Free Saboteur: A Novel by J. Travis Phelps Page A

center of the stream. Stars darted in and out of clouds and
the night sky looked immeasurably vast. He suddenly remembered a story told to
him as a child about the boy Icarus. It was a very old story, Greek actually.
The boy Icarus had flown too close to the sun after his father had fashioned
for him wings made of wax. Icarus had flown higher and higher, in spite of his
father’s protestations, until the wax melted, then plummeted to his death. It
was a metaphor of course for the dangers of acquiring abilities that were meant
to be the sole province of the gods. The story had been useful to him all his
life. It was the difference in a man’s temperament that dictated how he would
view the moral of the tale. Romantic souls tended to focus on Icarus’s
achievement, which was beautiful, but tragic. He had flown closer to the sun
than anyone, had peaked into the realm of the gods. The pragmatist saw only
folly. The man swam toward the bank. He was no romantic. He would be the
divine punishment then.
    The man fully submerged himself in the water, swimming down
as deeply as he could. The dark and the silence were peaceful, but as he
cleared his mind, he thought he heard the sound of muted voices from above.
Where had they come from? There had been no one only moments before. He held
his breath and waited. It was definitely voices. He wasn’t sure how long he
could stay under, but decided to test himself. He thought of the time in Egypt,
his only real disaster. He had swum many miles, too far really. Finally, after
what seemed like minutes had passed, the talking seemed to be getting further
away; then he gulped in his last breath, deciding to push himself to the
absolute limits of his endurance. In case his body grew too weak he dove down
to the deepest part of the river into the darkness, pumping his arms wildly
through the silence. All he had to do was not lose consciousness. If anyone had
seen him go under, they would never believe he could survive so long. He would
wait longer still. But suddenly his limbs stopped responding. His head felt
like it might explode. He felt himself rocketing rapidly to the surface. He
finally burst through the canopy, exhaling in a mighty gasp, then guffawed
inward. His rib cage was on fire. He commanded his arms to swim, to move, but
only his left arm meekly responded. Sideways now, he felt his knees scrape
against the rocky bottom and he knew that he had survived. He was in the
shallows. He crawled to the water’s edge and lay in the sand breathing heavily.
There seemed to be no one about. Had it all been his imagination? He turned his
head to look up the hill. The horses seemed undisturbed, which was a good sign;
their silhouettes he could see against the faint light of the moon. He crawled
to his cloak and wrapped himself in its warmth, moaning. He remembered the
teachers recounting of the story,   
    “Lying there on the cold floor all
alone,” the teacher had said, “wrapped only in the dignity of his cloak.” The
man cried out in agony. Wild night animals from far away howled back in
response.

 
    Chapter
13
    “Come on,” Tackett said, “let me take you to your new digs.”
    He was slightly buzzed from their drinking
and didn’t realize Tackett wanted him to actually get out of the car.
    “Goddamn Southerners can’t hold
your liquor,” he shouted as he finally staggered out of the car. Tackett
jangled with the keys on his belt as they walked toward a small, old house at
the end of the driveway. It looked almost abandoned, but it was neatly kept.
    “When the budget was better we had
this as a safe house for the narcos. Then when the budget was cut we stopped
paying, but the owner has never said a word. He’s older than Cootie Brown. The
city records don’t even list the place as existing at all.”
    Tackett pointed toward the couch. “There’s a bed in there,
just pull it out. The ice-box is full of beer, but don’t touch the cheese. It’s
mine. Or the Ritz crackers.