Ded Reckoning: Vengeance Takes a Road Trip

By Larry "Animal" Garner

DED Reckoning is the much-anticipated sequel to D-E-D, DEAD. This new novel follows Eric "Hammer" Thorssen as he heads west from Alabama in search of distance between himself and the mayhem he initiated, as well as the woman whose heart he broke.

Riding into the San Luis Valley of Colorado in search of a long-postponed visit with his great-uncle Sam seems to be just the ticket for some peace and quiet. The secluded mountain valley is split by the Rio Grande, lush with farms and surrounded by the Rocky Mountains. But there is also evil in these mountains, as he soon discovers. The deadly scourge of methamphetamine has taken root in this beautiful Alpine valley, and Hammer discovers a childhood playmate is at the heart of the problem.

While settling into his new home, Hammer finds out that one of his band of Alabama meth busters is missing and volunteers to help find him. The resulting search leads Hammer to some startling revelations concerning his old playmate.

There is plenty of action, interspersed with sexy shenanigans and snarky humor. DED Reckoning is one man's crusade against evils real and imagined, propelled by high-octane fuel and gunpowder. Join in the action as Hammer and his new band of brothers and sisters once again takes on those who profit from the misery of others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry "Animal" Garner
• Release date: Dec 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370866052

Larry "Animal" Garner

Larry "Animal" Garner was born and raised in Colorado. An inveterate gearhead and story-teller, he has published three vigilante justice crime/mystery novels, D-E-D, DEAD, DED Reckoning: Vengeance takes a road trip, and Danger Every Direction. Animal (a nickname from his US Navy days) is also a long-time charity fund-raiser, community organizer, and patriot.Over the last forty-five years, he has seen much of America from the back of a motorcycle. He is currently living in the high mountains of Colorado with his wife Marcia.

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Prologue

January 12, 1992

The temperature on the floor of the Valley is nearly thirty degrees below zero. The wind chill is closer to fifty below. I can hear the snot freezing in my nostrils. The cold seems a living thing, determined to freeze every last cell in my body. Normally, I would be snug in bed with my woman, but tonight is different. Tonight I’m going to kill somebody. Hopefully a few somebodies. We’ll see how things go.

I’m wedged into a little trough I dug in the snow, watching for anything that might change our plans. There are five vehicles parked along the east end of the long narrow garage building. The people we’re after have been in there alone for nearly an hour. If something doesn’t change my mind in the next seven minutes, I’ll give the signal to move in.

Travis is off to my right sixty yards away and in much the same posture as I am. We’re wearing military surplus arctic goggles, snowsuits, and boots, with fur-lined hoods on the parkas and extra liners in the boots. Our gloves are the best we could find, but the inactivity is letting the cold stiffen up our fingers and the wind is dead set on freezing our eyes shut.

I actually thought until a few months ago that I might be past this type of action. I had made a conscious effort to insulate myself from those following me and those who, by their daily actions, fairly cry out to be exterminated. My new leaf didn’t stay turned for long, though. Even in this remote mountain valley, there are monsters. The scum we’re watching and their late partners finally got through my defenses. In order to avenge the countless lives destroyed by the poison they spread, I’ve made their painful demise my primary goal in life.

Here we go again…

Chapter One

Monte Vista, Colorado

August 3, 1991

I didn’t set out this morning to get run down by a crazy old geezer in a 1957 International Harvester pickup, but I damned near got the job done.

I was riding my bike along the north side of the Rio Grande, somewhere between Alamosa and Monte Vista in the San Luis Valley of Colorado, searching for my great-uncle Sam’s old homestead. I’d ridden into the Valley, a mostly-flat, eight thousand square mile depression on top of the Rocky Mountains in southern Colorado, from Taos, New Mexico a few hours ago, where I had just spent a couple of relaxed weeks.

