Left for Alive

By Tom Hogan

Northern California in the early 70's. An investigative reporter is on the trail of radical attorney Donna Fairchild, who hasn't been seen for three years. In the course of her investigation, she discovers a group of ex-cons and political refugees (including Fairchild) living in an abandoned lumber camp.

As the investigation broadens, a number of questions emerge about the ex-cons and their mysterious leader. Why do the police interview him after every local rape? What is his relationship to Fairchild--and to the Vasquez murder? Where did he get the money to buy the camp and much of the mountain? And where does he disappear to every six months, returning battered and bloodied?

The group includes The Gimp, the wheelchair-bound owner of the local bar and unofficial mayor of the mountain; Lucky, who doesn't have an honest bone in his body; William, a blackballed professor; Clark, who no one has ever heard speak; Alexis, the stockbroker turned cabbie; and Josh, the mysterious figure at the center of it all.

A series of rapes and murders--past and present--bind this group together. As these assaults increase in severity and number, the mysteries surrounding Josh and the group are resolved in a shocking, violent finale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480870222

Tom Hogan

Tom Hogan grew up in post-war Germany. While his father was US military, the family lived off-base in a German village. When Tom was 8, the family visited Dachau, the original Nazi concentration camp. which prompted Tom to wonder how many of his neighbors had known about—or even participated—in the campaign against the Jews and the resulting Holocaust. It’s a question that has stayed with him his entire life.After graduating from Harvard with a Masters in Biblical Archaeology, Tom was recruited by a human rights agency to bring Holocaust Studies into high school and college curricula. For four years he taught at Santa Clara University and traveled with Holocaust survivors to school districts and universities, bringing the lessons of the Holocaust home to new audiences.In the late 80s, Tom left teaching to join a growing company, Oracle, as its first creative director. Leveraging his success at Oracle, he joined the VC (Venture Capital) world, where his agency, Crowded Ocean, positioned and launched over 50 startups, many of them market leaders today. He is the co-author of The Ultimate Startup Guide, which is used in graduate and MBA programs.He recently left the tech world to return to teaching. For five years he taught Holocaust and Genocide Studies at UC Santa Cruz. He then retired to Austin, where he now writes full-time. His first novel, Left for Alive, was described by Kirkus as “gritty and observant, particularly his descriptions of the various outlaws who populate his pages... an impressive tale about criminals that will hold readers hostage.” The Devil’s Breath is his second novel. In addition to his fiction, Hogan is a screenwriter and has written for Newsweek as well as numerous political and travel pubs.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

"I t’s like I’m sitting with the cast of Deliverance , the woman said, staring across the table at the three men. All we’re missing is the little guy with the banjo."

The men stared back at her, their faces hard and flat. The woman returned their stares, smoke braiding from the unfiltered cigarette held deep between her second and third fingers, snaking and then disappearing in the black air overhead. A burst of breeze slid through the bar’s open door, pushing the smoke towards the men. When the one with the crooked nose frowned, the woman brought the cigarette down below table level, receiving a slight nod in return.

It was after closing time and The Gimp’s was empty except for the four of them. The bar was dead dark, lit only by the dying fire at one end of the long room and the thin flicker of neon at the other. William and Lucky had stayed behind to help The Gimp close up. The woman was there uninvited.

The left side of her face slipped in and out of shadow in time with the neon, the whirring of the tape recorder the only sound. Her eyes moved to it. Fine. We’ll go off the record, if that’ll make you boys more talkative. She jabbed her cigarette into the heavy glass ashtray and hit the Off switch.

She shook a fresh cigarette from the pack in front of her. None of the men made a move for the matches. She lit the cigarette herself and held the flaming match in front of her. But let’s get a few things straight, okay? she said as the flame closed in on her fingers. You don’t want to help me, that’s fine. Just don’t insult my intelligence in the process.

