Heartland (23 page)

Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Heartland

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“You have it fixed yet?” Bormett called up to him.

“I'm going to have to run in to John Deere this afternoon. We've got a gear-box problem.” Horton stuffed the rag in the back pocket of his coveralls and climbed down.

“How about the others?” Bormett asked.

“They're looking pretty good. Four is going to have to be scrapped at the end of this season. W'e've just had a hell of a time with it, and I sure don't want a repeat of last year.”

Bormett was only half-listening to him now. Another thought had suddenly come to him. It wouldn't really do much good, but at least he'd know what was in the mixing tank.

“I'm going into town this afternoon,” he said. “I'll
order the parts. I have another job for you.”

Albert Straub, one of the shift foremen, came in. “Cindy says we've got some spraying to do,” he said as he joined Bormett and Horton.

“That's right,” Bormett said. “Starting this afternoon.” He turned back to Horton. “We just got the chemical this morning. I'll want it in the fields no later than Saturday evening. It's a late-afternoon blight inhibitor and pesticide. CeptCat 1-3-4.”

Horton's face lit up. “Charlie Parker was talking about it last week. I didn't think you'd be ordering it, though.”

“Well, it's here, and I want it out, starting with the east field this afternoon. Cindy is scheduling the crew right now.”

“What brought all this up, Will?” Horton asked reasonably.

Bormett started to flare up. His nerves were on the raw edge, but he held himself in check. “It's a little experiment. I think we might be able to coax out another two, maybe two and a half percent in our yield.”

Horton had a strange look on his face, but he nodded. “Sure thing, Will,” he said. “I'll get the gear-box number for you. I already called Stew. Said he had it in stock.”

For most of the morning Bormett lost himself in work, overhauling the dryers on the old Emporium farm across the highway. It wasn't until a few minutes before eleven that he came back to the farmyard. He parked behind the main chemical-storage shed, away from the house.

Inside the shed, his heart pounding, he quickly gathered up half a dozen nearly empty pesticide and fertilizer containers, and took them out to his pickup truck. He then rinsed out an old plastic gallon milk container and put it on the truck as well. Driving around to the other side of the farmyard, he stopped at the combine shed for the old gear box, then went on to the office. Cindy was eating her lunch alone.

“I'm going into Des Moines with the gear box from number seven. Tell Joseph that I'll be back around suppertime. I'll come out to see how the spraying is going. Oh, and tell Katy that I went into town.”

“I've got the crew scheduled. We can double up tomorrow after all, if you want, and finish before Saturday.”

“Sounds okay to me,” Bormett said.

Instead of heading over to the highway, he drove down to the tank farm and pulled up by the main mixing tank. He took the empty gallon jug and went around to the tank's inspection valve, where he carefully filled it and replaced the cap.

The chemical smelled like rotten eggs and made Bormett's eyes water. Whatever it was, he would know within a few days. The university agricultural laboratories in Des Moines would analyze it. The chemical would already have been sprayed on the fields. And it would be too late to do anything about it. But at least he would know.

The apartment was small and very dirty, and nothing like what Juan Carlos had expected. For nearly three stinking weeks they had remained here alone, out of contact except for Maria Soleres, the old landlady downstairs, and therefore totally out of touch with what was happening just outside their doorway.

He sat by the window looking down at the tiny rear courtyard filled with trash, holding his knees up to his chest and slowly rocking back and forth.

There had been food and some wine here when he and the others had first arrived with Vance-Ehrhardt and his wife, but within a couple of days it was gone, and the landlady began bringing their meals twice a day. But no wine.

By the sixth day there was no one left except Juan Carlos, Teva, and of course the prisoners. “You will
hold them here until your instructions come,” Maria Soleres had told them that day. “They won't give you any trouble. Just keep them tied up.”

“We are supposed to be on our way to Tripoli,” Juan Carlos had protested.

“I don't know about that,” the snaggletoothed woman had creaked. “I only know that you are to remain here. You cannot leave them alone. You must remain here. Those are your instructions.”

“Then bring us wine.”

The old woman had laughed. “No wine. You will get drunk and make a mistake. Perhaps you will shoot your guns, and PerÃ©s will be here.” She had laughed again, turned, and left.

In the second week it had seemed as if Teva were recovering from her wounds, but then in the tenth night she had had a relapse, and Juan Carlos had begun to fear that she would die.

There will come a time when you are alone, and are expected to hold a position.
The words of his instructor had come back to him.

“Then you must be strong,” Juan Carlos had mumbled out loud. “Then you must think of your brothers and sisters in the revolution, and you must be strong for them.”

