Hiding Behind Thunder

By Don Falloon

Davey Sutherland is racing from his past. On the run for a crime he didn’t commit, Davey is a fugitive from the law and a target for retribution. But, can a racecar outrun revenge?

Reeling from the loss of his mother to a deadly drunk-driving accident, Davey hungers to see her killer, crime boss Hector Salazar, brought to justice. But when money and clout decide otherwise, Davey unsuccessfully attacks Salazar outside the courtroom in a fit of rage.

When Salazar is later found stabbed to death, all eyes immediately fall on Davey. Under a hail of bullets, the young man flees his home to escape the murderous vengeance of Salazar's own crazed son. Without a home, and a target of Salazar's criminal organization, Davey races across the country to hide. When his money runs out, an uncharacteristic crime of opportunity lands him in jail. But, his crime may also be the key to his salvation.

A budding race team owner sees a natural talent in the would-be car thief. He offers Davey a choice: jail or the racetrack. Adopting the alias “Colt Kellogg,” Davey takes to the track, immersing himself into his new identity and career as he infiltrates the rough-and-tumble world of 1960s NASCAR. Taken under the wing of a veteran racer named “Fireball,” Davey quickly grows as a racecar driver, and as a man.

Davey gains friends, finds success, and even falls in love. But his growing notoriety also means that he can't hide his secrets forever. Still pursued by those seeking justice and those lusting for revenge, Davey Sutherland is forced to live his life HIDING BEHIND THUNDER.

A story of tragedy, triumph and redemption, the 136,000-word novel HIDING BEHIND THUNDER is equal parts mystery, adventure, and 1960s stock car racing history.

NASCAR and Grand National are trademarks of NASCAR, Inc.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Falloon
• Release date: Jun 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458100481

Don Falloon

Born in and raised all around Sacramento, CA, despite my many travels, I tend to base my novels here in the Golden State. I have many eclectic interests and experiences (race announcer, radio deejay, tour guide, car restorer, motorcyclist, and more) that are reflected in my stories, and are the reason I haven't restricted my writings to any single genre. Be it Historic NASCAR (Hiding Behind Thunder), auto racing (SPECTRUM: A Hero of a Different Color), playing a pirate at many a Renaissance Faire (The Captain of the Coin and the Lord Admiral), or simply my skewed sense of humor (Heart of Ezdar), I take whatever sparks my creativity and run with it. Enjoy the ride!

Book preview

Prologue

Ladies and Gentlemen! boomed the amplified voice through the racetrack speakers. Welcome to Riverside International Raceway and the running of the 1964 Motor Trend 500 Grand National stock car race! We’re just about fifteen minutes away from the command to start the engines and . . .

The tinny, reverberating voice of the track announcer droned on for the benefit of the spectators milling about the twisting road course. The announcer was determined to get in as much information as possible for the wandering fans as they sought out their best vantage point from which to view the day’s race. Once the race started, the thunderous noise of 44 unrestricted American V-8 engines would reduce the announcer’s descriptions of the event into nothing more than clicks and chirps peppering the ground-pounding growl of passing racecars.

For one driver in particular, the announcer’s words were quickly shuffled to the back of his mind in a whirl of anticipation and anxiety. Any focus on the day’s events was going to be enough of a challenge as the young man’s thoughts drifted away from his job at hand and instead settled upon painful memories and lingering fears.

He had been worried that coming back here to his home state of California, even for the relatively short stay surrounding the day’s NASCAR event, would re-ignite the hurt and longings that he had managed to keep in check for a while now. True to his fears, his return to the west coast had him reassessing his life as he thought about all that had happened in the past year that got him to where he was today.

A year ago, the young man was just an anonymous farm boy in California’s Central Valley, living a pretty boring but generally happy existence. Today, though, he was a promising young rookie sitting behind the wheel of a 500 horsepower, 2-ton race car and about to start his third race of the 1964 NASCAR Grand National season, and only the tenth race of his young career. A career that never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined himself involved in. An unexpected livelihood that had given him a new lease on life after his old one was cruelly ripped away from him, along with his beloved home and family.

The young driver closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to free his mind of the ghosts of his past, sorely needing to get his mind back on this day, this place. The here-and-now. Anything less than his full attention behind the wheel of his stock car would easily cost him any shot at a good finish. It could even get him killed.

