Chapter 5 - The Closing of the Gate
The drive back down the ridge road was quieter than the ascent. The Ford’s radiator was leaking a tiny, regular stream of green fluid onto the hot manifold, creating a small cloud of white steam that trailed behind the truck like a grey ribbon, but the old eight-cylinder engine didn't miss a beat.
Emily sat with her knees pulled up toward her chin, her face buried in the sleeve of the grey sweatshirt. She didn't look at the big houses as they passed. She didn't look at the black polymer fences or the limestone pillars that had been built to keep the world out.
"He’s going to call the lawyers, Dad," she said after we cleared the three-mile marker. "He has three firms in Atlanta that are on a monthly retainer. He has the home numbers for the district judges."
"He can call the Governor if he wants to, Emily," Richard said, his left hand steady on the big plastic steering wheel. "The state insurance board has a rule about the security nodes. Section Twelve, Paragraph Four. If a franchise holder allows a tier-one terminal to be breached by a civilian with an iron bar, the contract is suspended for ninety days for an independent evaluation of the perimeter defense."
He shifted the truck into fourth gear as the road flattened out into the bottom land.
"In ninety days, Ethan Caldwell is going to be spending every dollar he has trying to keep the Chicago lenders from calling his personal notes," Richard said. "He won't have enough left over to pay for a parking ticket in town, let alone a district judge."
They turned into the gravel driveway of the house by the creek at 1:44 PM. Exactly forty minutes had passed since the phone had vibrated against the Formica table.
The front door was still open, and the smell of the honey-glazed ham had filled the yard, sweet, heavy, and completely normal. The pool of coffee on the floor had dried into a dark, sticky circle that looked like an old walnut stain.
Richard helped her out of the cab, his thick, scarred fingers holding her elbow until her feet were steady on the gravel.
"Go inside and sit in the green chair, Emily," he said. "I’ll get the bag from the back of the truck."
"You didn't bring a bag, Dad," she said, her right eye squinting as she looked into the kitchen light.
"I have the old one from the closet," he said. "The one your mother used when we went to the clinic in Germany. It’s still got the clean gauze and the silver cream from the supply depot. It’s better than the stuff they sell at the pharmacy."
He walked back to the Ford, his boots making that regular, unhurried crunching sound in the gravel. The sun had finally broken through the fog over the river, and the old blue truck looked very bright against the green of the pecan trees. The front bumper was bent back three inches on the left side, the iron channel scratched down to the grey metal where it had met the Ashford gate-post, but the frame rails were straight, and the latch on the driver's door caught on the first shove.
Richard reached under the seat, took out the tire iron, and wiped the blue sparks and the white Plexiglas dust off the wedge end with the tail of his field jacket.
He didn't put it back under the seat. He carried it onto the porch and leaned it against the woodbox by the door, right next to the old iron scraper he used for the mud after the spring rains.
"Colonel," a voice called from the road.
It was Miller, the barber from town. He was driving his old green Buick, his window rolled down halfway to let the tobacco smoke out. He had stopped by the mailbox, his eyes tracking the buckled hood of the Ford and the green puddle of antifreeze that was drying into the gravel.
"You have an issue up on the ridge road, Richard?" Miller asked. "The boy at the sub-station said the gate at The Overlook was lying in the ditch."
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Richard stood on the top step of his porch, his hands in his pockets, his face entirely clear under the white shadow of his hair.
"No issue, Miller," Richard said, his voice carrying across the creek with the clean, dry resonance of a man who had finished his day's march. "The gate was just old. It didn't have the iron in it to stand the wind."
