Contemplations
Pedro, the Mexican Yaqui boy with chestnut eyes, burnt sienna skin, and dark brown hair, had seen his family and friends murdered as he watched, paralyzed by fear and helpless—all in a life of fewer than seven years: his mother, father, brothers, sisters, and dog Rosita, and then his newly adopted mother, Heather, murdered at the hands of Najma.
Only days ago, his life had begun to feel normal with Heather. He had started to accept her as a friend and teacher. After the murder of his family in Mexico, he was living a new life on the ranch that she shared with her partner Jim. Pedro had begun school, where he had made few friends and many enemies. The enemies were easy for him to make with his Latino ethnicity in an Eastern Washington ranching community. Even his name, Pedro, brought narrow-minded comments. Intolerance was a way of life. In direct contrast to the ingrained prejudices of the ranchers were the westside “Coasties,” the ‘elitist’ urbanites who were slowly invading the ranchers’ home turf with their hiking clothes and oversized log houses. At the ranch, the young boy was taught values corresponding to the educated, tech-garnered wealth, erudite big city coast culture, which further failed to ingratiate him with his school contemporaries.
How much could his strength of character stand? wondered Jim. Besides being out of place at school, he had watched Najma brutally murder his family and the woman he had begun to accept as his mom. Motionless, Pedro sat next to Jim, his blue-eyed, tall, thin adopted father, feeling both fragile and strangely content, fused between events in time. Inside, he was overjoyed to have Jim close and Najma gone, and equally afraid that his new dad, friend, and protector would be taken from him like all the others. Soon they would be home, at the ranch, and he would be in bed with his memories.
Lola, his Yaqui self-appointed guardian who had valiantly tried to save him both from the cartel and Najma, was now an American citizen thanks to the influence of Colonel Jim Johnson and his boss General Crystal. Was it safe to think of Lola as his “mother,” and call the colonel his father? Lo¾Heather’s nickname for Lola¾would make him breakfast and dinner and life would be normal. Old Man Shuskin, the past transient, the phantom of the woods, brought to the ranch by Heather, would be his grandfatherly companion, feeding and working with the animals together, just as Ben, the teen-aged ranch hand, would be his new older brother. Roy, the ranch caretaker, would teach him to ride and rope and myriad fun cowboy things and be his uncle. All of them, his newly pasted together family, would support him. There would be, however, a gaping hole—Heather—who had created the ranch’s warmth and vitality.
It was Jim’s ranch, his name on the title, his before he had met Heather. Nevertheless, the spirit of the Wolf Canyon Ranch had become that of Heather, the llama lady, as she was both fondly known in the valley by a few and sarcastically called by the horse packers, many ranchers, and the bulk of his school classmates. She had filled the gap left by the loss of his birth mother like a warm weather front rushing into a cold void. Now she was gone, too.
Jim felt his son’s pain as he watched Pedro sit on the co-pilot’s lap, inattentively holding the cyclic as the chopper continued to push westward through the crisp, blue winter air. He wondered, as he often did; how the young boy would dislodge those memories. How much could a fledgling human endure? How will he ever cope with all the death he has seen? He forced his mind away from the questions he might never resolve. His thoughts wandered to Heather, and for a second, he allowed himself to ask himself how he would cope.
Then add another death, Najma, the devil lady dying only feet away from the boy. One, however, Jim hoped might ameliorate Pedro’s pain. Could a six-year-old really find pleasure in a killing, even his mortal enemy? Would it put an end to the suffering he had endured? The fear he had lived with.
Is he like me or who I have become? Is he capable of embracing the pain and continuing? Is that the synergy I felt for him the moment we looked into each other’s eyes during the skirmish, the battle with Najma at the hacienda in Tubutama, Mexico? I’ve always been different from others in my ability to handle death and grief. Jim had long known he differed from most of humanity. Both in his thoughts and interests. Could Pedro be the same? Can I do for him what my grandmother did for me?
Intellectually, he had had an interest in philosophy and art ever since his grandmother had given him a copy of Will Durant’s ‘The Story of Philosophy’ and another on Picasso’s art. Both, when he was on the verge of being a teenager, twice Pedro’s age. The lessons learned from reading those philosophers’ ideas changed his life and cemented his thoughts, removing any desire he might have had for organized religion and giving him a respect for knowledge.
