Текст книги "Poisoned Soil"
Автор книги: Tim Young
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
Chapter 31
Blake woke up early. He had tossed and turned most of the night, partly due to the pain in his leg from Ozzie’s tusk, but mainly due to Clint’s message and the sheriff’s note. He gave up fighting for sleep and arose at 5:40. He had been sitting on the sofa for over two hours watching CNN. He didn’t know why he was still watching the news. After thirty minutes it seemed to just loop, saying the same thing in different ways, with different people sometimes, but the same thing nevertheless. Supposedly a strong hurricane was going to hit Savannah later that afternoon. A Category 5 hurricane that normally would have been the talk of the country. Maybe it was, for all he knew. But not for him.
His eyes stayed fixed on the ticker that tallied the trail of death and illness from the anthrax outbreak. A plague that he knew he alone was likely responsible for. The death toll stood at five, but now there were close to one hundred hospitalized. Ten or a hundred hospitalized made little difference to him at this point. The mountain behind him was claiming lives with a vengeance. First two boys missing, then the illnesses, now the deaths. Blake placed his hand on his right leg, lightly touching his injury. He realized how lucky he had been. So far.
On the table beside him his cell phone buzzed like a nest of yellow jackets that dared him to pick it up. He checked the time on the television: 8:17 a.m. Blake fumbled for the phone and dropped it on the floor. “Goddammit!” he said as he grabbed it and saw the 404 area code. He pushed the button sending it to voice mail. He knew he couldn’t keep dodging the calls. A message popped up that a voice message had been left.
“Mr. Savage, Clint Justice again with the Food Safety and Inspection Service. I must speak to you. Right away. Please call me back before noon. If I don’t hear from you I’ll contact the sheriff and request his assistance in reaching you.”
Crap! Blake stood up and paced the living room. What do I tell this guy? I sure as hell don’t want him talking to the sheriff!
Blake went to the kitchen and wrote a note for Angelica. “Have to run see the sheriff and do some errands. Will be back later today but call my cell if you need me.” He hesitated and continued writing. “Love, Blake.”
He tried to remember the last time he had spoken those words, let alone written them. As he walked through the kitchen door he was met with a gust of wind that lifted his cap. He reached and caught it before if flew off. The high, overcast clouds he had seen before going to bed the night before now gave way to low clouds that streamed over the mountain like waterlogged sponges ready to be squeezed by the hands of God.
In his F-150, Blake fought the wind down Hale Ridge as the trees swayed on both sides of the road. Leaves flew off the autumn trees like dandelion seeds in a spring storm, darting in front of his windshield and obscuring the road. By now, Blake had memorized the curves of Hale Ridge road. Still, he had difficulty making out where the shoulders ended and where the steep drop-offs began. To make matters worse, his mind wasn’t on the road...it was on the sheriff and Clint Justice. He needed a breather, a distraction, and his eyes were drawn to a forested abyss to his left, a ravine that funneled to a sea of rocks, trees and rotting leaves far below. The scene entranced him as swirling leaves formed mini-tornadoes and danced with and among the trees.
Blake looked back up and saw the road curving sharply to the right just in front of the hood, but he was continuing straight over the edge. He pushed back on the wheel, straightened his arms as he slammed the brakes, and then pressed back into the seat so hard he thought that it might break. The rear of Blake’s truck fishtailed to the left as the brakes locked and the gravel shoulder gave way. The ravine loomed and gripped the truck’s hood to pull him in.
The front left tire was the first to depart, sliding off the road as the tread of the back tires dug in with all their might. The front tire slammed into a small pine tree, snapping it in two and sending the top half tumbling down the ravine, but the tire rested on the swaying, broken spear. Blake’s arms remained rigid. He pushed back from both the steering wheel and from the ravine, thinking that somehow if he pushed back he would be farther from the fall. Peering out his side window, he saw the drop just before him. Instinct guided his hand to the door handle, which he opened to see himself teetering on the shoulder. Blake released the seatbelt and placed his left leg out the door. Bending his knee to place his step as far back as possible, he grabbed the door jam and swung his body back, crashing to the ground. He crawled to the back of the truck, his right leg searing as his wound raked over the gravel.
Blake pulled himself up on the bumper and caught his breath. “Holy shit!” he said to himself, and then admonished himself in that of all moments to stop swearing. Blake walked around the truck to survey his predicament. The other three wheels were on the road. He looked down at his hands, trembling violently, as he tried to decide what to do. The wind whipped dusty gravel up the road, stinging his hands and cheeks.