The men’s eyes moved from her face to the flame, which had reached her skin. She held the match a final beat, her eyes looking past the flame at the men, then shook it out with a single snap of her wrist. For starters, lose the aw-shucks routine, okay? I mean, please. You guys are about as simple as calculus. She patted her notebook with her cigarette hand, dropping a touch of ash onto the cover. According to my research I’m sitting across from a combined nine years of higher education and six years of prison time. So spare me the Gomer Pyle act, okay?

The tall broke-nose one broke the silence. Since you asked so nicely, how can we help?

The woman opened the notebook and took out two pieces of paper. Her fingers were long and yellow, the nails bitten just short of the point of pain. She pushed the papers across the table, the corner of one catching for a moment in the heavy grain.

The Gimp turned on a standing lamp with a ratty beige shade. The tall man read the two pages without touching them and without comment or expression. Then he pushed them over to The Gimp, who hummed tonelessly as his finger moved down the page. Lucky sidled to the back of the wheelchair and read over The Gimp’s shoulder, his lips moving slightly as he kept pace.

You write well, the tall one said, when the men had finished reading. The first one—the Fairchild piece—grabs you from the opening paragraph.

You’re only saying that because you don’t want me to write the second one.

I’m saying that because the second one is lazy reporting. Your hypothesis is shaky, so you prop it up with a couple of sensational anecdotes and hope no one notices the lack of journalistic integrity.

My, my. From hillbilly twang to full-scale erudition in six seconds. When he didn’t return the smile, she dropped hers. You miss it much, William? The teaching? I’ll bet you were a hell of a professor. She pushed on. The first one—the one you like so much—that’s trodden ground. There’s always a market for Donna Fairchild, she held up her fingers in quote marks—‘the Salinger of the left’—as long as she stays disappeared. So they’ll publish it and I’ll get to pay my rent, neither of which is a bad thing.

She nodded at the second piece of paper. But this one. All the mystery surrounding your boy makes it more compelling. And you know it. If I connect the dots the way I think I can… She tapped the paper. I get the cover and a staff position. Especially if your pal Josh and Fairchild are connected. And I think they are. It all comes down to the dots.

What kind of dots? The Gimp pushed back from the table and wheeled his way among the tables, emptying the ashtrays into a plastic bar hanging from his armrest.

Oh, I don’t know, the woman said, mocking his nonchalant tone. You mean, outside of his links to Fairchild and the Vasquez murder? Or why he’s always the cops’ first stop whenever there’s a rape they can’t solve? Or where he got the money to buy half this mountain? She stubbed out the cigarette, picked up the notebook and tape recorder, and stood up. Or where he goes when he disappears every six months?

She smiled slightly as he stopped wheeling. Didn’t think I knew about the disappearances, did you?

She walked to the door and stopped, her hand hovering over the knob. She turned and fixed her eyes on William. Still don’t think I’ll write it, Will?

I think you’ll try. I don’t think you’ll finish it, though.

Her hand tightened on the knob. If you knew anything about reporters, you’d know the last thing you do is threaten us.

He nodded. And if you knew anything about convicts, you’d know that if we were going to hurt you, the last thing we’d do would be warn you first.

She started to say something, then stopped. She turned the knob and stepped out into the night.

CHAPTER 2

W illiam looked up from the New York Times crossword puzzle and laid down his pen. I’ve never asked anyone to leave this table. You seem determined to be the first.

I’m just doing my job, William.

How Third Reich of you. He returned to the puzzle. "Your job damages people. Then you rationalize that damage with bromides about ‘the public’s right to know’ and how Truth—with a capital T—is the ultimate arbiter. Still not looking up, Isn’t this where you tell me that sunshine is the best disinfectant?"

Carol smiled into the top of his head. All those universities that blackballed you, I wish they knew the righteousness and condescension they’re missing.

