humor.

The man outside leans his aged shriveled torso

forward into the RV looking up at Jack. Time stops. I can't

move. I want to warn Jack, but the words are trapped in my



throat. My panic is so complete that I can't even make myself

hear what they're saying.

The man backs away. Jack closes the door andturns back into the RV. He's back at the table, fork in hand

before I regain enough composure to make any kind of sound.

"I've seen that man before. In the RV park in

Spokane. He was parked across from us. I saw him when he

was up early walking his dog."

"Are you sure?" Jack doesn't want to believe me.I'm wondering why he would. I'd doubt it myself if I didn't

remember it so clearly.

Nodding and shivering are the best answer I can

come up with to that question. There are coincidences and then

there are coincidences. This is like the trip west.

"Do you know him?" I'm not going to play thesegames any longer. "I need to know the truth about at least this."

It's not a plea; it's a demand.

Jack's smile vanishes into firm lips. "I don't know

him, but I think I know who he is and if I'm right, we're going to

have to be very careful."

Reaching across the small table, I take a firm holdon his hand. "You've got to tell me what's going on. I'll walk

right over the edge without blinking if I don't know what to

watch for. I've earned the right to know. Someone somewhere

has put my life on the line without asking me. I don’t so much

mind that, it was probably unavoidable, but we're both in greater

danger when only one of us knows what's going on."

His eyes watch me move from the table to the sink

with our plates. The smile I have seen in them is gone. They are



measuring me for a task I may not be suited for. I let him

measure without comment. If my safety is at stake so is his. He

has a right to size me up.Jack sits at the table long after I expect him to want

to be back on the road. He must be sorting through options. I

have seen him make instant decisions and act on them in split

seconds. This is the first I have seen him actually mulling

something over. He's deciding what to tell me. How much to

tell me and probably how much trouble he will be in for doing it.I drive. Jack thinks. We cover the distance to

Portland with him shifting and twisting, brooding over what he's

going to tell me.

A little east of Portland, I figure enough is enough;

he needs to get this settled. To share the information as well as

the danger. "I don't want to be nosy, but does this kind of thinghappen to you very often."

"What?" he sounds distracted, annoyed even.

"You know, dangerous people, odd doings in

strange places at all hours, weird items lost and found."

"Yes, often enough, but never before in strange

company. Usually I have a team working with me." Now it 's my turn to make a bad joke. "I'm not

strange; I'm not company; remember, I’m the one who actually

lives here."

Jack doesn't respond, so I let it go for the time

being. There will have to be a reckoning but I don't suppose it

actually has to be right now. Besides, I'm a lot more tired than I

thought and we need gas.



The quiet rhythmic motion of the RV and too many

hours without sleep have begun to catch up with me. At the next

exit, I pull into a travel center and park. Jack is already asleep.The RV stopping doesn't even wake him. It must be genetic that

men can sleep sitting bolt upright in uncomfortable positions.

I’m wondering whose supposed to the be doing the watching and

being careful with him out like a light.

I lock the doors, close the shades and stretch out on

the bed. I should be too tired to sleep, too mentally wired todoze off and too afraid to relax. Normal no longer applies.

A swaying sensation and a change in speed jerks me

out of a sound sleep. The RV ran off the pavement onto the

shoulder and back. In the first moments of regained

consciousness, I recognize where I am, but don't understand the

motion. If I'm sleeping, how is it the RV is moving? Then, in awash of awareness, I remember everything.

Jack is driving. I settle into the passenger seat my

back to the window.

"A herd of elephants in party hats could steal you

and your rig and you'd sleep right through the best part." He's

back in form smiling and winking. He's made a decision of somesort about what he's going to share with me. I'll wait a bit longer

for him to volunteer before I face off about it.

"Where are we? How much trouble are we in

now?"

Jack ignores reality as long as possible. "We'll be in

Spokane in about an hour. How about some lunch and a

stretch?"



If I didn't know our history, this would sound like

nothing more than domestic chatter. He's a survivor and this is

one way he does it. If I intend to survive, I just as well buy intoit too.

"I'm going to waste some water on a shower. Do

you think you can keep it on the road?"

Up out of the passenger seat, headed down the short

hall, I hear him assuring me that he can drive anything with

wheels or runners and fly anything with wings or…I'm headed for hot water. Jack is boasting. Male

bravado. There's no denying he has plenty of that.

Passing through Spokane, we stop at every fast food

restaurant. Picking up the bits and pieces of Jack's fancy menu.

"I thought we were going to sit down and eat, you

know, in a restaurant." I don't try to hide the disappointment inmy voice.

Restaurant? Harriet, I don't quite know you well

enough to ask you out on a date." His phony modesty makes me

laugh.

"No eatery with four walls will compare to the

grand location I have in mind. A great little place in Idaho. Youwait, you'll be impressed." Yes, he is in fine form. I could

almost forget that we are probably being followed but I’m

betting he hasn’t.

I'm becoming way too attached to this man. But, for

the better part of a week, I have been in over my head, why

change now. Soon enough this quiet will end, with Jack around

that's a given.



About forty-five minutes east of Spokane, we are in

real mountains. The beauty of Coeur d'Alene National Forest

fills the landscape with slopes and valleys of tightly packedevergreens. I can't believe I missed this on the way west. There

have been miles and miles where nothing has threatened us. I

can almost believe that Jack's play for a domestic escape is

paying off.

He takes an off ramp, circles back west to a large

Interstate service area. The obligatory gas station, fast foodstore, shopping area and parking lot are lined up facing the

Interstate. Behind them, a strip of parking for layovers and a

wide tree covered picnic area. The complex slopes up at each

end amid harsh craggy rock outcroppings covered by brave

evergreens. A tree will grow anyplace Mother Nature plants it.

These seem to have been planted in tiny pockets of soil capturedfrom the wind. Every rock with a pocket of soil has a tree of

some size growing in it. There are paths up the slopes in all

directions. A true set of nature trails. The air is so heavy with

the scent of pine that I can almost feel it. Just breathing this air

would be a vacation for most people.

Jack takes over the RV kitchen to get his menuheated up. He sets up the lunch on the far backside of the picnic

area. I haven't been able to get much farther than the front

bumper of the RV trying to take in so much wildness at once.

Around Jack, lagging is occasionally permitted and

I'm taking advantage of that. He's sitting at the table positioning

utensils and trays of food trying to be patient with my nature

study. Finally his patience wears out and I'm hailed to 'get the

lead out' before everything gets cold. He's such a romantic.



Considering the circumstances, it's a fine spread.

Considering the chef it's a miracle. Once I'm seated at the table,

Jack points toward the back of the picnic area. I hadn't noticed.The trees were so thick that I'd assumed they went on into deeper

forest. Not fifty feet from the end of our table, a wood rail fence

blends into the natural growth. Beyond that rail, between the

trees, as far as I can see, there is nothing. No trees, no

undergrowth, no pine-needle bed to walk on. We are at the edge

of a cliff. The immenseness of the view is calendar art at itsfinest. Jack was right; he did know a great little place in Idaho.

Those few travelers who were in the park when we

arrived have moved on and we have it pretty much to ourselves.

We are loitering soaking up 'normal'. Jack finishes his

description of fishing. We swap insignificant personal details. I

start clearing away the lunch and tidying up in the RV.Once it's past mid-afternoon, I'm thinking we could

get a few more miles behind us today. Jack is standing out at the

wood railing, hands buried in his pockets rocking heel to toe.

He's not thinking, he's dreaming. Maybe now he's ready to clear

up some of those details that I've been waiting to have explained.

Stepping outside the RV to call Jack, I see it. Thecar with the rusty spot on the hood. A hand covers my mouth at

the same moment a huge arm pins my own arms to my sides

lifting me off my feet. I don't have the reflexes for this but terror

sends me wrenching and twisting to be free. The arm around me

doesn't have a good grip and I feel a measure of freedom. There

is no plan. I just keep jerking and grabbing at him with the hand

I've freed. The hand over my mouth tightens leaving my

screams muffled. I can see Jack at the rail, his back to this scene.