The ride along the rural two-lane road had been very pleasant, with very little traffic and beautiful scenery to admire as I knifed through the clear mountain air. I stopped in a little town called Fort Garland to walk around the old army fort and study some of Kit Carson’s exploits in the area. Heading west toward Alamosa on US 160, the road became much wider and busier. Eighteen-wheelers, huge motor-homes, motorcycles, and every description of SUV and car seemed to be heading across the Valley in either direction, most likely to somewhere other than the Valley.

Alamosa is the largest town in the Valley, with a staggering population of just over seven thousand souls. It is home to Adams State College, a small school mostly known over the years as a teacher’s training facility. Alamosa is also the home to a few fast-food chains, more than its share of Mexican restaurants, a few small bars, and an old-looking and struggling downtown.

One thing you won’t find in Alamosa is authentic southern food. I spent nearly an hour looking for a place to get catfish or pulled pork, but had to settle for barbecued ribs at a pizza joint. No shit. And they didn’t even have RC Cola. Hard to believe.

Having spent the last fifteen or so years of my life in the South, my tastes definitely run to smoked meat and comfort food. A few months ago, I was eating some of the finest barbecue in existence in a little stand in Fayetteville, Tennessee. A few weeks later, I was on the run with my bike in a little enclosed trailer on the back of my old Ford van and a new name. But that’s another story, for another time.

After finishing my ribs and a couple of beers, I asked Anna, the waitress, for some general directions to the road out north of the river. Then I headed back into town and turned north on State Street, the main north-south street through downtown, to what is called the North River Road. Imaginative name, right? Turning west, I wound through the countryside at a leisurely pace, admiring the scenery and marveling at the amount of homes built out there since the last time

I was out at my great-uncle Sam Johnson’s spread almost twenty years ago.

Sam was one of those guys who ended up in this area by marrying a Valley girl. His wife Rita, may she rest in peace, was a USO volunteer. Sam, as he tells the story, charmed her immediately and she begged him to marry her. Rita’s version was quite different, something about a drunken lout kidnapping her from a dance and absconding with her. As with most tales, I figure the truth is somewhere in between the two variations.

Sam and Rita packed up after he was discharged and headed to her hometown of Sanford, Colorado. Her parents had some land, a few cattle, and twelve kids, Rita being the oldest. It didn’t take Sam long to decide that Sanford wasn’t for him, and he began to look in earnest for work elsewhere in the San Luis Valley.

It wasn’t that he disliked his in-laws, or even disliked Sanford; he just needed some space to be himself away from the Pottersons and their neighbors. His not belonging to the Mormon church made him stick out like a sore thumb. In that part of the Valley, the only non-Mormons were the Hispanics, nearly all of them of Mexican ancestry. He got along with them better than he did with most of the Mormons. Deep down, Rita had known it wouldn’t work, but had tried at the behest of her folks to set up a home near theirs.

Sam had been a mechanic in the Navy, and had soon found a job working on a farm in the Stanley District, working on trucks, farm equipment, and the farmer’s private vehicles. He and Rita soon moved into an old house on the farm, making the drive from Sanford a thing of the past, further separating Sam from the Potterson clan.

Some five or six years later, the farmer had made Sam and Rita property-owners by making them a hell of a deal on ten acres north of the Rio Grande, just south of the Stanley Road. They built a house and Sam put up a big metal building to mechanic in after the farm deal went to shit.

The Stanley Road is the main east-west artery through the Stanley District, tying the County Line to Highway 17. It has always been a favorite road for drinkers to use while trying to avoid the Highway Patrol after a night of partying, if you believe Anna.

As I was saying before I got interrupted by thoughts of Anna, barbecued ribs, and family history, I was riding westbound along the Stanley Road, north of the river, trying to figure out which dirt two-track trail through the grass headed down to Uncle Sam’s place. Luckily for me, helmets aren’t mandatory here in Colorado, so I heard the old International coming and jerked my eyes back to the road in time to see it bounce out of the north ditch into my lane, smoking and rattling like a thing possessed. The fenders shook like they were only fastened with a single bolt each and I thought for sure that the left front tire was going to exit the truck altogether.