The book’s gift was a mystery to him. She knew he was beginning to find religion distasteful, even though she wholly embraced it. Or is there something I don’t know about her? he wondered. Neither the adult Jim nor the boy Jim had ever understood why she had given it to him. What was she telling him, was it more than to keep an open mind? Was she telling him to embrace more than one theology? More than one way of seeing the world, as Picasso had attempted? Or was it simply that he should think as others had before him? Or was it not to think as they had? Another enigma he had never resolved. The two books were incongruous with her religious side. Despite his evolution away from religion and its ardent beliefs, he never lost his lasting love and respect for her. She had become his mother and his friend, as Heather had become Pedro’s.
Jim missed her, his faux mother, and often wished she were still living so that she could know he had turned out okay. Not in the religious sense, but rather in his differentiating between the good and evil in the world. Or would she abhor what I do? He had read the Durant book she had given him as a boy and later as an adult, several times. The book spanned the ancient philosophers to the modern and their ideas and quotes, which had become his moral compass. One chapter he had read more than the others and remembered a smattering of quotes from was Arthur Schopenhauer. As he sat watching Pedro, one entered his thoughts: “Mostly it is a loss that teaches us about the worth of things.”
Jim’s affection for Pedro had been immediate a year ago when they were under fire from the cartel at the Mexican hacienda. Not being sure, during the last few days, whether he had lost his adopted son to Najma’s vengeance cemented his understanding as to just how much Pedro meant to him. By both almost dying, only feet apart, they had something they shared. Something that many fathers and sons would never share. They had come together not by a shared biology, but through their shared experience, an inherent respect for each other, and a natural liking that had evolved into a special caring. Schopenhauer had been right…loss teaches us to value what we have. And Jim added his thought that life is not only about losing but also gaining.
New beginnings.
In the past, Pedro would dream, wish for, and demand being at the controls of a helicopter. This time, as they cruised toward the Cascades and Heather’s grave, he barely noticed. He sat next to his father, not caring about flying, not saying anything, and not seeing the countryside as it slid beneath them in a blur. Jim hadn’t tried to make him talk before moving him to the pilot’s seat. But he had kept his arm around Pedro and reveled in having him close, having him alive. Thoughts of Heather coursed in and out of his mind. She would at least be happy that Pedro was safe. She would be if she were here.
As they floated over the eastern Washington scablands, Jim decided it was time to distract Pedro, and perhaps himself, from their emotional realities, their thoughts of death and evil. He gently lifted him to the back seat between himself and the sleeping Major Brush McGuire. ‘You see all those dark rocks below? Rocks with soil washed away, leaving them exposed?’
Pedro listlessly looked up at Jim. Then he slowly, as if reluctant to his thoughts interrupted, looked out the window. ‘I see.’
‘In a minute, when you look out, the black basalt rocks will be gone and there will be huge sand ripples. They are way too large to tell that they are giant dunes when standing on the ground. From down there, they look like undulating hills. The scale is big. You need to be high up looking down to recognize what they are. They were caused by a flood, long ago, racing from the northeast tip of Washington to the Pacific Ocean.’
‘Where flood come from?’ as he reverted to his comfortable—but incorrect way of speaking—the pidgin English Heather had worked hard to eliminate.
‘An ice dam broke near the Idaho border that had been holding back a large lake.’
Pedro didn’t understand and didn’t respond. Jim decided to postpone saying more. He squeezed Pedro and gently turned his head so they could read each other’s eyes and perhaps see a little into each other’s minds. ‘Both of us can teach each other lots of things. For one, I have always tried to learn Spanish. I’m still pretty lousy.’ He almost said, piss poor, but he tried to keep his military jargon locked up around family and civilians. ‘Do you think you would help me learn to speak better?’
‘Sí. Sure, I teach you.’
‘I’d like that, son. It might take you a very long time.’
‘Posiblemente, you not so good,’ said Pedro with a slight grin. The happy face, even if only momentary, was enough to let Jim know that through all the death and loss he would come through the turmoil intact.
‘We’re safe now. We have each other. Together we will make a good life. Earth can be a good place.’
As much as Pedro respected his new father, his mind questioned the Earth as being a good place. The rocks, plants, and animals are, he thought. Many people are not good, and some are worse—evil. The devil lady killed my family and Rosita. Tears welled in his eyes as he thought and looked at this man who had taken him in, rescued him, and become his friend and father.