How can he not hear, sense, what's happening. My captor turns

toward the side of the RV. I put my feet up to keep from being

pushed into the siding. When I push back, straightening myknees, the man is taken off his feet. His bulk cushions my

backward fall.

The screaming I finally hear is my own voice but I

can't feel myself making a sound. When I roll onto my hands

and knees, I catch a glimpse of Jack. He's in a wrestling match

of his own. He's jerking his arm back and forth toward the rockyslope; looking directly at me. All I can make out is one word.

"Hide!"

If I can get to the rocks before the man on the

ground gets his wind, I promise myself to take up jogging. Legs

of lead hold back my progress. I can see the path and before I

start up slope I spot a place to hide; if I can get there without being seen. I want to look back, but fear of stumbling keeps me

facing up slope. There is a clump of trees on the left. That's

where I'm headed. My chest hurts with the unfamiliar exertion;

there is a hum in my ears and I'm losing sight of the clump of

trees.

I turn sharply off the path where I think the cover inthe trees is located. I'm not watching where my feet are; I'm

trying to spot the hiding place. A twisting jerk on my foot and

knee sends me hard to the ground. On hands and knees, I crawl

toward darkness not sure it's the place I'd spotted.

Millions of years ago, we were all animals of some

kind. When we are taxed to our limit by fear, millions years of

evolution gives way and we are animals again. I am crawling

without plan or reason, an animal, barely able to draw breath, my



vision clouded by fear. Dark places are safe places. I roll off my

hands and knees into the dark gap between two rocky layers.

The darkness is comforting. Lying balled up in the crevice,reason returns. It's several minutes before I can control my

breathing enough to be quiet. I can sit upright in the dark but

can't stretch out without exposing my lower legs. I sit in a tight

ball, pressed against the rocky wall behind me, listening;

becoming human again. If I had been spotted rolling in here,

surely they would have fished me out by now, if they wanted to.If Jack didn't get away, I need to decide what I'm

going to do. I can't rely on him now. They were after him, I'm

sure of it. If they take him away, can I do anything to find him,

to get him freed? I don't even know how to reach his people.

They would know how to go about finding him. So many things

I don't know that I should. Fear blends into frustration.Frustration into anger. Anger into action, wise or not.

Shifting my position dangerously close to the front

of the opening, I can make out the parking lot below and the

white of my RV. There are three figures moving around it. It

moves on its springs when one of them goes inside. I can't see

Jack. Maybe he's inside. No, if they had him, they'd be gone.He must have gotten away.

There is no telling how long I sit crouched,

watching the RV, trying to think. I need to be able to reason out

a plan. It comes to me that the reason they want Jack has to do

with that thing that came out of the water.

Everything that has happened has centered on that.

A rustling sound near the opening sends me sliding

a few feet back to the rear wall. They have found me. I'm too



angry to be scared. Angry enough to be determined they aren't

getting me out of here without suffering some damage. I'm

ready to jam my foot into anything that pokes itself through thatopening.

"Pizza man." Whispered in a hoarse voice that I

recognize. "Harriet, it's me, Jack. Are you in there? Please

don't hit me, I'm already pretty banged up."

Finally, I'm getting the hang of how Jack survives.

"Mister, if you don't have pepperoni, you better think twice aboutcoming in."

He rolls through the opening much the same way I

had done earlier then twists around in the tight space to be facing

the opening; in position to study the parking lot. "How many

have you seen?" He assumes I've been watching. Takes it for

granted even.Since I have actually been watching. I make my

'report'. "There are three of them. They have been milling

around walking back and forth between the RV and the car from

the beach. One of them is the old man from Spokane who

stopped by during breakfast."

Jack takes his eyes off the parking lot. He leanstoward me, his eyes slit and he almost growls, "What car from

the beach?"

"That car over there at the end of the parking lot.

Back under those trees." I explain.

I'm not quite sure how to react to his tone, so I let it

pass.

He presses me, "How do you know it's their car?"



This grilling is losing its charm. "That car was

parked at Waldport. I recognize the rust spot on the hood."

Jack growls rather than speaks; "When the manfrom Spokane came knocking during breakfast, that's the car he

was driving. Why didn't you tell me about the car? This means

that those three over there and the two who hijacked you are part

of a bigger organization. We are up against something we aren't

going to be able to outrun on our own."

Now it's my turn to grill him, "They're after youaren't they? You stole that thing that came out of the water. It

belongs to that old man, doesn't it? It's his and you took it, he

saw your people take it and he wants it back." I can't keep the

accusation out of my voice. I have come to the uncomfortable

belief that Jack and his people may be thieves.

Jack's back is up and in self-defense I get a piece of the explanation I've been waiting for. "Okay, the thing that came

out of the water was invented by that old man. It isn’t a weapon

but it can do a lot of damage to a lot of people if he gets it back.

When we, the good guys by the way, had a chance to get it away

from him, we couldn't ignore the opportunity to keep it out of his

hands just because a civilian, had become involved. Thecivilian, that’s you.”

"My being involved has nothing to do with what’s

gone on! This thing was in motion long before I became part of

it. And so were you I’m betting. You have stolen his property

and he wants it back and only your perception of danger justifies

what you’ve done.”

His voice is hard and steady telling me something

he isn't free to fully explain. "No, it doesn't make it right, but if



the scale of potential harm is great enough, that can turn 'wrong'

into 'necessary'. When I can't do what's right, I do what's

necessary, that's my job."“What danger? What do I have my life on the line

for?” I whisper wanting to know; yet not wanting to know.

“The Centers for Disease Control believes that thing

houses a hemispheric delivery system. Delivery you understand

of any pathogen man or nature can design. That old man can

hold entire continents hostage or kill millions outright!”The breath goes out of him. He has betrayed the

confidence of others. I’m guessing it’s not something this man

has ever done before. Having heard that much, I can put enough

of the rest of the puzzle together to wish he’d lied to me again. I

live in a black and white world, which occasionally touches the

gray areas. Knowing this sort of technology actually exists andthat only determined human beings keep people like me safe is

something I’d rather not have to acknowledge.

Jack hears volumes in my silence and he changes

the angle of this discussion. "These people are from a subculture

so dark that we don't have the luxury of thinking in the familiar

terms of right and wrong, black and white, we can only think interms of necessary…safety or danger."

Jack goes on when he might have ended the

conversation with silence. ”Right now, they want me, thinking I

can be forced to tell them where the device is. That failing, they

will want you as a hostage to use against me. There is too much

at stake, we can't let them know anything. We can't let them

have it."



There is no comfort in discovering that I was right

about most of what’s gone on. He has only added another layer

of fear. I have walked into harm's way just by being in thewrong place at the wrong time and I have only Jack to follow if

I'm to walk out alive. “What will they do next?”

"I don’t know. But we may be certain that having

come this far, they aren’t going to give up and just go home

empty handed.”

The unfamiliar strain in his voice tells me that this isthe real Jack talking, not the one with the odd sense of humor

and an ever-ready irreverent joke. "So we just stay alert? Is that

all? Can’t your people stop them?”

Jack doesn’t have time to answer. Down in the

parking lot, two of them group at the front of the RV and raise

the hood. It's too dark and too far away to see what they aredoing. The third is in the driver's seat working under the dash.

Jack and I both whisper at the same time. "Hot

wire."

I'm remembering something about the RV security

system. "Do you have the key?"

"Huh?" It's a noise Jack makes more than a word.It seems to mean nothing in particular, just an acknowledgment

of some sort. Often as not, it's a stall.

"Jack! Do you have the ignition key to the RV?"

He begins hunting in his pockets. "Of course I have

the key. Now what?"

"Once I read the owner's manual, only once. Right

now I'm glad I did. That the RV can't be hot-wired without

activating an alarm with a sound that will level Idaho. The



remote on the ignition key will shut it off but nothing else will.