Focus, focus, focus!

Reaching into the left breast pocket of his uniform shirt, the driver pulled out a white 3x5 note card that had been slipped in there by his crew chief just moments before. Written in blue ink was a note from the young driver’s boss that read, ‘Drive it like you stole it - S.H.’. The driver smiled knowingly and snorted a laugh before sliding the card back into his pocket to join the chicken wishbone already there as the announcer’s voice caught his attention.

. . . and behind the wheel of the blue, number 93 Mercury . . . in the sixteenth starting position . . . from Lebanon, Tennessee . . . Colt Kellogg!

The young man known in racing circles as Colt Kellogg stuck his left arm out of the driver’s window and waved his hand, blindly acknowledging any fans that may or may not be looking for him from out in the stands. He was certain that he didn’t really have any fans out here on the west coast that knew him, this Tennessean racer named Colt Kellogg. Even if the announcer had introduced him by his real name, he seriously doubted there was anyone sitting out there who would know the real him. But it was still a chance he couldn’t take.

Colt Kellogg was back in his home state, but only passing through. But he might as well have been on the moon for all the closer it made him feel to the home he had to leave behind under the cover of darkness only six months prior, back when he was just a small-town California farm boy named Davey Sutherland . . .

Chapter 1

Eight months earlier

The soft crunching of tires rolling on gravel can be a comforting sound to someone lying restless in bed, waiting for the muted rumble that announces a loved one has made it safely home. Such a welcome indication of safe arrival is common, say, to a parent waiting on pins and needles for the return of their teenaged driver. In this instance, though, it was the teenage son laying anxiously in wait for his mother’s return.

Davey knew that it was silly to be such a worrywart; the seventeen-year-old son fretting over his mother and her late-night bingo games. But when your mom is the only family you have, it’s easy to feel a little apprehensive when you can’t sleep, glancing time and again at your bedside clock, wondering what might be keeping her almost two hours later than her usual arrival from her Friday night out with her bingo pals. So, that telltale crunch of rubber on gravel of his mom’s car approaching the house lent welcome relief to an anxious son.

But, from the sound of things, Davey’s mom was driving up to the house at a brisk pace; surprising since she was certainly no speed demon. To her, speed limits weren’t numbers you simply matched with your speedometer as you drove. No, they were a limit and not necessarily a minimum requirement. Driving 35 in a 50 zone was perfectly fine with her, no matter how much it drove Davey absolutely nuts as he rode with her, horns blaring from the frustrated drivers stuck behind them.

Davey broke from his brief daydream when the car came to a hard stop in front of the house, braking heavily enough to dig into the gravel and further grabbing his attention. He heard a car door open and close, yet noticed that the engine was still running. Throwing back the covers, Davey turned to climb out of bed to greet his mom and see what was up. But his ears didn’t pick up the expected creak and squeal of the front door opening and closing. The house was instead filled with the staccato crash of knuckles knocking hard on the heavy oak door.

Davey headed out of his room as the continued knocking evolved into a heavy pounding. Yellow-white headlight beams streamed through the front room windows, casting dark shadows in their wake. Davey hastened his pace, if only to stave off the insistent knocking, and lashed his hand out towards the knob. He yanked the door open, revealing the shadowed outline of a tall man harshly backlit by the lights of the idling car in the drive.

Davey… croaked a pained male voice.

Davey strained for a moment to place the voice, then responded: Sheriff Reyes?

Your mother, Davey… she’s been in an accident.

Racing through the night at Code 3, the patrol car’s piercing siren competed with the deep roar of its motor as Sheriff Reyes pushed the big Dodge Polara as hard as he dared. It was well after 1:00 am and the highway was relatively clear, but Reyes was clearly determined to get Davey to his mother’s bedside as quickly as possible. That only served to unnerve the young man even more about the potential extent of her condition.

Although Davey’s mind was caught up in his own swirl of dread and the fear of the unknown, he knew he wasn’t alone in his concerns for his mother’s welfare. He could easily imagine what the sheriff might be thinking and feeling at that moment, too. Since their first meeting just after Davey’s grandmother died, Sheriff Reyes had made it a point to visit him and his mother whenever he could, eventually opening up about his feelings for the single mom. They became good friends, even dating for a while, and the sheriff’s regular visits gave Davey a bit of a father figure to look up to. But, while Reyes wanted things to grow more serious between them, the feelings were not requited by Davey’s mother. That didn’t stop Reyes from trying, though.

