Bula Bridge: Galiwee Visions, #2

By J Drew Brumbaugh

Tommy Galiwee has visions.  In Bula Bridge, the second book in the Galiwee Visions series, he is faced with an even more frightening look into the future and it has him wishing he'd never found this ability. The vision hints at a plot to kill the families living in a quiet Northeastern Ohio town on Christmas Eve.  What can be done to stop it? (Approximately 245 pages)

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Brumbaugh
• Release date: Oct 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393962861

J Drew Brumbaugh

J Drew Brumbaugh lives in northeast Ohio where he spends his time writing sci-fi, fantasy and suspense novels. His stories are character-driven, imaginative and adventurous just as the author believes life should be lived. J. Drew spends his time working on his Japanese meditation gardens, participating in karate (a lifelong pursuit), and reading an eclectic variety of books.  Presently he has eight novels in print, including the Tirumfall trilogy, the Ocean Cowboys series, and the Galiwee Visions series. 

Book preview

Also by J. Drew Brumbaugh

Ocean Cowboys Series

Shepherds

Shela

Galiwee Visions Series

War Party

Bula Bridge

Broken Albatross

The Tirumfall Trilogy

Fall of the Western Kings

Child of Prophecy

Key to Tirumfall

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Foxworth Terminus

Ten More

(a collection of short stories of the supernatural)

Girls Gone Great

(A children’s book co-authored with Carolyn B. Berg)

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For more information go to:

https://www.jdrewbrumbaugh.com

Dedicated to all those who have allowed dreams to change their life. 

As usual there are a lot of people who helped make this a better book.  Of course my editor gets kudos for again making me put down in writing everything I needed to tell the reader.  And thanks to Mark Behune for telling me about the Ashtabula Railroad Disaster which led me to the idea for the plot.  Thanks to my beta readers.  I couldn’t do this without the help.

Chapter 1

Johanna Tom held the bow pointed down, an arrow nocked.  Last shot for today, she thought, as she stared across the flat ground to the target a hundred yards away.  She could see the arrows sticking out of the target in precise, clumped groups.  She’d done well so far and she wanted this last shot to be dead-on.  High overhead, a hawk floated on invisible air currents.  It screeched loud and piercing, demanding attention.  Johanna watched it circle for a moment, envious of the raptor’s fantastic eyesight.  Oh, to be able to see like that, she thought, and returned her attention to the target.

She took a breath, raised the bow and drew back the arrow, sighting down the green shaft.  She held steady for a moment, feeling the warm wind on her back, feeling the resistance of the bowstring as if it was begging her to let loose.  Standing there, poised, she let herself connect with the arrow, with the target, her mind blank.  A breeze blew wisps of her long black hair against her cheek.  She ignored it.  And then, almost unconsciously, she released the arrow.  Like something spiritual, she watched the feathered shaft zip through the air to thunk dead center in the bull’s-eye.

She laughed, exhilarated.  Being in total harmony with the arrow’s flight was magical; watching it arc through the air, free, alive and then striking the target.  Johanna couldn’t explain it to someone who’d never done it.  You had to experience the thrill.  She let the sensation of satisfaction wash over her as she strolled to retrieve the target and her arrows.  It had been a good morning, hitting bull’s-eyes with nearly every shot, even at a hundred yards.  Even her rapid fire set of ten arrows had all found the target and now she was ready to go home, get cleaned up and see Tommy.

She pulled out the arrows and slid them back into the quiver at her hip.  Then she yanked down the target, rolled it up and turned around.  Purposefully she strode across the flat stretch of desert dotted by sagebrush, clumps of snakeweed and cheat grass.  The breeze against her face made her hair flutter behind her.  Her big brown eyes studied the ground ahead, always watching for rattlesnakes even though the snakes were probably all hibernating somewhere underground.  Scarlet dust clouds puffed up around her shoes.  A sorry-looking tumbleweed blew past.  Her quiver of arrows bounced against her hip as she walked.  She held her bow in her right hand, and the riddled target in her left.  As usual when she went shooting, she did it east of the reservation settlement in a dry wash where no one would notice.  Some people didn’t think it proper for her to be so skilled at things reserved for boys.  Too bad, she thought, and smiled as she walked, her lean athletic frame covering the ground effortlessly.  She remembered reading that half the Viking warrior remains had turned out to be women, and if the Viking women could be warriors so could she.