They were sitting in William’s office, the sole table in the back corner of a Kinsella coffeehouse. A ‘Reserved’ sign, which the owner kept perpetually on the table to accommodate William’s floating office hours, sat next to the ashtray. The tabletop was heavily lacquered, the edges bearing the short, straight marks of untended cigarettes. The walls were cluttered with untended bookshelves interrupted by posters of old jazz greats.

When William didn’t look up from the newspaper, Carol’s voice sharpened. You know, William, for someone who makes his living as a therapist—unlicensed, I’d like to point out—I’m not getting much empathy here.

I’m off duty.

Then start the clock. I’ll pay, if that’s what it takes to get you off your high horse and into a normal conversation. She pulled a cigarette from the pack. William picked up the matches next to them and struck one, cupping its flame. The flickering light illuminated the battered nose pushed to one side, the sad black eyes, the thinning hair forming a loose widow’s peak, black going gray.

"Have you ever read any of my articles, Will? See? And you’re well-read. I’m a good writer going to waste, making ends meet with travel articles and personality pieces. My last published piece was for People, about a guy who runs a mile every day on his hands. The Pulitzer people should be calling any day."

You poor dear.

Okay, I deserved that one. She drained her coffee, put the cup to the side. Look, I’m not looking to hurt anyone here. I like you guys, I really do. But I’m getting too old to be worrying about when my health insurance is going to reclassify me as a bad risk. I need to get onto someone’s books full-time.

And I should help you because…?

Because someone’s going to get this story, and you should hope it’s me. I play fair. The ones coming after me won’t.

And why should I believe there will be others? There haven’t been so far.

"Wise up, William. We’re talking about Donna Fairchild here. Glamor girl attorney, runs with the Panthers, gets wrapped up in a murder, then vanishes for the past three years. Just because she’s not on the cover of TIME anymore, don’t believe for a moment she’s yesterday’s news. She’s just one bombing or one ghetto going up in smoke from being front page again. And when that happens they won’t send a feature writer like me—someone who might treat her with some understanding or restraint. They’ll send the red-meat boys. And when those guys start pulling on all the loose strings I’m seeing around here, you and your friends are screwed. They’ll crack your boy Josh’s life open like a walnut. Yours, too, if you’re involved."

She took a long drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out. Here’s what I negotiated with my editor. I finish up the ‘search for Donna Fairchild’ piece, with its nice blend of mystery and futility. He’ll hold it for three weeks, then he runs it.

She tapped the notebook. He’s giving me three weeks at half pay to pursue the other story, the feature about the mysterious prison reformer. Who bought half a mountain and populated it with ex-cons. And who’s pals with Donna Fairchild. If it plays out the way I think it will, he’ll run it as a major feature, cover the other half of my expenses here and triple what he was going to pay me for the Fairchild piece. She raised her eyebrows, looking at him through the last of the smoke. And if it’s a cover, then I go on staff. Which means salary and benefits.

She raised her chin slightly and looked hard at him. "You’re me. Which story would you go with?

CHAPTER 3

I t was three in the morning. The Gimp and Carol sat on opposite sides of the bar, an empty pitcher between them.

So you’re not gonna tell me anything about him? she asked, the beer tripping her tongue slightly.

Nope. He swiped idly at the bar with his washcloth. And you’re still not going to sleep with me?

I’m thirty-eight years old. How many years older than you does that make me?

Seven. When did math enter into this conversation?

Carol rested her chin on her hand and looked at The Gimp. Her face was tight-skinned and strong-boned, with a blunted nose and hazel eyes that turned down slightly. The skin had seen too much sun in its youth. Her hair, auburn and shot with gray, was short and without any sense of style. She smiled grudgingly at The Gimp with fine, even, tobacco-stained teeth.

It’s sweet of you to ask, but I never fuck my sources.

I’m not a source.

Yet.

He almost smiled. You don’t give up, I’ll give you that. The smile slid away. But this act is wearing thin, honey. On everyone. You’re up here, drinking my beer, prying into the lives of my friends. William would call that behavior ‘reprehensible’.