Since I was only moving about twenty miles per hour, I got the scooter stopped in plenty of time. He missed me by a good seven inches. The grizzled old dude driving the pickup saw me about the time I saw him, but his sixty-some-year-old brakes didn’t seem to be in the mood to do any real good. They squealed and howled as he rattled past me in a cloud of smoke.

After rolling off the south side of the road into the barrow ditch, he unfolded himself out from behind the steering wheel and eyed me from behind the door, probably thinking I might want to dent his dome for nearly running me down. The fact that I’m six-two, weigh close to two-forty, and am obviously an honest-to-goodness biker might be coloring his judgement a little, and I guess I don’t blame him for being cautious. I’ll be thirty-four on my next birthday, and he’s probably sixty or better. The braided hair to my belt and the beard to my belly button may be gone, but some folks still think I look scary, especially when I’m frowning.

Surprisingly, I didn’t. Want to dent his dome, that is. For some reason, the relief at avoiding contact and the comical nature of my assailant conspired to keep me calm. That’s something that wouldn’t have happened a year ago.

The old boy called out to me from behind the driver’s door after he decided I most likely wasn’t going to charge him with evil intent.

You okay? Sorry about that…I hardly ever see anyone out here. You snuck up on me. His voice sounded like he gargled with sand.

I’m okay, I told him.

He seemed to calm down some and almost walked out from behind his door. I was wondering if maybe he had a pistol in his hand because of his reluctance to show himself. That’s probably a good idea when facing a good-sized biker you just about killed due to your negligence.

I’m looking for my great-uncle’s place. I haven’t been here for a long time, but I remember it was east of the county line somewhere on the south side of the road, back in the trees. I should have been paying better attention, I guess. Hopefully, if I take some of the blame, maybe he’d realize I wasn’t inclined to kick his ass.

He walked out from behind the truck’s door, and the only thing in his hand had been a snotty old handkerchief, which he used to blow his nose before relegating it back to his coveralls pocket.

Surprisingly, he was very calm and even said it was partly his fault for driving onto the road without looking both ways. It seemed he’d come through a hole in the fence on the north side of the road and turned left without so much as a glance in either direction. I vaguely remember Sam telling my parents that this was a common ailment among the farmers and their help, causing a few deaths each year out in the Valley’s farmland, especially during harvest time.

Seeing as how neither of us was injured, and any new damage to his truck was indistinguishable from the multitude of previous dents, we both decided to move the vehicles to a wide spot a few yards up the road and stand in the shade for a bit.

During the course of the next half-hour or so, we became friends in that weird way people sometimes do. Total strangers meet through unforeseen circumstances and almost instantly find some connection that draws them together. This tall, grizzly-looking dude somehow seemed already a part of my life in some unfathomable fashion. It was as if it was in some way imperative to know him better.

I’m Eric Thorssen, I said, introducing myself using my real name, not one of those I’ve been using since going on the run. Seeing as how I was looking for Sam, I figured using a name he would recognize would be the best course of action.

Bender, as he introduced himself, was a damned mess. It appeared as if he hadn’t shaved, changed clothes, or even moved a comb or brush anywhere near his greying mop of kinky hair for a long time. He is also one of the most intelligent people I have talked to in a long time. It turned out that he was Sam’s closest neighbor and long-time buddy.

When I asked him where Sam’s driveway was, he said, We’re standing in it.

As I looked closer, I noticed a gate in the fence, grown-over with weeds. There was an overgrown two-track through the weeds and grass down toward the river. In answer to my quizzical look, Bender said, I’ll show you where he is.

Chapter Two

Monte Vista, Colorado

August 3, 1991

Bender arranged himself in the cab of the old pickup, fired it up, and made a sixteen- or seventeen- point turn to head west on the narrow Stanley Road. I followed him at a distance, wanting to be able to miss any pieces that might fall off the decrepit old International.