She thought about Tommy, who, though he didn’t know it, had inspired her to become a warrior.  In truth, Johanna had just wanted him to notice her.  She had idolized Tommy even before he’d had the vision that foretold of assassins coming to kill the people of the little town of Finkle Creek just off the rez.  When no one believed him, he and some friends had gone to Finkle Creek to stop the massacre.  Johanna, like most people, thought he was a hero.  She wished she’d been with him.  A few traditional Paiutes disliked the fact that he’d had a vision without a quest.  They insisted that no one got visions that way.  Tommy did.  And the people of Finkle Creek were grateful.

But that was all history.  What counted now was how much better their relationship had gotten.  Before, Tommy had resisted Johanna’s attempts to get noticed.  He refused to spend time with her and never let her run with him on his morning workouts.  She realized some of it had been his reluctance to admit he liked his best friend’s little sister.  That had changed.  He seemed happy to have her around, an attitude that was just fine with Johanna.  Being nothing more than Earl’s little sister was history too.  Still, Johanna had doubts.  She wondered how deep Tommy’s feelings for her went.  The only thing she knew in her heart was that she loved him.

She crossed the last stretch of dusty ground before the settlement, avoiding the spotty vegetation.  She stuck to the open sections of dry, red earth where she could be sure what she was stepping on.  She reached the blacktop road that dead-ended at the farthest eastern corner of the cluster of houses that made up the Paiute settlement.  Her house sat on a slight rise at the end of the street and she jogged the last few yards to her front door.   Like most houses on the rez, it was a small, white prefab single story unit where she lived with her mother, father (when he was there) and brother.  Out front was a chipped, concrete slab porch under a weathered aluminum awning.  The house was cramped for the four of them but they’d gotten used to it.  She pulled the storm door open and braced it with her shoulder.  Then she reached in with her free hand, turned the knob that opened the inner vinyl door and went in.

Her brother’s bulk sat in the biggest chair in the living room, video game controller in hand, playing something stupid.  He looked up as Johanna came in.  Mom home yet? she asked.

Nope.  Have you been shooting? asked Earl, refocusing on the screen.

Of course, you know I go every Saturday, she said.  You should try it sometime instead of sitting on your ass in front of that video game.

You sound like Tommy.

Maybe he’s got a point.  She started past her brother toward her bedroom and stopped.  What’s wrong with Tommy?

Nothing.  We’ve been best friends forever but he and I don’t have the same interests anymore.

Good thing, too, she said with a smirk.  I’m going over to his house as soon as I get cleaned up and changed.

Earl put down the game controller.  When are you going to tell him that you’re into bows and arrows?  Or any of the other stuff you do?  Does he even know who you are?

Johanna thought about it for a minute.  There were a lot of things Tommy didn’t know about her, most of them she guessed he didn’t really care about.  Right now she was pretty sure he was more interested in her body, which had gotten more womanly, though he certainly was slow doing something about it.  As for her archery, running, horsemanship, and being an Indian warrior, he didn’t need to know any of that yet.  She’d had her sights on Tommy for a long time and she wasn’t going to take any chances now that might spoil things.

He knows all he needs to know, she said finally and headed for her bedroom.  When are you going to find a job? she shouted over her shoulder.

Why?  So you can have Tommy over here all alone?

She went into her bedroom and closed the door, yelling through it to her brother.  We’re alone at his house now, you idiot.  And as backward as he is, nothing is going to happen.

What? Earl got up.  The chair groaned with relief as his weight came off it.  He lumbered into the back hallway and stopped in front of Johanna’s closed bedroom door.  You’re going to get both of you in trouble.

No, I’m not.  I know what I’m doing.

If you get pregnant, Dad will kill you.

I’m not going to get pregnant.  And besides, I told you, nothing’s happening.

Maybe he just has some scruples.  You know, saving that first time for his wife or something.

Her door opened and she came out still dressed in her dusty shooting clothes, carrying a towel and a handful of clean clothes.  Earl moved aside as she crossed the hall headed for the bathroom. 

