“Nope, that about covers it,” said Romano as he sat back.
They reached a compound consisting of barns, stables and other buildings, and Canfield drove underneath a pediment wooden
arch that Canfield said was based upon the one at George Washington’s Mount Vernon; only that it cost more.
“This is the equestrian center. Horse stalls, big hay barn, manager’s office, trainers work center, wash stalls, riding rings
and the like. God’s Little Acre if ever there were one,” said Canfield, and he laughed as he climbed out of the Rover. The
FBI agents followed him.
Canfield called out to a man who was talking to a number of what looked to Web to be farmhands. “Hey, Nemo, come on over here
for a sec.”
The man walked over. He was about Web’s height, yet burly, with the powerful physique of someone who worked with his body
for a living. He had short, wiry black hair, slightly graying at the temples, and strong, handsome features. His clothes were
clearly ranch: loose-fitting jeans and a faded denim shirt. Pointed-toe boots were on his feet. They weren’t fancy, no alligator
or kangaroo skin and no silver toe clips. They were dusty and creased from hard use and worn away where Web figured stirrups
met the leather. Muddy canvas gloves stuck out from his back pocket. He took off his sweat-stained Stetson as he walked over
and wiped his brow with a rag.
“Nemo Strait here is my farm manager. Nemo, this is a bunch of folks from the FBI. They’ve come here to tell me I’m in danger
because they let the asshole that killed my son break out of jail and he might be gunning for me.”
Strait gave them all a terrifically unfriendly stare.
Web put out his hand. “I’m Agent Web London.”
Strait shook his hand, and Web felt the extra force the man gave to the grip. Nemo Strait was a very strong gent and obviously
wanted to let Web know it. Web caught the man checking out his damaged mug. For most it evoked sympathy, which Web loathed.
Nemo, though, came away just looking a little surlier, as though he had suffered far greater wounds on a good day. Web instantly
liked the man.
Canfield pointed at Web. “Now, this fellow here actually tried to save my boy, which is more than I can say for some others
involved in the process.”
“Well, in my opinion the government’s not good for much ’cept messing up folks’ lives,” said Nemo, looking at Web. His voice
was pure country, with little dips in between each syllable, mimicking the bobbing of his prodigious Adam’s apple. For some
reason, Web envisioned big Nemo performing country and western karaoke and being just a stitch at it.
Web looked over at Bates, who said, “What we’re trying to do here is help you, Billy. If somebody tries something with you,
we want to be here to stop it.”
Canfield surveyed his property and then stared at Bates. “I got ten men full-time on my farm and every one of them is pretty
good with a gun.”
Bates shook his head. “We waltzed right in here and you didn’t even know who we were. You came out the front door unarmed
and alone. If we were looking to kill you, you’d already be dead.”
Canfield smiled. “What if I told you I had some of my boys watching you from the time you stepped on the property? And that
they were pointing something at you that wasn’t their fingers?”
Web and Romano glanced around without seeming to do so. Web had a sixth sense about people aiming guns his way and he was
wondering why it hadn’t kicked in.
“Then I’d tell you your
boys
probably would end up shooting some innocent people,” said Bates.
“Well, hell, that’s what I got insurance for, I guess,” Canfield shot back.
“I checked the records, Billy. During the trial you received death threats from Ernest Free among others. The Bureau put you
under protection then.”
Canfield’s features grew very grim. “That’s right, every time I turned around there was some suit with a gun staring at me
and reminding me that my little boy was dead and buried. So, no offense, but I’ve had enough of you folks to last the rest
of my life. That’s about as clear as I can make it.”
Bates squared his shoulders and got closer to Canfield. “The Bureau is offering you protection again. And until Ernest Free
is caught and we’re sure that you’re not in danger, I’m kind of insisting on it,” added Bates.
Canfield folded his arms across his chest. “Well, then we got us a problem, because this is the United States of America and
a person has the right to choose who comes on his property and who doesn’t and I’m asking you to get the hell off my land
right now.” Strait moved closer to his boss and Web saw some of the other farmhands also draw nearer. He also noted that Romano’s
hand had eased to his pistol grip.
One big fellow made the truly enormous mistake of putting his hand on Romano’s shoulder. In an instant the man was facedown
on the ground, Romano’s knee against the base of his spine, one .45 in the guy’s ear, and another .45, which Romano had pulled
from the second holster he wore on the back of his waistband, pointed at Canfield’s other men.
