Uncertain Justice

So ... it made no sense to attract notice by being a stranger too far off the beaten path. He would drive on state roads and the occasional federal highway, but not a county road or farm to market road.

On the other hand, he had to avoid interstate highways too ... too many law enforcement patrols were there and eventually, one would pick him out.

Good! It was a plan.

He smiled, happy to be reasoning logically again--it'd been so very long since he'd felt comfortable in his own mind.

He was beginning to look forward to what he was preparing himself to do--it was almost like setting up one of those driving vacations he'd taken out west in the peaceful years. With a little common sense and a lot of care, he could be successful at evading the police as he traveled through their jurisdictions.

"If it were done, 'twer well if it were done quickly," he whispered. He held up a reproving finger while mangling the line from Macbeth. He didn't remember anything else about the quote, and not much more about the play itself, but the logic in the line appealed to him. It seemed like excellent advice.

He wasn't sure he could conceal his intent for very long. He had to act before he said or did something to give himself away. A chill ran down his spine at the sudden thought that the judge might arbitrarily revoke his bail. He shivered. If he tried, he could find any number of things, most of them bad, that might happen if he didn't act soon enough.

He walked to his bedroom and looked through the window at the street outside. Television reporters had camped out in front of his house for a while this morning after the announcement of the new trial date, but they had other things on their minds this evening.

Presumably, the heavy rain and inevitable flooding would claim their attention for the remainder of the night and probably for several days to come. It was what had happened in previous storms, and this one was predicted to be one that would last for days.

The same applied to city officialdom, he decided.

Police would be working extra shifts with the inevitable emergencies caused by the weather. It was unlikely any manpower could be spared to specifically watch him for the next few days. There was a high possibility he had a window of opportunity, lasting as long as the storm did, to make a nice ... clean ... break. He nodded in agreement with his own analysis.

"Quickly," he counseled himself aloud, "but not hastily." He began to smile more broadly as he paced around the house, peering out at the rain-washed darkness whenever he came to a window.

Making his way to the garage, he scrambled up a ladder to grab the biggest backpack he owned from attic. He began loading it with everything he would need to survive in the wilderness.

It was soon overflowing with nearly every gadget made for camping or hiking he'd ever purchased. He hefted the pack, and promptly dropped it to the concrete floor. It weighed at least eighty pounds. A vision of himself staggering under the weight of the mammoth pack up a mountainside came to him and he laughed.

He sighed ruefully and dragged the pack into the living room to dump it out on the floor. Sitting cross-legged, he began the process of sorting out what he would need to live for a long time in the woods and setting aside things that would be a luxury. He stopped when he realized he was holding a hiker's fuel stove in each hand, unable to choose between them.

The would-be fugitive grinned through his fatigue. He was too tired to make the necessary choices right now and, for the first time in months, he didn't dread the dreams that might come in the night. He showered and slid in bed between a set of fresh, crisp sheets. He was asleep before he could pull them up to his chin.

§

The morning dawned miserably cold, dark, and rainy--and it got steadily worse. Radar graphics on all the television stations showed solid masses of thunderstorms marching down from the northwest toward the city. Storm cells were generating on the leading edge of the stalled weather front and training over the city.

Miles nodded to himself, satisfied. No one would be thinking about him in all this mess.

This morning he'd had no problem determining what to take with him. He selected a small hiking tent and a goose down sleeping bag. They'd proven themselves in long-distance hikes before. Dropping them in the bottom section of the backpack, he zipped it closed. He set aside an inflatable sleeping pad to fasten at the bottom of the pack later. His sleeping accommodations were complete.

In the multitude of zippered compartments, he stowed enough plastic cigarette lighters to light campfires for a lifetime. He found places for steel snares to trap small game, a gill net, fishhooks and several spools of monofilament line for fishing, and a small hiker's cooking set. He added a small first aid kit and a big bottle of multiple vitamins.

He'd made the decision to not take either of the fuel stoves. The fuel would run out too quickly to make the weight penalty worthwhile. He'd cook over the open flames of campfires, just as early mountain men had done some two hundred years earlier.

