Chapter 11

Friday, January 19, 2007

Mr. Piotrowski hung up the phone, and asked Scott if he wanted to go to Chicago with him.

"Chicago?" Scott asked.

"That was the folks at the Field Museum. We've been invited to the opening of their new netsuke exhibit. I think it's an excuse to have a party, but they're calling it a fund raiser. They're going to cover our air fare and hotel expenses," explained Mr. Piotrowski.

"That's cool! Uh, when is it?"

Mr. Piotrowski made a note on the calendar hanging in the kitchen, "March 10th. We'd fly out Friday morning. The opening is on Saturday, and we can fly back Sunday. Want to go?"

"Yes! Can I?"

"You bet. I'll give the judge a call and see what sorts of permissions are required to take you out of state."

Scott's excitement about going to see the Field Museum and a big city like Chicago collapsed. Taking a trip out of state to a big event wasn't exactly low profile. That had been a phrase the lady marshal repeated several times, "keep a low profile." Hell, he was only six when she told him all of that stuff, he grumbled to himself. Why was it his responsibility?

Mr. Piotrowski interrupted his train of thought, "What do you have planned for this afternoon?"

"I thought I should break out the vacuum cleaner. Jobe's beds need to be washed. The windows need cleaning too, but that can wait till Sunday."

"Sounds like a lot of chores," commented Mr. Piotrowski.

"It beats the heck out of shoveling horse manure. Besides, I have to earn my keep. These driving lessons are eating up a lot of my time."

He got the ancient vacuum cleaner out of the closet and plugged it in. The thing might have weighed thirty pounds, but it still did a terrific job. Jobe hated the noise that machine made, and escaped outside. Scott thought about Chicago as he cleaned.

When he was finished Scott rode back to the ranch, and dropped by the kitchen to visit with Mrs. Delgado.

"Mijo!" she gave him a hug. "It feels like I hardly see you anymore. Look at you. You need another haircut. Why don't we go into town early tomorrow, and I'll drop you off at the engine center on my way back to the ranch?"

"If you think I need one then it sounds good to me. Do you think I could drive?" he asked with a grin.

"I suppose it would be good practice. You'll have to help me with breakfast for the boys before we leave."

"Yes!" Scott pumped his fist. He'd always wanted to drive her station wagon.

The next morning Scott helped fix a platter of breakfast tacos, and set them out covered by a tea towel so they'd stay warm. They loaded his bike in the back of the station wagon, and Mrs. Delgado handed him the keys with a smile at his eagerness to drive her car. She complimented his driving as they left the ranch.

"I've been getting a lot of practice," he explained.

"What about that motorcycle? Have you practiced riding it?" Mrs. Delgado asked.

Scott knew she didn't approve of the two wheeled transportation, "I have been. The instructor at the safety course said I had really good control. On Sunday I'm going riding with Sheriff King if he has the time."

"Sheriff King?" she asked.

"It was something that the judge lined up. Everybody keeps reminding me to be safe. Between you, Mr. Piotrowski, and the Mendozas I think I'm covered. Trust me; I want to be a safe rider too!"

She laughed, "Okay. Okay ... but you know I worry about you."

Scott asked her what had been on his mind, "Have you ever been in a big city?"

"Yes, why do you ask?" she wondered.

He told her about Mr. Piotrowski inviting him go to Chicago. That required an explanation about the museum, and how Mr. Piotrowski was involved.

"Alex Piotrowski has something that's going to be displayed in Chicago at a famous museum? What are these 'nets-keh' anyway?"

"You mean the Fort Stockton rumor mill hasn't already filled you in?" he joked.

"The rumor mill isn't as all knowing as you think," she replied.

Scott glanced over at her.

She waved a finger at him, "If you must know the rumor was that Alex was negotiating the sale of his property. Why else would he meet with that lady lawyer of his, and people from out of town?"

An interesting twist on the available facts, he thought. Scott explained that the netsuke were old miniature carvings highly collected in Japan and around the world. Mr. Piotrowski had purchased them in Japan while waiting to be shipped home from the Korean War.

"Little carvings?" she asked.

Scott took his hand from the wheel and made a circle with his thumb and index finger, "About that big."