Gingerly, he climbed back into the driver’s seat and turned the dial to engage four-wheel drive. Slowly, he put the gearshift into reverse. He eased his foot off the brake and pressed the accelerator at the same time. The truck lurched back and the thin pine stump that bent under the weight of the tire rocked back, forth and snapped. With a thud, the front left end dropped as the running board landed on the shoulder, and the right tire tipped as it barely teetered on the road. Blake closed his eyes and floored the accelerator, pushing back on the steering wheel once more. The rear tires dug in and spun dirt up and past his window like a team of hungry dogs digging up a bone buried in the sand. The F-150 pulled back slightly and then lunged rearward as the front right tire took hold and pulled the front left tire back onto the shoulder. Blake slammed the brakes just before the rear right tire fell off the opposite shoulder.
He sat there, breathless. “Holy s—” He caught himself and swallowed his profanity. Blake began a series of three-point turns to get himself pointed down the mountain once more. Once he was centered in the road he paused and wiped the sweat from his brow and face as the wind rocked his truck back and forth. He took another moment to compose himself before shifting down into the lowest gear and admonishing himself to keep his eyes on the road.
***
Blake pulled into the parking lot at Ingle’s and blended his truck into a sea of vehicles. He took out his phone to call Clint Justice.
“Justice,” Clint said as he answered the phone.
Blake drew in his breath, disappointed that he had not reached voice mail.
“Yes, uh...hello?” Blake began. “Uh, this is Blake Savage calling you back.”
“Mr. Savage, I’m conducting an investigation for the Food Safety Inspection Service. Do you provide meat for Nick Vegas at The Federal?”
Blake wasn’t sure what he had expected. The tone was concise and not jovial. It was black and white, abrupt. Do you or don’t you, did you or didn’t you, guilty or innocent. “Do I need a lawyer or do I have rights?”
“I’m not a law enforcement official, Mr. Savage. I’m with the FSIS, which is part of the USDA. I’m simply asking you if you sell meat to Nick Vegas.”
Sell. That was the word Blake heard and focused on. “I—deliver meat sometimes to him.”
“Meat from where, Mr. Savage?”
“From farmers up here. I deliver all kinds of things.” Blake felt himself having a good idea, felt the words beginning to form and flow with ease, filling him with confidence. He kept talking, feeling certain he could now talk his way out of any trouble he may be in. “I deliver fruits, vegetables, wine and sometimes meat from local farmers.”
“What meats?” Clint asked.
“Oh, we got fellas up here that raise grass fed beef, pasteurized chickens—”
“Do you mean pastured chickens?” Clint interrupted.
“Yeah, pastured chickens, wild turkeys, raw milk cheeses, beef...you name it,” Blake said.
“Okay, I will. Pork. Did you deliver any pork to Mr. Vegas or his restaurant? Specifically, any ham?”
Blake paused. He visualized himself on the final drive, the ultimate final drive. Instead of calling his plays carefully he had to choose his words with care, letting each word, each sentence move him closer to scoring. Victory in this game would be measured with freedom. A loss would...he didn’t want to visualize that.
“Honestly Mr., uh, Clint, I don’t usually know what I’m delivering. I just pick up them boxes from farmers and take ’em to him. If they’re open where I can see tomatoes and what not then I know, but most time they’re sealed and packed.” Blake was turning on the country, redneck, hillbilly know-nothing accent, laying it on thick to make sure Clint knew this was a trail that led nowhere.
“Surely you—” Clint began.
“I suspect Mr. Vegas would have invoices that would show all the deliveries and what he bought,” Blake interrupted, “because he pays the farmers for their stuff and not me. Ain’t that what you wanna know?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Perhaps, Mr. Savage. Please keep your phone available today, as I will likely need to phone you back. By the way, I have your address as one 13 Hale Ridge Road in Clayton. Is that correct?” Blake knew from Clint’s earlier message that he had his address, but hearing it said aloud made the hairs on his arm stand up. He felt the storm closing in on him, the noose tightening, even though he hoped he had just thrown the dog off his trail.
“Yes,” Blake said. “That’s right, but I’m not here−there today.”
“That’s fine,” Clint said. “If I need to visit and have my search warrant it won’t matter if you’re there or not.”
A lump formed in Blake’s throat.
“I’ll be in touch soon, Mr. Savage.” Clint hung up. Blake sat in his truck and replayed the conversation. In Atlanta, Clint Justice made notes on his pad and did the same thing.