I followed him up to the Alamosa-Rio Grande County Line and headed south across the river to a little paved road that ran off to the west. At the end of this road, we hung a right and drove a mile or so up to a collection of old stone buildings surrounded by evergreen trees at least fifty feet tall.

The sign on the corner read Colorado State Veterans Center, and the overall impression was one of an old but well-kept facility in a peaceful setting. Bender turned into the driveway and we drove past the large stone buildings into the rear of the property where there were some small cottages, a maintenance shed, and a fair-sized nursing home.

I was looking forward to seeing Sam, hoping he was lucid enough to have visitors. I had a million questions for him, as well as some stories to tell. I was sure the ornery old bastard would get a kick out of hearing them.

All such thoughts came to a screeching halt as Bender kept driving another hundred yards or so past the cottages and clinic to a beautifully landscaped piece of ground covered by white headstones. The ornate steel arch at the entrance proclaimed Memorial Arch to our Nation’s Dead, and more of the huge evergreens stood silent vigil over the sacred ground.

Well, shit.

We drove around the east side of the cemetery to the rear and I parked next to Bender’s pickup. The silence was peaceful and nearly total at first. Gradually, the sounds of distant traffic, doors closing, and a lone lawnmower intruded.

Bender walked off into the grave markers, being respectful of the inhabitants in a way you don’t see much anymore. He obviously knew exactly where he was going, and stopped at a marker indistinguishable from the others except for the information carved into its smooth surface.

Samuel Arn Johnson was at the top, with his naval rank and a list of medals he’d earned in the war. His birthdate in 1915 was followed by the date 11-24-1989. Six months before I twisted off and declared war against the Pist-N-Broke Motorcycle Club. He’d been seventy-four years old, and I knew it had been a rough life full of sacrifice and hard work. Bender and I stood there in silence for a few minutes, each engaged in our own thoughts. It was a beautiful day, and neither of us had seemed to be in any hurry.

He got hit by a sixteen-year-old girl on her way home from a school dance. It sounded like she was on dope, but the cops kept it hushed up pretty well. Her daddy is one of the big-wig farmers around here. If you care, someday I’ll show you where it happened, Bender said, at last feeling it was time to speak.

Hell, do I care where it happened? I can always see it later if I decide to. Mostly, I’m numb. Uncle Sam had been a larger-than-life figure in my childhood, someone who always treated me as a buddy, not just some kid in the way. And now he’s gone.

I don’t think I need to see the place right now, I told Bender, looking off into the distance at what appeared to be an old dairy barn. What a beautiful spot to be laid to rest. Much nicer than most of the places I might have ended up in the last decade or so, that’s for damned sure.

You want to come over by the house? I’ll show you some stuff I think you’ll be interested in, Bender said while we were walking back out to the gravel parking lot. To get to my place, just turn south a quarter of a mile west of Sam’s gate and you’ll see it back in the trees. Come on by tomorrow any time and I’ll be around…unless you’re goin’ to church, he added with a cocked eyebrow and a grin.

No church for me, I told him.

Sam is dead, and he was the main reason I came to the Valley in the first place. Bender seemed to like Sam, and they’d been pretty close, so there might be something interesting about spending some time with my new unkempt friend. Or not.

I was thinking about riding out to the sand dunes tomorrow, I told him. I should be able to be over here by mid-afternoon or so, if that’ll work.

I was actually hoping he might say he was busy or something, anything to give me an out. I’d much rather spend the day riding around the Valley than listening to the recollections and ramblings of some goofy old hermit, even a likeable one.

He scratched his head, blew a huge snot-rocket into the dirt, and said, That’ll work. I’ll fire up the grill and we can have us a little picnic out by the river. I’ll look for you by three or four… is that okay? He was already folding himself into the cab of his truck, firing up the smoking and wheezing old engine, so I just smiled and nodded my head in the affirmative.