"Who could have guessed? I've never heard that he collected anything oriental. Verna certainly never said anything about it. To answer your question, yes. I've been to a few big cities, but Houston was probably the biggest."

"Did you like it?" he asked.

"It was different."

"That means you didn't like it."

"Mijo, you should make up your own mind about these kinds of things."

"Tell me one thing you didn't like about Houston, please."

Mrs. Delgado thought about it, "I didn't like the humidity."

"What do you mean?"

"Houston is very humid. You know how the bathroom is after a hot shower? That's what Houston feels like. I suppose the people who live there get used to it. Mosquitoes ... they have terrible mosquitoes there too."

"I don't think I'd like that," Scott replied.

"A lot of people live there, too many. They must not mind too much. They also get hurricanes, and the traffic is terrible."

"Anything else?"

"It's ugly, and you can get very lost."

"Is that all?" he asked.

"You're teasing me," she said as she lightly slapped him on the knee.

Scott parked in front of the barbershop, and left the engine running so Mrs. Delgado could go and visit with her friends.

The bell on the door jingled as he entered. Scott saw a few familiar faces. A couple of men from the VFW said good morning to him. He took a seat and reached for a magazine when their interrupted conversation started back up again. The patrons of the barbershop were discussing the dead bodies found out in the county yesterday. He'd almost allowed himself to forget.

"It's pure chance that anybody found them. Hell, they could have been out there for years," said one man.

"They never did find that Jones girl," said another.

"That's right," commented a third.

Little Andrea Jones had gone missing when he was in grade school. He remembered there had been a huge manhunt, but she'd simply disappeared. Abducted, people said. That was over six years ago, he realized.

The first man was talking, "Somebody's finally gonna buy that property if they had a gas survey done."

"Gas company checking on the lease probably doesn't have a thing to do with a sale," commented one of the barbers.

The men argued about it for a while before the conversation steered back around to the dead men.

"Druggies," said an old rancher in disgust.

"I heard they was having orgies out there," offered an older gentleman with a cane.

"Now where on earth did you hear that?" responded another.

The barber pointed to his chair and Scott took a seat. The man carefully taped a strip of crepe paper around his neck, and then draped a barber's cape over his chest and legs. He tightened the collar around his neck, adjusting the paper.

Scott tried to keep his hands from moving around under the cape. He didn't like the feeling of the tight collar. It made it hard to swallow.

"The same?" the barber asked.

He nodded.

The man quickly took his scissors and began cutting the hair around Scott's ears. There was a mechanical 'click' and the hair trimmer began to buzz loudly.

The men in the barbershop continued to talk about the exciting news of the day. The mystery could fuel gossip in the county for the next six months.

A new man came into the shop, and the conversation started all over again. The new man had heard juicy details from a friend, whose cousin was the neighbor of a city police officer. According to him one of the dead men was a major player in a gang that dealt drugs and ran prostitutes in El Paso and Juarez.

The barber had finished with Scott's hair. He took a sharp straight razor and carefully shaved his neck. When he was finished he whisked the loose hair off him with a stiff brush. The barber removed the cape and paper from Scott's neck, and vigorously brushed his shoulders and neck again. Then he slapped some sort of aftershave on his neck. It had a pleasant odor and felt cool against his skin.

The barber quickly took a small broom and cleaned the hair from around the chair before he told Scott to hop down.

Scott was reaching for his wallet when he thought about the hair the barber was sweeping up. Oh crap, keep thinking it's hair, it's just hair. He knew hair was very flammable. Great, another weird experiment that I need to conduct, Scott realized. He paid for his haircut and left a two dollar tip.

Outside he waited for Mrs. Delgado. When she pulled up he waved at her to stay behind the wheel. He climbed into the passenger side.

"Did you hear the news?" Mrs. Delgado asked excitedly.

"That's all they were talking about in the barbershop," Scott explained.

She was disappointed. Mrs. Delgado wanted to talk about the most exciting news of the New Year. Scott obliged her and asked, "What have you heard?"

She launched into a long explanation that was no more or less wild than what the men of the barbershop had come up with. "You can't believe what the paper says," she concluded and tapped a newspaper on the seat beside her for emphasis.

