The men anticipated the reaction and were ready for Isabella. She ran straight toward Eduardo, seeing him and only him, her one and only love, as if he were the light at the far end of a tunnel. He was all she could think of as she momentarily forgot about the three men, forgot about Ozzie and Felipe. She was crazed with disbelief, with hate and anger, driven to save her soul mate, to be with him once more. As she drew within feet of Eduardo, two men swooped in from the bushes to her left and shoved her hard in the direction of the gate. Knocked off course, she veered to the right and staggered to the gate entrance, hitting the ground nose first. Disoriented and now hurt, she tried to get up, but the men rushed up behind and pushed her into the caged vestibule that was no man’s land between captor and captive, freedom and confinement.
Isabella screamed violently as they locked the door. She rammed the fence like a crazed lunatic bouncing off a padded cell room wall. She screamed piercing cries as only a frantic mother can.
Then, she stopped as suddenly as she began and grew hauntingly silent. She stood and helplessly stared through the cage into Eduardo’s lifeless eyes, only then realizing what she had done. She had left Felipe and Ozzie alone with the killers.
Chapter 2
Blake Savage loved to do “the worm”. And on the first Saturday of September, Blake Savage did “the worm” all the way from Sky Valley to Mountain City as he drove his black 2010 Harley Davidson edition F-150.
Ever since he had been a child, Blake had liked to pretend his hand was an airplane wing when he held it out the car window and let the moving air hit it. As he drove south, Blake rested his left elbow on the open window frame and pointed his hand forward as he kept the palm of his hand parallel to the blurry pavement. He slanted his fingers down, allowing the relative wind to hit the back of his hand and force the worm to dive, he imagined, before raising his fingers and letting the worm rise as the air blasted against the palm of his hand. A kid on the side of the road pointed and laughed as Blake rode by with his arm moving up and down like a flying serpent. Up and down, up and down, Blake’s worm inched southbound on Route 441.
Blake put his hand back on the wheel as he banged a right on Wolf Fork Road at the sign that read Black Rock Farm - Pastured Poultry and Grassfed Beef. Wolf Fork Road divided the mountainous terrain of Black Rock to his left from the fertile valley farmland to his right. Acres of corn stood ready for the harvest, and Blake found himself wondering how the farmers would go about harvesting the endless sea of corn. Too much to do by hand, he figured, as he bit off a third of the McChicken sandwich he had just bought for a buck. He put the uneaten portion on the console and stared at the neat rows of corn and pondered. Probably a combine or a bush hog, he said to himself, or something like that. Growing up, Blake had been interested in only one thing, and it wasn’t farming.
Past the cornfield was another type of farm. Ten large houses lay side by side, each much longer than a football field. About a dozen ventilation fans larger than Blake’s truck were stuck on each house. Blake scouted the farm as he slowed his truck, but didn’t see a single person or animal, just a hauling truck that was fully loaded with crates of chickens. It looked as if it was ready to pull out. Blake read the sign at the entrance:
McReek Poultry Farms
For Bio-Security Reasons
NO UNAUTHORIZED VISITORS
Blake drove for another half mile until he reached the home of Gus Wyatt, owner of Black Rock Farm. The F-150 pulled onto the gravel drive and Blake parked next to a metal building. He got out and didn’t see anyone right away, but announcers loudly calling the Bulldogs game on the radio suggested that Gus was probably close by. In the field next to the house, Blake saw what looked like a flock of wild turkeys. Some were perched on a line of large, wooden cages that were neatly lined across the field. He walked over and was shocked that the turkeys not only didn’t flee, they came right up to him. Bending over, Blake peered into the cages and began counting the number of plump white chickens that were crammed inside one. Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty—
“Blake!” Blake nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned and saw a man standing tall and leering over him, covered in blood and holding a knife. Blake exhaled deeply.
“Hey, Gus,” Blake said. “I was just looking at these chickens and wild turkeys.”
Gus laughed. “Those aren’t wild turkeys, Blake. We raise them for folks to eat on Thanksgiving. They’re called Heritage Turkeys.”
Blake eyed one of the turkeys and thought that it looked like a prehistoric creature. “Hey, I got another load of bones in the back of the truck for you to grind for me,” he said.
“Let’s take a look,” Gus said. They walked over to Blake’s truck. Blake pulled a tarp back to reveal a truck bed almost overflowing with bones.
“Well,” Gus began, “the grinder is already hooked up to the back of the tractor. Seeing as you’re parked beside it, just throw the bones in the top of the grinder and I’ll grind them into your bone meal after we finish killing chickens over here.”
Blake climbed into the back of the truck and began tossing the bones into the grinder. The radio blared loudly from the shed as announcers discussed a player injury.
“You been listening to the game in Athens, Blake? Dawgs and the Gamecocks?”
“No. Been running around doing errands.”
“Well, that Georgia quarterback got hurt pretty bad a second ago. Took him out on a stretcher.”
Blake felt his tension rise. He shrugged at Gus and kept tossing bones.
“Yeah well—hell, he ain’t half the quarterback you were, Blake. Couldn’t carry your spit bucket if you ask me.” Gus began walking over to a large walk-in freezer and looked back over his shoulder to Blake. “I’ll get the coolers of chicken and beef ready for you to take to The Federal.”
Blake clenched his jaw and looked down at the blood-stained bones. Grabbing a femur, he threw it as hard as he could into the grinder. The force of the impact shattered pieces of smaller bones.
Gus wheeled a couple of large coolers over as Blake jumped out of the truck bed.
“Let’s just put those in the back seat to keep ’em clean,” Blake said.
“Good thinking,” Gus said. Blake hoisted the coolers into the back seat of the truck, closed the door, and hopped in the front.
“I gotta hit the road, Gus. Told Nick I’d be in Athens by 3:30 or 4:00.” Blake hesitated a second. “Let me know when you need me to do any more deliveries for you.” Blake put it in reverse and began to back up.
“Sure thing, Blake. I expect in a couple of weeks.”
As Blake began to drive slowly forward Gus shouted, “Say, when you and that pretty wife of yours gonna have some young’uns?”
Blake looked back and shrugged his shoulders. He rolled up the window, gripped the steering wheel, and twisted his hands, as if he were trying to wring it out. He was in no mood to do “the worm.” Instead, he ground his teeth side to side.
As he pulled out of Black Rock Farm and onto Wolf Fork Road, the truck hauling chickens cut in front of him and began shifting gears. A foul smell slapped Blake’s nostrils open: a mixture of feces, feathers, ammonia and bedding. The heavy odor wafted forcefully into the truck as Blake rolled the windows up. As the windows closed, he grimaced and tried to decide if he had locked the smell in the truck. He rolled the windows back down, and his nostrils were pummeled once again with stench.
“Goddamit,” he exclaimed. As he fought through the vile smell, his mind drifted to the things Gus had said. Innocent remarks and questions that induced a rage to stew and burn within. “It’s none of his damned business if we’re gonna have kids or not!” Blake fumed. But it wasn’t the question about a baby that infuriated him. He just couldn’t escape the reminders about football, about the fame and fortune of the NFL that was almost his. Should have been mine!