“Okay,” said Romano, “any of you other buckaroos want to bring it on?”
Web quickly stepped forward before Romano killed them all. “Look, Billy, I shot two of the Frees, and if I had gotten the
chance I would have blown Ernest away too. But the bastard got lucky and took a round through his shoulder instead, and I
walked out with half a face and missing most of my blood. Now, I really believe that we all want the same thing here; we’re
just differing a bit on how to get there. What if Romano and I came to stay with you on the farm? No suits, just jeans and
boots. We’ll even help with the work. But in exchange you have to cooperate with us. You’ll have to listen to us when we tell
you there might be a problem, and if we tell you to get your butt down, you get down. It looks like the Frees have already
taken out several people and they did it in ways that were pretty damn ingenious. So while I’m sure your men are really good
at what they do, it might not be enough if these people really want to take you out. I can see that you’re not the sort of
guy who likes other people to tell you what to do, but I also don’t believe you want to give the Frees the satisfaction of
killing you. You and your wife have already been through that hell with your son. I don’t believe you want her to have to
grieve again over you.”
Canfield looked at Web a long moment. And for that entire time Web wasn’t sure if the man was going to jump him or maybe order
his men to open fire. Finally, Canfield looked down and kicked the dirt. “Let’s go on back to the house and talk about this.”
He motioned for Strait and his men to go back to work. Romano helped the man up and even dusted him off.
“Nothing personal, slick, I would’ve done that to anybody who touched me. Get the message?”
The man grabbed his hat and hustled off. From the look of fear in the man’s eyes, Web didn’t think he’d be “touching” Romano
ever again.
Canfield and the agents climbed in the Rover. As they were driving back, Canfield looked over at Web.
“Okay, I’m not disputing that what you say makes a lot of sense, but I’m not looking forward to revisiting that part of my
life. And I’m kind of hating it that these assholes are pulling me back into that shit hole.”
“I understand that, but—” Web was interrupted by the ringing of a cell phone. He checked his phone, but it wasn’t his. Bates
and Romano did the same thing. Canfield pulled a phone out of a storage panel in the Rover and looked at it. It wasn’t ringing.
He glanced at the floorboard and reached down and picked up the phone that was lying there.
“Somebody must have left their phone in here, although it’s not Gwen’s and I don’t know who the hell else drives this truck.
Probably somebody wanting to sell me something.” He was about to punch the talk button when Web grabbed the phone out of his
hand, hit the window button on his door and threw the phone out.
Canfield looked at him. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
They watched as the phone flew through the air and then hit the ground in the middle of an empty dirt field. Nothing happened.
Canfield pulled the Rover to a stop. “You get your ass out there and go get that damn phone—”
The explosion was powerful enough to rock the Land Rover and send a cloud of black smoke and flames a hundred feet in the
air.
All the men stared at this fiery spectacle for several seconds. Finally a shaken Canfield looked over at Web. “When do you
boys wanta start?”
W
eb drove down the street to his mother’s home. He still didn’t know what the hell to do with it. To sell it would require
him to fix it up and he would have to do that himself, since his bank account wouldn’t allow the convenience of hiring professionals
to do it. And yet he had no desire to tighten one hinge or replace one shingle on the place.
Web was here because it had occurred to him that if he was going to be staying out at the farm for a while he would need some
clothes. He didn’t want to go back to his own home right now. The reporters were probably still staking it out. However, he
kept some clothes at his mom’s house too. He also wanted to return the box containing much of Harry Sullivan’s life to the
attic. Being constantly on the move now, Web didn’t want to chance losing it. He also wasn’t sure what to do about his father.
Should he call the main prison? Was that the place to get reacquainted with his old man? Yet chances were, at his age, Harry
Sullivan was going to die in prison. This might be Web’s only shot. It was funny how almost being blown to bits by a bomb
in a phone made you reorder your priorities.
His musings about his father stopped when his phone rang. It was Claire, and she sounded nervous yet determined.
“I’ve been giving our sessions a lot of thought, Web. I think we need to change tactics somewhat. I’m curious about a few
things and I think they can be better addressed in a different sort of way.”
“Well, that’s incredibly vague, Claire. What exactly are you talking about?”