He picked up the paper. It was a special edition since the paper normally came out only once a week. He read the article, but it was short on detail. The two men had not been identified, 'pending notification of next of kin, ' and the cause of death wouldn't be known until an autopsy had been completed. The newspaper did have a map showing the general location of where the bodies had been discovered. Scott folded the paper, and sat it back down on the seat.

After Mrs. Delgado dropped Scott and his bike off at the engine center it was more of the same; lots of speculation and very few facts. Eddie wondered if they were 'human traffickers' or something along those lines. Scott shrugged his shoulders and mumbled innocuous comments.

He was grateful to jump on the bike and head to Mr. Piotrowski's.

Mr. Piotrowski had already heard about the dead men, and more importantly he had talked to Judge Upcott about Chicago.

"Can we go?" Scott asked.

"The judge says all I have to do is sign a few papers, and agree not to lose you between Texas and Illinois and we'll be good to go."

"Alright!"

"There's almost two months before we leave. We've got to try and find some appropriate clothing for a big time museum shindig."

"We could ask Mrs. Mendoza about some dress clothes. She likes to shop a lot," Scott offered.

"That's not a bad idea. Why don't you go on and get out of here? Don't forget that the sheriff is coming by tomorrow."

Scott conducted new experiments back at the ranch with a few strands of hair and some nail clippings. Both substances are very similar biologically. Fingernails contained no DNA, like urine, he thought. The experiments further solidified his theory. As long as he didn't consciously think about it, his biological bits and pieces remained 'normal, ' unless he was injured. If that was the case then his body healed rapidly, and the evidence disappeared. It made a strange kind of sense. As far as fixing bullet holes with his fingers, and not leaving finger prints behind ... well that was hard to rationalize.

Sunday afternoon Scott wore all of his motorcycle gear; winter weight jacket, reinforced pants, riding boots, helmet and gloves. He was standing nervously by his idling Yamaha as Sheriff King walked around inspecting him and the bike.

The sheriff had ridden up shortly after lunch on a massive Honda Gold Wing motorcycle. Scott felt silly standing next to his little two-stroke 200cc bike compared against the nearly thousand pound six-cylinder touring bike. The sheriff had proudly shown it off. The Gold Wing had every bell and whistle; heated seats, and even a built in navigation system.

"Scotty, this is a really a sharp looking bike. These old Yamaha two-strokers were real screamers. You've got all the right gear too. I thought we'd make a quick stop at Meritt's for gas, and then ride into town. I want you to have a chance to interact with traffic and experience a few intersections. They can be tricky. Remember, other drivers won't be looking for you so stay on your toes. Any questions so far?"

"Do you want me in front, or behind you?"

"Follow behind me in the staggered position. If we get separated in town meet me by the taqueria. After a trip through town we'll circle back and head here to Mr. Piotrowski's. Sound good?"

"Sounds great, sheriff. I really appreciate you taking the time to do this on a Sunday."

"It's my pleasure. Most of my riding buddies won't get back on two wheels until spring and I love to ride. You ready?"

Scott reached down and felt the engine through his gloves. It felt good and warm, and sounded right to him, "I think it's warmed up. Let's ride!"

The ride was fun. In town Scott was a little nervous, but following the big Honda was a treat. They swapped places a few times when the sheriff waved him on ahead. After nearly two hours of riding they made it back to Mr. Piotrowski's house. The sheriff was very complimentary about his riding skills, and promised a glowing report to the judge.

Over the next couple of weeks Scott completed the driver's education home study course and all his behind the wheel hours. On Monday, February 5th, Scott and Mr. Piotrowski loaded the motorcycle into the back of the truck and went to town. Thanks to the judge he had the approval for the hardship license. Scott took both driving tests in the morning. He drove the truck for the first test, and rode the bike for the second test with Mr. Piotrowski and the examiner following along behind in the truck.

Outside of the DMV after it was all over Mr. Piotrowski asked him what he was going to do next.

"I've got to get a parking permit for the student parking lot," he held his temporary license in one hand, staring at it.

"Then I'll say 'congratulations' on getting your driver's license. I know it's a big step for you."

