The Winds That Change

By R.D. Runnels

When terror strikes where it had no business showing up, Rankin finds himself right in the middle. With rage in his heart and the burden of guilt weighing heavy, vengeance is not nearly enough. Having only his brother, Bum, and Dustin to trust, he sets out to try and bring some sort of understanding to a world that has been turned upside down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503525634

R.D. Runnels

R.D. Runnels is an avid outdoorsman, spending the majority of his life in the very mountains he writes about. He currently resides with his wife in Hobbs, New Mexico.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

It was the first rifle hunt of elk season and I didn’t have a hunter or a license. The game department had limited the number of non-resident licenses and residents rarely used guides. I never understood how the state government could have that control over federal lands. Some outfitters in other states had banded together to fight the law in their respective states, but New Mexico wasn’t that organized, and probably never would be. The archery hunters were a strong presence in the state and lobbied hard for the law. It was much easier to get a law enacted than it was to repeal it, even a bad one that was in direct violation of the rights of taxpayers. Gifford Pinchot and Teddy Roosevelt would have been appalled.

I had been staying at the house as there was no need to go to the cabin. Jenny had moved out yet again and was living with some guy in Ruidoso. She said this time was different and she was in love. I somehow knew that she would come back as she always did. The question was would I let her? So, it was just me and Mike, my annoying tabby cat that felt that lounging on the dining room table was proof of his existence and a right to be upheld no matter how much I protested.

I was sitting at the bar between the dining room and kitchen and watching College Game Day on the 42-inch flat-screen on the bar connected to the satellite. The fire was burning in the den and the house had the slight aroma of smoke. There were supposed to be some good games on and I had nothing better to do. Of course, there really wasn’t much better than watching football. Pro was better, but college was just one small step below, and the kids seemed hungrier to perform at their utmost ability.

I went and got a beer out of the fridge. It was early but like golfing, watching football wasn’t as good unless beer was involved. Mike walked under my feet and I had to haphazardly step in order to miss him. It made me think his sole purpose was to be an annoyance. I moved him aside with my foot and sat back down.

The commentators were on location and talking about games that were supposed to matter, a huge crowd of college kids behind them holding ridiculous as well as some very creative signs, trying to get recognized on national TV. It was more enjoyable than listening to the commentators.

The station cut away from the commentators and went to the studio. An attractive black woman wearing a red blouse came on with a sullen look. There had been an explosion at the Texas Tech stadium. An estimated 150 people had been killed and over twice that many injured. As she was reading on the teleprompter and saying that her thoughts and prayers were going out to those killed and injured, she interjected herself with more rigor and said there was a report of another explosion at Boise State with an unknown death toll. She continued on, providing no more facts, just muttering to only keep from having dead air. It appeared as though she didn’t really understand what she was reading.

I said, Shit. My initial reaction was to be pissed; no football today and they would probably cancel all the games tomorrow. Sure, I felt bad that the people hurt and killed had had that happen, but I didn’t know them. They were faceless to me. It was selfish and uncaring, but it was the cold truth. My day was about watching football and there day wasn’t supposed to be a part of it.

When the announcement came of the first explosion, I was confused and bewildered. After the second, I became angry. It wasn’t just a coincidence, a random accident. It was simply terrorism at its infinite representation. Two explosions in that close of a time span and both at similar venues, no way was that coincidence or an accident.

I kept listening to the babble on the TV. My mind started swirling and I got lost in my own thoughts of the why of it all. We were in a holy war and had been for centuries. No one wanted to admit it for fear of offending someone, but it didn’t change the hard truth. Now, the holy war had come to the states…again. Of course, I had no proof it was the same group of people that had flown the jets into the towers. After all, Oklahoma City was a home-grown bomber. But, it was hard for me to not imagine it was part of the holy war.