***
A white Econoline van with a Black Rock Farm logo pulled into the driveway at 13 Hale Ridge Road at 10:15 a.m. The driver got out and walked to the door, holding his hand against his face to block sand and gravel that the wind had launched in his direction. He banged on the door loudly thinking that since he couldn’t hear with all the wind then no one else could. Angelica came to the door and greeted the driver with a smile.
“Howdy, ma’am. Name’s Gus...got a delivery for your husband.”
“Hello, Gus, I think we’ve met once before,” she said.
“Right. Well, howdy again ma’am. Looks like we got some weather coming.”
Angelica looked out at the trees swaying briskly in the wind. She had been immersed playing board games with the girls. “Sure does,” she said. “Looks like a good rain’s a comin’.”
Gus looked at her with a sense of puzzlement.
“Rain? You been hearing what they’re saying? ’Bout that hurricane?” Gus asked.
“Not since yesterday,” she said honestly. “They said it may hit the Georgia coast I think. Has it changed?”
“Hadn’t changed, just got stronger that’s all. And coming this way too.”
Angelica looked a little puzzled. “We can’t get hurricanes up this far, silly.”
“No ma’am, ’course not. But it’s a Cat 5 storm and they got the eye tracking this way. Saying it’s gonna bring a ton of wind and rain so you best hunker down.”
“Well,” Angelica said as she fingered the beads around her neck, “I think this mountain could use a good washing.”
Gus gave her a puzzled look and then looked at his watch. “Well, anyway, I got a delivery here for Blake. He’d asked us to bring it tomorrow but we’re rushing to get these all delivered on account of the weather. Where you want it?”
Angelica grabbed a light rain jacket.
“You girls stay put for a moment,” she said.
“Hmmm...Gus, can we put the boxes in the garden shed over there?”
“You betcha, ma’am.”
Gus backed the van up to the shed. Angelica walked inside to clear a spot.
“How many boxes do you have?”
“Let’s see. Three full boxes of organic bone meal, ma’am.”
Angelica surveyed the shed. Everything had a place and everything was in its place. She walked to a shelf that was just over the height of her head, about six feet high. There was a clearing on the shelf next to a couple of watering cans. She reached up to grab the cans. As she did she felt something soft brush the back of her hand. She pulled her hand down, mildly startled. A strong gust of wind slammed the shed with a loud bang and closed the door on the van with Gus in it. Angelica looked for something to stand on and found a milk crate. She turned it over so she could stand on it and raised her eyes to the shelf. Peering over the edge she saw a wadded-up piece of stained, blue fabric. She took it down and stepped off the crate. The door of the van opened.
“Almost got myself locked in here,” Gus said with a smile.
Angelica smiled back. “If you don’t mind, just put them up on this shelf next to these tomato cages.” Gus took three plain brown boxes and stacked them on the shelf. He looked at how well organized the shed was and reached back up to align the boxes.
“There you go ma’am. Just sign here if you please and I’ll be on my way.” Angelica signed the form. “Nice to see you again, Gus. Come back anytime.” Most customers in Rabun County were nice, Gus thought, but he was struck by how genuine Angelica’s smile was. “It was my pleasure, ma’am. Y’all take care in this storm.”
Gus drove away as Angelica unfolded the cloth. It was a blue jacket. A man’s jacket, she realized, though she had never seen it. It was spotted with dark reddish-black stains. She examined them closely and scratched them with one of her long fingernails. “Blood,” she whispered as she looked at the label of the jacket. “Large,” she murmured. “Blake wears extra large.” But it wasn’t the size that puzzled her. It was the initials J.S. that were marked on the label in permanent, black ink.
***
Blake pulled into the courthouse parking lot just before 11:00 a.m. After the call with Clint he had driven up and down the strip in Clayton, hitting the Dairy Queen and going back to the traffic light, turning right down Main Street and circling back once he hit the bottom of the hill. Just as he had done countless weekend and summer nights in high school. Only now he wasn’t cruising for girls, wasn’t hootin’ and hollerin’ after a game. He was stalling. Thinking.
Leaning against the wind, he pulled the door to the sheriff’s office open and walked in, the glass door slamming shut behind him. A steady rain had just begun and its sting surprised him since the hurricane wasn’t expected to make landfall in Savannah for another seven hours, and the eye, or whatever was left of the system, wouldn’t be near Clayton until the following morning. Blake looked out the door at clouds that seemed to be drooping and cascading down, smothering the valley. He turned and approached the woman at the front desk. “Is the sheriff in?” he asked Lucy.
