Fight or Flight

I wrote this as part of a short story competition. The constraints were no more than 2500 words, it needed to be a suspense story, involving a tenant farmer, and include a "top secret". This was my crack at that.

Al scoured the last of the fried potatoes from the bottom of the cast-iron skillet. The same ritual he performed every morning for most of a decade. His thoughts passed smooth over the task and he wondered just how many mornings it would take to wear the old pan clean through. More than he had left, he suspected, and his eyes glanced out the window across a barren field. He’d head down to the creek today, he thought. Make sure the irrigation gates were in good condition before the weather started really warming up. Plus, he was half sure he had seen some deer bedded down near the trees a week back and it was always good to know where he could scrounge up meat in a pinch. Money was always tight this time of year. Helped to have options.

He noted the axe leaning up against the stove. Probably ought to start chopping that fallen tree up into firewood. He’d kick himself if he ran out in a cold-snap.

A smudge in the distance betrayed a vehicle traveling down the dirt road at the edge of his property. Not entirely unheard of, it still gave Al pause. Outside an occasional check from the boys in the department of agriculture, the only car that really drove that road was the landlord, Bob Hirst, and Al knew for a fact it couldn’t be him. His gaze drew down from the dust cloud to the old cottonwood tree a few hundred paces from the window. People sometimes took a wrong turn, he reminded himself. No need to jump to conclusions.

Al hung the skillet above the stove, brushed his hands along his faded overalls, and walked out to the porch. He moved a well-used single barreled shotgun from the nearby rocking chair and leaned it against the house. As he sat he caught the line of dust become a pillar against the sky. Whoever it was had turned down his drive. Al struck a match and puffed the old tobacco left in his pipe, resigned to a visitor.

After a few minutes, the dust resolved itself into a sleek black Buick. Definitely not the kind of car accustomed to long trips down dirt roads. Al heard the sporadic clink of pebbles kick up against its metal body as the driver bounced the car through the gravel and pulled into the grassy patch outside his home. Through a haze of dust he saw the driver rifle through the glove compartment before adjusting his jacket and stepping out into the sun.

Al sized the man up. Clean cut with light-brown hair kept short in a high fade above a face just lined enough to betray middle age. He wore a suit that matched his black business-like car, but the way he moved in it suggested a man more military than mercantile. Lupine. Dangerous if provoked, Al thought. He took in the area with a practiced glance, his eyes pausing just slightly on the gun propped against the wall, before smiling and striding forward.

“Now unless I’m an even worse navigator than I thought, I’m willing to bet you’re Al Greenwood. Am I right?” He said, stepping up to the base of the porch steps.

“That’s right.” Al replied. “But as far as I can tell this is the first time we’ve met Mr...”

“Farro. Special agent Lucius Farro. I’m with the FBI.”

Al kept his face impassive, letting silence hang in reply.

Farro continued. “You see, Mr. Greenwood, we have a mutual acquaintance. I’m actually in town hoping to speak to your landlord, Robert Hirst. Thing is, it seems Bob has up and disappeared and I haven’t been able to get ahold of the man for love or money.” The agent squinted slightly in the morning sun. “After a few days figured I best live up to my title and start asking around if anyone had seen him. Mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?”

Al glanced from the man to the cottonwood tree and took a quick draw on his pipe. “I take it this is official business then Mr. Farro?”

“’Fraid so.” Lucius said, “And call me Luke, please.”

“Alright Luke. I suppose you better come in then.”

Al stood, tapped his pipe out against the arm of the chair and pocketed it. He held the screen door open and gestured the man inside. Luke flashed a smile and strode in.

“Sorry I can’t offer you somewhere more comfortable to sit.” Al said, gesturing at the single wooden chair by the small square table. “Rarely need more than the one seat.”

“No problem at all.” Luke answered. “I could use a chance to stretch my legs anyway.”

Making good on his statement, the agent paced around the room, no hurry in his body. After a minute he settled near the window facing the field, his back to Al.

