The Man Who Turned Out The Lights

THE MAN WHO TURNED OUT THE LIGHTS

A Jim Cross Novel

By F. R. Heil

Email: fred@frheil.com

Website: frheil.com

Copyright © 2012 by F.R. Heil. All rights reserved.

First Smashwords Edition: July 2012

Editor: Harry DeWulf

Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1: Blue

Chapter 2: Linda Cross

Chapter 3: Walter Hoffman

Chapter 4: George Baldwin

Chapter 5: Max Lee

Chapter 6: Edward Carter

Chapter 7: Woodrow Wilson

Chapter 8: Blue

Chapter 9: Walter Hoffman

Chapter 10: Max Lee

Chapter 11: Ed Carter

Chapter 12: Robert Hoffman

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by F.R. Heil

Dedication

To Leslie—

Without her love and encouragement,

Cross never would have made it out of the rubble

Chapter 1

Blue

I CLIMBED OUT OF THE truck and shielded my eyes against the glare reflecting off the warehouse wall before me. The morning sun was barely a few hours old yet already spawning dust devils in the empty streets and scorching the pavement under my feet.

This is the place? I asked Blue standing next to me. He nodded, then turned his head and sent a gob of spit sailing into the sand at our feet. Blue appeared to be a man of few words. Since I didn’t have the spit to spare, I didn’t say anything in return.

I grabbed the rifle from the truck cabin and we started up the steps leading to the loading dock when a sound made me turn back toward the street. A handful of the locals emerged from between the buildings opposite. Only a couple of them appeared to be carrying guns, while the others carried clubs and chains; a pretty rag-tag group to come calling so ill equipped. I looked to see if there were others nearby, but didn’t see any.

I glanced at Blue.

I’d met him four days earlier at one of the local drinking holes. I’d been looking for a small-time scavenger familiar with the area that wasn’t too ambitious. I believe ambition is an overrated quality in most people, especially when it conflicts with my own.

Blue seemed to fit the bill. He couldn’t have been a day over twenty and a couple of inches over six feet, with sun burnt skin. A thin mustache darkened his upper lip and long stringy hair hung down from a salt-encrusted hat. He didn’t drink too much and, when I questioned him, he appeared to be an independent operator without any strong loyalties that might strain our business relationship. Now I wondered if I misread him.

The line of men stopped short of the truck, leaving us a path of retreat if we chose to use it. Evidently, they didn’t want a fight if they could avoid it. Blue removed his hat and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

I guess they want to talk, he said. He looked at me and then put his hat back on. Guess I’ll go talk with them.

I didn’t have to remind him that was why I was paying him.

Blue walked over to their lead man, a sour faced skinhead wearing a dirty poncho, and they started talking in a local Anglo-Mexican dialect. I gave up trying to follow along, so I strolled over to the truck. I stopped next to the open passenger door and rested the rifle barrel across the open window, pointed in a neutral direction. No one moved to stop me.

I watched the two men in animated conversation and played over the past few days to see if there had been any indication Blue had sold me out. If there had been any, I’d missed it. Perhaps it was just a bad break, the kind that could leave someone dead. I gave up the second-guessing and took comfort in the feel of rifle and the weight of the holstered gun under my arm.

There was a lot of angry words and arm waving, and at one point Skinhead walked away to do some thinking. You could practically hear the gears grinding. Blue turned and gave me a smile like he had everything under control. I was less than reassured. Finally, the two reached some agreement and shook hands.

It’s all set, Blue said when he returned.

What is? I asked.

He nodded toward the gang members who were making themselves comfortable, out of the sun and wind.

They say this neighborhood’s their territory, he said, and what’s in that warehouse belongs to them.

I thought you knew this town, I said.

I do, but gangs like this come and go. I can’t keep track of all of them. He smiled and waved at Skinhead who was watching us from a short distance away.

So how much will it cost me? I asked.

He took a long swallow from his water canteen. We pay for each crate we carry out.

No surprises so far. What was all the yelling about?

He poured some water into his hand, splashed it on his face and neck, and then turned and looked at me.

He wanted to kill you, figured I’d go along with them. That way we’d all come out ahead. Except you, of course. He smiled. But I told him you were a tough hombre, and if it came to a fight, my money was on you. I convinced him it was better to deal.