That night, when the landlady had come with their supper, Juan Carlos had made her promise she would bring some medicine for Teva. “She will die without medicine,” he said. “And if that happens, I will kill the other two, and then come down and kill you.”

Within two hours, she had returned with bandages, antiseptic ointment, and penicillin tablets.

At first, Teva's condition had remained unchanged, but then on the thirteenth day her fever had broken, and
she had woken up, demanding food, although she was still disoriented and somewhat delirious.

“Juan,” she called his name weakly now. He looked away from the window, but he did not get up.

On the very first day, they had made the long tape recording. The little man had written the speech, and Vance-Ehrhardt had dutifully recited it as soon as Juan Carlos had placed a gun to his wife's head.

In a way it had been a bitter disappointment that he and Teva were not immediately going to Tripoli, yet in another way it was exciting that they were to remain to see the entire thing through.

At least it had seemed that way at first. But now, he shook his head in despair. But now, each day was nothing. Each day his anger rose, his frustration deepened, and his fear solidified that they would never leave this apartment alive.

“Juan,” Teva cried again. Her voice was weak and hoarse. Although her fever had left her, she didn't seem to regain her strength, nor did the wound in her shoulder want to heal. It was still very tender to the touch, inflamed and draining. He had to pick her up and take her in to the toilet several times a day, and he supposed that was what she was calling him for now. But she would just have to wait this time.

Then there were Vance-Ehrhardt and his whore of a wife. They had both been subdued at first, especially whenever a gun was held to the woman's head.

But they too had been losing strength. It was the food, Juan Carlos figured; even he no longer felt strong. Now they merely lay in their bed all day and all night, barely moving, even when food was brought to them.

Juan Carlos had kept them tied up until three days
ago, when the woman had gotten sick and puked all over herself. Then he had untied them both and ordered Vance-Ehrhardt to clean up his wife's mess. Since then he had let them remain untied. They were too weak to give trouble.

“Juan, please help me,” Teva cried pitifully, and Juan Carlos finally got up and went into her room.

A stench assailed his nostrils the moment he entered, and he realized with a sinking stomach that she had soiled the bed.

“I am sorry,” she cried, the tears coming to her eyes. “Oh, God, Juan, I am sorry, but I could not help it. I am so weak.”

Juan Carlos could feel tears coming to his eyes too, as he looked down at the pathetic creature on the bare mattress. She was dressed only in a bra and panties, despite the cold; her other clothing was too filthy to wear. And now the mattress was soiled, and he could see where her wound had leaked again, leaving a large, dark stain on the bandages.

In Libya, out on the hot, clean desert, their instructor had taught them to lie for hours without moving, no matter the conditions.

If a snake comes to lie down beside you, then you know you have blended with nature, and your enemies will not see you. Remember that.

But this was not Libya, nor was it the hot desert.

“Please help me, Juan,” Teva cried.

“
Uno momento, querida
,” he said tenderly, and he turned and went into the bathroom, where he ran rusty brown water into the dirty clawfoot tub. He skipped off his clothes and quickly washed them in the tub, wrung them out, and hung them over the windowsill.

Nude, he went back into the odoriferous bedroom where Teva was babbling deliriously, took a deep breath, and reached over and picked her up. He carried her into the bathroom and laid her gently in the tub.

“
Mi querido
, Juan,” she said hoarsely, opening her eyes.

Juan Carlos took off her bra and panties, and threw them in the already clogged toilet. There was no soap, but he managed to rinse her off, nevertheless, and then pulled the plug. When the filthy water had all drained, he rinsed the tub and began filling it again with lukewarm water, the hottest it would come.

“We have them,” she said loudly at one point. “They will not get away. The ransom will come.”

âThe ransom will come.” He crawled into the bathtub with her and cradled her in his arms as they sat in tandem.

“My shoulder,” she whimpered.

He shifted to the left so that he would not be touching her shoulder. She had lost a lot of weight; her tiny breasts sagged limply and her ribs stood out. She was no longer desirable, although Juan Carlos could remember in vivid detail their lovemaking over the past months. It had been wonderful.

“When we get to Tripoli,” she mumbled, lying back against him, “we'll go swimming on the beach. You will take me to the beach?”

“We'll go swimming on the beach,” Juan Carlos echoed, his heart aching.

“We're going to get out of here,” she said, stiffening in his arms. “Has he called yet?”

“He has called,” Juan Carlos lied. “We are leaving as soon as we get cleaned up and dressed.”