Only the siren and high-revved engine provided sound as no words traveled between Davey and the sheriff throughout the trip. They were each focused solely upon their own thoughts; Reyes with his hurried race with time and distance, and Davey with his mental whirlwind of dread, hope and anxiety. Davey wanted only for the whole experience to be the prelude of a bad nightmare, one in which he’d snap awake to be greeted by the reassuring sound of his mother coming through the front door, and into the sanctuary of their home.

Davey was jerked back to the moment when Reyes turned the cruiser hard off of the highway. He accelerated through the downtown district then reached down and switched off the roof lights and siren as they reached the Emergency driveway of Fresno Community Hospital.

The cruiser had barely come to a stop when Davey flung open his door and bolted from the car before Reyes even had the chance to switch off the ignition. He rushed through the doors of the Emergency foyer, racing to find his mother before… no, he didn’t want to even imagine what might be in store for his beloved mother. But once inside the hospital, Davey came to a panicked stop and his eyes began to well with tears.

Can I help you, young man? called out a female orderly.

My mama, croaked Davey in a labored pant of breath. I want to see my mom.

Calm down, son. Who’s your mother? pressed the woman.

Davey’s brain suddenly locked up in a mix of panic and confusion, and he couldn’t think of any name other than ‘mama’. By then, Sheriff Reyes had stepped up behind Davey and informed the nurse, Sutherland. Bonnie Sutherland.

The orderly’s face went blank, but not from any failure to recognize the name. The auto accident, she replied, resignation heavy in her voice.

Davey read the immediate sadness in the woman’s eyes and his heart stopped. No… she’s not…

The woman reached out, placing a calming hand on Davey’s trembling hand. She’s alive, son, she said softly. Number five.

Davey tore away from Reyes and the orderly, charging towards the curtained-off number 5 bed. Once Davey darted away, Reyes quietly asked the woman, What . . . what’s the prognosis?

There isn’t any, replied the nurse sadly. She isn’t expected to last the morning.

Davey’s tennis shoes chirped on the linoleum floor as he stopped short at the heavy curtain. The look on the orderly’s face moments earlier only compounded Davey’s fears. His stomach was churning; he felt like he was going to throw up. He couldn’t even be sure if he was breathing. Davey steeled himself and strained to take as deep a breath as he could, then reached out to the curtain with a trembling hand.

Davey didn’t think it was possible to have so many bandages wrapped all over a person’s body and for them not to be a full-out mummy. He strained to accept the surreal, sterile scene, so foreign it appeared to him as if he had stepped out of his world and into some parallel universe. Staring at the unidentifiable body bound in a prison of white gauze, Davey felt as if he was in some unsettling episode of The Twilight Zone as he thought, Is that really my mama in there?

Davey was afraid to approach the hospital bed, as if walking across the room to the bedside would make the whole thing all the more real. He thought that, maybe if he remained in the shadows of the partitioning curtain, the cold scene he was witnessing would be reduced to nothing more than a frightening image from a horrid dream. Maybe the impression the orderly gave him was wrong; maybe Davey read more into the woman’s eyes and things weren’t as bad as they seemed and his mother would survive the night and recover and . . .

Swallowing hard and fighting with a lump in his throat that felt as if a huge, dry stone was lodged there, Davey moved towards the hospital bed with slow, soft steps, sneaking up on a reality that he didn’t want to believe. Even as he inched closer to the bed he still found himself unable to recognize the person lying there. With all of the bandages and bruising, Davey couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman lying on the bed. He thought, hoped, that maybe he was looking in on the wrong bed; the wrong person. He acknowledged that, sure, this poor person fit the general height and size of his mother, but could it really be her? Could this really be the same beautiful woman who just hours ago kissed him good-bye and told him to be careful as she left the home for her night out?

Scarcely breathing, Davey stood at the bedside gazing down on the frail form, his mind still failing – or refusing – to recognize the broken body as the woman who made his dinner before driving off to join her friends for her weekly Bingo diversion at the community church. But any hopes Davey might have clung to that this poor person wasn’t really his mom were quickly dashed when she painfully shifted her body and fought to open her eyes.