“Suit yourself.” Al said. He shifted the chair round to the window, setting it down near the wood stove. He let himself lean against the wooden back, careful to keep his eyes on the figure across the room.

“You had some questions for me?” Al asked.

“Are you doing some gardening?” Luke replied, his eyes still out the window.

“Come again?” Al was confused. Luke didn’t seem the gardening type.

Luke gestured with his chin toward the barren cottonwood and glanced over his shoulder at Al. “Looks like you’ve been digging out there near the tree. Thought maybe you were looking to do some planting.”

Al froze for a moment in his chair, he forced himself to breathe naturally. “Badger hole. Went and dug it up a couple weeks back.” Al resisted the urge to pull his pipe out of his pocket. “You come all this way to ask me about gardening, Agent Farro?”

“Making conversation is all. Don’t get a lot of small talk in my line of work.” Luke turned around and leaned against the counter. “Better be careful with that badger though. They’re small but real dangerous when they’re cornered.” Al considered the agent, weighing the meaning of his words. “So how long have you known Bob, Mr. Greenwood?”

“It must be about 10 years now I’ve rented the land. That’s when we met and how we know each other.”

“A good bit of time then. Are you close?” Luke asked

“I’ve always preferred to keep to myself,” Al said. He glanced at a scrape in the floorboards near the door and a memory flashed. Bob speaking low, angry. Al’s voice rising. Threats and demands echoed hollow in his head. He willed his eyes up to meet the agent’s stare. “It is hard to be too friendly with a man who’s constantly asks you for money.”

Luke laughed. “Fair enough.” The agent reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shaking it side to side toward Al. “Mind if I smoke? I try not to do it in the car. Company dime and all that.”

“Be my guest.” Al replied, relaxing a bit.

Luke lit the end and pulled in a long breath through the ember, letting it out in a sigh. “Sounds like he wasn’t the easiest man to get along with. I spoke with a few other people before I ended up here. His secretary had some stories to share, let me tell you.” He took another drag and looked over at Al. “Sounds like he was particularly irate with you. Something about raising the rent?”

Al stiffened again. “He had mentioned the possibility, yes.”

“No need to explain.” Luke said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Talking about money has a way of making people tense and I don’t like making people tense. Ms. Browning just happened to mention it when we spoke. Said it was the last conversation she and Bob had. Sounds like he was pretty worked up.” Luke ashed the cigarette against the sink. “I’m guessing that’s about the last time you saw Mr. Hirst as well?”

“Something like that.” Al replied. He had forgotten all about the secretary. Bob had always come out here himself when he had cause, and Al only went into town for supplies. Hell, he thought, this was a bad sign. Still, if he could get the man to leave without too much drama maybe things could be salvaged. He tried hard not to look at the axe near his chair. He could still avoid that outcome.

“How did you know Bob? If you don’t mind me asking.” Al asked.

Agent Farro smiled and looked up toward the door. “Mr. Hirst had called a few weeks back. Seems he’d come to believe there was a soviet spy hiding out in town and wanted someone to come take a look.” Luke shrugged his shoulders and chuckled. “Now nine times out of ten these kinds of calls are nothing much at all. Just folks with too much time worked up over radio shows. Most every red scare turns out to be some jumpy old man that doesn’t know how to talk to his neighbors.”

The agent glanced around the room, his face calm as he took in the few bits of furniture and tools that constituted Al’s domestic life. “Still,” he continued “Wouldn’t be much sense in having a bureau if we didn’t investigate when given the chance. And it helps put people at ease knowing someone is out there checking under the bed.”

Luke seemed to drift into his thoughts and Al shifted uncomfortably. The door looked miles away from his chair. He began massaging the palm of his hand with his thumb. Flexing the muscles in time with his breath. After a moment the agent looked back with an apologetic smile.

“You’re not local, are you Al?” the agent asked.