See you tomorrow! he hollered, and went smoking and sputtering out toward the county road.

I walked back over to Sam’s marker and stood there for some uncounted amount of time, telling him things I wish I could have said while he was alive. I finally said my goodbyes, telling him I’d be back, as I walked over to my scooter for the solemn ride back to Alamosa.

Chapter Three

Bender’s Place

August 4, 1991

This morning, I had huevos rancheros smothered in green chile stew so hot it could take paint off a car at a little adobe joint in Alamosa. After a short ride around town while everyone was either attending church or nursing a hangover, I rode the bike out to the Great Sand Dunes National Monument. I paid the entry fee and spent some time walking around the visitor center and even wandered out to a little parking area and watched the tourists feeding potato chips to a small herd of deer. Probably not a good idea, but hey, who am I to tell them anything? The sheer size of the sand dunes is staggering, especially when one considers they are on top of the Rocky Mountains, beginning at an elevation of eight thousand feet. The prevailing winds have swept sand from the San Luis Valley since the glaciers dried up half a million years ago, forming dunes against the foot of the Sangre de Cristo Range that top seven hundred fifty feet in elevation from the Valley floor and cover nearly twenty thousand acres. I remember hiking up them as a kid, then tumbling back down to play in the creek at the bottom. Those were good times.

From there, I rode across the Valley to Highway 17, the main road heading north from Alamosa. I turned north and rode up to a wide spot in the road called Villa Grove. There is a little store, a few houses, a closed-up café, and a liquor store built out of a doublewide mobile home, also closed. Surprisingly, the old general store’s front door was open. I went in and bought a bottle of lemonade that I drank outside while I watched the occasional car or truck whistle by.

By the time I finished the lemonade, I had enough of Villa Grove. I followed US 285 west to another small town named Saguache, pronounced suh-watch, with the emphasis on the second syllable, according to some kids standing out front of the convenience store. A little bigger than Villa Grove, Saguache is the Saguache County seat. It even has a school and a couple of businesses that are open on Sundays.

I headed south from Saguache past the turn-off to Center, another podunk little town by the looks of it, without even slowing down. In another ten minutes or so, I reached Monte Vista, the small town at the crossroads of highways 285 and 160. The city limits sign boasts a little more than forty-three hundred people, and there are lots of old houses along tree-lined streets. Along with a couple convenience stores, there are two grocery stores and three or four fast-food joints open. I head east on 160 after a tour of the area, looking for the county line.

It takes me a couple of tries, but I finally find the County Line Road and head north across the Rio Grande to the Stanley Road. I take a right and drive the short distance to Bender’s driveway. He thought-fully left a Coors can on top of his gatepost to get my attention. It looks nearly as sad as he does, I think. I slowly navigate the ruts in the two-track down through the cottonwoods to where it makes a sweeping bend to the left.

As I round the corner, I am surprised to see a neat little cabin nestled in the trees. There is also a large Quonset-style building, apparently used as a shop. The International pickup is sitting beside the shop, and there is a nice Ford one-ton pickup with dual wheels on the rear sitting just on the other side of the cabin. What looks like scrap metal is piled on a large flatbed trailer hitched to the Ford. Parts and pieces of various farm implements and appliances are scattered around the area adjacent to the shop along with a few old tractors and trucks peeking out from the woods to the east, where another little two-track disappears into the trees.

I shut off the scooter and set the kickstand down on a tree root that is poking up through the soft soil. Satisfied that it is stable, I step off and stretch. The door of the cabin swings open just then, and Bender comes out carrying a plastic cooler. He is wearing jeans, a denim western shirt with the sleeves cut off, and a well-worn old felt hat that has seen better days. He is wearing dark sunglasses that would be right at home in a Chicago blues band. Cowboy boots that have never seen polish complete the outfit. His wiry hair is pulled back in a bushy ponytail. He must’ve dressed up just for my visit.

