mouth.
Junior said, “No one’s coming for you, Patty. You’re dead.”
“Ben knows I’m alive.”
“How?”
“He just does.”
After a few minutes the red left the big man’s face. He threw his left arm over the seat back again and said, “Well, shit, Junior, gramps is coming to kill us all and save her sweet little ass. We might as well give her up right now.”
A stern voice, her best imitation of Elizabeth A. Brice, Attorney-At-Large: “Yes, you should. Because he’s on his way right now. And if you two idiots had the sense God gave dirt, you’d let me out of this car so he never catches up with you.”
“Well, sweet cheeks,” the big man said, “I ain’t gonna lose no sleep over your gramps coming after me.”
“You should. He’s got one of those, too.”
“One a what?”
He was looking right at her now. His eyes followed her hand as she extended it and pointed her finger at the big man’s tattoo, almost touching his gross arm.
“One of those.”
The big man’s eyebrows crunched down. “Your grandpa’s got a tattoo says ‘viper’?”
“Yep, he sure does.” She gestured behind her with her thumb. “And he’s somewhere back there right now, catching up fast.”
The big man’s eyes shot up; he stared out the back of the car, as if Ben were tailgating them. His face was different now.
Because Ben was coming.
“We’re never gonna get to Idaho in this piece of shit!”
“Try it again!” Ben yelled from under the raised hood of the Jeep. John turned the ignition and pumped the gas pedal, filling the engine well with the smell of gasoline; the image of a Vietnamese child drenched in napalm flashed through Ben’s mind.
The jet had arrived in Albuquerque at 0900 local time. They had retrieved their bags and located the old Jeep in the parking lot. But the damn thing wouldn’t start again. Ben was under the hood and tweaking the carburetor, which usually worked. John was sitting in the Jeep, impatient and annoyed and becoming more of both by the minute.
Ben slammed the hood shut and came around to the driver’s side. John climbed over to the passenger’s seat. Ben got in, determined that the Jeep would start this time. He turned the ignition and pushed the accelerator to the floorboard.
“Come on, you son of a-”
The engine coughed and wheezed like a two-pack-a-day smoker then turned over. Ben quickly shifted into reverse; the Jeep jerked itself back out of the parking space. Then it died.
“Cripes!” from the passenger’s seat.
Ben jammed his boot down on the accelerator again; the Jeep fired up again. He rammed the stick shift into first before the Jeep could change its mind. The vehicle lurched out of the airport, belching a cloud of black smoke.
Once they were on the access road leading to the interstate, Ben glanced over at his passenger. John was his mother’s son-the same sharply etched facial features, the same curly black hair, the same slender frame, the same brilliant mind. He was so unlike his father. Ben’s thoughts turned back again to that night when “Stop!” John shouted.
Ben slammed on the brakes. “What?”
John pointed. “Pull in there!” Then he started punching the buttons on his cell phone like he was calling 911 to report an emergency.
“Hi, this is Gracie. I can’t answer the phone right now ’cause I’m on a date with Orlando Bloom- I wish! Actually, I’m like, at school or soccer practice or Tae Kwon Do class or chasing E.T. around the house. Anyway, I’m not here to answer my phone, duh, so leave a message or whatever. Bye.” The machine beeped.
Elizabeth was now sitting in Grace’s chair at Grace’s desk in Grace’s room listening to Grace’s voice. It was all she had left of her daughter. She reached over and hit the play button and listened again to her dead daughter’s voice.
Gracie said, “Ben Brice was a hero.”
The big man was shaking his head slowly like Mom did when Sam acted like a little butthead. “Ben Brice,” he said in a soft voice, almost like he was talking about someone who had died. “What are the odds, Junior? We drive halfway across the country to snatch this girl, turns out she’s Ben Brice’s grandkid. Same wave of His hand, God gives you her and me Ben Brice.”
Junior was now looking at the big man like he was from another planet. “The hell you babbling about, Jacko?”
The big man named Jacko said, “The major always said it ain’t no coincidence that the world’s oil is in the Middle East, same place the world’s three religions got started. He said, ‘God put that oil there, Jacko, ’cause one day it’s gonna bring the Jews, Muslims, and Christians back to the Middle East for the final conflict. Armageddon in the desert. God’s master plan.’ ”
“What’s all that got to do with her?”
“She’s my oil, Junior.” Jacko turned to Junior but pointed a gnarly thumb at Gracie. “She’s gonna bring Ben Brice back to me for the final conflict.”
“Who the hell’s Ben Brice?”
Gracie said again, “He was a hero.”
Jacko snorted smoke. “He was a traitor. The traitor got us court-martialed.”
Junior looked at him and frowned. “You mean-”
“Yeah, I mean. He’s the one betrayed the major.”
Junior’s eyes got wide, like Nanna’s that time she hit four numbers at the lottery and won six hundred dollars. He said, “He’s a dead man.”
“Not yet he ain’t,” Jacko said. “But he will be soon enough.”
“But how’re we gonna find him?”
“We ain’t. He’s gonna find us.”
“He ain’t never gonna find us on that mountain.”
“Yeah, Junior, he will. I don’t know how, but he will. ’Cause we took something belongs to him.”
“Now this is my kind of work,” John said as he and Ben entered the Range Rover showroom. A smiling salesman wearing a short-sleeve shirt and a clip-on tie appeared before the glass doors shut behind them.
“Morning, gentlemen. I’m Bob.”
A Range Rover dealership was like a second home to John R. Brice. When he had spotted it from the Jeep, his spirits had soared like a kid on Christmas morning: a new Rover would dang sure get them to Idaho! John walked over to a Land Rover on the showroom floor-Java black exterior-and opened the door-Alpaca beige leather interior. He had seen all he needed to see. He turned back to Bob.
“How much?”
“Fifty-seven,” Bob said. “That’s a steal for this baby.”
Certainly Bob didn’t think he was going to hose John R. Brice on the price of a Land Rover. Like most techno-nerds, John did not possess real world expertise requiring physical dexterity or social skills; he did not know how to lay tile or change the oil or fix a running toilet (don’t even think about a major appliance) or interface effectively with his kids’ teachers or his spousal unit. But he knew all the important things in life as defined by his