“What makes you say that?” Al asked.

“Your accent. For the life of me I can’t quite place it but it doesn’t sound much like the folks round here.” Luke ashed his cigarette again and continued. “Back in the war I served in a unit with guys from...well all over really. East coast, west coast, whole bunch of midwestern boys. Hell, even a guy from down in Louisiana. Used to think I could guess a man’s home state in under a minute but you’ve got me stumped, Al.”

War. Against his will images flashed rapidly through Al’s mind. Another life. Another world. Dull green uniforms against the snow. Gunshots through the forest. A pair of feet dangling limp from the trees. A scream, maybe his own. The smell of smoke and charred meat. The feeling of tears frozen on his cheeks. A poem beneath the floorboards in his room dedicated to her “Solntse Alexei.”

“New Mexico.” Al said, his voice flat. “I’m from a small town out in New Mexico. I spent a lot of time traveling around, though. might be that’s why I’m hard to place.” Farro was about as far as the door, he thought. Both would be a risk. The same precious seconds. No way to know which was better.

“New Mexico. So you’re from out in the Mojave then?” Luke asked

“That’s the one.” Al responded.

“I see.” Luke said.

Agent Farro pressed the final nub of his cigarette against the edge of the counter and let go. A tiny crooked monument, its last lines of smoke dispersing slowly in the sunlight. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small snub-nosed revolver and fixed his eyes on Alexei’s.

“Just a few more questions, Al. If you don’t mind”

Alexei sat perfectly still. His world shrunk down to the size of a room. Every mote of dust clear and distinct.

Luke’s eyes locked onto Alexei’s, his voice low and steady. “Now I’m going to speak and the only thing you’re going to do is nod or shake your head. If I so much as see your hand twitch I’m not going to hesitate to put all six of these bullets right into your chest. We clear?”

Alexei nodded.

“I know your accent doesn’t come from anywhere in these United States and I know you’ve never been to New Mexico since you don’t know where the Mojave Desert is. So my guess is you’ve been out here hiding. Am I right?”

Alexei nodded.

“I know you and Mr. Hirst had an argument about money. My guess is he was trying to extort you, probably threatened to sell you out if you didn’t pay up. Maybe he didn’t even know if he was right but he took a shot. Am I right?”

Alexei nodded.

“You killed Robert Hirst and buried his body underneath that tree in the front yard a few weeks back.”

Alexei nodded again.

“And I bet that if I searched the house I’d find some things Uncle Sam wouldn’t look too kindly on. Especially with the rotting corpse of an American citizen laid down next to it. Yes?”

Alexei looked over toward his bedroom. The floorboards. The letter. The past.

Agent Farro pursed his lips and nodded. “I thought so.”

Part of Alexei’s mind spun calculating how long it would take to cross the dozen or so feet between them, whether he could grab the axe in time, whether he could kick the table and throw off his balance. The animal that knew how to burrow, and scavenge, and claw. How to survive. But another part of his mind calmed. At peace. Like stretched muscles after an endless hike. After all, what was the instant of a bullet weighed against a life of fear?

Luke’s hand stayed welded to the gun on the counter though his voice dripped whiskey. “I’m sure there’s a whole lot to this story that I don’t know. Things I’ll never know. But be that as it may we find ourselves at a bit of a turning point in that story, Al, and it’s my job to see it through.” He glanced toward the axe beside Alexei. “Now I can take you in, gather evidence, and get you to a trial where a bunch of folks will listen and jeer and, if we’re both being honest, parade you around like an animal before putting you down like one too.”

He paused. Letting his words hang a moment in the air.

“The other option. You reach for that hatchet and we end the tale right here in this room.” Luke’s voice softened lightly, though his eyes were hard as stones. “Now it wouldn’t sit right with me, personally, if after all you’d done to get here, it was just me that decided just how the whole thing wrapped up. My job is just to close the book. It’s you who writes the page. So, my last question for you, Al. How does it end?”