Mike jumped up on the bar and then lay down by my beer. I guess the dining room table was too far. I was leaning forward towards the TV and absently rubbed his hair and listened to the gal. She was crying now, the genuine tears were streaming down her face and she was having trouble reading the teleprompter. She must have finally figured out what was really going on. She was still pretty, even crying, but now I was feeling bad for her. She wasn’t faceless to me, I didn’t know her, but I saw her almost every day on the sports program. She was familiar and hurting, and that made it real. I got even more angry, but not for me because there would be no leisure of watching football, I was enraged that someone could justify the killing of innocent people for a reason I couldn’t fathom…if it was part of the holy war. Hell, even if it wasn’t. Killing was killing.

My thoughts raced. Education was the key; it was the key to everything. Humans are selfish and self-serving creatures. Those that give only do so because it makes them feel better about themselves, righting wrongs and such. Bombing the terrorists only created martyrs, only encouraged revenge, only helped recruitment when grandma gets taken out innocently by the same bomb that annihilated the bad guy. But educating those that could be educated to the point of brainwashing, the youth, there was a chance to end the senselessness in just a few generations or much less. Of course, I was pretty certain they believed that I needed to be educated, brainwashed as needed, to comprehend their lifestyle and embrace it. But a lifestyle that didn’t let me look at boobs or drink beer was not something that would entertain me no matter how severe the brainwashing tactics were.

Last year, I had been a part of a senseless act that injured a couple of guys for just trying to do their job. I had struggled with that some. They knew the risks of their job, but that didn’t justify my actions. But there were other things at play that did justify me and what I had done at least to the point where I could accept. This was kind of the same thing, yet completely different. The bombers felt justified, the innocents just felt dead.

Mike scratched my hand and I was back, aware of my surroundings again. Apparently, I had gotten too rough with my petting when my ire rose and had accidentally squeezed him too tight. He had jumped off the bar. At least I had got him to do that without having to use the flyswatter. I drank some more of my beer and it tasted bitter.

An hour later, the show was cutting back and forth between stadiums where they had a reporter and cameraman. All told, five stadiums had been hit within a four-minute span, one in Texas, one in California, one in Idaho, one in Colorado, and one here at home in New Mexico. The last one had the most impact. The Aggies were playing the Lobos. I knew ESPN wouldn’t cover the game as both teams were terrible in football and had pretty much always been. Hearing the news, I switched over to a local channel.

The reporter was a Hispanic woman, very pretty as most women reporters were. She was wearing a bright purple jacket with a white shirt underneath. Her hair was big and she had large hoop earrings that seemed to accentuate her large brown eyes. Dressed a bit festive for the occasion, but it wasn’t her fault. She was only there to cover the game when tragedy had struck. She was trying to look concerned and saddened and wasn’t quite pulling it off as the confusion was monumental. This was quite a bit different from doing Girl Scout reports and covering rafting races down the Rio Grande. It was way bigger and she knew that it would be national. Her nervousness was apparent.

92 people were dead, 127 severely injured was her report. Behind her were the flashing lights of the emergency response vehicles, ambulances, police, fire trucks, and the general chaos of people running about. That’s all I needed to know and I went back to the other channel. Shit!

My landline rang and I went into the dining room and answered it. It was Dustin. He said he had tried to call me on my cell but guessed I wasn’t getting service today, which happened quite often. He was the Fire Maintenance Officer for the Bureau of Land Management, my best friend and hunting buddy. He worked out of a field office in Carrizozo, but usually spent close to 9 months of the year on fires all over the country. Fire season was about over and he would be home for the winter. We talked about the bombings and especially the one at State where we both had graduated. I could hear road noise in the background. He said he was almost to the house and his phone would fade out and then back in as he spoke. Finally, his phone gave up and disconnected.

CHAPTER TWO

Dustin walked in without knocking. No one ever did and I didn’t expect them to. I kept my house unlocked even when not home in case someone needed to come in out of the cold. No one ever did, but it was available and there was always a first time.

