Head Of The Snake. G. Rehder

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      When we were walking to his vehicle, Eddie slowly got out. I could see that age had not been good to him. He used a cane to balance as he stood there, waiting for us to reach him. Bo got to him first and was restrained in his hug on the man. I just extended my hand, introduced myself as Alan Ames, and shook with a gentle grip.

      “Eddie Mize,” he said back to me with a smile. “Good to finally meet ya.”

      Eddie was a small man unlike Bo. He was clean-shaven and bald. He was Bo’s age but appeared much older. The past two years had been rough. His wife of forty-three years had passed away recently, and Eddie had watched her suffer. The Toyota Eddie was going to sell me was her car, low miles, he told me when we made the deal over the phone.

      “Toss your bags in the back. We can squeeze in the cab.” He looked at Bo. “You better ride shotgun, my friend, roll down the window so some of you can hang out. Give us all more room.”

      I saw Bo smile, then he said, “This is the crap I had to put up with for three tours.”

      “I can still dish it out,” Eddie shot back.

      Eddie’s home was located off Hurricane Ridge Road. Out of town and in the hills above Port Angeles. He was on a knoll that had a 360-degree view, the Salish Sea to the north with lower mountains, then peaks to the west. He had lived up there for over thirty-five years. When I got out of his truck, looked around, and took a deep breath of the fresh air, I understood why.

      I would spend the night with the two men then start my journey to Questa early the next morning.

      The Toyota Eddie was selling me was like new. It had been kept in a garage and out of the elements, twenty-three thousand miles, barely broken in. I had already placed the agreed-upon cash payment in an envelope. I was carrying a large amount of money with me and didn’t want to flash it around. Even though I trusted Eddie, I didn’t know if anyone else would be at his house.

      That night, we had a fine pasta dinner. Eddie and his wife used to own and run several restaurants in the Port area. He was a well-known chef, and his businesses were quite successful. After two helpings, I excused myself and retired for the night. When I was alone in my room, I tried a call to Mike Groves. It was 2100 hours his time. The phone rang many times, but he never picked up. I left a message. I would try again in the morning. I wanted to let him know when I expected to arrive in New Mexico.

      The next morning, I hugged Bo and thanked Eddie for his hospitality. He wanted to make me breakfast, but I was anxious to move on. I wanted to make Rock Springs, Wyoming, by nightfall. I took a strong cup of coffee in a go mug from Eddie’s Keurig, said my goodbyes, and headed down Hurricane Ridge in the Four Runner to 101.

      My planned route took me east to Spokane then to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. I made good time. The weather was on my side. I continued onto Interstate 90 into in Montana. I was in some of the most beautiful country I had ever seen. In Missoula, I connected with Highway 15 south to Idaho Falls.

      I was in Wyoming about 1700 hours, made highway changes, and was in Rock Springs about 2120. It was dark and cold. I was tired, more than tired. A thick steak and a warm bed were all that was on my mind. I found a Motel 8 on Commercial Way. It had a vacancy sign lit up in the office window, an inviting sight. I pulled the Toyota into the lot and headed to the office.

      A young lady behind the counter must have been bored working the night shift. The blond was preoccupied with her phone. I had to clear my throat to get her attention.

      She looked up, and without a greeting, just asked, “Checking in?”

      I used restraint and didn’t get snide. “Yeah, just one king if you have one.”

      “Let me check,” she said and went to her computer. “Yes, a room on the second floor, okay?”

      “That would be great.”

      I gave her all my information and paid cash. She told me she needed to run a credit card in case there were additional charges.

      I asked, “Like what?”

      “Phone use, damage to the room, stolen towels,” she responded, trying to sound serious.

      I looked at her then said, “You callin’ me a thief?”

      She stepped back and stammered, “No, sir.”

      I pulled out my wallet, pulled another twenty out, and slapped it on the counter. “This should cover anything I might steal. We good.”

      “Yes, sir,” she answered, a startled look on her face.

      “So, young lady, where can I get a good steak?”

      She hesitated a moment, like she was thinking about a real difficult question. “Saddle Back Saloon, just down the street.”

      I turned and walked to my vehicle, looking up to the second-floor landing for my room, number 211. As I looked up, I noticed the gray storm clouds and the towns lights reflecting up on the weather front that had followed me all the way from Montana. I knew it would bust loose anytime.

      I had a secret compartment under a hatch in the back of the Toyota. I had placed my bag with my weapons and SAT phone there for safekeeping. I grabbed my clothes bag, pulled my Desert Eagle out of the hidden bag and tucked it in the back of my jeans hidden by my coat, went up to my room, and set my bag down.

      The room was sparse but looked clean. I checked my appearance in the bathroom mirror, removed my ball cap and rinsed my face, water clinging to my untrimmed beard. My stomach was growling. Time for that steak.

      I found the Saddle Back Saloon just as the rain started bursting from the sky. I pulled up my collar, cinched my ball cap down on my head, and went for the door. I got on the covered porch and looked into the front window, only a few patrons sitting at tables and three guys playing pool. I was hoping the young lady didn’t steer me wrong since I gave her a bad time.

      I walked in, and the three guys at the pool table stared at me as I waited for the waitress to seat me. She was a short redhead that looked like she had squeezed into her uniform.

      “You by yourself tonight, mister?” she asked.

      I looked behind me, then said, “As far as I know.”

      “I got a table by the fireplace.”

      “Sounds good to me,” I answered.

      I sat down, and she handed me a menu.

      “Anything to drink tonight? We got some good microbrews on tap.”

      “Yeah, I’ll have whatever you recommend.”

      She turned and left.

      After watching me get seated, the three guys playing pool went back to their game, laughing and talking loudly. I guessed I wasn’t going to have a peaceful meal. Short red brought my draft and set it on the table. The wet glass slid to my right. The table slopped that way.

      “So what brings you out on this stormy night?” she asked.

      “Just traveling through,” I said.

      “You heading to Cheyenne?” she asked again.

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