“We are leaving?”

“Very soon, Teva.”

Somehow she managed to turn far enough around so that she could look into his eyes. Her breath was very bad. Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “Let's do some fucking, Juan. Before we go. Make love to me.”

The tears were streaming from Juan Carlos' eyes now. “Turn around,” he said gently. “I will begin.”

“From behind?” she said. “I like that.”

He put his hands on her breasts and kneaded the nipples. She arched her back slightly.

“Juan, I love you,” she said weakly. The dressing on her wound had gotten wet, and she was bleeding very hard now.

“I love you too,” he said, running his hands up from her breasts to her neck.

She bent forward and just managed to kiss his right wrist as he brought his legs up around her waist. He locked his ankles together so that she would not be able to move away from him.

“Juan,” she said.

He closed his eyes and let his fingers find her throat. He began to squeeze, gently at first because he was finding it difficult to muster the courage, but then harder.

Her body began to squirm, and then thrash, her movements very weak as he continued to squeeze harder and harder, the tears coming from his closed eyes. “Teva,” he cried. “Teva. Teva. Teva.” He chanted her name until her pitiful struggles finally ceased.

He kept squeezing for a long time, until his fingers cramped. He unlocked his legs from around her waist, and carefully eased himself up and out of the tub, gently laying her back.

Her eyes were open, bulging out of their sockets, and blood ran from her mouth where she had bitten through her tongue. The sight was not pretty, but it didn't really matter. She was no longer Teva. Teva had died weeks ago.

He turned away from her and dried himself off, then padded into the other room, where he stood in a daze for a long time, looking at the machine guns on the floor by the couch; at the radio over which nothing came any longer; and at the remains of this morning's meal.

Nothing had come from Vance-Ehrhardt's message on the radio. No one had come here rejoicing with a message that they had won. The little man had sent no one. No one except Maria Soleres with food and medicine, but no wine.

So it was finished. Or at least in Juan Carlos' mind it was finished. He no longer cared what happened. The little man had brought this down on them. The plan had been an excellent one, the kind that always attracted world attention for the cause. But with this operation there had been only slow death. The little man had not come back. He had lied to them, had left them here. It simply was not fair.

He went into the other bedroom. Vance-Ehrhardt and his wife were lying in each other's arms. They were both awake, looking at him, Margarita's eyes wide at the sight of his nude body.

“What is happening?” Vance-Ehrhardt asked. Although his voice was weak and ragged, there was a certain dignity in it that infuriated Juan Carlos.

Juan Carlos walked around to Vance-Ehrhardt's side, doubled up his fist and struck the woman in the face
with all of his might, knocking her unconscious. In the next instant, he clamped his fingers around Vance-Ehrhardt's neck and squeezed.

The old man was not much stronger than Teva, and he battered Juan Carlos with his hands and feet, his struggles nearly overpowering. But he weakened rapidly, and after he lay still, Juan Carlos continued to squeeze.

When he was sure the old man was dead, he rolled him away from Margarita, who was just beginning to regain consciousness, and seized her neck, crushing her windpipe with the last of his waning strength. Then he crawled back into the living room and collapsed on the floor.

A large black spider had constructed an elaborate web between the rungs of a chair, and it waited in the corner for its unwary prey to come along. A scorpion, its deadly tail curved up over its head, started up the leg of the chair. The spider was unaware of the intruder. The scorpion was hunting.

Henri RiemÃ© lay in his bed, bathed in sweat, watching the life-and-death drama unfolding across the room from him. It was 1:00 P.M., the height of the Libyan afternoon, and the temperature in Tripoli was 110 degrees Fahrenheit and climbing.

There had been a change of plan. Instead of flying on to Moscow from Barcelona, to where he had made his way three weeks ago, he had been instructed to return to Tripoli and await further communiques. Which he had done, with inhuman patience. But RiemÃ© was not human, he reminded himself. He had not been human for years. He was nothing more than a killing machine.
Neither content with his lot nor dissatisfied with it. Merely accepting the fact that he functioned.

Someone knocked on his door. Moving incredibly fast, he rolled off the bed, snatched his silenced automatic from beneath his pillow, levered a round into the chamber, and flipped the safety off as he knelt to the right of the door.

“Oui?”
he called.

“It is the concierge, monsieur. Your message has arrived.”

“Oui?”
He looked into the frightened eyes of the old man.

“There are two men waiting for you downstairs. They have a car. It is time to go.”

The concierge fumbled with his words for a moment, then said, “It is time by the clocktower to go, monsieur.”

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