As her eyelids fluttered open, she appeared to strain at focusing on the cold world around her. Her gaze traveled about the room while her eyes blinked and squinted to assess her starkly lit surroundings until they fell upon Davey’s frightened face. Once their eyes met, his mother’s telltale twinkle appeared, instilling the young man with a brief moment of joy at her recognition of him just before rending his heart with the undeniable reality this it was, in fact, his mother laying there battered and bruised and barely hanging onto life.

Hey, punkin, Davey’s mother whispered through a pained but genuine smile.

Hey, mama, he croaked in reply, his acknowledgment immediately filling his eyes with the tears he had been fighting to hold back.

Are you okay, Davey?

Davey wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to break down crying. How does one reply to that? What is it about a mother and her amazing ability to ignore her own pain because she’s more concerned with the comfort of her child? No matter the aches in his mother’s life – a headache, a cold, the flu, a fractured wrist – the minute Davey appeared hurt or even the least bit uncomfortable his mom immediately recovered more than enough to cheerfully take care of his tiniest concern, shutting out her own discomforts until she was satisfied that he no longer required her every ounce of focus . . . at least until his next bump or scrape or tummy ache demanded her loving care and attention.

I’m . . . I’m okay, mama, he lied as a pair of errant tears trickled down his cheeks. You? How? stammered Davey, unable to bring himself to ask his mother how she was feeling because he was afraid to really know.

Mama hurts a bit, punkin, she whispered hoarsely, reading his thoughts the way mothers are wont to do. I think I . . . might have . . . gotten a little hurt.

It looks like . . . you . . . Davey had to stop trying to talk or he’d completely lose it, and his mother astutely picked up on it.

I’m sorry, baby, she said with a forced attempt at a chuckle. I must look a fright like this.

Davey shook his head.

No mama . . . you’re still beautiful . . . to me.

You never were a good liar, punkin, she whispered, her sweet smile passing over her bruised lips once more. It’s good to know you haven’t gotten any better at it as you’ve grown up.

I could never lie to you, mama, Davey said softly as he bent forward to gently kiss his mother’s bandaged forehead. I love you too much to ever lie to you.

Then tell me the truth, baby, she pleaded as tears threatened to flow. Do I have . . . any chance . . . of ever leaving . . . here?

Davey wanted to tell her ‘yes’ and string his mother along with some hope for a miracle, but the empty look of the orderly’s eyes only minutes ago somehow told him that his mother wasn’t coming home ever again. He wanted to skirt the truth as if the denial of her broken state would somehow put her on a road to a heaven-sent recovery.

Davey could try to lie, but his sweet mother would see right through it.

I . . . I don’t think so, mama, he squeaked out before breaking down with heavy sobs.

I didn’t think so, either, punkin, replied his mom with a soft sob of her own. "But I need . . . I needed to hear you say it. I need you to . . . accept it."

No, mama!

For me, Davey. Please.

Davey was in no position to argue, and even if he was, to what end? These would be the last moments he would have with his mother. Granting her a simple wish of accepting that a life, no matter how special or critical it was to one other person on this earth, must one day come to an end . . . wasn’t that the least a son could give his mother?

Okay, mama, he sobbed. For you.

Thank you, punkin, she replied with what looked to be a relieved smile, as if Davey possessed the sole power to grant his mother the permission she needed to move on.

I love you, mama, he whispered.

Davey’s mother suddenly strained to sit up, her eyes widening in fear and pain, their twinkle gone.

Hold me, Davey!

Davey quickly leaned forward and scooped his mother into his arms as her hands flailed to find purchase.

I . . . love you, punkin, rasped his mother as her body convulsed hard and her breath caught in her throat as she strained to stifle a pained scream.

His tears raining down his face, Davey hugged his mother as tightly as he dared as her body trembled in his embrace, her fingers clutching at his arms until her grip softened and her last breath slowly flowed from her lungs. Her body went heavy and limp in Davey’s arms as he cradled his mother in her last moments in this world with the same loving embrace with which she had held him when he entered it.