I hadn’t seen him in a couple of months. He had been off in Oregon on fires which was pretty normal for that time of year. He had come back a week or so ago and probably would not be going out again until the spring. But he was now at my house and we were supposed to be watching the games. So much for that.

He was wearing a boots and jeans and a green polo that fit him snug across his broad shoulders. His black hat was clean and had a rodeo cowboy crease. He was wearing a leather belt around his small waist and had a diamond stud in his left ear. He walked over, petted Mike who was in the middle of the dining room table sprawled out. He barely acknowledged Dustin’s pet and didn’t look up. Dustin sat on a barstool at the bar across from me.

He said, Good morning, Rank, where’s Jenny?

I got the pang in my stomach like nausea at the sound of her name. Left out a while back.

Did she move in with another guy?

I leaned back in my chair and laced my hands behind my head. She’ll be back. Always does. I think this one has a job and all his teeth though.

He nodded knowingly. She’s moving up. Are you still seeing Trisha?

I said, Some, as much as I can. Don’t ever seem to be enough.

She’s pretty special.

I think so.

I had turned the sound off to the TV and was just reading the Alerts that scrolled across the bottom, updating the death counts at each stadium and then repeating. After each one went by, Dustin would comment with that’s terrible or unbelievable. I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say and I didn’t have a course of action because there wasn’t one of those either. It was just to hate what happened and get over it. Nothing more to do or say. I drank the rest of my beer and got up and got another one.

I said, There’s cokes in the fridge, Pepsi and Sprite I think. Might even be a Dr. Pepper. Jenny used to drink those with schnapps. Ghastly. He shook his head and kept reading the bottom of the screen. He hadn’t drunk alcohol in over ten years, except for two times. The first was when he almost died and the last was when he almost did the same.

We sat in virtual silence for a long time, only the occasional bawl of a hound chained close to the house broke it. Dustin kept reading the TV and shaking his head. I had given up on it. It was now just news and news was always depressing, doom and gloom. I started thinking about what to have for lunch. That was something I did have control of and a lot more uplifting.

Dustin said, Have you talked to Bum lately?

Been about a month I reckon. He’s been out of sorts. Got something going on down in Jal. He didn’t tell me and I was afraid to ask.

He said, Bobbi still with him?

I don’t know. She wasn’t when I saw him but we were on the mountain during the bow hunt. Dustin just nodded and went back to the TV.

The silence was once again welcome. I liked it. The silence didn’t want to talk about Jenny and whatever she was doing now. It certainly didn’t want to talk about Seldom; I would only miss her more. And Bum and Bobbi were none of my business.

Trisha, or Seldom as I called her, was the most exquisite woman I had ever seen or known. She defined herself so strongly that she also gave me identity when I was with her. We had talked about marriage and she had agreed, but I didn’t know if she was actually serious at the time. Here it was over a year later and I still really didn’t know. But it worked for us, we were together when we could and when we couldn’t, we accepted it and looked forward to the next time.

We had never dated except recently even though we had known each other since early on in high school. I had called her Seldom when we were in college and she had asked me why. I responded with the truth in that it was seldom that a person was lucky enough to ever meet a woman like her. She liked the answer and the name stuck.

No one was paying Mike any attention so he came and jumped back up on the bar and lay down in front of Dustin. He wagged his tail slowly as if to say, I’m back, get to petting. Dustin did while he concentrated on the TV. He said, Have you checked the local news?

Yeah. Nothing to speak of. No damage to the stadium but killed close to a hundred and wounded a bunch more than that.

Dustin nodded and said, They aren’t covering much here. I guess State isn’t big enough to matter nationally like Tech or Boise State.

I nodded and got up to get another beer. They were going down faster than expected. I had better eat something pretty quick or I was going to get sloshed and pass out and forget to feed the animals.

