Five Miles to Paradise

7

The view that filled Heck's windshield that morning was still the soft and fuzzy muted grays and greens and browns of early dawn. There were three rivers in the county, but no big lakes. There were numerous ponds, creeks, and streams. When Heck was growing up, this spot where T-Bone's truck was found had been a popular hangout to float an inner tube, drink whiskey, or cuddle with your girlfriend beside a camp fire under the stars.

Now, it was basically forgotten.

Abandoned.

The stream-fed pond by the old mill was large and deep. It was rumored to have a healthy population of good-sized fish. Once in a while when Heck was out on patrol, he'd see a truck parked there, and he'd throw up a hand to the old fisherman trying his luck.

Any angler he'd ever spotted had always been content to cast a line from the banks. He'd never thought about it until now, but he could not remember ever seeing a small fishing boat of any kind out here on the water. Now, he wondered if he'd be dragging the pond for T-Bone in the skiff. He put such thoughts aside. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

If he came to it.

To his left was the old mill. Though the roof was sagging badly in the middle, the two-story beam and clapboard structure that had operated for over a century was still standing. The weathered boards were gray with age, but the faint red lettering – JOS. BLEAKER MILLING CO. – still clung to the side of the sign facing the road, stubbornly refusing to fade into oblivion.

The water wheel had been dismantled and carted away long ago. The scene was as tranquil as any other time Heck had driven by, but in the wee hours of morning in the dusky light of dawn, the place had an almost sinister feel about it.

Nerves, he told himself.

He felt the butterflies bang against his stomach, and he cleared his throat and spat once more into the weeds beside the car.

"Thayard!" he yelled out once more.

His headlights still shown on T-Bone's beat-up truck, and in the morning mist, it almost seemed as if the high beams lit upon something just this shy of prudence and good taste. Heck couldn't explain it, but he felt somehow he had offended the dignity of the old pickup by spotlighting her under such an unflattering aura – like spying an old lady out in the woods taking a squat.

Nonsense, he thought.

He threw his weak flashlight beam around the scene.

I hope you're o.k., T-Bone, Heck thought as he peeked into the empty cab with its torn seats and litter and tools strewn about the floor.

* * *

He searched the area for quite a while, calling out T-Bone's name until he grew hoarse. The only sounds Heck heard were those of nature and his own voice echoing back to him off the water. There was no sign of a camp site. No sign of any human presence, for that matter. The grassy areas around the truck and pond were mostly undisturbed. There was nothing that might have suggested T-Bone had been here.

Other than his truck.

There was no tackle or rods. No tin can of worms.

Heck searched the perimeter of the pond looking for anything – a discarded paper sack that might have held a sandwich or a chicken leg, the telltale 'Y' branch stuck in the mud by the water line that might mean T-Bone had rested a fishing pole there while waiting for a bite, anything that might tell him where T-Bone had been. He could find nothing.

Where the hell are you? Heck wondered, kicking at a silver spider's web in the dewy grass.

"Bone! Hey! T-Bone! You 'round here? You in the woods takin' a dump or something?" Heck yelled. "Jackbo, you hurt?"

No answer.

He hadn't expected any.

He felt the skin crawl on the back of his neck. He wondered if someone was watching – someone other than the missing old man. It was just a feeling he had. 

Now would be the perfect time to call the station for some backup, if there was anyone at the station to take the call, but his part-time deputies, Palmer Manning and Mervyn LeRoy were snug under the covers asleep.

Lately, there wasn't much reason to call them in, and times being what they were, there was more dust than money in the county's coffers. He tried to give those two boys a few days work each month, but it was hard to justify the extra expense.

 It wasn't as if their sleepy little burgh was a rat's nest where crime and violence festered and spread like contagion. Still, there would always be accidents, atrocious and unforeseen tragedies, acts of Nature, and the like, but out here in the middle of the bucolic boonies, petty theft, neighborly disagreements over trifling things, or the occasional runaway teenager or cow was what Heck was called on to deal with. 

He'd probably have more for his deputies to do once the farmers in the area finished putting in their crops. Folks with spare time on their hands and spending money in their pockets were more likely to stir up a little trouble, if Palmer and Mervyn were still around. Recently, they both had been dropping hints that they thinking about moving on to greener pastures.

Heck couldn't blame either of them. They were young, and there were certainly no career ladders to climb in the LeFayettahCounty sheriff's department. Palmer's wife, Wilda, had family back in Tennessee. Mervyn had a cousin on the force in Baltimore, and Mervyn said his cousin would be glad to put in a good word if Mervyn wanted to try and get on there.

But the way the news was coming in from Europe, it looked like Mervyn and Palmer would be carrying guns on foreign soil before they ever got a chance to do it in some other state.

Heck sure hoped neither of them would be called up. He liked those boys too much. He'd known war, having fought in the one that was supposed to end all others, but all such talk was a crock of lard. Men would start wars as long as two were left standing.

Now, the war drums were beating again across the ocean. Heck's stomach soured at the thought. War was something he would never wish on his worst enemy. But that crazy Hitler seemed hell bent on dragging the whole world back into another one. It made Heck's head spin to ponder on such things.

He shook off the feeling of watchful eyes.

Stay alert, Heck told himself. Stay focused.

He let the tips of his fingers brush the handle of his revolver. For some reason, this made him feel better. Still, he was as high strung as a winded fox with the hounds on his heels. It seemed like he saw the outlines of crouching forms throughout the woods beyond. He could only pray no one was waiting to ambush him. Heaven help him if someone was out there, intent on harm.