Then, as gently as was humanly possible, Davey let his mother’s body settle back into the hospital bed, carefully sliding his arms out from underneath her. As he stood upright again, the curtain moved and the orderly entered, heading to the opposite side of the bed and busying herself with the textbook tasks required of her after a patient’s passing. She kept her face turned away so Davey would not see that her cheeks were almost as damp with tears as his. Davey did see a sign of the woman’s sympathy, though, as what little eye make-up she wore was now slightly smeared from the wiping of her tears. It helped a little to know that he was not alone in his grief.

Mercifully, the more Davey looked at his mother’s lifeless form laying on the bed, the less it looked like her. It was a confirmation that the spirit that made his mother special was truly gone, yet he couldn’t quite find the strength to leave until a pair of shaky hands came to rest on his shoulders.

Come on, son, Sheriff Reyes said delicately near Davey’s ear. It’s time to leave.

Davey nodded and turned to face Reyes. Like the kindly orderly, the sheriff’s normally hard-lined face was also painted with the moist evidence of his sorrow. Reyes gently steered Davey towards the small opening in the curtain, nudging him through it and away from the bed.

Finally out of tears, Davey said softly, I’m gonna miss my mama.

There are many people who will miss your mother, Davey, Reyes said with a reassuring pat on the shoulder as they stepped away from bed number 5 and out into the ER hallway. The emergency room was still abuzz with activity, but somehow seemed strangely quiet, save for the plaintive voice of an angry man just a few beds over.

It was hard at first to make out what the man was saying, only that he was clearly agitated, and maybe even a little intoxicated. As Davey and Reyes neared bed number 8, the words of the man within, although still a bit slurred, became clearer.

Why’n hell is nobody helping me? the voice called out angrily. I’m hurt, godammit!

Yeah, so are a lot of people, thought Davey, fighting to keep his own pain and bitterness in check.

For crissakes, what does it take to get a broken arm fixed aroun’ here? bellowed the man, sounding more impatient than hurt.

Maybe it was still the pain of his mother’s senseless loss that was tainting Davey’s perspective, but he couldn’t help but feel that the man was angry because he was a selfish lout who thought himself more deserving than others needing emergency services at that moment.

Reyes must have felt the same, because his fingers were starting to tighten and dig into Davey’s shoulders as he pushed the boy along.

Get somebody in here, godammit! barked the man.

The curtain surrounding bed number 8 was brusquely pushed open and a large and apparently unhurt man stepped through, angrily calling out, Somebody better get in here and take care of my father before someone gets sued!

Davey and the sheriff walked past the now-open curtain, glancing in at a heavy-set man with a receding hairline and bleary eyes, his face and scalp peppered with tiny spots of blood, holding his right arm as he winced and moaned. Yeah, maybe he was in pain, but it was quite clear, to Davey at least, that the man was going to survive his injuries.

What are you looking at? growled the sturdily built man just outside the curtain. He looked as if he might even step over and lash out at Davey until his eyes shifted and he recognized the presence of law enforcement in Sheriff Reyes, effectively shutting the man up.

Get out of the hallway, Eli, Reyes snarled as he and Davey walked on by.

You know him, Sheriff? Davey asked over his shoulder.

Know both of them, replied Reyes through what sounded like clenched teeth. The father is slime; the son is just psycho.

Reyes nudged Davey through the ER foyer doors he had rushed through a short time earlier, and up to another officer waiting outside with an idling sheriff’s cruiser just at the curb.

Sheriff, said the officer with a nod, acknowledging his ranking senior.

Kenny, this here’s Davey Sutherland. Reyes said. I want you to take him home and see to it that he stays there and gets some rest.

Yes, sir, Kenny replied. Then looking at Davey with sympathetic eyes, he said, I’m really sorry about your mom.

Davey turned around, stunned. You-you’re not taking me home?

No, son, he replied. I have some business to finish up here.

Davey nodded and then said, At some point, I’ll have to know what happened.

At some point, I’ll tell you, replied Reyes. But for now, like I said, get home and try to get some rest.

The other officer opened the passenger door of his idling cruiser for Davey as he stepped in and dropped down into the seat like a sack of potatoes. The door was gently closed and Davey looked back at Reyes as the sheriff stomped back into the ER with hard, angry steps.