“He is. Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh...no. Can you tell him that Blake Savage is here. If he don’t have time that’s−”
“Let me check, Mr. Savage. Just wait a moment.”
Blake looked at the floor. At the ceiling. At the wall...anything to not make eye contact with anyone wearing a uniform. His eyes landed on the poster on the wall of Rabun County’s Twelve Most Wanted, four photos across, three rows down. Four of the most wanted were black male. Curious, Blake thought, given Rabun County’s overwhelming majority of whites. Three of the twelve were women. One in particular caught his attention. Her head tilted down in the mugshot, all badass, as if her eyes were saying, “You can’t catch me coppers, not in a thousand years.” Only, they did and here she was for all to see. Multiple fraudulent use of credit cards, theft of property, weight 137 pounds, tattoo on left ankle, brown hair, brown eyes.
Blake imagined himself fleeing. His mugshot would be in square number one, accused of raising pigs and, oh yeah, channeling anthrax through them to unsuspecting diners. Like that was my fault. He felt bad about the illnesses as he was sure everyone did. But, was it his fault? He didn’t think so. It was an accident. That’s all, just an accident. But someone always had to be held accountable, there had to be someone to point to and say “he did it.” He was sure that Clint...probably even the sheriff wanted that person to be…
“Blake?” Lonnie said.
Blake turned his head to see the sheriff coming through the door with some papers in his hand.
“Hi, Sheriff.”
“What can I do for you?” Lonnie asked.
“My wife asked me to see you when I came to town. She said you left a note for her. She’s−not feeling too well.”
Lonnie nodded and handed Blake the Coast Guard message he was holding. “Sorry to hear that. This came in yesterday. I wanted to deliver it personally.”
Blake took the note and read it. “Jeez,” he said. “I’ll take this to her right away. Thanks, Sheriff.” Blake stepped back and began to turn.
“Blake, can you take a look at this before you leave?” The sheriff handed Blake a picture of Jesse standing behind a huge boar, lying dead on the ground.
“What’s this?” Blake asked, knowing full well what it was.
“You don’t recognize him?”
“Can’t say that I do, Sheriff.” Blake looked at the scene, at the corner of the sheds and the front end of the F100 in the background. He felt his face turning flush.
“This here’s Jesse Simmons, the fellow in that blue jacket behind the pig,” Lonnie said. “You see that truck behind him? You know anyone down your way with a truck anything like that? That might help us find this boy for his folks.”
Blake’s throat dried. He concentrated not on the photo, only on trying to produce some saliva. He couldn’t. He scratched his head, appearing to think for the sheriff. Blake was thinking all right, calculating. “I don’t, Sheriff, but if I see a truck like that I’ll be sure to call you.”
He looked into the sheriff’s eyes until he saw they were fixed on him. Blake dropped his eyes and then tried to prop them back up.
“Thanks Blake, you do that. I’d appreciate it. I know his family would too.”
“Well, gotta be going, Sheriff. Thanks for getting this to us.” Blake waved the Coast Guard memo as he began to leave.
“Sure thing. And be careful, Blake...there’s a storm coming your way.”
Blake kept walking through the door as if he was trying to flee not only the sheriff, but the sheriff’s words as well. There’s a storm coming your way, Blake repeated to himself as he climbed into his truck. He headed north toward Dillard, intent on circling around for a few hours, afraid to go home just yet. He still needed time to sort everything out.
Lonnie walked back into his office. As he entered he said, “Lucy, run me a report of all vehicles registered to one Blake Savage.”
Chapter 32
Blake sat down at the bar in Red Dawgs just after 1:00 p.m. and ordered a sweet tea. “Sure that’s strong enough for you?” the bartender said with a smile. “Want I should make it a double?” Blake tilted his head back and forced a grin. “Yeah, just tea, that’s all.”
He stared at the television in Clayton’s only sports bar along with the other two customers in the bar. Everyone else had the good sense to be home. CNN had a camera set up somewhere in Savannah that showed a blur, mostly. Horizontal, driving rain and wind were already steady at over ninety-five miles per hour. The eye of Isabel wasn’t expected to make landfall until 5:00 p.m. The talking heads fought for airtime, each thinking they had a unique perspective on the pending devastation. What they really wanted was airtime during the coastal cataclysm to pad their resumes.
Blake’s phone vibrated. He looked and saw a 404 area code. Shit! He said to himself. He exhaled deeply and then answered the phone.
“Blake, Clint Justice again. I have spoken with Nick Vegas and I need to come visit with you.” Clint hadn’t spoken with Nick again, but he would. Something hadn’t smelled right to Clint with Blake’s story and he felt it was important to meet him right away.