Once they activate it, even unhooking the battery won't shut it

off…and the RV it won't start with the alarm activated.""So they aren't going anywhere in the RV." There is

real joy in Jack's voice. "All we have to do is wait."

"For what?" I just want to know what the plan is.

"They'll give up and leave knowing that we'll most

likely come down only when they're gone. They'll wait for us on

the highway someplace. Track us until another opportunity presents itself to snatch us. We wait. Right here."

Jack begins rooting around; there is no other way to

describe his movements. He's like a gerbil making a nest. That

turns out to be exactly what he's doing. No predicament is ever

so bad that Jack doesn't find a way to adapt.

"We may have to be here for a while, so lets getcomfortable." We're not dressed to spend the night outside in the

mountains of Idaho. I'm cold and I say so. Jack advises me that

his version of comfortable involves, but is not limited to,

absolutely no rocks or twigs underneath him and as much leg

room as possible plus a beer.

"Two outta three ain't bad." he doesn't sing well atall.

Tensions wind down. Leaning on each other for

something softer than rock walls, we settle in for the duration.

"You sure know how to show a girl a good time.

You did say we were going someplace quiet didn't you?" I'm

practicing Jack's technique for surviving a tough spot. Ignore it

as long as you can, don't deal with it until you have to.



"Wait till you see me at my best." He's not just

mouthing words; he really means everything he says.

With no new purpose in mind, we are watching thethree men. Jack thinks it's somewhere around two o'clock that

morning when we notice the old man becoming agitated. He's

railing at his henchman. Really raking them over the coals. I'm

looking right at him, so directly that I'm surprised he doesn't see

me even in the dark.

His anger vented the old man hobbles away from hishenchmen.

Jack’s next words are delivered in an incredibly

calm tone. "They'll leave now. The old man is tired of waiting

and has changed his plans. As soon as they leave, we've got to

get to the RV. Get in and the doors locked. We've got to get on

the highway as fast as possible. Speed is our only protection. If we can move faster than they can, we have a chance. They will

be on the highway waiting for us. They may think we won't be

along until daylight…or they may be waiting for us in the bushes

and give chase. A chase we can’t win. We are taking a risk

whatever we do, but with cover of darkness, we have a better

chance of putting some distance between us if we act faster thanthey suspect we might. Get past them while they're still waiting

for us to cruise past."

He's right, they crowd back into their car. We don't

spend time watching them leave.

We are running on legs cramped by hours curled up

in a hole. Clumsy doesn't describe our progress down the slope.

Circling through the darker woods, we avoid the better-lit



parking lot until the last minute. Jack scrambles into the driver's

seat and I fall through the side door. The engine comes to life.

Jack jams the gearshift clashing into reverse. Theninto low. His full weight on the accelerator, he works up to

fourth gear. We are doing about eighty when we reach the end

of the ramp. There better not be anything in the way.

Like a well-rehearsed chorus we announce at

maximum volume and in perfect unison. "We're goin' west!"

Stopping a boulder rolling down hill is a measure of how hard itis to stop five tons of RV when it gets up speed. We plow on

westward looking for an exit to turn around. We have lost

valuable time.

With no headlights and moving at eighty miles and

hour, I figure I'm just as safe in the passenger seat as I'd be

hiding in the bathroom. Besides, without the headlights, roadsigns are on us and gone before a driver at this speed in the dark

could make them out. I study the roadside hoping to get a

glimpse of an exit in time for Jack to slow down for it.

He is working on a plan. He does a lot of fidgeting

when he thinks and at high speed he's not in a position to split his

attention. He is slows down and turns on the headlights. I let goof the dashboard. He's got a new plan. I'm waiting to be let in

on it. He doesn't say a word.

"What?" I'm still waiting.

"I have to let them take me."

"Take you, take you where. Are you crazy." It

occurs to me that he might be. For lack of sleep, I'm a little nuts

myself.



"When we come to an exit, we'll get off. You’re

right, we're going to need help. I’ll call my people. They can set

up a trap for those three…if they know where to find them. Wehave to let them find us, follow us, let them corner us in the RV."

I don’t quite make the connection between being

captured and being freed but it has to be enough that Jack knows

there is one. He's nodding to himself, smiling and fidgeting. I'm

wondering how he can be so eager to plunge into disaster.

Probably because that's the only way he knows to find out if his plan is any good.

We couldn't miss it. The small gas station-

restaurant-motel-convenience store all-in-one is lit like daylight.

Not a single dark corner where sensible people being chased by

bad guys might safely hide.

Jack says the place is perfect and puts his plan intoaction. While I'm filling fuel tanks drained by ballistic travel, he

wanders around in the bright light of the gas station making a big

show of being there. Kicking rocks, waving his arms, strutting

back and forth between the store's front and the pumps, he's

giving a loud running commentary on Minnesota's beauty.

No state ever gave birth to a more dedicated citizenthan did Minnesota to this man. Not only does he tell anyone out

there in the night exactly where we are, he has to aggravate the

local people with his Minnesota travel log.

When I've finished pumping southern Idaho dry, I

head inside to settle up. Jack follows and heads for the pay

phone on the back wall. As loud and annoying as his outside

performance was, his inside phone call is hushed and lacking

animation.



I'm headed his way wanting to get in on the

conversation but he's hung up. Rubbing his hands together and

sporting that delighted grin, he has obviously worked out a planwith his people. He's in heaven. I'm wondering if he's ever truly

alive unless there's a plan in motion. The more dangerous it is

the more alive he is.

Changing his tack, he wants to be seen but not heard

so he speaks just above a whisper, "Harriet, this thing may be

going down bad. I want you to stay here. I'll take the RV sothey can find me. When it's over, I'll come back.

"What! No way!" I'm shouting at a whisper,

straining to keep my voice down. I can't believe what I'm

hearing.

"First, this RV is my home, it isn't going anywhere

without me; west, east, the bottom of the Grand Canyon, I'm on board. If you try to leave me here or anyplace else, I'll have

enough highway patrol after you, you won't be able scratch

without being seen." I'm a little excitable when it comes to the

notion of watching my home go off without me.

He's watching for them, scanning the area outside

the window and then the inside of the store. He scarcely hearsme.

"Second," I've upped the volume just a little; "This

is my home. You have to understand that it's been violated. It

won't be a place of refuge like a home should be if I just let you

go off, fix everything then come back."

Home. That means something to Jack. I can see it

register in his face.



"And, for all that you're obviously trained for this

kind of stuff, you need me along. You can't see 360 degrees; but

I'm more than another set of eyes. I can be a distraction in a tightspot. Get them to look the other way."

There is that little sideways smile. Jack works it up

when least expected. I think it must be there when he sees

something in a larger context than others do. If nothing ever

works in my life again, this has got to. At my full height, I'm

almost at Jack's eye-level. If I can keep my voice steady, he willget the message.

"I've watched you do your thing and I'm betting

you're good at it. But I'm something you'll probably never be.

I'm mean. Maybe not as mean as these people we're dealing

with. Certainly not as strong or as agile and not good with my

hands. Just mean. The only difference between them and me isthat they enjoy it and until now, I never have. I've always taken

pains to deny it."

His eyes snap to lock on mine; I have his attention.

He isn't shifting from foot to foot. His head isn't tossed back in

fading patience. His features are moving in the way they do

when he's dealing with a tough decision. He is evaluating.I press on willing him to understand. "I'm past

scared, I'm way past polite anger, I've had enough of being used.

I want these people out of my life, out of my home, gone from

my world. I intend to see that happen."

I hear the words, but his lips scarcely move. "Let's

go."

They are here. In the convenience store. As we

move away from the phone in the back toward the door in the



front, they see us. My instincts are better than I thought. That's

the only reason I know not to re-act them. When Jack doesn't

seem to notice them either, my instincts are confirmed…for themoment.

Coeur d'Alene ID to Bismarck ND

900 miles 14 hours

It's a little after three that morning when we pull

away from the gas station and get back on Interstate-90. This

time eastbound.

