They reached their destination an hour later. They decided to park their cars and trucks on different streets so any nosey late night neighbor wouldn’t get suspicious. Then they all gathered at the edge of the woods and left on the next part of their odyssey.
No one was used to it. It taxed even the Blues. Pamela had an especially difficult time of it. She never envisioned getting to the border this way. Ray and Cassandra began cursing the woods. Foote and Wrenn told jokes to each other. Moore stoically tramped on and Hayfield mumbled to himself. Milo kept whining that he’d gone far enough, but he was handcuffed to Armstrong, and he led on.
“No breaks. We’re not taking any chances of a delay that might cost us our liberty. We walk until we reach that damn fence.” No one protested.
About 1:45 a.m. they reached the small clearing. They could see the fence. Then they saw two men, one with a gun. “Been waitin’ for yah,” the guy with the gun said. The ragtag group froze in disbelief.
“Milo,” the man with a Scottish accent said, motioning for him to come over. Armstrong let him go. Milo ran over to them. Armstrong didn’t feel surprised.
“Okay, laddies—oh, and a couple lassies—this way.”
Armstrong motioned for them to come.
“Just a wee walk and then you get to sit down”, the Scotsman said. “I know you must be tired from such a long walk.”
His playful banter didn’t faze Chad Armstrong any. Wrenn still had a grin on his face, while Foote kept looking at Armstrong. Ray understood.
“Come on, come on, folks,” the Scotsman said.
“Anybody up for some T-ball?” Chad said to the others. Moore and Hayfield thought he was crazy. The others knew it was a signal.
“No time for games,” the Scotsman said. “It’s late and we—”
Scotty couldn’t talk anymore. He was more concerned with the stiletto Foote held to his neck; not to mention the left arm wrapped around his head. The Blues flashed their own guns.
“Drop your gun,” Armstrong said to the man with the rifle.
The man hesitated. “No. You, you, drop y’ yer guns,” the rifleman said.
Armstrong walked right in front of him, ignoring the barrel that was pointed at him. “Drop the pop gun. You kill me, and before you can cock that gun you’ll be lying in a pool of blood… your own.”
“Do it, Henry,” Scotty implored.
He did. Foote then let him go. Armstrong took the gun from Henry. He then walked to the fence, pulling Henry along, and peered out. “What’s out there?”
“Nothing. Just wh… what you see.”
“For how long?”
Henry just shrugged. “For miles.”
“About twenty-five miles,” the Scotsman said.
“Tell him, Jack, about the hel… helicopter.”
“Henry,” Jack, the Scotsman, said in a condescending manner.
“Okay, Jack,” Chad said. “Tell me about the helicopter.”
“Most of the people in that neighborhood you parked your vehicles in know about the fence,” Jack said. “Milo lives in the shack behind my house. They think freedom is just over that fence. It isn’t. Never was. Every so often someone goes over the fence. We usually pick him up right away. We got some men over there. Then once every couple of weeks we fly a helicopter out there and load it up with the dead bodies of the—uh, pilgrims—who found that tasting freedom didn’t mean quenching their thirst or putting food in their bellies. Most died of exhaustion and lack of water. Even in winter, when it’s cool and you can eat the snow, you soon got tired. Lack of food saps your energy, the snow’s too cold—you can’t take it anymore.”
“And the few who survive?” Armstrong said. “You just mow them down from the helicopter. Eh?”
“What are you going to do with us?”
“We’re not murderers, but we’re not a bunch of damn fools either. We’re going to tie you up to that fence, that freedom fence. Milo, too. Your relief will untie you.”
After a few minutes, it was time to make their way back through that hated forest. Pamela just stood by the fence, sobbing. Chad walked up to her. “Oh, Chad, are we ever going to make it?”
“Sure!”
Pamela just continued to stare at the scrub, the dirt, and the hills in the distance. “A hundred thousand dollars and we aren’t any better off now than we were.”
The irony wasn’t lost on Armstrong. “It’s an illusion. I’m sick of it. Sick of being misled and lied to. Sick of being hunted down. I’m tired of lawyers picking our pockets and leading us to an illusion. I’m sick of being directed by an idiot who keeps handing people off to the authorities. You know who our biggest enemy is? Ignorance. From now on we’re going to use that lawyer and that senator. We’re going to use them to get some facts—some real information. Then we’re going to use the truth to get across.”
Pamela stood looking up at Chad. He just looked at her with steely eyes. “We’ve come through hell so far only to stare at the face of the devil. Well, I’m going through and I’m taking you and anyone else who wants to come along. Didn’t Odysseus go through hell before he got home?”
Chapter 25:
The Search for Truth
The new pilgrims got back to the Lazy Tourist Inn around dawn, and went to their rooms for a long rest. The watch was set. Armstrong was the first to wake up at around nine. He made coffee and then called Phillips.
“Nate, this is Armstrong. I’m back at the motel.”
(Pause). “No. We didn’t get over. We got stopped. Somebody tipped off the authorities. That wasn’t the problem, however. They were amateurs. We overpowered them easily enough. The problem is that there’s nothing on the other side of that fence. Just desert.”
(Pause). “Listen to me!” Foote came in. Chad put the phone down and turned to him. “Phillips said we should just have gone over anyway.”
He picked up the phone again. “Phillips? You there?” There was a pause. “Not only is it just desert, but Old America’s got authorities over there just waiting to bring back any wayfarers. And if any escapees get past them they’re being picked up by U.S. copters—not alive, but dead.”
There was a delay as Armstrong listened to the lawyer. “No, that’s not going to happen.” Then he lowered the phone and talked to Foote. “He wants to get more information from Milo.”
“What?” he yelled.
“Look, Phillips. I’m tired of this nonsense. Grab a legal pad and pen and write this down. First, I want a map of the entire area five miles from the border, to a hundred miles on the other side. Then I want a close-up map of the border—about twenty-five miles north and the same distance south of our present latitude. Are you getting this?”
Phillips indicated he had.
“Now, I want maps from the border area we just discussed, but focused in on every road, side road, alleyway, and horse trail through or either side of the border. Got it?”
(Pause). “Good. I want it this time tomorrow.”
(Pause). “What? No don’t give me shit. You got a hundred grand of our money. You put everything aside and you come to the Lazy Tourist at nine sharp tomorrow morning.”
(Pause). “Huh?”
“Out of the question. You don’t want to make me mad. Do this and bring those maps to me.”
“Fine! Have some flunky bring them to me.”
“All right. Good-bye.”
Armstrong hung up and turned to Foote. “Oh, I got clients to see, and I have to be in court. I tell you, Terry, I’m about ready to break that lawyer’s kneecaps. All I can say is he better have those maps tomorrow, and after all the money he’s taken from us, he better not try to bill us, or so help me…. Terry, go rouse our senator.”