She shrugged. When you’re a reporter, you get called a lot of things. William’s just got a larger vocabulary than most. Look, it’s in the job description to pry, to ask questions people don’t want to answer. But I take your point, about the beer at least. She tapped the pitcher with her pen. How about this? Whenever I’m paying, I’m entitled to pry. That way you’ll know when I’m working and when I’m not.

So everything after closing is off the record?

As long as you’re buying.

The Gimp thought for a moment, then pushed back from the table. I’ve got to put the money away before I drink any more. He handed the pitcher to her. Fill that up while I’m gone.

Carol shook a cigarette from the pack and sat back. She was midway through her second week in the area and had become a familiar face at the bar. She worked out of her motel room in San Tomas, a drab square with coffee-colored wallpaper and thin carpet. The room had two beds—one with rumpled sheets, the other populated by two stacks of papers that she rotated between.

Mornings—when the officials were cooperative—she was out at the prison. Or the San Tomas library when they weren’t. Afternoons she brought a six-pack of Coke back to the room and worked the phones, trying to track down the released prisoners or retired guards from the time of the murder. Late afternoon she either walked the beach at San Tomas or drove up to the mountains to try to get a line on Donna Fairchild. Then it was usually on to The Gimp’s for the evening.

You okay to drive? he asked, wheeling back from the office.

My rental knows the road by heart now.

He nodded overhead. There’s a guest bedroom, you know. And there’s always the master suite.

"If your friend Josh doesn’t surface soon, I might just take you up on it, if only to get a letter to Penthouse out of it. Sex with amputees—they love that shit."

You’re waiting for Josh, it may be a long wait.

Not from what I hear. Every time he’s disappeared in the past, he’s been gone a week, tops.

Even if you’re right, when he gets back, he won’t talk to you.

It’ll be a costly silence, then.

The Gimp’s eyes heated up. Listen, just so my conscience is clear… He shifted in his chair. You better start thinking how much this story is worth to you.

She held his eyes. Like I told William the other night, I don’t scare that easy.

He sprayed the sink with the nozzle, then wiped it down. Then he put down the rag. Okay. Just so you’re warned. If you ever do meet Josh, look at his hands. At the scars. They’re from taking knives away from guys who came at him in the joint. He’s got another scar on his back—a deep one—from where some prick jumped him one night with a hatchet. Josh broke the guy’s back before he collapsed.

And you’re telling me this why?

So that I can stop worrying about you and let you start worrying about yourself. He picked up the rag. Remember the other night, when you were asking me about when I used to box? About the stare-downs fighters go through right before the first bell?

She nodded. I asked you if it was theatre—and if not, what you were looking for.

And I said you’re looking for what’s behind the eyes, what they’ll be like if they get you on the ropes. He leaned forward until she could smell the beer on his breath. There comes a point in almost every fight where you get hurt and need time to regroup. If the guy’s tired from the attack—or if he’s one of those pretty boys who likes to throw leather for effect but is afraid to leave himself vulnerable when he attacks—you get that time. But if he’s a closer… he leaned even closer, he finishes the job.

And you’re telling me all this because…?

I’m telling you that Josh is a closer. The folks down at the prison know it. The folks up here know it. Now you know it too.

It was almost three. The bar was dark, the tables clean. Carol had switched to Coke. Her ashtray was full.

How long have you been a reporter?

Technically, I’m a feature writer.

What’s the difference?

Reporters report what’s going on. We have to create our own news.

Give me an example.

She nodded. Okay. This story. Our magazine got a lead that Donna Fairchild had been seen down in San Tomas at a store, that she might even be living around here. If they had been sure about the lead, they would have sent a reporter because it would be news. Big news. But we’ve had these false leads before, so they send a freelancer like me. I’ve got two objectives—to see if there’s any truth to the rumor—and if there isn’t, then see if there’s another angle on Fairchild or another story altogether. She raised her Coke. Which is where your pal Josh comes in.