We’ll see about that, she said entering the cramped room and closing the door.

What happened to my baby sister? was all Earl managed as the bathroom door closed in his face.

I’m growing up.  You should too.

The water came on in the shower and Earl returned to his chair in the living room and the video game.  Sisters, he grumbled.  Why couldn’t I have had a brother?

Johanna didn’t hear any of it.  She hummed in the shower, washing the dust out of her hair, thinking about Tommy, about seeing him later that afternoon.  Things were good between them, better than they’d ever been, though she had to admit there were underlying issues.  As far as Johanna could tell, Tommy had a bad case of survivor’s guilt.  One of his friends had been killed at Finkle Creek and Tommy hadn’t gotten over Jim’s death.  And Tommy’s left leg hadn’t really healed where he’d been shot, a wound that had nearly killed him due to blood loss.  Tommy still couldn’t run very well due to the lack of muscle tissue, the scaring and because he still had pain.  He was, in general, less athletic.  Johanna understood, even though they seldom talked about it, that his injuries made him rethink his dreams of being a warrior.  Tommy wasn’t one to vocalize about such things but he hinted sometimes that he regretted not being able to do the things he used to, like riding Chief, shooting his bow from horseback, running miles effortlessly. 

To Johanna, he was more of a warrior than ever.  After all, if it wasn’t for Tommy and his friends, everyone in Finkle Creek would be dead and the terrorists would have gotten away. Johanna was sure that Tommy’s left leg was going to heal and he would be just fine physically.  It had improved a lot during the last few months and Tommy could even jog some.  No, the leg would be fine.  It was his survivor’s guilt that wasn’t going to be so easy to cure.

Chapter 2

The early morning light crept in through his bedroom window as the winter sun inched its way above the mountains east of the rez.  Tommy Galiwee blinked as the light touched his face.  He sat up and slipped out from under the covers, turning to dangle his legs over the side of the bed.  Gingerly he massaged the ugly scar on his left thigh, testing the muscle for pain.  Not so bad this morning, he thought, and got up.  Memories of the months of physical therapy returned and with them, the disappointment he’d felt when the sessions ended and he still wasn’t able to run.  Now, nearly eighteen months since he’d been shot he still could barely jog for a mile, and even that was painful.  He pulled on his jeans, a worn, gray sweatshirt with an eagle’s head on the front, and his running shoes. 

Going into the bathroom, Tommy relieved himself and stood for a long minute in front of the mirror.  His shoulder-length hair was a mess, tangled and flattened on one side.  He’d cut it short in shame after what happened at Finkle Creek and finally it was growing out again.  He combed it straight over his ears, brushed his teeth and limped to the kitchen.  His mother stood at the stove stirring a pot of what smelled like oatmeal, her hair shining in the morning light coming through the window.

Good morning, Tommy, she said with a smile, her eyes happy.  How are you this morning?

Fine, grunted Tommy, going to the fridge to get some milk.

Tommy’s mother dished up a bowl of oatmeal and put it on the table.  Going running?

Of course.

How’s the leg?

Too early to tell, he said, spooning brown sugar into the steaming cereal.

Have you thought anymore about going to college?  The scholarship offers you have won’t be there forever.

Tommy took a bite of oatmeal and chewed without swallowing as a way to avoid answering.  When his mother continued to stand there, he finally said, I’m not sure college is what I should do.

Meaning what?  The implication was clear that his mother thought differently.

I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.

She pursed her lips.  Aren’t ready or don’t intend to ever go?  Is it your leg that’s the problem or is it more about your grandfather and the old ways?

Tommy tried to think of an answer that would end the conversation without making his mother angry.  Finally he mumbled, Maybe both.

I just think you need to take advantage of the offers you have while you still have them.  It isn’t everyone from the rez who gets offered a full scholarship anywhere.  Maybe if you went to college it would help you figure out who you are.

Tommy grunted and kept his eyes focused on his cereal.  He knew there was nothing he could say that his mother would understand.

You might think about it.  These people want to reward you for what you did.  Soon they’ll move on.  With that, his mother gave up and left the room to get ready for work. 