A small hatchet, three hunting knives and a couple of sharpening stones, a wad of parachute cord, and a couple of heavy-duty thermal blankets completed the list of gear he wanted to take with him.

He put in two pair of camouflaged BDUs and two pair of canvas cargo shorts; three changes of underwear and six pair of thick hiking socks completed his wardrobe for the trip.

To the outside of the pack, he lashed a lightweight parka (guaranteed to keep the wearer warm at thirty-five degrees below zero), an old Army surplus entrenching tool, plus a hundred and fifty feet of climbing rope. He slipped a pair of heavy gloves into a zippered pocket and clipped two large canteens to the hip belt. He'd fill them with water later.

He took one of the hunting knives out of the pack and put it aside. He'd slip his belt through the belt's scabbard later and carry it with him all the time.

Then he decided enough was enough. The remaining space would be stuffed with food. When he got out of bed this morning, he sliced nearly thirty pounds of half-frozen roast beef and steak into thin strips and put the slices in a marinade. One batch was drying in the oven now and would be done in a few hours. When it was all done, he'd put the dried meat--jerky was what early Americans had called it--in zip lock bags and stow them in the backpack. Any empty space would be filled with freeze dried meals and a few cans of high-calorie meat products.

He would need to hunt for meat to live eventually, but he wanted to carry enough food to get well into the wilderness before he started foraging for food. Hunting for game too early, would attract unwanted attention. When the time came to kill animals larger than the snares could hold, he had exactly what he needed.

A crossbow and a dozen bolts had been gathering dust in his bedroom closet for a long time. The crossbow was an ancient but effective weapon. Even in medieval times, the weapon had ranges of four hundred yards. Twentieth century versions were so effective they'd been used in organized warfare in World War I.

By contrast, the bows and arrows used by the American Indians had a lethal range of twenty-five yards. Yet, Indians had hunted even the largest game ... and quite successfully too. He would be able to do the same.

Miles had tried hunting with a traditional bow and arrow many years before but had given it up after proving to himself that he would never develop any expertise with the weapon. The crossbow was different. It was easy to use--remarkably similar to firing a rifle.

He had himself convinced in moments. The dismantled crossbow and bolts joined other gear inside the pack.

Though he'd decided not to carry a rifle into the wilderness, he found himself contemplating the .357 magnum pistol he'd bought while stationed in Alaska a decade earlier. It was a beautiful weapon and he hated to leave it behind. He decided there might be a need for a handgun someday ... to kill a snake maybe.

He grinned derisively at himself, certain he was talking himself into something he didn't really need. Loading the weapon with six of the big cartridges, he slipped it into a leather holster and fastened the rawhide thong across the hammer to keep the pistol in place. Two full boxes of ammo went into the pack. A hundred rounds plus the six in the cylinder would be plenty. He wasn't going to get into any firefights and ammunition was damned heavy.

He stood and tentatively worked his arms through the straps. Buckling the hip belt and pulling on the risers, he walked around the house to test the balance and weight. As he paced, he tried to think of a piece of equipment he might need but he couldn't. There was plenty of room in the pack but there was nothing else he could take with him that would improve his chances for survival. He was finished loading the backpack. When the time came, it would go in the bed of the twelve-year old half-ton Ford pickup he'd bought a few weeks before all the trouble began.

The pickup's body was in so-so shape. Reasonably watertight was about the best you could say about the cab, and the paint job was nothing to cheer about, but the motor was in great condition. In fact, the truck had been in the shop to overhaul the worn-out motor while the cops were actively investigating him and he hadn't picked it up from the garage until long after he'd been bailed out of jail by Jonah Trenton.

It had remained inside the double garage since and the authorities might not even be aware he had it. Even better, in all the confusion, he'd never gone to the trouble to have the title officially transferred to his name. He took that as a good omen.