What’s wrong with me?

Nothing. Why?

I mean, as a story. He nodded towards his stumps. C’mon.

You’re plucky. I don’t do plucky.

If you were going to interview me, how would you do it?

Are you a cooperative party or hostile?

Say I’m hostile.

She opened her notebook. Okay. She fixed him with a hard gaze. Who was your favorite Beatle?

He gave the question some thought. Ringo. He’d make a good bartender.

Okay. Then I’d ask you a more serious one, but not to do with you.

Like what?

She thought for a moment. Like how did the camp get its name? What are a bunch of white guys doing living in a place called Motown?

He smiled. You’re spelling it wrong. There’s an ‘e’ in it. He took her pen, turned the notebook around and wrote, in all caps: ‘MOETOWN.’

She shrugged back at him.

The Three Stooges was everyone’s favorite show down at the prison. He said that they all referred to the guards down there as ‘Moe’s’ because of the violence they inflicted. When the camp opened, one of the early guys there said what he liked most about being there was that everyone was his own Moe. The name stuck.

She smiled. See? I’m learning something here. More importantly, I’ve got you talking. Her eyes shifted. So how’d you lose your legs?

CHAPTER 4

T he Gimp sweats easily. Not a fat man’s constant glisten, but the honest sweat from steady wheeling. The sweat curls his thinning blonde hair, framing his moon face. His skin is a rich walnut with the beginnings of weathering. It is a deliberate tan, one based on his belief that a pale wheelchair-bound person is pitiful, and no one likes being served by someone they pity.

Over the years, Josh and Clark have helped him customize his accommodations—first the bar, then his upstairs quarters. Doorways are wider, sinks and shelves lower. The stairway has an escalator chair connecting business and residence; when The Gimp is upstairs, his downstairs chair sits empty at the foot of the stairs, its armrest hooked to the bottom baluster.

Despite his aversion to pity, The Gimp is not above playing the sympathy card when he needs to—especially with women new to the bar. The result is a routine so familiar, so successful, that it has acquired legend status among the mountain residents. It is known simply as ‘The Move.’

As The Gimp explained to Carol one night after closing, The Move is a necessity, given the competition from the men up at Moetown. Collectively, there is the edgy mystery of their criminal pasts. Then there are the men themselves. William, so homely and comfortable with himself that women warm to him immediately. Lucky, with his farmboy looks, forty years old and not looking a day over twenty-five. And Clark, with his mysterious, imposing silence—six-five with close-cropped blue-black hair and the strongest hands anyone has ever seen.

And then there’s Josh. Precisely because he doesn’t compete for the women’s attention—and is uncomfortable to the point of rudeness with any woman who shows the faintest interest in him—he is the ultimate conquest, and a prime force behind The Move.

The Move begins simply. The Gimp draws the woman into a conversation that grows gradually more serious, more soulful. He explains the insights that bartending yields, watching people in their unguarded states, seeing the fading light of regret in their eyes, the opportunities that have slipped away.

Then The Move shifts gears. While he acknowledges that he’ll never be as attractive to most women as ‘those other fellows like Josh or Lucky’, he’s not complaining, mind you. When you’re crippled—he never uses a euphemism—you learn to value the little things: sun on a mountain stream, the skip to a little girl’s step, the way music talks to the soul, not just to the legs. The Move, as William notes, doesn’t leave its prey much room for escape.

Nam. Where else? He shrugged. Actually, it was my fault. I had easy duty over there and I blew it. I’d lettered in two sports in college—football and wrestling—so the boot camp guys pulled me off the meat wagon and penciled me in for QC. He anticipated her question. Quartermaster Corps. Ask any lifer—they’ll tell you the guys in QC run the show. Everything that matters—the supplies, the stores, even the gyms. They made me a boxer, part of their service competitions. He smiled. QC also runs all the betting pools.

Were you any good?