"Thanks, Mr. Piotrowski. I couldn't have done it without a lot of help, and from you especially."

"You can pay me back by being a safe driver, and a safe rider. Okay?" Mr. Piotrowski said with a serious look on his face.

"Yes, sir, safety first."

Scott made the quick trip from the DMV to the high school. It felt pretty good to be riding by himself. He went ahead and parked in the student lot. Classes had already started. He walked to the front office to pay for his parking permit. He had to show his insurance and registration papers as well as his license.

"Mr. MacIntyre, why aren't you in class?" asked Principal Reynolds as he walked into the office from the hallway.

"Good morning, sir. I was at the DMV getting my license. As soon as I put this sticker on my bike I'll head straight to class."

"Just a moment," the principal said as he walked over to a computer. He punched something in and looked at it carefully. "I guess we can let you slide today. According to your attendance record, you've never missed a day of class. That's going back all the way through middle school. I have to say I'm impressed. Let's not start any bad habits."

Scott frowned.

"Problem, Mr. MacIntyre?"

"I'm going to have to miss a Friday in March to go out of town."

"Be sure and let your teachers know. That way you can make up any missed assignments. If you hurry you can catch the start of third period."

"Thank you, sir."

This was sure a different side of Mr. Reynolds than he'd seen the first time they'd met. Scott went by his locker. His helmet was not going to fit. Why didn't I plan this better, he asked himself? The lockers at the gym were bigger. He went to see Coach Zell, and the coach gave him a spare locker to store his gear in.

"Don't get banged up riding that crotch rocket," he said. "I expect you to compete next year. You better be careful."

"I will, Coach. Thanks for the locker."

The bell rang. He made it to his English class just in time.

"Well?" asked Eddie.

Scott gave him a thumbs-up.

That afternoon in the library Scott took his time. He didn't have to hurry to catch the bus to Meritt's. Instead he read over the new SAT prep book the library had gotten in. He was taking the exam on Saturday. It would be another day missed at the engine center. His missed hours were becoming a problem. He was only working ten hours a week for Mr. Mendoza. Scott wondered how Mr. Mendoza would react if he found a new job?

He went back by the gym and put on his riding gear. The ride to Mr. Piotrowski's gave him a lot of time to think. It wouldn't make sense to ride into town every day. He could park at Meritt's Corner and ride the bus just like he'd done with his bicycle.

Mr. Piotrowski and Jobe were waiting for him when he pulled into the driveway.

"That would be a long commute to make every day," Scott commented as he took off his helmet.

"I imagine it would be," answered Mr. Piotrowski. "Any problems?"

"The bike ran great. It's gotten smoother the more miles I've put on it. Coach Zell had to give me a locker in the gym so I could store my helmet and riding gear. I didn't think about it not fitting into my regular locker."

"That was nice of him. Got something in the back of the truck I need you to unload for me."

Scott walked over and looked into the back of the big Dodge. There were two steamer type trunks there. He pulled the tailgate down, and took hold of the first trunk.

"Good grief, what's in this one?" he asked.

"Not sure, bought them both unopened at an estate auction over in McCamey this afternoon. Young fella loaded them for me."

"Where do you want it?

"Storage building, please," Mr. Piotrowski unlocked the side door, and Scott carried the first trunk to a bench. The second trunk was lighter, and he set it on the floor next to the bench. Mr. Piotrowski found a screwdriver and a hammer and was approaching the steamer trunk.

"What are you doing?" Scott asked.

"Opening this thing up," replied Mr. Piotrowski.

"Here, let me give it a try first. These are real simple locks on these things." He hunted around in a drawer and found a straight piece of metal to use as a probe, and bent a bit of wire into an 'L'. It took him about fifteen seconds to open the trunk.

"Where did you learn to do that?" asked Mr. Piotrowski.

"Read about it," he replied. 'What did you pay for this anyway?"

There was nothing in the trunk but some old polyester dresses and half of an old encyclopedia set. That explained the weight.

"I paid five dollars for both trunks. Nobody else wanted them."

The lighter trunk proved more difficult to open, "Do you want to try and resell the trunks? Because I'm going to have to bust this lock open. The mechanism is rusted shut."