“Okay,” Blake said after a pause. “What for? When?”
“Now,” Clint said. “I’m already on my way. Just passing Gainesville.”
“NOW!” Blake said as he kicked the barstool out and stood. “Are you crazy? You seen the weather?”
“I’m on my way, Mr. Savage. Should be at your house in a little over an hour.” Clint hung up. He had pulled over at a gas station at the Mall of Georgia exit on interstate 985. He hadn’t passed Gainesville yet, as he told Blake. He should have by now, but the winds were already steady at over 60 MPH in Buford and getting worse.
“This is crazy,” Clint thought. He put the car in gear and continued north. It was crazy but he thought it would be easier to pressure Blake into the truth than Nick, and Clint always birddogged the truth.
Blake threw down a few bucks to pay for his tea and headed to the door. “Heading out, Blake?” the bartender said. “He’s calling an audible,” one of the customers yelled as he lifted his beer into a salute. “Good call, Blake!” Blake ignored both men and pushed through the door, missing the text that began scrolling along the bottom of the CNN screen.
“Anthrax claims sixth victim in Miami. Jackson Memorial Hospital has yet to release the woman’s name.”
Thick, tropical storm conditions had already settled in on Rabun County and the rain came down in sheets. The air was heavy and humid even with the wind blowing steadily out of the south at close to 60 MPH. Blake drove east down Warwoman Road, normally a lush, peaceful drive. Now, wipers couldn’t clear the water from the windshield as angry trees swayed violently on each side of the narrow, two-lane blacktop. Blake widened his eyes to concentrate as he gripped the wheel firmly. He slowed to ten miles per hour as he snaked around a series of hairpin turns that he often navigated while pretending to be an Indy driver. The temptation was nearly irresistible to look at the trees above, to be prepared to dodge if they plummeted in his direction. He fought the temptation and resisted looking down the ravines to his right or up the steep banks to his left. He knew that many of those timber skyscrapers would lose their grip on the mountain if the wind and rain kept up like this.
Blake turned left on Hale Ridge and began his ascent. The close call from earlier in the day leapt out and took center stage in his consciousness. He drove slowly right in the center of the road, praying that he would meet no fool crazy enough to descend the mountain in these conditions. Autumn leaves fell as fast as the raindrops and clung to his windshield under his wiper blades. He resisted the temptation, barely, to look up at the trees that threatened to crash on his truck and smash him into the wet surface.
Finally, he came to his driveway and turned in, suddenly hitting the brakes and pausing to think. He put the truck into park and jumped out. Rainy bullets pelted his face as he leaned his shoulder into the 4x4 mailbox post until it wriggled free in the wet ground. When it did, he wrapped his arms around it, pulled the mailbox out of the ground and threw it in the back of the truck, taking with him the only indicator marking the entrance to 13 Hale Ridge.
Looking like a golden retriever climbing out of a dirty pond, Blake bolted into the kitchen at 2:00 p.m. and shook off the rain as Angelica and the girls played in the living room. “An indoor play day,” she had told them.
“Hi, honey,” she said with a tepid smile.
Blake exhaled, as if he had just successfully fled from a predator and needed to catch his breath in the safety of his den. “Hi. What are you gals up to?”
“We’re playing Connect 4,” she said. “And watching the weather.” Angelica rose and looked at Blake. “I have something for you,” she said. She walked into the kitchen out of earshot of the girls and reached on the shelf above the coat rack. She pulled down a blood-stained blue jacket and handed it to Blake.
“What−what’s this?” Blake asked, shocked to see it, but knowing full well what it was. “Where did it come from?”
Angelica looked up at him in the center of the kitchen. Just as he towered over her physically, she towered over him morally and spiritually. “Well, I can assure you that I don’t know, Blake. But I suspect you do.”
“I don’t kn−”Angelica interrupted Blake by placing her right index finger over his lips. She held his gaze sternly as she twirled her beads with her left thumb and index finger.
“He who makes it wrong must make it right, Blake. Otherwise, he will be found guilty and justice will be swift.” An image of Angelica’s grandmother flashed before her as she recalled what she had been taught about Cherokee beliefs. She repeated what she had learned to Blake. “Good is rewarded, Blake. Evil is punished.”