They held each other’s gaze for several seconds. Pale blue eyes to Pedro’s deep brown, trying to understand each other’s thoughts. It was as if Pedro was verifying that he was safe, that Jim could be his father, that life would be okay and not a horror show, and that no one else would disappear from his life. Was it possible that the future could be good and full?
They would soon be home. A home without Heather. One that would never be the same for either of them without her. Still—it was their home. Their thoughts merged into the steady rhythm of the helicopter’s beating blades.
Jim wondered how Pedro would be affected by being at the ranch, where Heather is now buried under the small plateau above their house. For me, it’s always best to embrace the bad head-on. But is it the best way for Pedro? Jim nodded imperceptibly. ‘Time answers some questions,’ he said out loud into his mic.
Both Pedro and Brush looked at him.
‘Questions?’ asked Pedro.
‘Sí, muchas preguntas, pocas respuestas.’
Pedro looked down while moving his head from side to side and said, ‘Muy mal, papá. Ese mal acento. That bad accent.’
‘We’re even,’ said Jim, smiling. We’ll learn together.’
With the darkness of their thoughts interrupted, Jim lifted his adopted son off the seat to the floor so he could see the cockpit and the view out the windscreen toward the approaching mountains. ‘Do you want to be upfront again? You can fly us home.’
Chapter 1
‘All’s okay here at our Idaho preppers enclave,’ said Glenda into her mic, sitting in the command bus affectionately known simply as the “Bus.” Pedro seemed fine when he left with the Colonel, at least on the outside. They’re in the air. Forty minutes till they arrive home at the ranch. It makes sense that Jim wants to get him back to a normal environment as quickly as possible.’
‘It’ll be difficult,’ added Sheilla as she slowly turned in her chair three hundred and fifty miles away from Idaho and several stories below ground at the Biological Warfare Center, ‘Won’t it? Being back so close to where Heather was murdered.’
‘There’s no other choice; it’s their home. Pedro will have the animals and friends. Perhaps being close to where she was killed, he will embrace grieving instead of concealing it. I don’t think it will do him any good if he keeps it inside.’
‘But look at what he must already be keeping inside; Mexico, his whole family killed in front of him.’
Glenda shook her head. ‘Really hard to imagine what is in his head after all that. I’m glad Brush is flying back to the ranch with them. He’s going to help as much as he can, take the burden off Jim so he can pay more attention to Pedro.’
‘I just can’t imagine how hard it will be for him. Is there anything I can help you with finishing up the crime scene in Idaho?’
‘We’ve got it covered. And you will have a ton of reports to write. But thanks for offering. I’m just looking forward to seeing Brush under everyday circumstances and being with him again.’
Sheilla, ran her fingers through her long auburn hair as she listened. After Glenda mentioned Brush, Sheilla’s thoughts drifted to Martin. She began to understand Glenda Rose’s feelings for Brush when Glenda said, ‘I hope I can get there soon, too. I always miss him, my big guy.’
The General, who had not said a word but was listening on the phone, said, ‘As long as no emergencies pop up, I’ll make sure you have time with the Major. Can your staff manage the cleanup?’
‘They’re a good team, General, although we’re all eager to finish up and get out of Idaho, not just me.’
‘You can chalk up another successful mission and this one terminating Najma’s reign of atrocities. You were the right choice to handle it. You too, Sheilla. I’m proud of you both. If you are certain the staff can handle it from here—Glenda, get your ‘budinsky’ on a chopper in the morning. Take a few days’ downtime at the ranch with the Major.’ He almost said with your big guy, but he couldn’t bring himself to add personal comments.
Budinsky? I’ll tell him sometime that it’s not a “d”. ‘They can handle it, but I feel responsible and think I should stay.’
‘Don’t underrate your team. From what you say, Kitty and Brees can handle the final cleanup fine. And it isn’t only about that,’ he added, ‘More people at the ranch will help take everyone’s mind off what happened to Heather. And you deserve downtime. Take the time before something else requiring you pops up on our radar.’
‘If that’s an order, sir, thank you.’
‘It is, and, as I said before, I’m proud of you both. Well done.’
‘Thank you, General,’ the two women said nearly simultaneously.