"Be my guest," Mr. Piotrowski said as he handed him the screwdriver and hammer.

The locked popped open easily. Inside were a lot of old newspapers, really old in fact, and a musty uniform complete with hat and shoes. The newspapers were from the First World War. Scott read with fascination about something called the Zimmermann Note which had caused great outrage in the state. The German government had promised to help Mexico retake territory in Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona if Mexico came in on the side of the Central Powers. Another paper had headlines about the hunt for Pancho Villa. This was Texas history come to life.

Mr. Piotrowski looked at the papers with interest.

"Do you remember any of this, Mr. Piotrowski?"

Mr. Piotrowski gave him one of those looks, "It was a little before my time. I remember it from school of course. Back then it wasn't the First World War, just the Great War. I was ten years old when the Second World War started. It was only after that, that people decided that we needed to number our wars. I guess my war was too small. They tried to call Korea a 'Police Action' but I can't think of any police actions that required artillery."

"Are you going to put these up for sale?" Scott asked.

"I think I'll call the historical society and see if they're interested," said Mr. Piotrowski.

"You know if they don't want them maybe one of the history teachers at the school might?" Scott suggested.

"Not a bad idea. We have some options at least."

Scott left and headed for the ranch, but he decided to stop by the Mendoza's first, and show off a little. The house seemed empty when he knocked on the door, but he could hear a radio and then somebody running down the stairs. The door was thrown open by a breathless Janie.

"Hey! Was that your motorcycle I heard?"

Scott pointed to the driveway.

"Cool!" she exclaimed as she rushed over to the bike.

"Careful, the pipes are hot," he warned. He pointed out the instruments, and all the work the people at the Mendoza shops had done.

"Will you take me for a ride?" she asked.

"Janie," he warned. "Where is everybody anyway?"

"Oh, poo. My mother wouldn't find out. They've all gone to some home center in Midland to look at things for the house."

"I'm not going to get either of us in trouble by doing something stupid. Here, you can sit on the bike and pretend you're riding, okay?"

He helped her onto the bike, and kept it from falling over.

"How is the house coming along?" Scott asked.

"Great! I get to pick what color I want my room painted and everything."

She made motorcycle noises as she pretended to ride the bike.

Scott let her get back to her homework, and continued on to the ranch. He was careful riding over the cattle grate. He parked the motorcycle where the ranch employees parked their vehicles. The foreman came over and admired the bike.

"These little bikes are great transportation, until it rains," the foreman said.

"Yeah I'm not looking forward to that. I haven't picked up any rain gear yet," Scott replied.

The foreman laughed, "You will."

Mr. Rewcastle was waiting for him as he walked to the bunkhouse.

"I didn't authorize you to have a vehicle young man."

"That's okay, sir. The judge took care of everything. I've got my license and insurance so I'm good to go. Thanks for offering to help though," he said deliberately misinterpreting the man's words.

Mr. Rewcastle tried to stare him down, but broke eye contact. "Don't scare the horses," he mumbled, and then turned on his heel back toward the house.

The next day at school was strange. He'd ridden the motorcycle to Meritt's Corner and caught the bus to town. Walking the halls he noticed that some people seemed on edge, while other people were giddy with excitement. Had he missed something the day before while he was preoccupied with his license? Scott caught Eddie before English.

"What's going on today?"

"You don't know?" replied Eddie with a smirk.

"Nobody tells me anything. Is it some juicy new details on those bodies?"

"Nope."

"You're not going to tell me?" Scott demanded.

Eddie shook his head, "I'll bet you figure it out by lunch time."

Molly sat next to him at lunch. Scott was trying to finish his salad so that he could start on his geography homework.

"So, 'Duke, ' have any plans for next Friday?" she asked.

His fork was halfway between the salad plate and his mouth. The use of the nickname coined by Molly could only mean trouble. He paused and looked at all of the faces at his table staring back at him, "Uh, why?"

"Because I'm asking you to the Sadie Hawkins dance," she answered. A Sadie Hawkins dance was when the girls got to ask the boys to a dance in a reverse of normal tradition. He'd completely forgotten about it.

Scott put his fork down, "What?"

