Bob

After 27 years as a newspaper man, Peter Anderson’s career is slipping away. At least it was, until he stumbled upon the story of a lifetime. Sent to do a fluff piece about lights in the night sky over Arizona, he discovers far more than he ever expected when he comes upon a mysterious young woman held prisoner in a basement. After helping her to escape, she disappears before he can learn the truth about who she is or where she came from. His search for her leads him back to the lights in the sky, and leaves him with more questions than answers. The only thing he knows for certain . . . the only thing he can count on, are the two words offered repeatedly by his friend and guide . . . IS BELT.

BOB

Tegon Maus

Tirgearr Publishing

Author Copyright 2014 Tegon Maus

Cover Art: EJR Digital Art (ejrdigitalart.com)

Editor: Troy Lambert

Proofreader: Christine McPherson

A Smashwords Edition

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DEDICATION

To my wonderful wife who thinks I’m very funny…we’re having her checked for Alzheimer’s soon.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To Kemberlee Shortland, Troy Lambert, and Christine McPherson, for turning a blind eye in my direction, and letting me run around willy-nilly, book after book!!

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BOB

Tegon Maus

Chapter 1

The first time I heard it, I thought nothing of it…nothing. I've been in the newspaper game for more than twenty-seven years and that kind of experience gave a guy an edge, but even that didn't prepare me for this.

I'd been beaten, shot at, even stabbed a couple of times over the years, but I always got the story. Always. But this one was big. Too big, perhaps. Maybe we were ready, maybe not. Either way, it wasn't my call.

None of which filled me with the fear, the trepidation, the anguish of five little words that still haunt me today…

Is okay. I have cousin.

I felt as though I had been in a plane or a car for weeks, sent from town to town, story to story without a break, or at least a weekend to catch up. At the very least it was nice to return to a hotel I had been in several times before. Tired beyond words, I was more than happy to have Carlos carry my bags to my room.

Carlos, do you know where Payson is? I asked, as I slid the card, opening the door.

Sure. It's about an hour and a half north of here, why?

I have an interview tomorrow at 10:00. I need a car and some directions, I said, tossing my laptop on the bed.

I can arrange it for you. 7am good?

That would be great, I said, searching my pocket. Thanks, Carlos. I held out a five.

Thanks, but that's not necessary, he answered, waving away my offering.

I shook his hand and he took his leave.

Alone at last, I collapsed on the bed, exhausted.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to control the personal demons that slowly began to chink away at my armor. I hated the quiet time, hated to be alone. I could only hope tomorrow proved to be less frustrating.

By 7am the following morning, I stood in the lobby, ready for the day. True to his word, Carlos arrived on time.

Morning, sir, he said, offering his hand in greeting.

Morning, Carlos, I returned, giving his hand a quick shake.

I followed him across the lobby and then outside to stand in the morning sun. We made small talk as the minutes slowly ticked away. I glanced at my watch several times, becoming more uncomfortable as each minute slipped by.

Carlos made no outward sign he noticed my discomfort. It was clear I was going to have to say something.

Ah, here we are, he said cheerfully, raising his right hand to flag down a passing car.

I turned in surprise and disappointment as a faded blue sedan sputtered to a stop in front of us, belching out a small cloud of blue smoke with a sharp bang.

A mournful creak of metal pierced the air as the driver's door swung open.

Dressed in a rumpled black suit, a very large, heavyset man unfolded himself from behind the wheel, tucking his shirt into his slacks as he rounded the front of the car.

He ran his fingers frantically through his hair, trotting up the steps to the landing where we waited.

Carlos, my friend, the man said loudly in a strong Slavic accent, throwing his arms around the young man, and lifting him off the ground. At long last he set him down, patting him heavily on the back.

Mr. Peter Anderson, this is Dimitri Rurik Petrova, Carlos said cheerfully, patting the large man affectionately on the chest as he spoke.

Nice to meet you, I responded, offering my hand. My friends call me Pete.

This close to me, Dimitri seemed even larger than I’d first thought. His face was square, his skin painfully pocked, but pleasant over all, giving him the appearance of an out-of-shape football player.

You are friend to Carlos, you are friend to me. We are friends now. Yes? he said before grabbing me, hugging me, giving me the same hello he had just given Carlos.

We're late, Mr. Petrova, I admonished, now irritated with having been handled like a rag doll.

Call me, Bob, he returned, rocking his weight from heel to toe, swinging his arms playfully.

Bob? How the hell do you get Bob from Dimitri? I asked, trying not to laugh.

Bob is American, yes? I now American, so now am Bob, he explained, holding his arms out wide as if to hug me again.

We're late, Bob, I tried again, looking at my watch.

Bob drive very fast, make big city reporter on time. Everything okay, yes? he offered, holding his hands out as if driving, jerking his head and shoulders from side to side, weaving through the imaginary traffic.

Okay, no harm, no foul. Let's go, I huffed, tucking my laptop under my arm, starting down the steps.

Uppp, uppp, uppp, Bob called after me, running down the stairs in front of me. Business first, he said firmly.

Ah, sorry. I was in a hurry, I offered honestly.

Bob understands. Pressure always first in head, he said, placing his hands behind his back. He then turned around, his back to me, his fingers wriggling wildly.