“From our discussions so far, Web, it seems to me that many of your issues stem from your relationship with your mother and
stepfather. During our last session you told me that you had grown up in your mother’s house and that you had recently inherited
it from her.”
“So?”
“And you also mentioned that you would never consider living there. Also that your stepfather died there.”
“Again, so what?”
“I think there might be something else there. You remember I said I listen for cues from my patients? Well, I’m getting a
big one from you here.”
“What does an old house have to do with my
issues
?”
“It’s not the house, Web, it’s what might have happened in the house.”
He persisted. “What might have happened in the house other than my stepfather kicking the bucket that has anything to do with
me?”
“Only you know that.”
“And I’m telling you that’s all I know. And I really don’t see how my freezing in an alley has anything to do with my growing
up in that house. That was a long time ago.”
“You’d be amazed, Web, at how long the mind can keep something under wraps until it erupts one day. Your encounter with the
little boy in the alley could have triggered something from your past.”
“Well, I’m telling you I don’t know what that is.”
“If I’m right, you do know, Web, only your conscious mind doesn’t realize it.”
He rolled his eyes. “What kind of psychobabble crap is that?”
In response Claire said, “Web, I’d like to hypnotize you.”
He was stunned. “No.”
“It really could help us get somewhere.”
“How can making me bark like a dog while I’m unconscious help?”
“Being in a hypnotic state is a form of
enhanced
consciousness, Web. You’ll be aware of everything going on around you. You will be in complete control. I can’t make you
do anything you don’t want to.”
“It won’t help.”
“You can’t know that. It can allow you to address some issues you ordinarily would be inhibited from doing.”
“There are some things in my head maybe I don’t want to figure out.”
“You never know, Web, until you try. Please think about it. Please.”
“Look, Claire, I’m sure you’ve got lots of crazy people to help. Why don’t you think about them for a while.” He clicked off.
Web pulled his car into the driveway, went inside, packed a duffel of clothes and then hesitated at the bottom of the attic
stairs, holding the Harry Sullivan box under one arm. This really shouldn’t be so hard, he told himself. An attic was an attic.
Though he had told Claire otherwise, there was something about this house that had rattled him somewhere deep in his soul.
Yet he reached up, gripped the cord and pulled down the stairs.
When he got to the attic, he put the box down and reached for the light cord but then drew his hand back. He looked to the
various corners, seeking out threats, an endeavor that was now more instinct than habit. He drew his gaze across the plywood
floor and then to all the blackened shapes of his family’s bleak history, in the form of clothes racks, piles of books, heaps
of junk left to rot. The stack of burgundy-colored rug remnants near the stairway held his attention. They were tightly rolled
and bound with tape. He picked one up. It was heavy and very hard, stiff as it was with both cold and age. The remnants matched
the rug on the floor below and Web wondered why his mother had kept them.
Off to the side there once had been a large pile of clothes. Now the space was empty. Web had sometimes come up here, pulled
the attic door closed after him and hidden under the clothes pile during his stepfather’s many rampages. His stepfather had
also kept his stash of drugs and special liquor up here too, because he feared his wife getting her hands on them. He would
stumble up here in the middle of the night, already wasted, and seek out additional means to do his mind further damage. It
was the early seventies, the country still digging itself out from Vietnam, and people like his stepfather, who had never
taken up arms for his country or for any other cause, used the general angst and indifference of the times as an excuse
to live life on a perpetual high. Part of the attic floor was also over the ceiling of Web’s bedroom. When he was young and
in bed, Web would hear his stepfather’s footsteps overhead as the man sought out his mood-altering substances. Young Web would
be terrified that Stockton might come crashing down through the ceiling, to land on top of him, and beat the hell out of him.
A cobra in your bed, kill or be killed. When Stockton did beat him Web would have gone to his mother, but most of the time
she was not there to console him. She often took long drives at night and came home in the morning, hours after Web had dressed
and fed himself and rushed off to school so he wouldn’t have to confront the old man across the breakfast table. The creak
of steps still bothered him to this day. He closed his eyes and breathed in the chilly air, and in his mind that old, vanished
pile of clothes rose high into the air. And then right on cue there was a slash of red and then sounds flooded him that made
Web open his eyes and rush back down the stairs and close the attic door. He had had this vision a thousand times and could
never figure it out. He had gotten to the point where he didn’t want to decipher it, but for now, for some reason, he felt
like he was closer to its true meaning than ever before.