"Dance. Sadie Hawkins. I'm asking you," she explained slowly.

"Oh. Okay I guess?" he replied.

Molly glared at him, "You guess?"

"Is everybody else going?" Scott wondered.

That did not go over well. Molly explained what he was going to wear, and when they were going to meet before the dance. He never got the chance to start his homework.

Bo walked with him to their art class.

"Are you and Rene going to this thing?" Scott asked Bo.

"You mean since she's talking to me again? Yeah we're going. Rene and Molly have some afternoon get together planned for this weekend. I think the idea is to introduce you to Molly's parents."

"What? On which day?" Scott wanted to know.

"Saturday."

"Have fun without me. I can't make it," Scott told him.

"You can't? Molly's going to be really disappointed," Bo said.

"Then maybe she should have run it by me first. I could have told her that Saturday was no good. Why all the bother, it's only one dance?"

"I think Molly sees it as something more. At least that's what Rene seems to be hinting at."

Scott stopped walking and Bo had to double back, "That's all I need."

Bo was curious, "I thought you liked Molly?"

"Molly's okay."

"So are you going to tell her you can't do the Saturday thing?" Bo asked.

"I think I'll wait for her to ask me about it. Are you going to tell Rene?"

"And have her get mad at me for something that you did? No thank you. I'll let you handle it," Bo decided.

During cross country Scott managed to run solo and avoided Rene.

On the bus back to Meritt's Eddie was giving Scott a hard time about Molly. "Is she going to make you wear cowboy boots?" Eddie wondered.

"She didn't mention it. By the way, has somebody asked you yet?"

Eddie explained that he had let several eligible girls know he was available. It was only a matter of time before one of them asked him.

Jobe was very excited to see Scott when he got off of his motorcycle at Mr. Piotrowski's. There was a note inside the kitchen screen door. It read, 'Visiting a friend. Feed Jobe for me.'

Scott used his own key to unlock the kitchen door. He put out fresh water and food for Jobe.

"I'm going to change and hit the bag," he told the dog.

He had used his Christmas money to purchase some open finger, padded gloves to use with the heavy bag. Scott put them on and went to work. They'd re-stuffed the bag a couple of times to get the weight and density right. Lately, he'd been mixing knee strikes and elbows in with his straight punches. He worked the bag until his arms were hanging limp, and his knees were cherry red from the contact.

He took a quick shower and put his school clothes back on.

Scott sat on the rear steps to take in the cool air. Jobe came out through the pet door and sat between his legs.

"You need a good brushing. Stay right there," he ordered. Scott went into the house, and got a comb and a brush. He sat back down, and went to work on Jobe's coat.

He was lost in thought staring out past the storage building when Jobe licked him on the face.

"What am I thinking?" he responded to the dog. "I'm wondering if the rabbit I 'fixed' has any weird superpowers. Can you imagine it? What if he's crazy strong and really intelligent? At the rate those suckers breed ... I could have accidentally caused the downfall of the human race. They'll consume all of the food crops, and overthrow the government. Who knows where it could end?"

He had weird thoughts like that from time to time.

Jobe 'woofed' quietly.

"I know. Scary thing to think about. Come on, I'm going to put you inside, and write a note for Mr. Piotrowski. You behave until Mr. P. gets back."

Scott rode out of the driveway, and didn't notice Jobe come tearing out of the house. The big dog ran across the back field toward the direction of the rabbit warren.

On Wednesday morning Scott had sliced up a grapefruit to split with Mr. Piotrowski, and had some whole wheat waffles in the toaster. Mr. Piotrowski was still in his pajamas when he came downstairs.

"In your note you said you brushed Jobe?" asked Mr. Piotrowski.

"Sure did."

"You should see him this morning. Where's he hiding at? Go find him will you?"

Scott checked around the house, but Jobe wasn't in his usual spots. He went outside and found Jobe hiding in his lean-to dog house.

"Come out of there you silly dog."

Jobe emerged from the dog house and Scott grabbed his collar. "What on earth have you gotten into?" he demanded.

Jobe looked like he had been wrestling with a bush, and lost. Scott checked him over carefully to see if he had been hurt. His paws were fine, and he could find no sign of injury.