With my nose pressed nearly up against the ceiling, I had a bird’s eye view of the garage. Quite a few items on the floor would be definite aids in my escape if I could just get on the ground. Raising my body temp wasn’t an option I could use---if I could even get it high enough to melt the chains on me, I’d probably burn my hands and feet clean off. I didn’t have X-ray vision or whatever it was that allowed Superman to melt metal.
I could reach up and touch the insulation so I pulled down what I could rip off. Plastic and fiberglass fell in chunks to the floor exposing the sheet metal roof, screws, and electrical wiring. Now that, I could use.
Carefully, I pulled a piece towards me tearing it loose from underneath the insulation until I could trace its path to the fuse box prominently displayed on the wall near the garage doors. I wrapped it around my foot and gave it one swift jerk that the amount of play in my chains allowed me. It ripped loose from the fuse box with sparks flying.
The lights flickered, fizzled and died. The garage doors started to raise and then fall shut but best of all, the lift slowly started to come down as the hydraulics failed. Nobody came out to see why the power went out so wherever this garage was, it wasn’t well used or even open. From the looks of the inside, it had been empty for years.
My chains loosened as the lift hit the ground with a thud. I had enough play to reach over and drag the nearest tool box towards me and up end it. Scrabbling through the jumbled mess of rusted metal, I pulled out a set of bolt cutters that had seen better days. It wasn’t easy holding them one-handed and closing them but I managed to cut the links between my feet. Once they were free, I heated the links close to the handcuffs threaded through the other chains; just enough to soften the metal.
My wrists burned but healed quickly once I sat up, the handcuffs dangling from both hands. I looked at the cement floor and saw that the hydraulic fluid had leaked out causing the lift to come down; not from my damage to the fuse box.
I found a stiff wire and piece of metal in a tray on the counter where baby food jars filled with nuts, bolts and old spark plugs lay in disorder. That was enough for me to pick the lock open and in minutes, I was free of all restraint. Peeking out the garage door windows, I saw a dirt yard littered with abandoned cars, weeds, and sparse grass. An old trailer with barrels strewn about rested like a drunk under an old oak tree. Garbage was piled everywhere. It was obvious that the neighborhood had used this place as an illegal dump and I had my pick of old clothes. and I had my pick of old clothes. I took a ratty sweatshirt and a stocking cap of blue with white stripes on the rim.
It was late afternoon by the shadows coming off the wrecks. I couldn’t see any power lines or poles nor could I see down the dirt lane. I did see an old land line hanging on the wall and that I could do something with.
Twenty minutes later, I had re-wired the phone and dialed Leon’s cell phone. I didn’t get an answer but then, I suspected he was already on his way to the rendezvous. I couldn’t encrypt the message or disguise my voice but the circumstances justified the risks. Or I hoped it did.
I had no idea who the girl Kelly had called to arrange for my pickup and reward but I could guarantee it wasn’t the FBI or John Walsh’s CMEC. No, it had CIA and NSA all over it.
I pulled the door open and took a quick peek outside. No one was in sight and there weren’t any fresh tracks in the dirt around any of the doors. I didn’t hear any traffic, lawnmowers or any of the busy sounds of suburbia. I did smell fall leaves, wood smoke, and animals. Cows and horses, mostly.
Skulking the brush, I weaved my way towards the smells to come up against a ramshackle fence behind the garage. In a five-acre pasture, two horses stared back at me. Both were geldings, both unremarkable bays with the look of Walking horses. I whistled softly and curious, they sidled closer eventually coming to my outstretched hand. I had vague memories of calling a giant humped beast to me and climbing on its back.
This horse let me do that, too steering off my heels and seat taking me to the gate. His pasture pal followed but I led the one horse though the hanging gate, not the other. He tossed his head, whinnied and ran the fence line until I told him to chill out.
The pasture led up to a small barn with a doublewide a few hundred yards beyond that. A gravel road wound around the barn and to the road. From the amount of hoof prints on it, someone rode down it frequently. The bay horse waited for me to hop back on and willingly took me down the road. This one was hard pan and oiled like many country roads; fairly empty of other homes with no close neighbors.
I was right, the horse was a Walker and he boogied right along. I wasn’t sure if the house belonged to the garage if that was where the girl, Kelly or Rake lived. I sure didn’t want to take the chance of finding out. I especially didn’t want to meet up with Thom the mechanic or any of his barfly friends.
The road came to a four-way intersection and the horse turned to the left towards a wooded area. I let him go, confident what he was aiming for trails in the forest where his rider took him frequently.
We entered a State Forest fire lane with a 4x8 hand painted sign in the name of the tract, South Hill, the acreage 5888 and pictures of the local flora and fauna. White-tailed deer, raccoon, red and gray fox, speckled geckos, lady’s slippers, and ginseng.
The moment I stepped foot on the trail, an invisible weight lifted off me. I felt at home and comfortable, more than I had ever felt at Hamilton’s or the hospital. We walked for a couple of hours on well-defined trails finally emerging on a gravel road that went south and east. I followed that for a while coming to farmhouses that might have been there since before the Civil War. Made of mellow rose colored brick, they fit into the bucolic scene with eye-pleasing results. Many had pastures stocked with nice looking Herefords and Black Angus with an occasional regal TB behind four board rail fences.
There were trucks parked in the driveways and as I passed by, I saw curtains pulled back but that was the extent of the interest paid to me. We continued down the road and it eventually became a series of small two-lane highways with signs denoting the distance to the next town. A town called Pershing Corners was next up and my mind instantly brought up a map of the state and the towns nearest my location. I had traveled only about 15 miles from the town where Kelly and Rake had captured me. I needed to be at least another forty miles before I could meet up with Leon.