Where’s he going? Davey asked as Kenny sat down behind the wheel.

All I can tell you is that it’s police business, replied the officer as he dropped the transmission lever and headed off towards Davey’s home.

Sheriff Reyes walked hard and fast through the emergency room, nearly stomping on the linoleum floor as his heels thudded with each determined step. He turned the corner and threw the curtain of bed number 8 aside. The man inside was finally getting his injured arm taken care of, but it wouldn’t have mattered one bit to Reyes if the man was screaming and on the brink of death.

What the hell are you doing, Sheriff? barked Eli.

Reyes didn’t even acknowledge the younger man, pushing the attending doctor harshly aside as he bent down and put his face right into that of the whiny man with the broken arm.

Hector Salazar, Reyes hissed coldly. You are under arrest for driving while intoxicated, resulting in the death of Bonnie Lynn Sutherland, you son of a bitch.

Chapter 2

From the moment he walked through the door of the house after his return from the hospital and over the next 48 hours, Davey was no more a part of the world than his departed mother. Like a plane on autopilot, he simply went through the motions of life when the need for normal bodily functions or food that held no interest for him took over. Other than that, he simply curled up in a fetal position on his bed, sleeping in fits and starts.

Sheriff Reyes regularly dropped by to check up on Davey but chose not to disturb him just yet, knowing that everyone must tend to their grief in their own way. But, he could only give him so much time. Davey was a couple months shy of being a legal adult and over the years had demonstrated himself to be one of the most mature young men he’d known, enough so that Reyes often suggested to him that he consider becoming a sheriff’s officer once he finished school. To see the boy regress like this over the loss of his mother was unacceptable for someone with such potential. Now it was time to focus on living, and that had to start with making arrangements for the funeral.

Dammit, Davey, Reyes barked at the depressed young man still curled up in his bed, "it’s time for you to rejoin the world of the living, and that starts today."

Davey eventually got moving, but Reyes felt as if he was keeping company with a zombie as the pair – mostly the sheriff – took care of the funeral arrangements, the announcement in the paper, details with the banks and the utilities . . . all of the things that made the death of Bonnie Lynn Sutherland all the more real and all the more final; things that would eventually help Davey to finally accept that she was gone.

Despite Reyes’ doubts, Davey knew that his mother was gone. But, despite his promises to her, that didn’t make her death acceptable.

Everyone said that it was a modest, but lovely service. Davey wouldn’t really know.

From the moment that he sat down on the hard metal folding chair at his mom’s graveside at Arbor Vitae Cemetery, he became just another decoration, as barely alive as the wreaths and potted flowers that swayed lightly in the late Spring breeze that rolled through the lush cemetery.

Davey didn’t want to be there; in many respects he didn’t think it necessary. True, the dark-stained, polished wood casket was now home to her body, but to Davey his mom wasn’t in there. If she was anywhere, it was within him and would always be. He didn’t need to hear Pastor Ingram pontificate about ashes and dust and jars of clay to come to grips with her passing. What Davey now wanted would have to wait; it wasn’t going to come as part of a funeral ceremony.

Reyes suggested that Davey should plan to speak at the funeral, but the boy knew he wouldn’t last but a few words, if that. The sheriff then agreed to speak on Davey’s behalf, but he told him that it was up to the young man to pen the words.

Davey agonized over what needed to be said versus what people expected to hear for the two days between him and Reyes choosing the casket and finalizing the funeral arrangements – in which Davey was adamant that it be a closed casket service – and the morning of the service.

Pastor Ingram finished his religious oratory and stepped back, giving Davey the chance to come forward. The young man didn’t budge from his seat. His only movement was to pull a small ivory-colored envelope from inside his suit jacket and turn it upwards as Sheriff Reyes, dressed in his full formal uniform, rose and gently plucked the envelope from Davey’s unresisting fingers.

On behalf of Davey and myself, Reyes began, we appreciate your attendance here, your kind display of love and support, and your honoring the memory of a truly special lady who will be sorely missed. Davey has asked that I speak on his behalf, and I am proud to do so.