You made it. I was just gettin’ ready to build a fire to cook some lamb over, he says. Noticing my appraisal, he laughs. You caught me yesterday in my ‘work clothes.’ I always get good and dirty and take the Irrational Harvester when I go hunting scrap in some of the more remote places in the Valley. I use old pieces of farm equipment, car parts, or whatever I can find to make metal sculpture, or yard art, as some people call it, he adds, laughing. I have better luck haggling with people over the price if I look destitute. He chuckles a little and says, Let’s go build a fire.

He heads off to the other side of the cabin, where there is a real nice little deck and a barbecue built from steel pipe at least three feet in diameter. Stacked next to it is firewood cut to length and split into manageable pieces for use in the cooker.

After we get this started, I’ve got a couple of things you might be interested in, he says, gathering up some kindling and a wad of newspaper from an old metal milk box sitting on the deck. In no time, he has a nice fire going. He closes the lid, sets the damper, and motions for me to follow him.

We walk over to the shop building, and he unlocks a small door on the side so we can enter. He goes in first, explaining that the light switch is a few feet from the door and I should wait until he gets the lights on to prevent tripping over anything. I envision the place packed to the rafters with scrap metal and abandoned projects.

When the lights come on, I am amazed at the amount of machinery in the old Quonset, but there is surprisingly no scrap or abandoned anything visible. There is a wall about sixty feet back from the front door dividing the building with a closed roll-up door right in the middle of it. What looks like every tool ever invented is either hanging on the wall, bolted to the floor, or in one of the half-dozen huge toolboxes arranged down the nearest wall.

I slowly walk the line of toolboxes, generally being nosy. The tools are arranged according to their use, and the individual drawers are labeled with their contents.

Hanging on nails above the boxes are larger tools, some of which I recognize and some I have no idea what they are. Some of them are ancient in design, but everything appears to be functional and in good working order.

The workbench is on wheels, and has a top made of one-inch thick steel plate. Attached to it is a vise that looks like it could be a hundred years old. It may be the largest one I ever saw. There are pipe benders, three welders, torch sets, a plasma cutter, a sheet metal brake, a hydraulic press, two lathes, rollers, punches, and more lined up in some arcane pattern I can’t figure out.

Arranged in the middle of this collection is a variety of whirligigs and contraptions Rube Goldberg would envy. Some are large and some are a size more suitable for display on a table. All are amazing.

Other than a light coat of dust, everything seems clean and well taken care of. I just stand there, taking it all in for a couple of minutes while my eyes adjust.

Bender is grinning as he asks me, Not what you expected, is it?

No shit, Sherlock! Definitely not what I was expecting. I try to decide what I want to look at first. As I am standing there, mesmerized by the array of toys, Bender walks toward the door and tells me to have a look around while he checks on his coals in the grill.

Tempted to see what is behind the dividing wall but reluctant to overstep my welcome, I walk around the metal sculptures, amazed at the intricacy of their design. Bender has used every sort of abandoned metal object to turn scrap metal into shapes both recog-nizable and otherworldly.

Presently, Bender hollers at me to say lunch is ready. Surprised that I lost track of the time, I join him on the deck. Marinated lamb chunks roasted over an apple-wood fire is the main course, accompanied by beans, roasted potatoes, and homemade tortillas. It is a damn fine picnic. We eat in companionable silence, reminding me of meals with my old Navy buddy and partner in crime Kenneth Dutton back in Tennessee.

Kenneth and I, along with some damned good people we met in Alabama, tore the local chapter of an outlaw bike club in the area a new asshole, shutting down its meth labs and prostitution ring. That had predictably made us targets, especially since I had been an officer of another chapter of the same club. The one constant through all the carnage and stress had been our unwillingness to let it affect our appetites. In the Navy, we learned to eat and sleep every chance we got, because the next meal or nap may be delayed for quite some time. I guess that mindset stuck with us.

Bender leans back after a few minutes and says, Before we go much further, we need to have us a little talk. All evidence of that wide grin is now gone. It seems the joking around is behind us.