The easy part of his preparations finished, Miles spent the rest of the morning locating small items he wanted his brother and sister to have and packing them in boxes salvaged from his move to San Antonio. He divided the pictures, trinkets, and small valuables accumulated through a lifetime and sorted them carefully into the boxes. He wrote a letter to go in each box explaining to his family his reasons for running. He asked them to forgive him and please understand. Two additional boxes were filled with Miles' legal papers and other records he'd amassed over a twenty-two year Army career. Those would go to his brother for safekeeping.

Impulsively, he copied all the documents he had on his computer onto two CDs and slid them inside protective cases. They would go inside the backpack though he had no idea if or when he'd ever see a computer again. Then he made two more copies and put them in the boxes destined for his brother and sister. All the boxes went into the truck bed for mailing in the last stages of the trip west. Their shipment would be timed to arrive at their destination long after he left for the mountains. He couldn't afford to have the act of shipping them used to track him.

He lifted his cell phone to cancel a dental exam he'd scheduled for next week, but put the phone down without punching any numbers. So far, everything he'd done to prepare for the trip had been behind drawn shades or in a garage with the doors closed.

In military terms, security had not yet been compromised. No one had the slightest idea he was going to run and he wanted it to stay that way. The dentist would figure out Miles wasn't going to meet the appointment when he didn't come in.

After lunch, everything he could think of to do was done but he had a nagging suspicion he was forgetting something important. He couldn't shake the idea, but neither could he figure out what he was missing. Another tour around his home--it was quickly becoming only a house--didn't help. He could find nothing left undone.

When the big grandfather clock in the hallway struck two o'clock in the afternoon, Miles took a calculated chance ... and the first public act in his plan. Leaving the house, he drove the Taurus across the city, making sudden, random right and left turns while watching the rear view mirror closely.

If anyone was following him, he decided they were doing a heck of a good job of it because he hadn't seen any vehicle follow him through more than one of the route changes. He didn't think there was much chance a big team was mirroring his moves on parallel streets like he'd seen on some cop shows.

Doing that took lots and lots of unmarked cars and abundant manpower resources. There was no reason for the authorities to commit that amount of their limited resources for no purpose they could possibly be aware of ... not yet, anyway. He pulled into the credit union's parking lot fifteen minutes before it closed.

The two thousand dollars and change he withdrew to close his account was everything he had left from a military career in which he'd careful saved every dime he could for his retirement. The attorney wasn't costing him anything, but Miles was footing the bill for the private investigator Trenton had hired. Even if he was declared innocent this afternoon, the cost of defending himself had succeeding in bankrupting him.

A fresh storm cell broke over the city as he left the credit union. He drove home in near darkness with rain clouds pressing close to the ground, dumping their loads of water on already saturated ground. Lightning crackled, filling the sky with streaks of electrical energy, and the heavy thunder was almost constant. It was impossible to listen to the radio.

As he reached for the volume control, the station was knocked off the air and hissing static replaced classic rock. He switched the radio off. Officially, sunset was still a couple hours away but it was already hard to see without the headlights on. Perfect weather for someone like himself--or what he was about to become--he thought. If a fugitive couldn't get away in this muck ... well, he deserved to be caught.

Back home Miles transferred all but three hundred dollars of the withdrawal to a dry pack. The small pouch made of flexible, heavy-duty plastic would seal tightly. It was advertised to keep its contents dry at the bottom of a lake.

He shoved the finished jerky inside the backpack and then added all the canned meat from the pantry. Finally, he put in the dry pack. Hauling the backpack onto his back, he walked out to the garage and dropped the pack on the bed of the pickup beside the boxes he would mail to his family. Tucking a heavy tarp around the pack, he made sure there were no places rainwater could get underneath to soak the boxes or gear.

He got in the pickup's cab and started the engine. Letting it run for a while, he pulled the bottom of the garage door a few inches off the concrete floor to allow some airflow. After ten minutes or so, the water temperature gauge rose into the low-normal range and stayed there. The oil pressure and voltmeter showed no problems and the motor ran smoothly in spite of the vehicle's lengthy stay in the garage. All the lights shined brightly--the brakes and turn signals worked perfectly. He switched the motor off, closed the garage door, and strolled into the kitchen to prepare dinner.