The fridge was full as it usually was and only half of it was beer. There was some left-over chicken I had grilled with rosemary. I had some brussel-sprouts with garlic, onions and red chile powder. Both were good, but they didn’t seem to be what I was looking for. I dug around and found a package of bologna that looked like a Petri dish. I emptied it in the dog bucket I kept by the sink and threw the package away. But a sandwich did sound good.

I found a package of sliced ham that still smelled good and got out the sliced cheese and put them on the stand-alone wooden chopping block I had in the middle of the kitchen. I never used it as a chopping block, it just served as more counter space and was always piled with bread, tortillas and usually a bag of chips or cookies. I put horseradish sauce on a piece of bread and then put wasabi sauce on the other. A slice of ham and a slice of cheese and I was all set.

I got out a paper plate and put the sandwich on it and grabbed a bag of chips and my beer and went and sat back down. I said to Dustin, Get you a sandwich or there’s chicken in there.

He shook his head and said, It’s official. They cancelled all the games today and the NFL is looking to cancel tomorrow.

I took a bite of my sandwich and it was as good as I had hoped. Not as good as a green chile cheeseburger with double meat, but good nonetheless. I swallowed and took a swallow of my beer to help wash it down.

Dustin said, Glad the car bombers aren’t smart enough to bomb when the game is over. They would have killed ten times as many people.

Maybe smarter than you think.

How do you mean? He was looking at me now.

I took another swallow of beer and I could really feel the effects. I said, Games don’t all end at the same time. Word gets around purty quick with cell phones. After the first one, maybe the second, folks would be on the lookout. Harder to get then and the cops would be a looking too.

He squinted his eyes in deep thought and said, I hadn’t thought of that.

I said, Me neither until you said that. I took another bite of my sandwich. I might have to make another one.

What do you think they used to make the bomb?

Beats me, but if I had to take a gander, I would say they used fertilizer like the Oklahoma City deal. They could have just used gunpowder, anybody can buy it. Don’t really matter though. Blown up is blown up. Reckon the folks that got dead won’t care none what the ingredients were.

Dustin said, Homeland Security should have caught someone buying that much fertilizer. I think they even keep a log of who bought what and how much. I would think that gunpowder would be even more restrictive.

Hell, Dustin, I don’t know. There is nothing that is going to be foolproof to a sufficiently talented and motivated fool. They could have been buying a little at a time and saving up for today. They could be making it. The bastards proved that they could fly planes well enough to hit what they were aiming at. They could have someone helping them that is beyond getting checked out. Men are fallible, especially when there is money involved. And the Saudi’s have money.

You think they are making fertilizer or gunpowder?

I don’t know if they are making it, and both. Hell, they could have stole a trainload of C-4 and the government didn’t tell us because they would be embarrassed to admit it. Wouldn’t be the first time we didn’t get told the truth. I was getting frustrated with this conversation. It was going nowhere and had nowhere to go. Dustin sensed it and quit talking. I got up and made another sandwich even though I really didn’t want one.

Dustin stood up and said, No football today. I’ll come over tomorrow if they are playing. I need to go to town and get some groceries. Town meant Ruidoso because it was the closest place to Capitan or Carrizozo that had a Walmart.

I sat back down with a fresh beer and a fresh sandwich and said, Dustin, did they ever catch them fellers that robbed that armored car?

He smiled and said, You know, Rank, I don’t believe they did.

I smiled and winked.

CHAPTER THREE

The funeral for Cory Johnson started at 10:30. He had taken his 11 year-old son to watch the Aggies play and got caught on the battlefield of a war he didn’t know he was fighting. I had known him in high school and he was Dustin’s best friend before college. He had been a hunting buddy of Bum’s ever since. Cory’s body absorbed the blast and kept his son who was pulled behind him in an apparent shielding move alive but still in intensive care. The grandparents on the mom’s side were with the boy at the hospital in Las Cruces as he fought to keep on keeping on.