Reyes opened the envelope and fought briefly to hide his disappointment as he pulled out a small sliver of paper, surely too small to adequately share a son’s love for his mother. Taking a long breath, Reyes read from the small sheet:

It has been said that there are angels here on earth; that they are among us and all around us, and we might see them if only we looked hard enough. I was lucky. I never had to look hard to find an angel. From the moment I first opened my eyes in this world, I saw mine. And I still do.

The only sound that followed was the faint rustle of the branches of the nearby pines in the breeze as Reyes tenderly folded up Davey’s note, suddenly unable to speak another word of his own.

The mourners, many of whom Davey didn’t really know, and likely still wouldn’t come to know after this day, left quietly and faded away. Davey chose not to remain graveside as they lowered his mother’s casket, heading intentionally in a direction opposite from the rest of the people to avoid having to hear any more ‘I’m sorrys’, or ‘you have my sympathies’, or whatever. He wanted simply to get back to the business of being by himself with his thoughts.

But, Davey wasn’t about to be left alone. Believing they could read the thoughts manifesting in the mind of the angry young man, Sheriff Reyes and Pastor Ingram hurried to catch up with Davey.

Davey, my son, said the pastor as he neared the young man, I ask that you not hate God for the loss of your dear mother.

Davey stopped in his tracks and turned to the pastor with a stony gaze. I don’t hate God, he replied coolly. Why would you say that?

Young people who have lost a parent often blame God for their loss and turn away from the church in their anger, when it is at that time they need God the most in their lives.

Davey shook his head in disbelief.

"How can I hate a God who gave me the most wonderful mother in the world? God didn’t take her from me. If I hate anyone, it’s the man who took her away from me."

Davey, your hatred, while understandable, is a poison, Ingram stressed. It will eat you alive. You cannot let it take control of your life.

It will only control me until I see Hector Salazar go to jail . . . or die.

That’s not the kind of talk we need to hear from you, chided Reyes.

I understand the need to deal with your grief; your anger, Davey, pressed the pastor. But you’re speaking the words of a fool when you talk like that. Let Sheriff Reyes and the law deal with Salazar. That’s what they’re paid to do. The Salazar family is a battle you do not want to take on yourself.

Pastor Ingram is right, Davey, said Reyes. From here on out, you’re not to concern yourself with what happens to Hector Salazar, good or bad. Let the law and the District Attorney do their jobs and focus on getting your life back on track. No one can argue that Salazar deserves to be behind bars for what he did. You don’t need to be because of a stupid act of revenge.

What if Salazar doesn’t go to jail? snapped Davey. What if he somehow gets off? Is revenge my option then?

Revenge should never be an option, Ingram said dutifully, almost automatically.

Sheriff, back at the hospital you told me that you would eventually tell me how this happened. Maybe I haven’t been acting very grown up lately, but I still have a right to know, don’t I?

Reyes took a deep breath, looking at the ground as he mulled over what he knew and what the boy should be let in on. He shook his head as if fighting an urge to remain silent as a means of protecting the young adult, then said, "What do you really know of Salazar, Davey?"

I know he killed my mom, the young man replied as tears began to well in his eyes. What else is there to know?

You need to know that Hector Salazar is someone you really don’t want to be on the bad side of.

Not much is known about Hector Salazar’s early life in Mexico. Immigrating to California in the late 1920s, he devoted his efforts to becoming part of America and a part of the community, quickly learning English and assimilating himself into his new country. Like anyone with a dream of making a life in this new home he actively searched for work in any industry and took on jobs and assignments as they became available.

Unfortunately, Salazar had immigrated to the United States just before the country tumbled into one of its bleakest periods; the Great Depression. Jobs were scarce for everyone; even a legal immigrant. When one of the few jobs in the area came available, he not only had to compete amongst hundreds of other men scrambling to feed their families, he also had to contend with blatant discrimination because of his ethnicity.

Salazar had demonstrated skills in carpentry and masonry, skills that were only needed by people of luxury in that dark time. But, even in the toughest of times, people have to eat. A farmer in that period was only barely making a living, but he still couldn’t do it all himself. Somebody had to help with the harvesting while the crops were good and ripe for the picking, so Hector Salazar took on any job he could in the dusty fields of California’s Central Valley.

The meager pay was almost laughable, even for the lean times. But there was the added benefit of having a few food items thrown in that made the hard work for such small wages tolerable. Eventually, as the government stepped in to purchase more food for distribution to those in need, the farmer needed more workers. Once this was mentioned in passing, Salazar’s mind went to work.