I begin this leg sitting in the passenger seat. We are

settling in for a drive that could be far from leisurely.

The dark of early morning is never as soft as the

dark of midnight. Something happens to the sky or to human

perception after midnight. Three o'clock is a cold hour wheredeep emptiness is likely to bury any warmth left over from

yesterday. The hours between midnight and dawn spent on the

highway have always been depressing hours for me to be

traveling. That I'm not alone now helps a little, but not much.

A dozen or so miles pass without conversation. I'm

waiting for Jack to tell me the plan.He chooses his own subject. "Back at the gas stop,

you said this RV was your home?" Jack is asking a question

rather than making a statement.

"It is."

"So?" He can make one word serve for paragraphs.

Silence is a very good interrogation tool. Jack isgood at it because silence comes naturally to him. His question

hangs for lack of another topic.



I don't want to be the topic. "Minnesota, is that your

home?" I know he can't resist talking about Minnesota.

"Yes. Minnesota--I was born and raised. I have afishing cabin on a little lake. The fish are huge, the air is so

clean you can't see it and the quiet is…well quiet." I hear more

about Minnesota than I'd want to hear about any place. Jack is

an expert on it.

"You?" He puts the conversation ball in my court.

"This RV really is my home. I follow the weather mostly. Reserved spots in a few scattered locations serve as

places I can settle for a few weeks or months at a time,

depending on what else is going on."

Jack doesn't comment so I add a little. His silent

interrogation technique works even when I know he's using it.

"When those two ruffians hijacked me, I was on myway from a summer stop on the North Carolina shore to Kansas

City to renew my tags and spend July 4th with friends."

I'm waiting for him to tell me how he came to be in

that abandoned mall in Minneapolis. He doesn't pick up the

thread of conversation. His attention to the highway becomes

exaggerated. He isn't going to let the hour and the road lull himinto idle chatter.

Instead, he changes the subject. "It would seem that

they intend to just follow us. Probably as far as we go thinking

our destination is where they will find the device without having

to deal directly with hostages. Why don't you get some sleep, it

doesn’t look like much is going to happen. In a couple of hours

we'll trade off and you can drive for a while."



I don't want to sleep right now. I want to know the

plan, but I know when it's time to act I'll probably be the last one

to recognize that the plan is in motion. "You haven't slept either,what's going to keep you awake?"

"Trust me, if I know you are back there snuggled

down sleeping, that will keep me awake." I'm tired enough that I

buy whatever he's saying and head for the back suddenly too beat

to care about his plan.

Jack is in a fog of some kind, I can see him clearlyat first but now he's becoming fainter and harder to pick out of

the haze. Terror and my own voice wake me. Jack is with me,

holding me. I'm not alone in the fog. The nightmare and reality

fuse together to create a lingering sensation of disaster.

Jack shakes me until I'm fully awake. We are

stopped just off the highway. I'm sitting up on the edge of the bed, my heart pounding in fear, tears on my face, hanging onto

him. He's drying my face with his thumbs and shushing me.

"You're going to be a big help in a pinch if you can't handle a

little nightmare any better than this." He delivers this sarcastic

bite with a flat smile and a wink.

We remain stopped on the shoulder while Jack makes some coffee and I have a chance to shake off the

nightmare.

"Where are we?" I'm trying to orient myself.

"About fifty miles west of Missoula. I don't think

they’re behind us, probably up ahead watching for us. Do you

feel like driving, you were only asleep for a couple of hours but

I'm beat." Jack has been without sleep longer than I have but he



seems to be in better shape. No matter, now would be the best

time for him to catch up.

I take the driver's seat.Jack hesitates. "Can you stay awake all right? I

could ride shotgun, keep you awake and still get a nap in."

"I'll wake you at sunrise."

The remnants of the nightmare continue to fade but

their source is something in my own mind and that leaves me

unsettled. I don't know anything about Jack. Almost a week inand out of incredible situations and all I know about him is that

he could be the entire Minnesota Bureau of Tourism.

"I've driven thousands of miles in this RV or one

like it. Most of them alone. I'll stay awake. There's enough

going on to keep my mind churning for days."

Not ten miles down the road and a check in themirror shows me Jack tangled up in the blanket sound asleep.

He had told me as long as he knew I was sleeping, he would be

able to stay awake. I didn't know what he meant then. I do now.

Past Missoula when the sun begins to come up, I

am still winding through mountains. Jack is still sleeping. I

don't have the heart to wake him. I have a feeling that before hesees Minnesota again he's going to need every minute of rest he

can get.

Bozeman, MTWe are within a few miles of Bozeman when Jack

comes too. He wakes up starving and ready to kill and eat any breakfast food that comes within reach. As we pass through

Bozeman, Jack picks up breakfast the way he picked up lunch in



Spokane. An item here and item there. We gas up and just east

of Bozeman, in a rest stop, we spread out his bounty and stuff

ourselves. There is no sign of the car with the rusty hood. Wetalk about the chances that they have changed vehicles. Jack

says it doesn’t matter. All we have to do is stick to the plan his

people have laid out.

He begins without my prodding for information.

"We are two hundred an fifty miles from Billings. We need to

be in Fargo exactly between noon and one o'clock tomorrow.Fargo is six hundred miles from Billings. How fast is the train

traveling when it reaches the next crossing?"

For a minute I don't get it. Jack thinks he's funny

and then when I don't get it right away, he's absolutely delighted

with himself.

"You need to get some real rest. I'll wake you whenwe get to Billings. We'll see what kind of shape we're in and

how much distance remains then we’ll decide whether to go on

or lay over."

I'm not about to argue with that. I have enough of

the plan to know where we are headed. Fargo. I'll find out the

rest later.

East of Billings, MTWhen I wake up, we are east of Billings. Jack is no

better about waking me and taking turns than I am. With a little

lunch and section of open highway, we are making good time.

Jack is keeping a running calculation of where we should be andat what time so that we'll get to Fargo on time. I still don't know

on time for what, but I'm going to find out.



Running to his schedule, it dawns on me. "How

will your people know where we are at any given time? Is there

a big red X on the roof?" It was meant to be amusing, not agenuine question, only amusing. But Jack isn't smiling. I have

hit a nerve.

"Harriet, you were right. If only one of us knows

what's going on, that puts both of us in danger. I knew that from

the start, but I was sure that the less you knew, the less you might

unintentionally reveal."I think I'm finally going to get details I would have

been happier without.

"These men are not the bumbling stumblers your

kidnapers were. The old man is a discredited physicist. He's like

a god to those two thugs and they wouldn't hesitate to let

themselves be killed to protect him. They will kill withoutconscience if he orders them to do so. That kind of reverence

makes them dangerous to anyone who gets in the old man’s way.

To both of us."

He gives me only a minute to absorb the incredible.

"Now you know all I know. My people will have

set something in motion at Fargo at noon tomorrow. They didn'tknow what; they were just able to pick a place and a time. We

will just have to be on the look out for them and for these three

from the park. You'll see the danger at the same time I do."

I wanted to know. I had to know. I should have left

well enough alone. Oddly, for once, I believe he really doesn’t

know what will happen next. It doesn’t matter Jack says because

what they are devising probably won’t be what happens anyway.



He does share his own plan. "If you are as

determined to be rid of these people as you have told me you are,

you'll not need cues from me to know what to do or when to doit. You'll act on your instincts and I'm willing to trust that you'll

be effective. Men who are angry are often just cruel without

design. Women who are angry are apt to be subtle and much

more effective. In these circumstances, I'll trust your mean

streak over years of special training. Just do what has to be

done. You can deal with the consequences later."Jack can't resist adding a twist. "However, being a

naturally cautious person myself, I'll be a little leery of turning

my back on you, but I've been warned." The smile that comes

with this oddly gives me a confidence I didn't know I had.

We are half way to the North Dakota line and Jack

has been driving since Bozeman. I offer to relieve him. "Letsstop for gas and swap seats. I need to be busy at something,

anything, and you've been at it for quite a while."