‘Keep me informed, and ah Merry Christmas to you both.’ With that, Will Crystal hung up. Sighing, he began to look through the stack of CIA reports on his desk. There was never an end to trouble in the world. Holidays were no different from any other day. All our meddling, reacting, and promulgating events; is there a positive benefit in the end? He wondered.
‘Have to get back to work here, Sheilla,’ said Glenda, ‘but what’s this I hear about you and Martin?’
‘There’s nothing.’
‘Sheilla Mary McCarrick,’ said Glenda.
‘Okay, okay. There is nothing so far. That’s the truth. Yeah, I think there could be.’ Then she relented. ‘He makes me feel all gooey inside. I’ve never felt that before. I was starting to feel like I was frigid when it came to men.’
‘Embrace it, girl. Don’t let it get away if inside you know it’s real. Brush makes me feel that way still. I don’t see it changing.’
‘Thanks, Glenda. I appreciate talking to you. Maybe we can talk more later; I have a mountain of paperwork to do.’
‘Same here, but tomorrow I get to play cowgirl and pass the drudge work off to Kitty and Brees. Sayonara gal.’
Sheilla smiled and did one quick spin in her well-lubricated swivel chair. Then she stood up and headed back to the team in the operations room. It would take them the rest of the day writing reports. All except the two computer elites, Misa, who, along with Vidya, had negotiated exemptions from report writing when the General recruited them to the Biological Warfare Center. They kept computer records of their contributions however they wanted. Never having to indulge in the drudgery of after-mission reports. Those two had negotiated a “sweet” deal, thought Sheilla. And the General never regretted what he had offered to recruit them. Their tech and thinking value became more obvious with each BWC mission. The world was moving toward technology. The Biological Warfare Center fully embraced it. Sheilla doubted that the two computer whizzes’ importance would decrease as time chugged into the future. Why didn’t I negotiate something to get me out of report writing? Nonsense, simple answer: I was a lowlife and felt that way in the FBI when the General gave me an out to come here. Now it’s different. I’m a supervisor and respected. What more could I ask for? Hum, maybe one more thing. As she walked down the hallway, humming, and thinking of Martin, and how her role in life had changed from a dispirited FBI analyst to being a trusted, important member of the staff, and perhaps even loved. She opened the door to the operations room. Fred, her soft-spoken lead computer engineer, looked up.
‘You look happy.’
Sheilla chuckled and said, ‘Just glad to have a good ending. No one killed, at least none of our people, that is. Let’s get these reports done and put an end to Najma. What’s her last name? I never think of her other than by her first name, N A J M A the evil one: The Snake, La Serpiente, the Devil Lady.’
‘It’s Hussein, Najma Hussein,’ said Fred, ‘may she never rest in peace.’
Chapter 2
‘Hey, Sheilla, it’s Glenda. I thought I would check in with you one last time before leaving Idaho for the ranch and Brush. It’s been a pleasure as always. And as much as I like to work with you one-on-one, I admit I prefer it better up here in the fresh air with the sky and stars above me rather than down there with you cave dwellers.’
‘You must really feel that way, saying it again.’
‘Yep, I guess I do. I think about you and the others down below having all that dirt piled above, it leaves me feeling a little claustrophobic.’
‘From my experiences up there with you know who, I feel safe and secure down here, buried several stories underground with a military fort above me.’
Glenda thought about Sheilla, Vidya, and Misa, in their below-ground high-security vault. The desk jockeys far removed from their bloody experience at the hands of Najma and the cartel in Mexico. Perhaps I can see why they like it down there. Sheilla is happy with her job, spinning in her swivel chair, long auburn hair lifting, focused on a problem much like the Sufi, in their whirling meditation ritual, imagining the show she had once seen somewhere or other. I wonder if Sheilla’s ever seen the swirling dervishes? Maybe we can see them together sometime.
Najma had been the devil reincarnated. She had become, however, something that all of them had in common. Sheilla, Heather, and the others being held captive, and now her new romantic interest, Martin, who had endured the same fate at the woman’s hands at the cartel headquarters in Tubutama. Then there is Jim, Lola, and Pedros’ experience at the same place. A shared inglorious bond.
‘Okay. I have to get on with finishing up here. I’ll be ready in a couple of hours to happily follow the General’s orders and leave here to join Brush at the ranch. I just wanted to check in with you before I left. Call Kitty or Brees if you need anything.’