The service was held in Carrizozo, Cory’s hometown and the small church was overflowing. It was obviously a closed casket and Dustin and I stood at the back, allowing others to take the few remaining seats. There was a large picture above the coffin of Cory when he was much younger, wearing his football uniform from high school. Beneath the casket was covered with flowers and wreaths.

Seldom had been with his family since the day of the bombing when she found out the horrendous news. She and Cory had been close in high school and she was still considered family to the Johnson’s. She was sitting up near the front and had not seen me.

Bum walked in with Bobbi and they stood by me. Bum had a bottle of Glen Fiddich scotch in his right hand and took his worn grey cowboy hat off and walked up to the casket and set it right on top next to the picture. There was a murmur from the congregation. He was wearing jeans and old well-worn boots with cracked leather. He had a striped blue shirt on with a bolo tie and wore a black blazer over it that was marred by indistinct animal hair that shone brightly in contrast to the black.

Bobbi had on an ankle length skirt that was dark blue and was wearing a matching blazer with a white shirt underneath. Her hair fell straight and clung tight to her face. She was wearing matching heels that had a moderate two-inch lift making her my height with boots.

As Bum was walking back towards us, a plump woman wearing a black dress that could have doubled for a tent, probably Cory’s sister, she did have the same mustache, stood up and grabbed Bum by the elbow. He stopped and looked at her. The crowd had gotten quiet as the event was taking place. This woman commanded attention and she was receiving it.

The large woman was wearing all black and seemed to dwarf Bum as she stood next to him. She was shorter by a couple of inches but her mass was encompassing, a black hole. She was trying to whisper, but wasn’t built for it and we could hear her plainly even in the back. She more or less growled through clenched teeth, What do you think you’re doing bringing alcohol in this church? You are an embarrassment and should be ashamed!

Bum’s eyebrows went up and he looked amused and said, Oh, I reckon y’all drink non-alcohol wine. I’ve tried it and it don’t sit well with me. Gives me the farts. Gassy. He rubbed his stomach and tried to keep walking but she held his arm and her face was turning a deep red.

She growled, It is an atrocity that you should bring that bottle in here. He has passed. He can’t even drink it.

Bum smiled at her real wide, his gold tooth in front shined, and said, Then I reckon he’ll be having a hell of a time trying to smell all them purty flowers too. He pulled away and walked back and stood next to us.

The murmuring commenced with the congregation and then escalated until the preacher finally took the podium. It got very quiet except for the rustles and whimpers of the small children that had been drug to something they didn’t understand and would have much rather been in school, daycare, or at home watching cartoons. The mothers were trying to keep the kids quiet and look sad and concerned for the deceased at the same time. It was a difficult chore that few were successful.

The service was like any other. The preacher says a prayer and everyone all bow their heads and he says a few things about the deceased proving that he really didn’t know him but trying to act like they were really close. Then a few family and friends speak a bit, always through hard-earned tears. And the preacher goes in to the church doctrine and tries to get everyone to come join because the deceased would have wanted it that way.

I never understood funerals. I guess some need to grieve and get closure. Others want everyone to see how much they cared by showing up and be consoling to the family. Preachers just tried to recruit. It was all pomp and circumstance. But it worked for some, maybe most, just not me.

I was here because Dustin was and I had known Cory. I would have much rather been fishing, but everyone would look down upon me for not going to the funeral. I couldn’t do anything here, there was nothing to do but shake hands and pat shoulders. Maybe that was healing to some. I bet Cory would have rather been fishing with his son as well.

The preacher finally piped down and the church service mercifully ended. We went outside into the cool air and did the obligatory hand shaking and hugs and shoulder pats to those who wanted or needed them. Seldom came out and I felt that tingle run up my spine that I always got when I looked at her. She was wearing a black dress that went to her ankles held up by thin straps and had a shawl draped over her almost bare shoulders. Her hair was up and she had tears in her eyes, beautiful eyes that seemed to traverse from green to brown depending on her mood. The tissue she was holding looked