Before I finish the sentence, Jack is headed up an

off-ramp. We are trying to watch everyone and everything going

on at the travel center. There are just too many people and too

much traffic. Jack pumps, I'm standing with my back to himtrying to be casual and not appear to be studying anyone in

particular.

Jack talks to the pump, sure that I'm listening. "If

they snatch me before we get to Fargo, get back on the Interstate

going west. The people monitoring the locating signal will know

that something is wrong. They won't know what has happened

but they will know that something has prevented us from arriving



in Fargo on time when the RV makes a U-turn. They will catch

up with you before your next gas stop."

“So there is a big red “X” on the roof of my rig.” Ishould be surprised, but I’m not.

“Not exactly, just a GPS transmitter put in place

while we were in that little restaurant near Fargo the first

morning after I was taken.”

Before I have time to ask where the device is

located, I see the rusty hood. There they are. Just pulling out of the service area.

Jack is sure they have seen us. "As long as they

know where we are we're okay. If they lose us, we won't be able

to end this at Fargo. They will go on being out there waiting for

the right moment and we won't see it coming. I can't figure out

how they know where we are. How did they know we'd behere?"

I think I know. “The GPS transmitter.”

Jack shakes his head. “They couldn’t lock onto that

signal.”

When we leave the service area, I'm driving, Jack is

thinking. This arrangement seems to be working pretty well.When Jack thinks he does a lot of moving around and it’s not a

good idea for him to be in the driver's seat and thinking too.

"What?" I want to know what's going on in his head

now.

"Pull over." It's not a request, it's a command

delivered by someone who is used to giving orders. I don't even

blink before I work several tons and thirty feet of RV off the

pavement onto the shoulder.



"Pop the hood."

He's outside and around with his head under the

hood and back inside in a matter of seconds. "They weren'ttrying to hot wire the RV, they were placing a tracking device.

As sophisticated as the one my people are listening too.

He mumbles on half aloud to himself. "They don't

intend to capture either of us, never did. They will just follow

along. They must think we're headed for the place where the…"

I've gotten back on the road and up to cruising speedwhile Jack has been going over this new puzzle. I hear him

break off short.

"You going to explain it to me?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

"Gee whiz Jack, after all I've seen this last week, I'd

believe you if you told me you were a secret agent with a licenseto kill and Jack wasn’t your real name. What the hell can be so

hard to explain?"

Hands spread silently pleading for relief, he leaves

the passenger seat in favor of stretching out in the lounge chair

behind it.

I'm waiting for an explanation I've about decidedthat he can't give. "If it's something you aren't allowed to talk

about for some reason why don't you just tell me it's secret stuff.

I can understand that. At one time, I did work that I couldn't talk

about. It wasn't like this work you're doing, but because of that,

I'd understand."

With Jack, silence is a form of conversation, an

exchange of ideas that are understood…he thinks.



By the time we cross into North Dakota in mid-

afternoon, his feet propped up, he is asleep in the lounge. We

have covered over seven hundred miles in the last twelve hours.According to the Jack's schedule, we are on track.

Bismarck, NDAbout suppertime, we hit Bismarck. I take a wrong

exit when I should have been paying closer attention. Winding

through Bismarck to get us back onto Interstate-94, we passthrough the city with going-home traffic.

Something that should have taken twenty minutes is

taking nearly two hours. Just when I think I'm found, I'm lost

again. The stop-and-go wakes Jack. He's grumpy and

disoriented. I'm not keen on this kind of travel either.

It's enough that I'm angry with myself for missingthe easy straight route, but Jack won't let it go. I hear him

gearing up to remind me how important it is for us to be in Fargo

on time. I'm just not in the mood to be reminded how much

danger I'm still in.

Since I'm at the wheel and he's standing, arms

crossed glaring down at me from the deck one step up…well, itlooked like the perfect time to swerve into the right lane to be

certain of the ramp to I-94. I don't even have to look to know

that he is off his feet on his rear with arms flailing and nothing to

stop the tumble.

I rattle on as though Jack crawling around is normal.

"I know we need to be on time, but we have about eighteen hoursto travel two hundred miles. What's your hurry?"



On all fours, he climbs into the passenger seat in

time to see us regain the Interstate. "I'll just sit here and be very

quiet for a while."I'm too tired to do anything but laugh.

"At the next service area, we have to have gas and

I'm thinking there ought to be room in that schedule for a hot

meal. I'm willing to endure almost anything, but I have to eat.

Don't you think we can ease up a little?"

Jack doesn't say yes, but he doesn't say no either.His casual, "I'm just saying…" is designed to allow

him to say 'I told you so' later if we miss the timing at Fargo.

Ten miles past Bismarck there is a service area and

a small park. We gas up then move the RV to the edge of a large

parking lot. The area isn't crowed; we can easily see there is no

one here we recognize.In the small restaurant, we sit like civilized people

having dinner. It is a strange sensation. Jack has his back to the

wall and, sitting across from him, I am his excuse to study those

who are coming and going.

"We know they don't have to see us to know where

we are, why are you even bothering?" Sometimes I just don't getit.

"If they do see us here, we still need to appear to be

on the alert. Sure, they know we're aware of them. I'm thinking

that the old man may be getting tired of this follow along game.

By now they have convinced themselves that we are heading for

where ever their property is stored. These aren't the kind of

people who would ever consider something happening that didn't

relate to them. It's an ego thing."



As much as I wanted a hot meal, I find it's difficult

to enjoy with Jack twitching at every wisp of movement behind

me. It does occur to me that this might just be his version of pay back. He does seem to be enjoying himself.

We stroll back to the RV in darkness.

Jack takes the wheel. The engine struggles, the

warning light comes on and the engine dies. It does not respond

at all to Jack's second attempt. We sit like idiots, looking out the

stationary windshield waiting for something on the order of magic to occur. Jack is quicker than I am.

He releases the hood and from out under it, I hear a

little profanity, not Jack's usual but genuine profanity. This is

enough out of character that I understand that we aren't going

anyplace right away. The deadline at Fargo is in jeopardy.

I don't have the faintest idea what I'll be looking at but I get out to give Jack moral support. "What's up?"

He's off the ground, his arm buried to the elbow in

the workings crammed together under the hood with the engine.

When his arm retracts, the hand comes out grasping the frayed

end of a long belt. I don't know what it's called but I know

where the profanity came from."Was it cut?" the first thing that occurs to me. I've

become so suspicious of everything.

Jack takes the offending item off to a pole light

some distance from the RV. He takes his time examining both

ends of the belt and comes back trailing it on the ground behind

him. There is hurry in his steps and relief in his voice when he

reports that it's just worn.



I protest, "I'm very good about regular maintenance.

Nothing has ever broken or quit working before."

"I'm sure you are but the fact is we have been pushing pretty hard and that takes its toll even on the best

maintained equipment. The belt just wore out."

"Can you fix it?" I somehow have the idea that if he

could fix the brakes back in Montana last week, he ought to be

able to take care of this.

When Jack's plans are in jeopardy, so is his sense of humor. "Harriet, for crying out loud, look at it, it's broken. Who

do you think I am MacGyver!"

Reacting before thinking I lash back. "I mean, if

you had a new one, would you be able to put it on. There is no

point in getting snippy with me."

His ruffled feathers settle just a little. "Yes, inreally good light, with the right tools and enough time, I could

put a new one on. Are you saying you have one?"

"It could be in one of the storage bins, I'm just not

sure which but there is one here. There are tools in the side

storage next to the reservoir."

There are about fifteen bins in the RV wheresomething I might never need could be stored and this belt is

probably buried. I begin the search in the back. Emptying

drawers and pulling out boxes of all sizes, dumping everything

on the bed.

I find spark plugs and Band-Aids, a new thermostat

and a box of clamps, a headlight lamp and a taillight lens.