When he grinned, his face looked even younger, like some kid on a lark. I wondered how he’d managed to live this long. Of course, it could all have been an act and he was some psycho, but I didn’t want to think on that too long.

Thanks, I told him.

Don’t mention it.

Can we trust them to stay out of the way?

Blue gave me that damned smile again.

Sure, he said and pointed at the rifle. May I?

He was polite on top of everything else. I handed him the rifle. He checked to see if it was loaded, then slipped a box of shells into the pocket of his leather vest. We’re all one happy family now.

I grabbed my bag from the truck, and we climbed the steps leading onto the loading platform. The gang members sprawled out on the concrete and sand seemed to have already lost interest in us. Some appeared to be napping, while others talked among themselves, as we shoved open a door and entered the building.

We stepped into a room thick with dust and cobwebs. Long ago someone had emptied the drawers and cupboards and scattered their contents about the office. Now they lay nearly buried under the sand blown in through the broken windows. The blank eye of a computer monitor stared out of the shadows along one wall. We walked on through an open door leading into a hallway and followed it into the warehouse.

The ceiling towered five stories above us and stretched a city block in both directions. Dim sunlight entered through several large skylights and dirty sand-pitted windows built into the walls near the roof. Even so, we needed the flashlights from my bag to see in the darkness.

Dust hung suspended in the air, stirred up by the wind entering the building through a thousand holes and cracks. The roof had collapsed in one distant corner. A column of light streamed through the gaping hole like a golden spear disappearing behind row after row of pallets stacked high with boxes and crates.

It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in awhile, Blue said.

We’re going to find out, I said.

I could see several rusty forklifts parked in the aisles, with their rubber tires wasted and flat, swathed in cobwebs so thick they looked like miniature dinosaurs frozen in time. The silence was broken by an occasional flutter of wings or a small, high-pitched animal cry. The smothering heat had us both dripping rivers of sweat.

Now what?

Now I find out if what I’m looking for is here.

I placed my bag on a nearby crate and pulled out a rolled-up pair of coveralls. While I put them on, Blue tested a stack of pallets before sitting on it. He pulled out his tobacco pouch and started rolling a cigarette.

You don’t want to light that, I said as I zipped up the coveralls. It wouldn’t take much to set this place afire.

He looked at the mountain of dried paper and kindling surrounding us and put the pouch away.

I’m going to be some time. Stick your head outside every now and then to check on our friends, but stay nearby in case I need you. I held a tin whistle in my hand. If I do need help, I’ll blow this.

I blew into the whistle and a piercing, high-pitched sound shattered the silence, causing a flurry of wings to rise from the surrounding stacks, circle in the darkness a couple of times, and then quickly resettle.

Follow it to where I am. Most likely it’ll mean I’m in trouble.

Will do, he said getting comfortable.

I put the whistle and my notebook into one of the coverall pockets. Then I selected a screwdriver, a small crowbar, and other tools that might prove useful and put them in the other pockets. I took another swallow of water from my canteen then swung it over my shoulder and started out.

I followed the beam from my flashlight down one aisle and up another, wiping the dirt off box labels so I could read them. I also kept a look out for any surprises.

You watched where you put your foot in places like this—and they were all places like this, sometimes worse. What might look solid could be rotted through and brittle as a matchstick. You watched where you put your hands, too, because of poisonous snakes and spiders. There was always something to punch your ticket if you weren’t careful. One time I stumbled onto a pack of wild dogs that had made their home in a corner of a warehouse like this and I barely escaped with my hide intact.

I came to an aisle blocked by a small mountain of crates that had fallen from a neighboring stack. Several had broken open, scattering heavy metal canisters. A white powder spilled from one of them appeared to be some kind of cleansing agent. I ran the flashlight beam along the other stacks to see if they were steady. I decided to back track and cut over an aisle, when something caught my eye. I swung the light halfway up the pile to where a patch of color stood out against the dusky grayness. It was so out of place I grew curious.

I carefully picked my way over the pile for a closer look trying not to bring down another avalanche. A bit of orange clothing was caught between two crates, like butterfly wings pinched between giant fingers. I moved one of the crates aside and saw it was a jacket worn by some poor bastard trapped underneath when the stack had come crashing down. What flesh remained on the carcass