Page 19 of His Wounded Heart

I leave Bernie cackling on the front porch as I let myself into his home. I grab the beer out of his fridge and think about what he’s said. Bernie is a cagey bastard. His presentation style reminds me of Josiah; you’ll be talking to the man about one thing and by the end of the conversation you’ll find out you’d just volunteered for something completely different. I can’t wait to find out what Bernie has in mind.

I twist off the top of one of the bottles and hand it to Bernie and he nods his thanks. I settle back down in my chair. “So, whatcha got?”

“Before I get into that, tell me the other thing that brings you up here.”

“I’m looking for a man. He’s thirty-one, half-Peruvian, half-Caucasian, six feet, two inches tall, dark brown hair, he’s heavily muscled. His name is Renzo Drakos. His brother sent him this way when he was having some issues. Told him this would be a good place to wind down.”

“Not another damned Navy SEAL,” Bernie grouses.

“No, he’s in construction. He’s done well for himself. That’s about all I know, except Jase is worried because Renzo hasn’t called their mom in four months, and that’s not like him. So, I said I would go and check on him.”

“Well, that dovetails nicely with what I want to talk to you about.”

“The thing you’re going to try to sucker me into?”

He points his pipe stem at me again, and sparks fly. “That’d be it.” He grins.

“It’s not a lot. I need you to be my driver and the muscle as I make the rounds to all the mountain folk. I haven’t visited them in five weeks, what with the gout and all, and I know some of them are getting real low on supplies. Now some of them just need to get off their asses and get it them damn selves, but some of them have really gotten on up there in years and need my help, and that’s where you come in.”

I vaguely remember a conversation I’d heard at the grocery store, something about one of the mountain people coming in and expecting a hand-out. It was yet another conversation that I’d dismissed. I did not, and do not, want to get involved in Jasper Creek politics.

“How do you know what they need?”

“It’s the twenty-first century, they all have satellite phones, excepting for Junior. He knows the government is listening, so he won’t use them.”

I close my eyes. Hell, I know some of the special forces operators in the Navy who will use nothing but satellite phones because they feel like every other phone out there is being monitored. “What happens if he injures himself and he needs a doctor?”

“Doesn’t care. You kind of have to admire his thinking. It wasn’t so long ago that people were crossing the country in wagon trains, a lot of them survived and thrived without today’s technology.”

I shrug. He’s right. There are times out in the field when technology doesn’t mean shit; you have to depend on your physical and mental abilities as you literally fight to survive. Still doesn’t mean that you can’t worry about a man named Junior or two nice old ladies who hand-stitch rugs.

“While we’re out, we can see if anyone has spotted Renzo.”

Bernie shakes his head and gives me a condescending look. “Nothing goes on in these mountains that these folks don’t know about. I’ve been getting calls and reports about this boy since almost the day he arrived.”

I should have figured that.

“The tent he’s living in is first class, he obviously came to stay for a while. According to Azariah, he’s a better hunter with a longbow than anybody he’s ever seen. Doubt he has a hunting license, though.”

Bernie starts in with that cackle again, then it turns into such a terrible cough that I think he might hack out a lung. Doesn’t stop him from firing up his pipe again.

“Has anyone talked to him?” I ask.

“Nah. It’s clear he wants to be left alone, so none of us bother him. But Bertha won’t last much longer. She can’t abide someone living in the cold all alone. She’s going to push her nose into his business, you just wait and see.”

“Who’s Bertha?”

“You’ll meet her when we do our run. She’s the furthest out, even further than Junior.”

“Who lives with Bertha?”

“Ain’t nobody lives with Bertha. Her husband passed thirty years ago, and nobody’s brave enough to court her.”

“How old is she?”

Bernie sucked on his pipe. “Upwards of seventy, maybe eighty.”

This did not sound like a good set-up, but who was I to judge? Plenty of people in war-torn countries have it a lot worse.