When Jack comes in to help look for the belt, I run

him off telling him this is a one-woman job in these cramped



It's nearly midnight and we are two hundred miles

from Fargo and twelve hours from freedom. Now that we have a

new belt installed, we don't have to hurry; we have time to kill.In the RV's shadow created by the distant light pole,

Jack slides to the ground. He braces himself against the siding,

his knees drawn up to rest his head.

Inside, I'm reclaiming the bed. How so much clutter

could fit into such limited space always amazes me. I am good

at stashing but I'm going to have to impose some strategy on it.My next thought, 'When this is over.' calls my attention to the

fact that Jack hasn't come inside.

He's still on the ground in the shadow of the RV. I

quietly ease down next to him thinking he may have fallen

asleep. Even I know that in our present circumstances, this could

be risky. Just when I'm about to stir him and tell him he shouldgo inside, he raises his head and a very greasy arm draws me in.

"I wasn't sleeping, I was thinking."

I have to smile at that, when Jack thinks he's in

perpetual motion.

Begging for a break, I apply for mercy. "Can't we

stay here until morning? If we get to Fargo too early, won'tmilling around waiting for your people just serve to alert those

men that something is up?" I'm glad I understand the plan.

By way of agreement, Jack shrugs. I take the shrug

to mean 'Why not.'

We sit in the shadow for a time quietly gathering

dust. Eventually I ask, "So?" It's my question.

Jack can change the subject even when the

conversation doesn't seem to have one. "What do you do?"



I'm taken short, Jack can shift gears way too fast for

me. "What do you mean?"

"Your work, when you work, what do you do?" Ican't tell if he's evaluating again, it's not like him to simply be

sociable.

"Different things. Mostly just travel. What do you

do, besides rescue kidnapped people from really bad guys?" I

suspect that this will end the conversation.

"That’s what I do, rescue people." He's sincere.Jack always seems to believe everything he says. "Right now

I'm a tired dirty guy who needs to get cleaned up and get a

decent night's sleep." In spite of his good intentions, he doesn't

move.

I decide to take advantage of the moment. "Who

are you? What do you really do, for work I mean?"His head is down, I know he's talking to me, but he

seems to be telling himself the same things. "Who I am, what I

do, what you have seen is pretty much the description. Anything

beyond that isn't important right now. Any additional

information might just get in our way."

To my surprise, he goes on. "When we're safe fromthese people will be soon enough to answer those questions. I've

already told you more than I should have because I think you

need to know what's coming. There are other things I'd like to be

able to tell you but I just don't know how. You’ll have to give

me time.” He's telling me to back off and in polite language yet.

Now, it's my turn to change the subject. "The RV

carries thirty gallons of water. That should be enough to take off

some of that grease. I cleared off the bed. You are welcome to



it. If you put your things in the washer, you can even have clean

clothes in the morning. Just leave some water for it."

He struggles to his feet. Going inside, he leaves mesitting alone on the ground outside in the quiet darkness. When a

chill finally sends me inside, I find Jack stretched out on the bed

virtually unconscious. I start the washer and with only the night-

light burning, sit in the driver's seat remembering long trips and

the hundreds of generous, open people I’ve met on the road and

wondering where I'll be twenty-four hours from now.The washer is done. I load little the dryer. Nothing

is going to wake Jack.

Morning comes with a burst of lightening and a

typical mid-western wash of rain. I'm out of the driver’s seat and

on my feet without really waking up. Wobbling; reaching for the

seat’s back for balance, for a confusing moment I don't knowwhere I am. Once oriented, I remember the importance of today.

Jack is sitting at the table sipping coffee, going over

a map he's found. I am covered with the cobwebs of sleep,

cringing in yesterday's clothes, dull and bleary eyed. There sits

Jack well rested, groomed to the nines, alert with bright clear

eyes, I stumble to the table and fall into the other chair

motioning at the cup.

"None for you until you've had a shower. We have

a busy day planned, let's start it right." He thinks he's funny. I

don't. I think about telling him so. I don't usually get up grumpy

but I'm not usually blasted out of bed by a thunder clap overhead.

"I found the hose and re-filled the reservoir. Nice hot water.

Go."



The smell of ozone is so strong in the back of the

RV that the strike must have been close. It occurs to me that

running water might not be a good idea in an electrical storm,then I remember something about rubber tires. To get coffee

right now I will risk being struck by lightening. I go.

A hand holding a coffee cup reaches around the end

of the shower curtain. "Hurry up, we've got company coming!"

It takes less than five minutes for the two thugs to

struggle across the flooded parking lot carrying the old man. Theside door is yanked open. The barrel of a gun comes through

first, followed by the tallest man I've ever seen. The ceiling is

between six and seven foot and he is stooping. Jack is at the

table with his hands half raised. The old man pushes in out of

the rain and takes the passenger seat. The gun motions Jack into

the driver's seat to make room for the third man. Built like alocomotive, the RV's springs still dip when he steps in. I don't

want to desert Jack but the shear size of these men ups the odds

against us; I'm frozen to the front of the refrigerator.

The old man turns in the passenger's seat to face

Jack. "My name is Armat.” I swear he bowed. “You have taken

something of great value to me. I have come to encourage you toreturn it." His voice sounds strained through a synthesizer of

some kind. Cancer of the larynx is my first thought. My second

though is a silent plea for Jack to just please, please give him

what he wants. But I've been warned that isn't going to happen.

I'm terrified. Jack is flip.

"Armat? Don't think I've heard of you. Your

friends either. Thing One and Thing Two I presume." They

ignore Jack's comments. But they don't ignore Jack. The



locomotive, Thing Two Jack called him, takes two steps forward

and in a single motion pulls Jack out of the driver's seat and

throws him toward the back. A little more open space in the RVand Jack would have been airborne clear to the rear window.

The narrow hallway stops him at my wet bare feet.

Jack pulls his way up just in time to be shoved down

the hall by the locomotive. The taller man, Thing One Jack

named him, is motioned to the driver's seat by Armat.

The new belt works fine.Off and on for over two hours, Jack is assaulted and

questioned by Thing Two and by Armat himself. He is

threatened with horrible tortures that will leave him broken if not

dead.

Jack remains flip and casual. We are racing toward

Fargo. I'm waiting for him to do something besides sass them. Idon't know what, but something. I can't believe he's afraid. If

he's a coward under all this bravado, we are in big trouble. He

must be waiting for something. Whatever he's waiting for, it

can't be Fargo. We are headed in that direction so fast we will be

there long before noon.

What was it Jack said about plans going awry.These three don't seem to be afraid that Jack will take them on.

They don't even tie him up and frequently turn their backs on

him.

About an hour out of Fargo, Jack is sitting on the

edge of the bed with a gun pointed at him. More threatening

words and growls are followed by slaps so hard they knock him

over. He takes his time recovering. This is the same technique



I've seen him use before. There is little comfort in recognizing

that this beating might be routine for Jack.

They have paid no attention to me until I am asked,in a nearly civil voice, to prepare something to eat. Before I can

protest, Jack calls in his order for toast and coffee. I begin the

process of getting a meal ready. I can't believe I'm going to feed

these people. Why should I put anything fit to eat in front of

them? My next thought becomes a plan… 'I don't…have to put

anything fit to eat in front of them.I can't talk to Jack about what I'm going to do. I just

hope I don't get in the way of his plan. I don't like what I'm

planning so I go through the motions not thinking about it. Jack

said do what needs doing and deal with the consequences later.

This is the time to take my life back. Maybe get a

little even for the peaceful world I will never again enjoy. Under the sink, between the brake fluid and the coffee, is the first aid

kit?

When this is over, I might need to know where it is.

Actually it's an old candy tin. I'm talking to myself avoiding

even thinking about what I've decided to do. There are

dangerous things in a first aid kit. It shouldn't really be keptwhere food is stored. I busy myself to an exaggerated degree

making coffee and other breakfast items.

I thought I might make eggs. The skillet is one of

those heavy cast iron things grandmothers have. It takes me a

long time to do because I keep dropping utensils and misplacing

things. This is a page from Jack's book. But there is no way we

can use up enough time to prevent our early arrival in Fargo.