The horse continued clip-clopping on the road. Here, the streets were paved and I looked for a barn off the road, set back from it or from the casual view of the road. Once I found one, I dismounted and led him by his forelock inside to one of the empty stalls. I gave him a small scoop of sweet feed and a couple flakes of orchard grass hay. Thanked him and searched the barn. I found an old Schmidt coat, barn boots and a collection of baseball caps. I took the one labeled BLUE SEAL FEEDS and mashed it down over my hair. Hanging on the wall next to western saddles and bridles was an old 3-speed mountain bike with flat tires but the bike pump hung neatly beside it.
No one paid any attention to me as I pedaled lazily down the side of the highway towards the State Park dedicated to the Cherokee Nation where the survivors of the Trail of Tears had ended.
The air was crisp as the sun finally went down and darkness fell. There was a full moon so I could clearly see where I was going but I was nervous that the cars passing me wouldn’t. I tried to stay far enough off the shoulder that I wasn’t spotted by passing traffic or risk a hit-and-run. I knew that there were sick people out there who thought it was fun to run down bikers or pedestrians. There weren’t any reflective lights on my wheels to protect me, either.
I could do forty miles in two hours if I didn’t stop and if I didn’t faint from hunger. My body told me that I hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours---not since I’d had a Whopper at Burger King. I was starving, hadn’t found anything in the barn except horse feed. Not even carrots or apples for the horses. Nothing in the pockets of the jacket except a few oats and some pellets. I did find some change and a few ones so if I came across a convenience store, I could buy something.
The ride under the full moon, bright stars and clear sky was quiet, I had time to think. At least until the flashing lights and sirens broke the quiet of my reverie. I pulled up in a flurry of gravel and pushed the bike almost into the ditch watching as a whole slew of emergency vehicles passed me heading back in the direction from which I had fled. City cops, Staties, and unmarked cars that the Feds favored. My throat tightened and I was instantly dry-mouthed.
Someone in Washington had finally put together my escape and Kelly’s call. Even though I had been expecting it, I was still frightened by the speed of their response, planning to be a lot further away by then. I waited in the dark, my breath pluming in the cold air until every speeding vehicle passed me before I got back on the saddle and pedaled furiously towards Leon and freedom.
Another half hour went by and the moon was high overhead, almost as bright as the lights in the parking lot of the Circle K. I could see the gas pumps and only one clerk standing behind the counter idly wiping the top clean. Every so often, he would sip at a Big Gulp of piss-yellow something. Probably Mountain Dew.
I was so hungry that I was seriously tempted to walk in for a handful of hot dogs and chips. With a 32 oz. drink for $1.79. My empty belly overcame my sense of caution and I hid the bike behind the bushes, avoiding the cameras. I removed my coat replacing it with a sweatshirt and stocking cap I had taken from the garage.
The front door had a bell on it and my appearance startled the clerk. He was only a few years older than me---maybe 18 with ginger hair, a scraggly goatee and reminded me of someone. I realized he looked like the dude from the Scooby cartoon, Shaggy.
“Where the ef---did you come from?” he yelped.
“Car,” I headed for the rotisserie and helped myself to two hot dogs with everything, a large Pepsi with ice in a Big Gulp cup and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Handed him four ones and he rang it up as the special.
“Help yourself to the dogs,” he said. “They’re like 8 hours old, I was gonna throw them out.”
They were wrinkled and dried out, like an old guy’s peter. Suddenly, I wasn’t so hungry but I took them anyway. For later. The Doritos tasted like ambrosia, the salt satisfied some dietary requirement I was lacking as my teeth crunched away happily on them.
His name tag spelled out ‘Coosie’. “What’s Coosie?” I asked, crumbs spilling down my sweatshirt but no one would notice with all the other stains.
“Nickname. Where’s your car? I don’t see anything in the lot.”
“Parked out by the air pumps. Low tire. My dad’s waiting. Gotta go. Thanks for the extra dogs.” He gave me a plastic bag to carry the franks and I scurried out of the door before he got any more curious. I could feel his eyes on my back all the way. Once in the lot, I circled around so neither he nor the cameras could spot me returning to the bike and pedal off.
Feeling lubricated and full, I carefully stowed my garbage in the bag he’d given me for the frankfurters.
It was midnight before my weary legs pedaled onto the Federal lands were given over to the Cherokee Nation. The building housing the Park’s Museum and Ranger Station was closed with a sign stating the hours it was open at 6a.m. until 5p.m. for camping permits. Primitive sites were $12 a night and electric, $25 per site. Hot showers and stalls were available at the Equestrian section, private cabins $45 a night and required reservations from Apr.15th to Nov.15th. The rest of the year it was on a first come-first served basis. Overnight patrons were advised to find an empty spot and fees were due by the next morning.
It was eerie riding the bike down to the campsites. I had no idea where Leon might be; if he had even stayed to wait for me. There were very few people still in the park, it was before camping season officially opened and pretty much too cold to do much riding even for southern Georgia. I didn’t find either out of state licensed cars or rentals so I finally rode back to the station and picked the lock. Once inside, I opened the back door by the trash bins, wheeled my bike inside and went to sleep on the big leather couch in the Ranger’s office. It was heated, had a water cooler, coffee pot and snacks tucked away in his desk drawer. I had found an emergency pack with a space blanket and once under that, fell asleep almost instantly, warm and toasty and unafraid.