Sixteen and oh my first year, second-ranked in the Pacific region. I could have seen the whole damn war from the inside of a gym if I hadn’t fucked up.

What’d you do?

Got a little cocky with my undefeated status, figured I was untouchable. So I broke training and headed into Saigon for a little unsanctioned R&R. Some guy recognized me and challenged me to step outside. I dropped him with one punch. He smiled ruefully. Turned out he was an MP.

Tough luck. Or poor judgment.

Tell me about it. Next thing I know I’m just another grunt on a plane to the Mekong Delta. He shook his head. Turns out it was just a trick by the CO to scare me. Spend a week in the front lines, but keep me out of the line of fire. Those were his instructions, anyway. Scare the shit out of me and watch me come crawling back. He smiled slightly. Which I would have done, believe me.

He swapped out Carol’s ashtray. Trouble is, the message never got delivered. So they put me out on patrol. He looked out the window. Two days later, I’m walking lead on a perimeter patrol and I step on something. I feel it shift beneath me, then I hear this soft crunching sound and the ground just seems to scream. His eyes grew erratic. I felt the metal shred my leg, then I felt the air rush in and rub my bone. I woke up two weeks later in Saigon. My legs are still out there somewhere in the bushes.

He stayed in the dark of his Portland bedroom for over a year, rebuffing visitors with a raging silence. His face grew chalky white, his bony fingers could wrap easily around his forearms. He spent his days chain-smoking, watching television and masturbating in small gratitude at what the land mine had left behind.

If my mom hadn’t committed me to the VA, I’d still be back in that room. For the first six weeks I pouted and did the absolute minimum. But that place eventually beats the self-pity out of you, first off with the guys far worse off than you, and second, with the guys who get better and leave.

What kind of treatment did you receive?

A mix of therapy and practical stuff. How to work the chair, to take care of your own hygiene, things like that. Then the group sessions help you get ready for life ‘out there.’

Get ready for the eyes, one counselor warned. They stare at you, then dart away when you catch them staring. Especially the girls your own age—they’ll get to you the most. Watch out for the trophy hunters, another warned, the ones who make friends with you way too fast. They’re the ones who want you for a trophy friend, to show you off at parties and out in public.

So for graduation I cashed in the pile of disability checks that I’d let accumulate on my dresser at my mom’s and I bought an old phone company van. He nodded over his shoulder at the parking lot. The guys at the VA helped me convert it over to hand throttle and brake. Then we installed a hydraulic life for the back doors and customized the side and driver doors so I could hoist myself in without hydraulics. I built out the interior with cabinets, a small refrigerator, a toilet, and seats that folded out into a bed. Then I hit the road. Which is how I met Josh. And how I wound up owning this place.

CHAPTER 5

T he gun-metal pickup—a Ford flatbed—cleared the incline and stopped in front of the locked gate, the back tires resting on gravel, the front on the driveway’s tamped clay. Two large cypress flanked the aluminum and wood gate. The driver got out, leaving the door ajar, and walked over to the mailbox. He lowered the partially raised flag, reached in and extracted a bundle of magazines and letters held together by two large rubber bands.

He slid the rubber bands off, wrapped them around his wrist and walked over to the gate, thumbing through the letters as he went. He bent slightly, lifted the combination lock and rotated it with his free hand. As he pulled down sharply on the lock, the gate swung back noiselessly on large, well-oiled hinges.

Thirty yards up the dirt road, hidden by a thick grove of juniper, Carol watched the driver lean against the fence and browse the mail. Tucking the pile under his arm, he opened a letter and scanned its multiple pages.

Carol raised her camera and brought the man into focus. He was almost six feet tall, with close-cropped coffee curls and the beginnings of a beard. His nose was a long, precise line of bone that hooked slightly. Contrasting the hard nose and cheek lines were the eyes—a warm brown roofed with heavy lashes—and soft, almost feminine lips. She snapped a dozen shots, adjusting the aperture halfway through to compensate for the harsh noon light.