The only thing they want from Jack is to know

where he is headed. When they ask me, I tell them I'm just along

for the ride; make a suggestive motion and hope they can see meas that kind of woman. When I turn away from Armat, I'm

looking directly at Jack. His eyebrows are up; eyes opened over-

wide and mouth dropped open. I shrug my shoulders at him and

turn back to the kitchen.

I set two places at the table by way of getting the

two of them together. The one working on Jack comes eagerly.The driver waits for his master's permission to pull over and go

to the table. When the RV has come to a full stop, I am headed

toward the passenger seat with a plate and a cup. Armat takes

the plate and waves me into the driver's seat. I hand him the cup

without meeting his eyes. It never crossed my mind that I would

be able to get them into position so easily. When it works I amdumbfounded.

As though hauling eggs, I creep back onto the

highway. Behind me I hear sounds of eating and drinking

coffee. I'm trying to keep the smile of success off my face.

Well fed, the two men take their time at the table.

Jack is sitting on the bed watching me in the rear view mirror.I'm not afraid. For the first time in days, I am really not scared.

Catching Jack's eye, I nod and wink trying to convey to him that

a full-scale distraction is on the way. He can’t have any idea

what’s in store and yet he smiles back with a nod. How he has

come to trust me is a mystery but it gives me a heady dose of

confidence. He's ready.



Now, all I have to do is have the reflexes of a

mosquito and the precision of a laser. Lacking these skills, I'm

trusting in luck.There it is, the hollow sound of ipecac laced coffee

at work in Armat's belly. He puts his window down ignoring the

rain; he has the good grace to put his head out to vomit. I hit the

window's locking lever on the driver's console and then jam my

fist onto the up button.

It seems to take an hour for the window to beginmoving up. Armat's distress slows his reflexes just enough to

give the window on the rise the advantage. Once he is pinned by

the neck, I should have eased off on the up button. I bear down

on it; steering with one hand not daring to look at the figure

drawn up out of the passenger seat.

Days of terror that had blended into one horror nowfade into a strange delight. The window stays up, rain peppers

the face of the man whose life I have deliberately taken. Jack

said do what needs doing and deal with my conscience later.

There will surely be a reckoning for this, but not now. I don’t

look at the speedometer, I think I must be doing eighty.

The old man's guardians jump to his aide. I knowit's too late; I felt and heard the sound that crushed the life out of

him. Somehow, it's not like I did it. It just happened.

The frantic motion that brings them up from the

table jerks me back to the moment. I hadn't figured out what

might happen next but once they turned their backs on Jack, he

takes his toll.

I suspect that two against one is usually just right

for Jack, but these are close quarters with little room to



maneuver. He hits the taller man, Thing One, from behind with

the skillet. When Jack drops the vibrating skillet, I feel his hand

grip on the back of the driver's seat for balance.A week of RV experience has taught him one of the

finer points of motor home travel, the art of balance. The bulky

man turns on him just in time to be caught by the swerving

motion of the RV. It takes Jack a hair too long to get into any

kind of defensible position. Thing Two is able to take him by the

throat. What I can see looks more like a dance than a fight.I'm debating about stopping. The window at Fargo

isn't for several hours. There is no way that the plan is going to

work now so I pull over. On my way out of the driver's seat I

step into the skillet Jack used earlier. Out of habit I pick it up not

knowing what to do with it other than put it back on the range.

Jack and Thing Two are off their feet in the narrow hall. Theman is so big that there is no room for Jack to draw a fist back

far enough to do any good. I don't want to get near them. First

one is up, then the other. I'm sure I would hit Jack by mistake so

I do nothing.

Standing with my hand on the skillet handle

watching Jack struggle keeps me from noticing that the man Jack laid out earlier is beginning to come to. The first I know of it, he

has one arm around my neck. I don't know where his other arm

is. My hands would be free to fight if I didn't have hold of the

skillet. I don't have a plan; I just want to breathe. With both

hands on the skillet handle, I raise it up over and behind my own

head as hard and fast as I can. The crack of contact with bone

sickens me, but the arm at my throat relaxes.



Jack has not weakened the big man. They are still

in a tangle on the floor in the hall. I watch unable to think of any

way to help. Jack works his way to the top."Make a U-turn." He gasps.

I don't understand. I stand fixed to the floor at the

table. When I don't move, Jack twists his head and shouts.

"Damn it Harriet, make a U-turn."

My feet start moving before my head gets the

message. The engine is still running. I have a fleeting image of the RV lying on its side across two lanes of Interstate-94. I begin

the turn once the RV is moving along the shoulder. Some things

you just do for lack of options. The wheels are cramped to

screaming but it makes the left shoulder then the median and if I

don't floor it and I resist the temptation to turn the wheels we

may not be stuck in the soaked ground of the median strip. Withwestbound traffic honking and swerving, the RV completes the

turn. Ten minutes out of Fargo, we are headed west.

Jack's struggle has moved into the kitchen area. He

is holding his own but I'm wondering how long he can do that. I

take to the shoulder and slow the RV to a crawl. I've finally

remembered that a U-turn was a signal for Jack's people inFargo. No sense getting too far out of their reach so I creep

along the shoulder.

Traffic backed up by the U-turn moves around us

and then thins out. I'm watching the mirrors. I can't bear to

watch what's happening to Jack.

With its lights flashing but no siren, an ambulance

comes up behind us on the shoulder. Behind it two North

Dakota highway patrol cars. The side door opens and Jack's



This sudden wave of indecision has left me unable

to act.

When Jack's people turn to leave, he strolls back tothe RV, hands jammed down in his pockets. At the open

passenger door he leans in, "They will take care of the

paperwork, we won't have to testify or anything, unless you want

too?"

"No, I'm thinking your people will put them where

they won't be able to hurt anyone." Coming in contact with themagain is not something I want to do for any reason.

"You still taking me to Minneapolis?" The ordinary

question should seem out of place in this violence, but it doesn't.

"Sure." The decision I didn't think I could make—

what to do next—turns out to be an easy one…and one that a

part of me must have made some time ago. To trust a man Idon’t know and to believe that good people can, and often do, do

terrible things.

This close to Minnesota, Jack radiates excitement.

"Okay if I drive? I know the way."

"Sure." I need to think.

Jack drives and acts as tour guide. "My people hadarranged for a road block at the state line at noon. They would

have stopped us and taken Armat and his henchmen off. We'll

probably get stopped by the roadblock but I figure we can stand a

little excitement."

He is wound up. "About an hour over the

Minnesota line is a little town called Elizabeth. I have a place

near there where the fishing is great. We can kick back, rejoin

the human race. You can take a little time to get back to normal.



Then we can go on to Minneapolis tomorrow and get my truck

back…if you want to."

I can tell by the thrill in his voice that there will beno point in trying to change this plan.

Every inch of the highway between Fargo and

Elizabeth brings out the tour guide in Jack.

Elizabeth, MNOff the highway, up a blacktop strip, down a dirt

road around the edge of a small lake and Jack is home. Before

the RV is at a complete stop, he's out making a great show of

breathing the air and checking out the surrounding area.

Whoever he really is, it is plain that he belongs here. He is part

of this place. I have watched him for three thousand miles at rest

and in danger and the expression on this face here is nothingshort of total excitement. A child turned loose in a toy store

would have the same expression.

While Jack checks to be sure that his lake is still

there, that all his trees are still standing, that his fishing dock will

still support him, I try the cabin door. Oddly, I don't expect it to

be locked. It swings open.Jack has completed his outside inventory and on the

porch behind me explains that, "There's nothing worth stealing in

there, and besides not many folks know it's here. If they want

something, they can have it. So long as they don't scare the fish

away, no problem."

In the cabin, there is a clutter of fishing gear onevery surface and in every corner. There are flies stuck on the

walls and fishing line wrapped around almost every manner of



tool. "It doesn't look like anyone has taken anything." I think

I'm funny; Jack thinks I have no concept of proper tackle.