Okay, I say, looking him in the eye. I have no idea what threshold we crossed, but it is apparent that the light-hearted mood has changed. I have no idea what is coming, but if Sam had trusted this man, I will, too. What do we need to talk about?

Sam told me a lot about you. He had been in touch with your dad quite a bit before he passed. This is news to me, probably because I neglected to call either of them for many years. He knew you were in that biker gang, and hoped you’d get out before you got to the point of no return. Sam loved you like a son, you know. He was heart-broken when your parents couldn’t afford to come out here to visit anymore. Bender is staring at me, making sure I’m paying attention. He offered a few times to pay for a bus ticket so you could come spend a week or two in the summer, but your mom wouldn’t hear of it.

I never knew that, I tell him.

Dad had gotten hurt pretty badly at work, and my mom had taken over the job of supporting the family. After that, she was a different person, the fun seemingly beat out of her. She is proud to a fault, and I could just hear her telling Uncle Sam in no uncertain terms that we were in no need of charity. On top of that,she viewed him as a bad influence on her baby boy.

After dad got hurt, I spent summers mowing lawns, painting fences and sheds, anything to bring in a few bucks. There was no baseball, no going for ice cream with the other kids, or any of that stuff. At the time, I knew it was important to help so I tried hard not to be too bitter, but a trip out to Sam’s would have been a wonderful way to break up the drudgery.

Sam and Rita didn’t talk about it, but I know it tore them up not to be able to have kids, Bender says, still somber. When Rita died, Sam just seemed to change, become more of an outlaw. He let his beard grow and started wearing his hair longer, started doing things he never would have done around Rita. Hell, he even allowed some swear words back into his vocabulary. He really wanted to have you come out, but he didn’t want to cause any trouble between your mom and dad, so he didn’t push it.

Dad had lost his ability to oppose my mom about anything about a year after he got hurt. As she often reminded him, she was now the breadwinner and he was a cripple. As such, she was the one who should make any important decisions. He just got dimmer, if you know what I mean. He took to sitting on the back porch, reading or listening to sports on the radio. It had hurt me to see the transformation, but I had even less chance of reasoning with her than he did.

Yeah, Mom is hard to deal with, sometimes, I say (an understatement of epic proportions).

I left the day I turned eighteen, signed up for a stint in the US Navy, and never returned. Part of me said I was a coward, but another voice told me that if I subjected myself to the misery rampant in that household again it could be disastrous for all of us. If I saw mom push dad out of his wheelchair or down the stairs again at this stage of my life, the consequences might well be drastic.

Add the unlikely possibility that the people looking for me now might have someone watching to see if I showed up back home. Maybe even Mom. Oh, did I mention that my mom is the local bail bonds person back home? That definitely makes for some interesting possibilities.

Bender just nods and says, That’s what I heard from Sam. What I’m trying to tell you is that Sam asked me to kinda check you out if you showed up, decide whether or not to show you some of this stuff. What stuff, I almost ask. Now he’s gone, and here you are. Talking to you yesterday and this afternoon, I get the feeling that I can trust you. We’ll start out slowly, and see what happens.

I nod, my mind whirling with possibilities and questions. Conversation has turned to other more mundane subjects and Bender asks if I want a tour of the shop. Anxiously waiting for that very suggestion, I nearly embarrass myself with the quickness of my reply in the affirmative. I help him clean up, grab a refill of iced tea, and follow him back out to the Quonset. After having been inside, I pay more attention to the building. It looks to be at least a hundred feet long and probably fifty feet wide.

We spend an hour or so wandering around the shop, looking at the various contraptions and the tools used to build them. Bender explains what some of the more arcane tools are for, and hints at more interesting stuff in the back of the building. I let him set his own pace, enjoying myself thoroughly.

The metal sculptures have been the highlight of my day, maybe even my summer. Some twirl and spin in the wind. Some are comical, others