I didn't get it. I turned to look over my shoulder at Carlos still standing on the landing above us.

He smiled broadly and gesturing, pretended to count money out in the air.

Sorry, I don't understand, I said firmly, irritated with the thought we were more than thirty minutes late and he was looking for a tip after having done nothing at all.

Is impolite to embarrass Bob's new friend over little thing of money, he said without turning to face me, his fingers wriggling all the more.

Frustrated, I took a five out of my pocket, placing it in Bob's hands.

Can we go now? I groused.

Yes, sir. Right away, sir, he bellowed happily, racing to the vehicle to open the door.

The car, a 1987 Lincoln, had seen better days. The passenger door moaned painfully, dropping a little with a metallic pop as it yawned open all the way.

I turned to give Bob an apprehensive look. As if reading my mind, he glanced at the rusting chunk of metal parked at the curb and then to me.

What? Is good car, he said defensively, without a word from me.

I climbed into the back seat, sliding in over the tattered upholstery. The smell of unfamiliar food filled the interior.

Bob wrestled with the door, rocking the car, finally getting it to pop in the other direction before slamming it several times to get it to catch. He ran around the front to jump behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, spewing a huge cloud of blue smoke and then died. Again, he twisted the key, pumping the gas. The engine cranked ever slower as if the battery was about to give out.

Mother of God, Bob swears to make bathtub of you, he muttered as he continued to torture the engine in an attempt to start the metal monster. The sound of his endeavor grew weaker and weaker until he stopped altogether, throwing his huge arm over the seat.

Is seat belt, he said flatly.

What?

Seat belt. Bob's friend must have on seat belt, he scolded.

You gotta be kidding me, I griped, but dutifully snapped the belt.

He nodded with satisfaction, turning forward once more.

He turned the key, the engine jumped to life, and to my surprise, continued to run. A moment of silence was shattered as AC-DC's Highway to Hell thundered from the rear speakers.

Without so much as a backward glance, Bob roared away from the curb, catapulting us into traffic. I barely noticed the sound of screeching tires behind us as I made a mad grab for the door to balance myself. To my shock, we were doing sixty before we reached the end of the block. I stretched out my arms to each side, bracing against the wild swings as Bob wove in and out of the honking cars.

Two blocks farther down the road, we were in the left hand turn lane as Bob swung hard to the right, cutting across three lanes of traffic.

Holy shit. You trying to kill us? I shouted over the music.

Is okay. Bob not die in car. Have dream and see Bob die in the arms of a beautiful woman, he shouted in return. Nodding his head in beat with the music, he made another death-defying right hand turn and then slammed on the brakes, making the tires cry loudly in response.

What about me? How did I die, Bob? In the back seat of this rust bucket, or what? I asked angrily.

It took me a moment to pull myself together. Looking about, I realized we were parked in a gas station. Almost without my notice, Bob had gotten out of the car and now stood by my window.

Bob is waiting, he said insistently, his back to me, his fingers wriggling once more, the car idling roughly in time with the music.

You need gas? Why the hell didn't you fill the tank before you picked me up? I cursed angrily.

And have Bob's new friend think Bob cheated him? No. Bob is honest man. Now, you are making Bob late. Embarrass Bob no more, he said.

Un-fucking believable, I said, angrily yanking out my wallet, retrieving a credit card, pushing it harshly into his hands.

Taking the card, he kissed it, jumped into the air to give a little sailor kick, and ran around to the other side to pump gas.

I watched anxiously as the numbers flashed by, growing larger and larger, punctuating my frustration with each new click.

I had become concerned the pump would reach my card's limit before finding the top of Bob's tank. The dials continued to spin well past the point I thought they should have stopped.

Bob, where's it all going? Are you pouring gas on the ground? I asked, pushing my head out the passenger window.

Bob has extra tank in trunk. Only have to stop once, he returned with a satisfied look, pointing to his head with a nod.

Jesus H. Christ, I said to myself, returning to the middle of the seat.

It took a while for the car to reach its limit, but after $350 Bob returned to his place behind the wheel.

Forget something? I asked, leaning forward to tap him on the shoulder.

Is okay. Bob already make copy, he said matter- of-factly, passing my card over the back seat between two fingers.

I wasn't sure if he were kidding or not, but before I could question him further, I found myself scrambling to get off the floor, struggling to fasten my belt.

Damn, Bob, give a guy a moment, I complained.

He flashed me a smile in the rear view mirror, holding up his fingers in an okay sign before tapping the dash in time with the music.

I was pressed into the back seat deeper and deeper as we drew closer to the freeway, accelerating faster and faster.

Once in the fast lane, we were obviously trying to set a new land speed record, passing cars to our right like they were parked. I gave up any attempt to work on my laptop, repeatedly being thrown from side to side. For all its faults in a parking lot, the car ran like a rocket on the open road, undulating up and down as we swung from lane to lane. Secretly, I had begun to pray the cops would find us and pull us over, bringing this dilapidating juggernaut to a safe conclusion before we lost too many parts along the road.

As luck would have it, there were no police to be seen.

Buildings fell away at a frightening rate, giving way to open ground, which eventually gave way to a thicket of trees as I became more accustomed to Bob's driving. At long last we slowed, coming to a stop on the side of the road.