‘Will do.’
‘I was just thinking that the prepper cult would be very envious of you, Sheilla. Their bomb shelter seems inconsequential by comparison.’
‘I feel pretty lucky to be here and have the General as a boss. It was considerate of him to want you to be with Brush. He’s turning into a regular softy,’ said Sheilla.
‘He’s got a heart, but I wouldn’t go quite that far. He expects a lot, we give a lot, and he knows when we need a reward.’
‘Yeah. He’s a good boss, isn’t he? I guess we both owe him for pulling us out of our FBI quagmire.’
‘Second, that thought,’ said Glenda. ‘Talk later. I gotta tidy up with my crew, then get my ‘buttinsky’ on a chopper, as the man so eloquently put it. I suspect he was using that in a military way about moving my rear end said with a ‘D’ instead of with ‘Ts’. Sometime, we’ll have to let him know that buttinsky means a person who butts in, not a bud in,’ said Glenda.
‘I’ll leave the insky talk with the General up to you. A little personalized slang doesn’t bother me.’
‘See you soon sometime in the New Year, I hope,’ said Glenda as she clicked the off switch while turning to look at her team.
Sheilla spun around and around in her chair. Her long hair imperceptibly lifted with the centripetal force. The last few days had been a whirlwind chase of Najma across Washington State to Idaho and eventually to the preppers of Idaho. Take a deep breath and get the report writing over with, she thought.
Brees, Glenda’s third in command, took her headset off and turned to her boss, ‘Everyone but forensics, SWAT, and the investigative team is gone, and us five of course. The investigators will be retracing her route to make sure there are no other unfortunate people she killed along her travel route. They will be busy for days, but that has no effect on us. SWAT will stay if you think we need them.’
‘Yes, I want them to,’ said Glenda. ‘This area and maybe some in this compound are as hostile to the FBI as it gets. It’s just a precaution. And for that matter, some are probably not so fond of your black skin either, Brees.’
‘Hum, I did notice the prepper clan looking at your voluptuous curvy self, strawberry hair a little different than they looked at me, like I was a smudge on their environment.’
‘Well, not all of them are the brightest that humanity has to offer. It’s a different world here than in D.C., or for that matter, in the western part of the other Washington.’
‘Yeah. Two hundred years and only slight changes in some areas of the county. At least I’m not plucking cotton. Okay, SWAT stays and the forensic team leaves. The investigative guys and dolls should be here soon to start their backwards journey retracing her path. Hopefully, they will finish up here muy rapido, so we can leave, and they can hit the Najma trail.’
A light blinked, and Brees put on her headset. ‘Roger that,’ as she set her headphones on the counter. Brees closed her eyes and sat back in her chair, feeling exhausted.
‘Take a break, Brees,’ said Glenda, ‘get a couple of hours, sleep in if you want before I leave.’ ‘We’ll be fine here. Kitty will be done interviewing the compound’s members soon.’
Brees stood up, raised her hands above her head, stretched, yawned, and started to walk away. She turned, ‘Thanks, but don’t let me sleep any longer than two hours, Chen, Sept, you got that too? Oh, by the way, that was the recovery crew saying their ETA was thirteen hundred. The forensics team radioed in when they arrived at the airport from the Seattle field office and should be here in a few minutes.’
‘We’ll take care of them. Off you go, gal. One of us will wake you in a couple of hours.’
‘You promise?’
‘No, I don’t promise, but remember, you’re the only one who didn’t get any sleep last night. If nothing is happening, we can’t handle, maybe, perhaps a few minutes longer even, okay?’
Brees rubbed her eyes. ‘I guess I need it, thanks. Don’t forget the trackhoe,’ said Brees, desperately wanting sleep and still reluctant to leave.
‘Got you covered, now get going. Pleasant dreams.’ Lucky to have Brees and the others. I’m going to hate losing them back to the FBI, pondered the ex-FBI agent, Glenda. I’m glad I’m not going back.
‘We’ve got her covered,’ said Chen. Let her sleep for as long as she needs. I don’t have any tech problems to deal with at the moment, so no problem watching over her stuff while she gets some Z’s.’
‘We’ll let her sleep a few minutes longer. She’d not like it if we let her sack out too long.’