He picks up a rod and reel and waves me permissionto choose any of the others lying around.

"I need a little more time to adjust to all this peace

and quiet." I beg off fishing.

"Fishing is the best way to shift gears." He

practices this psychology on himself.

Back in the RV, I practice my own psychology. I begin to put my house back in order. The tumbled disarray from

the morning's event has made hash of my attempts to keep order.

For nearly an hour, Jack sits out on his dock moving only to cast

lazily at his fish.

I decide to take a couple of sandwiches out to him.

My timing is terrible. Jack pulls in a very respectable fish just asI arrive carrying my lack of confidence on a plate. He looks at

the snack, at his fish, back at the snack, then tosses the fish back.

The sun is still above the trees. There is time

enough before darkness to finish putting the RV back in order. I

have time to sit on the dock and do nothing for a while.

The fact that I won't see Jack again after tomorrowdrains away some of the beauty of the spot. The time is coming

when he will be out there doing whatever he does and I'll be back

parked in my summer spot. I live in a world of black and white.

Jack works in the gray area; I don't know which world he lives

in.

I have been sitting for almost three thousand miles;

it's pure relief to be able to lay back on the dock. It's low, just

barely above the water's surface. I can hear and feel the water



lapping under it. No wonder Jack can sit here for hours at a time.

It's like a drug, the water and the small sounds of dry rustling

grass. It's so quiet you can hear the pine needles brush againsteach other in the wind.

The sun is against Jack's profile. I have noticed that

when he is sorting out something difficult, the muscles in his

face work and his eyes squint up. Watching him work out a

problem is exhausting. It's as much a physical effort for him as it

is mental. He's working something out. All plans should have been completed at Fargo. I can't imagine what's bothering him

now, but for sure there is something nagging at him.

He drops his hand down reaching; his fingers just

brush my arm. "You don't have to go tomorrow. You can stay

here." The sun is behind him; I can't see the expression on his

face.It's so unlike Jack to be this serious about anything.

But I believe that he genuinely cares whether I'm going to be

able to deal with all that I've seen and endured. He knows that

what we've been through qualifies as a nightmare to me.

"You mean stay here…with you?"

"Sure." It's one word spoken casually. Toocasually.

In spite of all that we've been through, this is the

hardest thing I feel I've had to do; deny what I feel because it

doesn't make sense. "Jack, I've known you less than a week. In

that short time, I've despised you for a coward, cherished you as

a companion, hated your violence, been comforted by your

concern and trusted your strength. If I don't get away from you



soon, I may cross the line into deeper feelings that won't be so

easily explained."

He's listening. I know he's listening because in hisembarrassment at hearing these things, he's studying the ripples

kicking up on the water, the planking of the dock, the reel on his

rod. Everything nature has provided for him to avoid looking at

me.

I get between him and the water. It takes my hands

on his face to get him to look at me. "Do you understand that Idon't know enough about you to think that's a good idea. When

you want to tell me about yourself it will be different, but you

aren't going to do that are you?"

How can so much be in his eyes and so little of it

find voice? Everything he wants to say is there in plain sight but

only for a second."I'm just saying…" He's back, recovered from what

must have been a scary trip into human emotions.

The ripples on the water have become aggressive

waves under the dock. A line of clouds scatters across the sun.

Behind a biting wind, huge drops of rain break the spell this

conversation has cast.Jack grabs his fishing gear and we head for shelter

at a pretty good clip. On the porch, he stands looking at the dark

rows of clouds banking up in the northern sky. I dive into the

RV.

As he turns to enter the cabin, I'm leaning out my

door looking at the same threatening sky. One quick glance

toward me; there's that little sideways smile of his. Then he

lowers his head and steps across his threshold. For only the



second time in my life, my heart has been broken and this time

I've done it to myself.

The storm outside lashes the forest. Treessilhouetted against an eerie gray sky are twisted and bent by the

angry wind. An RV is not a safe place during this kind of storm.

The rain and wind go on for almost an hour. I

should be at work cleaning and straightening, but I'm pacing; at

first unaware that I'm deliberately touching things Jack touched,

sitting where he sat. I'm trying to overload my emotional circuitsenough to burn them out quickly.

The force of the storm doesn't seem to be playing

out. When lightening strikes a tree so near the RV that I can

smell it burning, I can't delay getting to shelter any longer. I

grab a jacket and jump from the RV to the porch. The door is

still open. I close it behind me.There's a struggling fire in the fireplace. When my

eyes adjust, I can see Jack in the fire's light; sitting, watching me.

With one hand extended and that same crooked smile, he finds

the right words, and forms them into a gentle whisper. "It’s

warmer over here."

Elizabeth, MT to MinneapolisThe ride from Jack's cabin in the morning doesn't

take more than two hours. I watch the landscape, count the

bridges and do anything I can to avoid accepting the coming

moment of separation. I keep thinking Jack will make a joke

about this short ride. Jokes are how he's diverted painful or serious encounters over the last several days. Where are the

jokes now when I really need the diversion?



In answer to the unspoken plea for refuge from this

pain, Jack covers my hand with his. "Harriet, you’re right, you

can't take every brown-eyed stray that befriends you. You've gotto have some standards."

I want to laugh so badly that I'm willing to be

amused by his effort.

"I know," I hear myself enter the spirit of the idea,

"but I would never just kick one out or drop him off in a vacant

lot."This exchange goes on long enough to get us to the

abandoned Minneapolis mall and out to Jack's truck. The black

finish on his truck is a dusty gray from a week of open weather

and neglect. Jack groans at its condition the way a child whines

over a damaged toy.

I pay tightly focused attention to him. I'm hopingthat magic will get me past the moment of separation. That Jack

will be gone before I have to face the fact that I don't know

anything about him and that this is by his choice.

He pulls the RV to within a hundred yards of his

truck, stopping at an odd angle across two parking spaces. I

don't understand why so far away, but at his invitation, "Letswalk," I get out.

He takes my arm and we slowly pace off the

distance between my world and his. I have no place in his and

he can't stay in mine. He opens his truck doors to let the inside

cool before he heads out. Letting down the tailgate, he makes a

place to sit.

I'm not leaving until he's ready to go. I can't, I

know I can't. It will be hard enough to leave here when he does,



but there's no way I could drive away and leave him sitting

alone.

In self-defense and to eke out another moment withhim, I take a place on the tailgate. There's nothing more to be

said. There are no promises to make; no invitations to issue and

no future to mull over. There's only the recent past and we are

too close to that to be nostalgic.

For twenty minutes we sit close but not touching.

I'm practicing being apart from him. Trying to get used to theidea. Wasting those few moments remaining to me.

Finally, it's time. Jack slides off the tailgate and

rounds to close the open passenger door. At the same time I

touch ground I begin walking toward the RV. The truck begins

to move. This is it, the moment when it ends. I want to look

back, but I don't dare. If I look back, I may not care what kind of man he really is; I may never leave Minnesota.

The RV is waiting to get me back where I belong.

Eventually, days will pass when I no longer fear for my life; days

that pass without remembering Jack will be a long time coming.

I am alone, but where I belong. Just as I reach the front bumper,

the dirty pickup truck grates to a stop behind me kicking up parking-lot gravel. The driver's side door swings wide and Jack

lurches out. Between heartbeats his arms pin me to him and his

lips stop my breath.

Before my heart beats a second time or I can speak

he puts something in my shirt pocket and is back in the truck and

gone.



I'm smiling at everything or maybe at nothing, but I

am smiling. The tears that were so close have moved off. I

climb in, ill-prepared for the drive ahead of me.It's lonely without Jack riding shotgun. I don't

dodge the tears for long and somewhere north of Des Moines

they catch up with me. Fishing in my pocket for a tissue, I bring

out the card he’d put there. On it is a phone number with an area

code I don't recognize. On the other side he has scrawled a

message. No signature, just a message.We’ve seen the west. Call me when you go east.

The End

Back on the Road Again

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Transcript of Back on the Road Again