“Wanna watch some TV with us before dinner?” she called to Blake.
“Uh...no, not right now,” Blake said staring at the note. “Tell you what, I’ll get in touch with the sheriff first thing tomorrow and see what he wants. How ’bout that?”
“Sure,” Angelica called from around the wall in the living room. She put her arms around the girls and pulled them close on the sofa, getting lost in one of her happy places. A place with family, simple pleasures, peace and quiet.
Inches behind the wall, Blake sat alone in misery.
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?”