Her mind switched back to the job of finishing up and getting out of here and to Brush, ‘Chen, trackhoe, now.’
‘Sure, boss.
Glenda rolled her eyes. ‘When are you going to stop calling me “boss.” You know I prefer you call me by my name.’
‘I think it suits you. And you are the boss and if I might add a good one compared to what we are used to.’
‘Trackhoe is rolling into the compound,’ said Sept.
‘The recovery team and the investigative team should be here in a few minutes. Get someone to direct the trackhoe driver to the meadow and have the recovery team meet them there. They might find something interesting in Najma’s ride after they dig it up,’ said Glenda.
‘Happy to do it myself,’ said Sept. ‘I need to get outside. I could use a little of this mountain air.’
‘No such luck, buddy. I need to discuss some things with you, Sept. So, Chen, you direct the digger crew.
Glenda looked over at Chen, their lead technician, who nodded and twisted her lips in one of her many enduring facial expressions. ‘Show them where to go and come right back. Wait. Change that. Better that you stay, and Sept and I will walk down with them, and we can talk on the way there and get him some that cool air. We’ll be close if you need us.’
‘How long do you think it will take then for forensics to wrap things up?’ asked Chen.
‘Hard to say, me thinks maybe later tomorrow. With forensics out of here later today. The car the preppers buried will get excavated pretty fast, so forensics can do their thing. The unknown is how long it will take for the investigators to get the full story down on how Najma ended up here before they hit the road and start backtracking her movements. Grab your coat, Sept, let’s go.’
‘What are they going to do with her body?’ asked Chen as Glenda, followed by the tall thin Sept with his always perfectly combed hair, headed for the door.
‘Coeur d’Alene probably has an indigent burial program.’
***
Jim stretched his long legs as far as he could in the rear seat of the Huey. Pedro had climbed into the front and squeezed in next to the co-pilot. He looked at his watch. A watch he never tired of, at a cost of less than forty dollars. Lightweight, nylon band, plastic case, large numbers, not digital, and lit by pushing the stem. When the battery died, he purchased a new one: the same model or as close as he could find. As he looked at the Timex, he calculated they would arrive before sunset in about twenty minutes.
Brush pulled his muscular body up from where he had sagged in his seat and rubbed his fingers over his short hair. He squinted out the window as they sailed over the wide, slow-moving Columbia River. ‘Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, eh,’ as he studied Jim before looking toward the cockpit. He looked at Pedro before turning and giving Jim a thumbs up. Jim nodded.
Brush’s thoughts, as they often did, turned to Glenda. She is one capable lady, he thought. And one sexy lady, too. Those double D’s, she’s as desirable and perfect for me as it gets. An image formed in his mind of her smile, her strawberry hair, and the three tummy scars from Najma’s bullets at the Space Needle. Some would consider them ugly, but he liked them and considered them survivor badges. Then he jumped reluctantly back to the present. ‘What’s the plan?’ he asked.
‘Stop at the house. Say hi to Lola and let her see Pedro is safe. The pilots can get some refreshments. After, maybe we’ll fly to Methow State and bring the Enstrom back up. Weather looks stable. It might be a good distraction for Pedro.’
‘No skis on the skids of your little chopper?’
‘The blade wash from this bird should blow most of the fluffy stuff away. We’ll check to make sure.’
Brush guessed what Jim was thinking. Bringing the helicopter up avoided driving by the Secret Meadow and Heather’s murder site. ‘Staying slightly removed from where she was killed by flying over might soften the impact on Pedro. maybe for all of us.’
‘Thinking so,’ said Jim.
‘Maybe leave him at the house while we go down, or you both stay, and I’ll drive down and fly the Enstrom up?’
‘We’ll let him decide. We’ll both have to face up to passing the spot where she was killed sooner or later. I don’t think Pedro knew about the glade before. Only Heather and myself. Our secret…’ Jim’s thoughts moved for a few seconds through mental images of the time they had spent there, made love there, and when they had named it ‘Secret Meadow’.
