Free The Long Count by JM Gulvin Page A

Bowen spent the night in Shreveport, Louisiana, and in the morning he took a train to Texarkana and a bus from there to Paris. Late afternoon, he walked five miles west on the county road until he came to the junction where it forked with Route 38. Perched on the top rail of a fence he looked up at the sky where rain was threatening to fall. A few minutes later he heard the sound of an engine in the distance and saw the speck of gray as a vehicle approached. Straightening his tie he fixed the collar on his tunic, picked up his duffel and stuck out his thumb.
    A pickup truck, it rumbled towards him but did not slow and Isaac lifted his hand. An older guy at the wheel, he was wearing bibbed denim overalls and a battered-looking hat. Spotting Isaac finally, he came to a halt ten yards further on.
    ‘Where you headed, son?’ Leaning across the seat he opened the door.
    ‘Up towards Monkstown; house not far from the lake.’
    The old guy indicated through the windshield. ‘I’m driving 38 so I can only take you as far as the T.’
    ‘Thank you, sir: the T junction will be just fine.’ Throwing his duffel over his shoulder Isaac got in.
    They drove west across flatland, the old man working the wheel while Isaac sat upright at the other end of the bench.
    ‘Got us a little rain blowing in,’ the old man said. ‘Ain’t been so bad over this way but out west they ain’t seen a drop since fall.’ He nodded to Isaac’s uniform. ‘I guess you wouldn’t know too much about that, though, huh? I guess you been overseas. Good to see a man in uniform, son, especially right now what with all themkids waving placards and shouting the odds. Don’t know what the world’s coming to.’
    ‘Was always going to happen,’ Isaac told him. ‘The service I mean. When I was growing up a soldier is all I was ever going to be. My dad was in the army and his dad before him, his granddaddy before that.’
    ‘Is that a fact?’ the old man said. ‘Just get back from over there then, did you?’
    Isaac nodded.
    ‘So where is it you live?’
    ‘Right now I’ll be staying with my dad.’ He pointed. ‘Our place is way up there in the woods.’
    The old man looked the width of the cab. ‘Me, I farm a few acres a little ways south. Don’t know many people up thataway anymore, though if I was a sight more neighborly I would. Wife died a few years back and I kind of got took up with being by myself.’
    Isaac looked ahead. ‘Well, sir, maybe you can come visit. I only just got back and I aim to surprise my dad.’
    The old man said nothing further. He concentrated on the road ahead until they came to the T junction and he dropped Isaac before turning south.
    Isaac walked in the opposite direction, making his way deep into the woods with the wind getting up and the first traces of lightning scattering the landscape ahead. Dry still here, he stepped up his pace and came to the mailbox at the bottom of the drive. He paused now, squinting at a car parked a little deeper into the woods. A Ford Fairlane, two-door with Louisiana license plates, he walked over to take a closer look. There was nobody around, but he could see a briefcase on the back seat and a weighty-looking tape machine with a reel of tape loaded and a microphone clipped to the side.
    When he got to the house the front door was locked so he rang the bell but nobody came. He rang it again and still nobody came so he walked the length of the patio to the kitchen door onlyto find that was locked as well. With a shrug of his shoulders he crossed to the garage and found the door closed but not locked. Inside, his father’s Pontiac sedan was parked next to the old pickup truck, the keys to which were hanging on a hook. Fetching those, Isaac climbed behind the wheel and backed the truck out then switched off the engine and left the truck on the drive. Inside the garage again he paused to consider the metal trapdoor in the floor that was visible now the truck was gone.
    A storm shelter.