Once she’d gone, Tommy shoveled in the oatmeal, hardly tasting it.  He poured a glass of orange juice, swilled it down and then rinsed his dishes in the sink.  He was putting them in the dishwasher just as his father walked in.  The older man nodded at Tommy and went to the fridge. See you tonight, he said with his head in the refrigerator, rummaging for his lunch.

Tommy slipped past his father and hurried through the living room to the front door.  Have a good day at work, he yelled back on his way outside.

Stepping into the cool morning air, Tommy shivered.  He thought about going back inside for a coat and decided it was better to tough it out; the sweatshirt would do.  The low winter sun cast long shadows and offered little warmth as it crept up over the mountains to the east.  Tommy crossed what yard there was, mostly dirt, reached the strip of asphalt in front of his house, turned right and started off at a brisk walk.  Ever since the gun battle in Finkle Creek, he began his runs with a walk to warm up his left leg.  It didn’t help much.  The scar from the bullet wound had left a dent in his thigh and the muscles underneath had not regained their strength or mass.  No matter what he did, the leg remained stiff and painful. 

He headed west toward the end of the pavement where it dead-ended at a dirt trail.  Reaching the end of the street he turned left onto what was hardly more than a set of parallel tire ruts and continued on toward the main highway.  He picked up the pace slightly, slowly increasing his gait until he was up to a slow jog.  As he jogged along, Tommy thought about how much he’d wanted to keep alive the ancient ways of the warrior.  Just like the Indian warriors of the past, he used to run miles every morning, not jogging but running full out.  He’d shoot his bow from horseback and spend afternoons carrying out reconnaissance raids in Finkle Creek.  Now he wasn’t quite a cripple like Elkhorn who had both legs shot up in the attack, but certainly Tommy wasn’t what he’d been.  If only he could find and restore the warrior body and spirit that he’d lost.

He jogged stiffly around the dogleg in the dirt road, easing up on the turns to favor his leg, which was hurting more.  When he reached Old Highway 91, he crossed over the blacktop, turned to the right and jogged facing the oncoming traffic.  He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain, determined to run at least a mile, not the three miles that he used to run each day.  If he could manage a mile then today would be a new personal high since he’d been shot.

Forcing himself onward, the pain dulled to a hard ache, his leg protesting even as it did his bidding.  Thoughts of that day in Finkle Creek returned; the terrorists shooting everyone they saw and only Tommy and his friends there to stop the killing.  He replayed it all in his mind’s eye plain as if it was happening again.  Jim had died trying to drag Tommy out of the street. Why?  Why had the bullets struck Jim and missed Tommy?  Every time he thought about Jim dying, the feeling of guilt was overwhelming. Why hadn’t those bullets missed Jim’s vitals?  Why didn’t he survive?  And Elkhorn’s legs had been so shot up he’d never walk right again; maybe someday with prosthetics if his family found a way to pay for them.  But for now, he had only crutches and a wheelchair. 

Tommy’s left foot came down on a fist-sized rock that rolled out from under his foot.  He lurched left, nearly tripped over the berm, and then his leg crumpled and he went down at the side of the road.

Damn, he spat.

He sat there for a long minute, assessing the damage.  No new pains.  Bracing himself with both hands and putting all his weight on his right leg, he managed to stand up.  Gingerly he tested his left foot, ankle, leg.  It seemed okay.  Lightly he took a single step.  It was no worse than before the fall and he started off again. 

His thoughts shifted to Johanna.  She was wonderful.  He could admit that now.  She was the most beautiful girl on the rez and his friend Earl’s little sister.  Not so little anymore, he reminded himself.  He tried to imagine what she saw in him and always came up empty.  Before he’d been hurt she used to wait in ambush for him on his morning runs, begging to run with him.  He’d been an idiot to refuse.  Now he wished she would show up to run.  Probably she didn’t want to embarrass him because she could easily outrun him.

He jogged on up the road, his leg getting weaker with every step.  Maybe he wasn’t going to make a mile yet.  He pushed on.  What kind of warrior would give up so easily?  Just a little farther, he urged.  A stiff gust swept across the highway, fighting his progress.  Determined not to let the wind stop him, he continued to run, the leg throbbing.