§

The big T-bone steak had been reduced to a well picked-over bone. Miles was comfortably full of the meat, mashed potatoes, and steamed broccoli he'd prepared as a going away dinner for himself. The big slab of apple pie, topped with an equally large scoop of ice cream, finished off the meal perfectly.

He put the plates and silverware in the sink and moved to the living room to watch TV. The information he needed was on a few minutes later. All the local stations were preempting normal programming with reports on the widespread flooding and carried many stories chronicling the number and comparative situations of those who ignored barricades to drive through high water. There were frequent updates on road conditions. He watched these closely. U.S. 281 north was still open--as was Interstate 35 once you got a little way out of town.

He wanted to get north of the city as quickly as he could. It was the fastest way out of the county. It was here in Bexar County that police would be most familiar with his face and status. Once outside this county and beyond the weather front, he could begin change course to the west on state highways. West Texas was sparsely populated even in the twenty-first century and he intended to avoid cities like they were hotbeds of bubonic plague.

Returning to the kitchen, he washed and dried the dishes by hand to draw out the process as long as he could. Finishing, he carefully draped the towel on the edge of the sink, pulling at it a couple of times until he had it perfectly centered.

He walked slowly to the bedroom, his pulse rate increasing in spite of his efforts to stay calm. What he was about to do was getting to him a lot more than he had thought it would.

He got into a clean pair of jeans and pulled a dark blue sweatshirt over his head. Lacing up well broken-in hiking boots took only a minute but he did the left one twice to make sure it was double-tied perfectly.

Wandering from room to room, he remembered the few good times he'd had in the brief time he'd lived there. He shook his head. The good times had been too few.

He'd often said good-bye to homes, friends, and family because of military orders. This would be just one more time he had to leave everything behind. It was a shame ... he'd thought all that was over and this was his home, with everything that meant.

Moving woodenly, he wound up back in the bedroom and opened the closet door for one last check. His eyes fell on the twelve-gauge shotgun he'd bought to defend his new home a week after putting down the deposit. It had been a special purchase--a lucky find at a gun show.

He was deserting the house, but he was suddenly loath to leave the weapon behind. Making a snap decision, refusing to think about it, he grabbed two boxes of express cartridges--double aught buckshot--and dropped them on the bed. His decision to not take a long gun with him was discarded, forgotten in the yearning to keep something from the home with him.

Shrugging into the lightweight jacket he would wear against tonight's weather, he turned off the closet light and closed the door. The shotgun under his arm, he walked numbly through the house, unplugging electronic equipment and appliances as he went. He couldn't have said why. It was just the right thing to do.

Searching the pantry for a paper bag to carry the shotgun shells to the pickup, his hand nudged a box of iodized salt. That reminded him of something he hadn't considered. Salt was worth its weight in gold in the wilderness and he couldn't depend upon finding clean natural outcrops of the life giving mineral out there.

He grabbed the full box as well as the one he had been working from for the last month and put both in the shopping bag. He added the shotgun shells. He'd find space in the pack for the late additions somewhere down the road. He added a box of zipper-locked plastic freezer bags.

Waiting for a minute, his eyes scanning the shelves full of canned foods and condiments, nothing else jumped out at him as something he needed. He closed the pantry door.

Going from the kitchen through the dining room, he looked around the living room for something he might have missed. He unlocked the front door. In a few days, the police would come looking for him and he didn't want them to wreck the door to get in. The house would make someone a fine home someday.

He walked slowly back into the kitchen and picked up a small cooler from the counter filled with plastic-wrapped sandwiches, orange juice, milk and a couple of diet sodas. Exiting from the kitchen to the garage, he put the cooler into the floorboard on the passenger side. A larger cooler, similarly filled, was already in the truck bed beside the tarp-covered load. The shopping bag full of salt and shotgun ammunition was pushed behind the passenger seat.