Shouldering the camera, she crept back up the line of bushes until she was around the bend. Then she stepped out of the bushes onto the road. Unclipping the canteen from her belt, she splashed some water on her face, poured some down her front, soaking her shirt. The rest she poured out onto the dirt.

She stood in the road for almost a minute, gathering herself, then started down the road at a brisk pace. As she reached the road’s curve, she reached into her fanny pack and turned on the miniature tape recorder.

The man had finished his reading and was walking back to the truck as she approached. He nodded at her and reached for his door.

Carol slowed. Hotter than I’d planned on. She gestured at the soaked plaid shirt. Certainly didn’t need this.

It’s July.

Ah. Local knowledge.

The man turned away, hiding a smile, and opened the truck door. Enjoy the rest of your hike.

Carol closed the distance and placed a hand on the truck door. She shook the empty canteen. I went through this a bit quick. Mind if I come up and fill it up?

The man looked at the canteen. Doesn’t look like you planned your hike very well.

Carol lost her smile for a moment, then recovered. Right. She extended her hand. I’m Carol, by the way.

The man ignored the hand. Hello.

And you are…

You know who I am.

Which means you know who I am?

And why you’re here. Now please leave.

Look, Josh…can I call you Josh? I don’t like to make mistakes, so do yourself a favor and talk to me before I file. When he didn’t respond, she said, Look, I’m going to write this thing anyway, but you can make sure I get it right.

His mouth bit into a tight smile. Does that line ever work?

Sometimes. I gather this isn’t one of them?

No. Now please leave. He put his hands behind his back, as if standing at parade rest. But before you do, I need the film in your camera.

Not a chance.

I’m afraid I have to insist.

Carol looked down the road. Well, since you asked so nicely, I won’t tell you to go fuck yourself. I’ll just say no.

A short-bladed fishing knife appeared suddenly in his hand. The sun glinted harshly off the razor blade as it slashed at her with two precise, darting strokes. Carol gasped and stepped back, her hands feeling for wounds. As she did so, the camera fell from its severed straps and dropped into his free hand.

He slid the knife back into the sheath behind his back, then turned the camera over and removed the film. Exposing it, he said, I’ll reimburse you for this, and handed the camera back to her.

Her breathing coming quickly through her open mouth, Carol backed away, stopping as Josh’s hand wrapped tightly around her wrist. I’ll also need the tape from your recorder.

CHAPTER 6

"I stayed around Portland for the first three weeks. Went to McDonalds, the movies, shopping, things like that. Just to get my sea legs, so to speak. He looked up at Carol for reaction, but she just shook her head. Huh. That usually gets a laugh. Shows that I’m plucky." She rolled her wrist for him to continue.

After a few months, I headed south, moseyed down the coast. Got to San Tomas and liked what I saw. Sat for a few days on the pier, did some fishing, and got the feel for the place. Then I thought I’d check out the mountains. I drove up 18, turned onto one of those lumber roads, and drove ‘til it petered out. Pulled the van into a space under a large oak and settled in. And that’s how I met Josh. Turns out I was camping on his land.

How long was this after he bought the camp? When The Gimp looked at her suspiciously, she shrugged. Just trying to get a timeline here. Nothing more.

Four or five months.

So how did this Lennon and McCartney meeting take place?

He refilled her glass. Actually, I saw Josh before he saw me. I’d been there a coupla days and planned to stay a few more. The logging roads were good for getting me back in shape. And after my workouts I’d just sit out next to the van and read through the different vocational and Chamber of Commerce stuff I’d assembled. Trying to figure out what I was going to do next and where I was going to do it.

Carol put her notebook in her purse. So you met him…

"I saw him the second afternoon I was there, I was sitting next to the van reading, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Up on the far hillside, above the line of spruces, some kind of animal scrambling up this steep hillside. I’m thinking it’s an