A hundred yards farther he crossed over the highway and started back, jogging slower, the pain worse.  Just as he reached the dirt road that led back home, he saw his mother and father in his father’s pickup pull out onto Highway 91 on their way to work.  He waved to them as they drove off.

Somehow knowing they were gone was a relief.  They wouldn’t be at the house to try to cheer him up and Johanna would be over later which really would make him happy. 

He neared the spot where the dirt road connected to his street and stopped.  To his left, the land fell sharply down to the Santa Clara River.  From where he stood he could see the riverbed outlined in tall cottonwood trees and dry, dead bushes that crowded the water. Near the river, Chief, his old horse, huddled out of the wind next to the biggest cottonwood.  Chief was dusty-tan with streaks of gray around his muzzle.  He was the most patient horse Tommy could ever imagine.  He’d belonged to Tommy almost as long as Tommy had been alive.  To Tommy, Chief was the greatest horse ever and had never let Tommy down.  Now, Tommy felt like he was letting Chief down.  He couldn’t ride him with his leg the way it was and the horse seemed bored, maybe even depressed.

Clumps of weeds nestled against the hillside, their brown leaves rustling in the wind.  Other lifeless bushes and reeds framed the river.  The water in the middle of the river gurgled along peacefully so Chief always had access to water but Tommy noticed that the hay was gone.  The horse needed feed so he turned onto his street and went to the shed behind his house where there were bales of hay stored.

Tommy pulled out a bale and struggled to drag it over to the edge of the hill.  In the past, he could pick up a bale and carry it to the ledge.  Now he had to drag it.  One day he’d pick them up again, he promised himself.  When he finally had it by the edge, he gave it a shove and because the slope was steep enough, it slid to the bottom on its own.  Tommy scrambled down beside the hay bale, coming to rest a few yards from the horse.

Chief ambled over, nuzzled Tommy and nickered his affection.

I know, old boy, said Tommy, rubbing Chief’s forehead.  You miss the runs down Cavalry Canyon, don’t you?

Chief whinnied as if he understood and turned his attention to the hay.  It had been months since their last ride to shoot the straw-stuffed dummies Tommy had made as targets.  Tommy missed it too.  Would things ever get back to the way they had been?  Maybe he should just go to college, forget the old ways and let the white mind take over.  Even thinking it made his stomach churn.  Somehow he needed to find a way to do both.

One of these days, he said to the horse, patting him on the shoulder.  One of these days we’ll go for a ride again.

Tommy waited a while with Chief, listening to the river gurgle on its way to the ocean, feeling the cool wind on his face, cursing his bad luck.  It had been better before the battle at Finkle Creek and yet, imagining what would have happened if Tommy and his friends had not been there was even worse.  He thought again of Elkhorn and realized he didn’t have things so bad.  At least he could still walk, jog with some pain, get around on his own.  He needed to quit complaining and figure out how to make the most out of his life.  He especially needed to be thankful for every minute he got to spend with Johanna.  He shivered, chilled by the breeze that evaporated the sweat he’d managed to build up jogging.  He gave Chief a last pat on the rump, bid the horse goodbye and clambered slowly back up the steep hill home. 

Chapter 3

At the moment he was Roger Shultz.  It was one of a long list of aliases he’d used and it wouldn’t be his last.  He sat calmly in a worn booth in a restaurant in downtown Cleveland waiting for the waiter to bring him a glass of lemon water.  Glancing around, he checked for surveillance cameras and didn’t see any.  He wore faded jeans, a CAVS sweatshirt and ball cap.  He adjusted the cap hoping to blend in with the crowd of basketball fans going to the game tonight. His puffy, black winter coat lay in the booth beside him. Loud rock and roll music blasted from speakers around the room.  The noise would make talking more difficult but it would also mask the discussion that was coming from prying ears or microphones.  The music was even loud enough to silence Allah’s voice in his head.  That was okay.  That voice would be there again when he needed it.

He remembered the first time Allah spoke to him.  It was right after he’d gotten another severe beating from his stepfather.  For a while, he didn’t know exactly how long, he’d been unconscious.  When he woke up, the voice was there, strengthening him, advising him, calming him.  It wasn’t until much later that he realized it was Allah talking to him.

Watching the people in the crowded restaurant turned his stomach.  Heathens; godless people,