The Last Call

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I would find out much later what Hank was up to during his and Dingo’s trek through the rain.

At the bottom of the last hill he traversed he found the south bank of the Red River. A hundred yards down, around the curve of the bank he found a floating dock and a motor boat, which was where he parted with the first of the presents he carried on his back.

Up the bank, perpendicular to the river, he came upon the darkened exterior of the northern end of the horse stables. After a quick search he found what he was looking for and left another present.

I wouldn’t know anything about his little Santa Claus-run for another fifteen minutes.

Time enough for Hank to start the countdown to World War III.

When the man and the dog were gone I stepped up onto the porch. There was little light inside, but I caught an amber glow from the central part of the house.

The porch was long and roofed over with tin and so I enjoyed a few moments without rain coming down on my head. There were windows onto the porch. I crept from window to window, trying to see inside.

At the third window there was a little girl. She sat up on a bed and played with what looked like two Barbie dolls. I had to restrain myself from tapping on the window and getting her attention. But no-I wasn’t ready to do anything to put her in direct danger until I knew more.

The silhouette of a man passed by the open doorway to her bedroom and I started. Jake, or Freddie. I didn’t know which. Fortunately he hadn’t seen me.

The house wasn’t clear yet. I needed to rendezvous with Hank before I attempted to get Julie and the kid out of the house.

I would have to make for the stables. There was someone down there with a dog. Probably it was Archie Carpin, but I had no way of knowing.

Facing the stables I looked back toward the dark fence line. It cut a hundred yards across the open landscape and again disappeared into blackness to the south of the stables.

I hopped off of the porch and into the darkness.

One end of the stables lay in inky blackness. I could smell horses but I couldn’t see any of them. I moved from one stall to the next and listened.

No neighs or whinnies. No stamping of hoofed feet. All of the horses were gone.

I remembered: Julie had said that all the men-even the ones who tended the still operation-were at the races. That meant the horses were there as well.

I wondered where Hank was.

Suddenly there was a long low growl, growing in intensity. It came from the other side of the stables.

There was an answering bark. Dingo!

An instant later there came the unmistakable sound of Hank’s voice: “Git ‘em!”

I ran down to the center of the stables into the light, cut through the central corridor and out the other side.

Splashing through water nearly a foot deep in places, I approached the dogs.

There were strange shapes in the night. The strangest shape of all was the hill.

It was a manure pile. Perhaps thirty feet long and in places nearly the height of a man.

A lot of horses had created it over a long period of time.

As I came around the southern end of the pile there was a flash of lightning, and as if newly created by the storm, a man, standing with his back to me.

Five feet away from him was what appeared to be an ancient concrete culvert stood on end, three quarter embedded down in the manure.

The dark silhouette was Hank, standing there in the darkness.

Fifteen feet in front of him was somebody else.

Archie Carpin stood there staring at me.