His eyes and thoughts shifted outside as the ground rose below them. The helicopter traced a path over the Loup Loup Pass, which was only a mile behind the ranch. The pilot flew straight over the curving road. They descended into the valley as the road dropped away. Where the conifers stopped, and the sage and rabbit brush took hold. The pilot, with Pedro holding on to the co-pilot’s cyclic, nudged the chopper northwest toward Coyote Ridge. Below was the approach that Najma had taken on foot in the early fall, in her failed attempt to kill Jim after the cartel attack on their house. The physical wounds she had inflicted on him in Mexico had healed, except for a few errant nerve endings that fired pain signals at random times.
Jim said into his mic attached to his light green David Clark headphones, ‘Approach the house from the east. Drop straight over the ridge, not up the canyon.’ He would avoid flying over Secret Meadow this one time, with its memories of his and Heather’s special times there and now her death site. Avoid it, at least for the first thing Pedro would see arriving back at the ranch. After Lola and seeing the house, if Pedro chooses to go to the airport, they will fly over the area. Hopefully, Pedro would see the special, loving parts of his home before being reminded of the murder site. At the very least, today, Jim reflected, was a day of retribution, not one of them getting killed. Jim and Brush had survived the day, as had Pedro. Najma, their long-term ‘nemesis’, had not.
Jim toggled the talk switch, ‘When we touch down, I’m going to take Pedro into the house. Give us about ten minutes and then come in. Lola will fix you coffee or a snack before we fly back to the airport. We’ll get you fueled up. You do a twilight to Ft. Lewis.’
‘You got it, Colonel.’
Pedro had his hand on the cyclic, following along with the pilot’s movements. Even though the pilot was controlling the helicopter, he played the game, letting Pedro pretend like he was the one flying. Maybe deep down the boy knew he wasn’t really controlling the chopper and decided to let go, saying to the pilot, ‘You have the controls,’ just as he had been taught by several people, including Jim, Brush, and Will Crystal. After letting go, he turned to Jim. His eyes had lost their sadness, and his lips curled upwards shyly at the corners. It was not a toothy grin. Not a wildly happy smile. It was, however, one that deeply moved Jim. Pedro conveyed everything he needed to. It said many things all at the same time: I’m fragile, I’m strong, and it will take time, but our lives will go on and we will be okay.
He turned back to the front, took hold of the cyclic, and the pilot said, ‘You have the controls.’ Pedro responded, ‘I have the controls.’
The pilot and Pedro descended. Moments later, they flew a few feet above the pine trees lining the top of the ridge, slowed, turned down into the canyon toward the big barn and the old homesteader’s cabin, made a loop, and swung up toward the house.
‘Flat spot in front of the aspen trees. Break the crust with the skids and then hover a bit before you touch down. Blow some of the white stuff away. We want an LZ for later,’ said Brush into the mic.
‘Gotcha.’
Jim looked toward the main barn and didn’t see anyone. Snow swirled in all directions as the pilot used the skids to break the icy crust before lifting a few feet above and hovering for several seconds before touching down on the exposed frigid ground. Brush climbed out and opened the front door. The blades turned slower and slower as if putting an end to the last few days. The co-pilot passed Pedro into Brush’s arms. Pedro kept his eyes closed and held Brush tight for a second before Brush set him on the frozen grass. Pedro held Brush’s hand on one side and his dad on the other as they shuffled through crusty snow into the trees and up the steps that led to the octagon deck below the side entrance to the house. The side door swung open as Lola stood perfectly still, then as fast as the short, stout Yaqui Indian could move, she rushed toward Pedro. She grabbed him in her short arms, saying, ‘Estás bien!’ She looked up at Jim with tears trickling down her face.
Seeing her tears, it was the first time Jim had thought about life changing for her. With this new ability to express emotions, surely hope would follow. She had not had an easy life. She had been hardened by misery and pain; thanks to the cartel, she had learned to expect little else from life. There were never thoughts of a future until Najma had brought Pedro into her life, and perhaps now she was allowing her tears as a statement that her future, their future, held hope. Her mothering instincts rose to the surface. She had lost her son, but perhaps she could save this boy. She had tried to save him at the cartel headquarters. Her inept but well-meaning attempt to escape from Najma and Guillermo’s hacienda luckily coincided with the appearance of Colonel Johnson and the Special Forces’ surprise attack.
Life for the young Mexican boy and the Mestiza woman with Yaqui blood had changed from cactus and desert to mountains and snow. Good had followed the bad. The ranch gave them a new life. One that proved, however, that life would still come with its tests.