Blake stared at his wife as she circled him, keeping her touch on his shoulders and catching his gaze each time she fronted him. He felt lightheaded and lost his focus, forgetting for a moment where he was and feeling somewhat hypnotized. Angelica stopped before him and offered a final warning. “This jacket has a home, Blake. Someone is looking for it. Find its rightful home.” Blake stood dumbfounded with his eyes and mouth wide open. He had no idea what to say as he stood drowning in a sea of fear and confusion. He shook his head and tried feverishly to change the subject.
“I uh...I went by to see the sheriff. He had this note for you.”
Angelica took the note from Blake. She read it carefully. “Miami? Intensive care?” Angelica said. She looked up at Blake and then turned to look at the girls. “What does this mean?” she asked. Angelica knew what the message meant, but it was her habit to ask Blake what something meant, just as it was her habit to defer to him on decisions. She didn’t take responsibility for Blake’s decisions. Nor did she feel she could control them. But she could react to them and make choices consistent with her own values.
“What should we do?” she asked.
“I reckon you should call the hospital,” Blake said.
“I’ll try Rose’s cell phone first,” Angelica said. “Oh dear.” Angelica walked to the kitchen phone and lifted the receiver. Blake took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack next to the door. She clicked the button on the wall phone several times. “Blake, there’s no dial tone.”
Blake took the phone, clicked it several times and found the same thing. “Phones are out,” he said. He looked at his cell phone. No service. That wasn’t a surprise as it was rare to get more than one or two bars in the best conditions on Hale Ridge. In this weather, no chance.
“We’ll keep trying,” he said. “It’s too dangerous to go out now and it’s gonna get a whole heap worse.”
Angelica walked to the south-facing kitchen window and stared out. A solid sheet of water cascaded slowly over the glass, giving the impression of a flowing mirage. In her mind, the sounds of the house, of the girls, and of the storm faded, and she heard nothing, only silence. She peered deeply into the mirage and saw her twin sister lying motionless as strangers loomed over her limp body. Angelica concentrated as she tried to see if Rose was lying in a bed—or in a coffin. She stared out the window as if in a trance, thumbing the beads around her neck while murmuring softly.
When a flash of lightning raced brilliantly across the sky and shattered the mirage, Angelica didn’t blink.
***
Clint saw the Dairy Queen on the left when he arrived in Clayton. He followed the directions on his navigation system, turned right, and went down Warwoman Road. Sheets of rain slammed the right side of his car as he drove east on the narrow road. Steep banks sloped down from each side. He had noticed very few cars as he came into town, although the RaceTrac station remained open.
The GPS indicated that he had eleven miles before he reached Hale Ridge. The GPS also said it would take another half hour, but after a mile and a half, Clint saw a line of cars stopped dead ahead of him. A huge oak tree, at least eighty feet tall, had fallen right across the road. The root ball was enormous and lay partially on the eastbound lane. Clint backed up, turned around, and drove to the fire station. He couldn’t imagine there’d be too many fires to put out with it raining like this. He opened his car door and was soaked before he got out. The water was already standing at least an inch on the blacktop. He walked through the glass door and found a couple of fireman sitting at a table in the break room. They were both alert, ready for action. One of them, an older fireman, seemed genuinely happy to see him.
“Howdy,” he said. “Help ya?”
“Yeah,” Clint began, “I’m trying to get down to Hale Ridge road.” The older fireman began shaking his head immediately. “My GPS says I have to go down Warwoman but I didn’t get two miles and there’s a huge tree across the road.”
“There’s a whole mess of them down,” the fireman said. “We got a few calls before phones went down of trees across the road on Warwoman ’tween here and Hale Ridge.”
The younger fireman jumped in. “Shoot I can’t imagine what Hale Ridge is gonna look like. Might not even be there tomorrow,” he said.
“Look I really need to get over there. Is there another way?”
The older fireman looked at Clint. “Son, there ain’t no way you’re getting there. In twenty-four hours or so, maybe you can take a boat.”
The younger fireman spoke up: “You can get to the other side of Hale Ridge from up at Sky Valley or Scaly Mountain.”
“Really?” Clint asked. “Where’s that?”
“Of course it’s likely to be a lot worse that way.”
The older fireman looked down at his younger counterpart. “A heck of a lot worse,” he said to him before turning his stare back to Clint. “Son, you ain’t getting there. Do you have any idea what kind of road Hale Ridge is?”
“No...not really,” Clint admitted.
“Well I understand it might look just like any other road there on your map. But it ain’t. That’s a narrow dirt road winding up, through, and around ravines on the backside of Rabun Bald. With this wind and rain, ’specially if it comes like they say it’s a coming—that’s the last place on earth you wanna be.”