It wasn’t long before Salazar became a friend of the farmers with promises of providing cheap Mexican labor for a small fee. He knew that he had a virtually unlimited supply of workers that were available and willing to move to this country at the first hint of steady work in a new land, even with the economy barely scraping along. So, Salazar collected a finder’s fee from the farmers and an employment fee from the Mexican workers jumping at an opportunity to emigrate into the US.

Word of his early success, while heavily embellished at first, was enough to generate hope in a lot of needy people in Mexico with dreams of a new life, enough that he could soon demand a high price with even the slightest promise of work. Eventually, Salazar’s empire grew as he became involved in the physical transportation of the hopeful masses across the border, distribution of laborers to individual farming districts, serving as their payroll coordinator, and eventually their bank.

Salazar chose the town of Fresno as his headquarters, placing himself in the center of California’s rich agricultural region and steering clear of the growing Los Angeles Mexican gangs. With so many workers at his disposal, he also had ready-made clients for whom he made available illegal alcohol, gambling, and even a supply of accommodating ladies. Before long, the services that Hector Salazar was offering his pool of laborers were also desired by the farmers, and more.

Complaints were few, even in the most serious of circumstances. After all, these workers who were illegally in the United States were less likely to complain to local authorities for fear of reprisals both from the police and the growing army of Salazar’s own enforcers. This undertow of fear also kept the many non-immigrant people who enjoyed Salazar’s offerings in line as well.

Despite the hinted-at dangers of crossing Salazar, his organization was not to be confused with a violent group such as the prison-based Mexican mafia known as La Eme, but a true entrepreneurial enterprise. Salazar made his desired products and services available to anyone who was interested and he didn’t need to strong-arm people into taking what he had to offer. He didn’t let greed be his driving force and had no intentions of wrapping his tentacles around every illegal business venture conceivable. He made no attempts at buying any politician he could gain an audience with, tended to fly under the radar of law enforcement, and he made it a point to stay out of the limelight.

Hector Salazar was an American success story.

When you live and do business on the edge of the law, you also need someone working for you who understands the law enough to twist it, bend it, subvert it, and use it to your advantage when circumstances demanded it. Filling that need, a critical piece of Salazar’s organization rested in the hands of a ruthless Bakersfield lawyer named Abel Hatch. After successfully defending Salazar in a couple of earlier scrapes with the law, at Salazar’s insistence – and generous offers – Hatch agreed to give up his private practice to serve as Salazar’s corporate and personal attorney.

Hector Salazar ran a business that needed no advertising; succeeding and profiting by word of mouth. If you wanted to deal with Salazar or take advantage of the services he had to offer, then you approached him. If you didn’t wish to involve yourself with the man and didn’t cause Salazar any trouble for him or his organization, you’d generally never know he was there. But if you crossed him or were perceived as a threat to his empire, there literally was hell to pay.

The person most willing to collect on such debts was Salazar’s only child, Eliseo. The hot-headed young man – some might rightly suggest outright loco – had no qualms about playing the part of enforcer on behalf of the family organization. Fact was, he relished the role and the sense of power he enjoyed from throwing his weight around.

A number of people believed that much of Eli’s anger was borne of the absence of a mother, her having vanished while Eli was a toddler. Some say she just up and left the family, while others whispered rumors that Hector himself had something to do with her mysterious disappearance. Regardless of the reasons for her absence, it clearly had an effect on Eliseo Salazar.

Hector Salazar could be dangerous when crossed. His son, on the other hand, needed no reason or excuse.

Davey, no one’s been able to lay a finger on Hector Salazar until now, Reyes explained. If any sense, any value can be placed on the loss of your mother, it’s that we finally have something we can pin on him; something he brought on himself. If you challenge him or go after him, you’re only putting yourself and the D.A.’s case at serious risk.

So I do nothing? Davey asked, seething.

You let the law do its job. Nothing more.

Fists clenched and white, teeth grinding, Davey turned away to hide the tears that again threatened to erupt.

Please take me home.

The drive home from the cemetery was reminiscent of that fateful midnight trip barely a week past. Although the sense of urgency and trepidation wasn’t there this time, words still remained