Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller Page 4

  “We ain’t got no time for that,” Jesse shouted, but Terry was already off. Jesse let it go, figuring Terry had probably earned a little revenge of his own. Terry ran straight at Ozzie, screaming and wailing and trying to terrify him. It worked.

  Terrified, Ozzie turned and bolted, running only fifteen yards back before he came to the corner of a tightly strung electric fence that was higher than he could ever jump. Ozzie turned right and sprinted along the back fence. Terry gave chase and stayed close, but Ozzie was fast. By now it had become entertaining for Jesse and Shane, who ran along just to see what happened. Ozzie concentrated on fleeing and not on where he was running. It wasn’t until the last few yards that Ozzie realized the danger he had put himself in. He skidded to a stop mere feet before the rear corner and looked back to see Terry closing fast. Jesse and Shane moved in, on each side of Terry, to block Ozzie’s path, forming a horseshoe in front of Ozzie with the fenced corner immediately behind him.

  “Ha, ha, ha...got yourself in a pickle, don’t cha?” Terry’s mood had improved considerably. He eyed Ozzie as he slowly reached for his Bowie knife, taking a step closer in unison with Jesse and Shane as if they were tethered. Terry moved within six feet of Ozzie and waved the knife at him. Ozzie blinked and had something of a flashback when he saw the knife.

  Terry’s patience expired. He stretched out like a baseball player diving head first into second base as he dove for Ozzie. Ozzie backed up until he was inches from the fence. Terry grabbed a leg and tried to hold on tight, but Ozzie squirmed from his grip and jumped two feet away. Terry got back to his feet, held the knife in his right hand and swiped it at Ozzie.

  Ozzie stared at Terry’s hands, shuffled his feet and waited. Terry faked a swing of the knife and, instead, reached with his left hand to grab Ozzie by his head to pull him down. Ozzie panicked and reacted like a frightened dog, snapping and biting until he crunched through two of Terry’s fingers on his left hand, drawing a mouthful of blood. The knife fell from Terry’s hand to the ground and he stood straight up, screaming in agonizing pain.

  With both sides blocked, Ozzie saw an opening to dive right between Terry’s legs and started for it. Jesse read Ozzie’s intentions and sprinted toward the same spot, hoping to block Ozzie’s exit, but he tripped on a root just before he dove. Instead of diving, he stumbled for a couple of steps before crashing into Terry’s knees, his arms tackling Terry as they draped around him for support. Terry was thrown forward and fell right onto the second wire of the high-voltage fence, his weight pressing it to the ground.

  Later, Ozzie would try unsuccessfully to recollect what happened in the next eight seconds. The last thing he would be able to recall was being trapped in the corner paralyzed by fear. What Ozzie couldn’t remember was that, for a brief instant, Terry’s body created a three-foot high opening in the fence. The sound of the fence shocking Terry like a Louisiana mosquito zapper added to Ozzie’s terror and thrust his body into motion. As if guided by a mysterious force (probably raw fear), Ozzie jumped and landed squarely on Terry’s back as he lay across the fence and vaulted onto the other side, rolling in the leaves as he landed.

  Shane sprinted to Terry’s aid, grabbing his feet and yanking him off the fence and taking a strong shock in the process.

  “JESUS!” Shane shouted as he tried to shake the pain out of his hands.

  Terry rolled on the ground in excruciating pain, semi-conscious with a large part of an ear missing, two crushed and broken fingers and skin crawling with electricity. Jesse stood up just as Ozzie got to his feet on the other side. For a fleeting second, he and Ozzie regarded one another, confused, as each tried to get his bearings. The perspective was as it should be, a fence separating captor and prisoner, but the roles were reversed. Ozzie scampered down the fence line back in the direction of his home, calling his mother. Jesse realized the gravity of the situation and the personal repercussions if Blake found out he was the one that let Ozzie get away.

  “GODDAMIT!” Jesse shouted. “Shit, he’s out!”

  There was no way through the electric fence, so Jesse ran toward the entrance with Shane in close pursuit. He swung open the gate and forcefully kicked Isabella out to the ground. Shane added a kick for good measure for all the trouble her family had caused.

  “Leave him alone!” Isabella screamed in the language of her Spanish ancestors as she grimaced with pain. She managed to get to her feet and hobble to the back of the fence where Ozzie stood on the other side. Jesse got to the shut off switch, slammed the handle down and watched the light go from red to green.

  “RUN, Ozzie, just RUN!” Isabella instructed Ozzie.

  “Mom, NO!” Ozzie replied. “NO! I want to stay with you!”

  Ozzie and Isabella stood face-to-face, inches from one another, but unable to touch for the first time in their lives. In that moment, Isabella realized how lucky she had been to be imprisoned all this time with Ozzie. Now they endured the worst kind of imprisonment either had ever suffered, the pain of being so close but denied from being together. With the fence off, Jesse and Shane had made their way back in and were coming up behind Isabella. She pushed her own fears aside.

  “Listen, Ozzie,” Isabella continued. “We don’t have much time. Just RUN. Get as far away from here as you can. As far away from these people as you can, and never turn back. They killed your father and they want to hurt you, Ozzie!” Ozzie had only a second to read the fear in his mother’s eyes before Jesse’s rapidly approaching head loomed over hers. He saw the pure evil, the vicious hatred in the black depths of his eyes. Isabella turned and ran back to Felipe, hoping both to comfort him and to free Ozzie by doing the most gut-wrenching thing she had ever done, turn her back on him.

  Sprinting down the fence line, Ozzie searched for a way in, having no way of knowing that the fence had been turned off. He looked back to see that the men were now on his side of the fence and chasing him. Racing down the back line, he continued past his encampment and along the back side of adjacent paddocks. The commotion from Ozzie’s paddock had brought everyone out. Faces that had been there all along, that Ozzie had rarely seen, watched him run freely in the woods with two men chasing and yelling.

  Ozzie could find no way back in. He stopped at the top of the ring of encampments for an instant when he saw a prisoner with bright red hair. In his entire life, Ozzie had never seen such a thing. Everyone he had ever seen had black hair. Unaware that Ozzie was being pursued, red-headed Tammy approached her side of the fence to introduce herself as Ozzie stared into her chestnut brown eyes.

  “There he is!” Jesse shouted. The scream broke Ozzie’s gaze and he jerked his head around to see the men running his way. Realizing he couldn’t get past the men to his mother, he turned his head and looked into the thick, unfamiliar brush and trees that covered a steep mountainside. He desperately wanted to be back safely inside the fence with Isabella, but fear propelled him in the opposite direction.

  With nowhere left to run, he stormed away from his mother up a steep bank in the direction of Rabun Bald.

  Chapter 5

  Blake fumbled with the radio, trying to pick up a decent classic rock station as he drove south from Clayton through Tallulah Gorge. He stopped when the dial landed on 97.1 and the sound of “Hells Bells” filled the cab in his truck. Blake’s mood improved instantly, as it always did when he heard AC/DC.

  Devil’s music my ass, Blake thought. Angus did an interview with “Hit Parader” magazine and said “he becomes possessed when he gets on stage,” and the religious purists had taken that literally. “See? He admits being possessed,” they claimed.

  What a crock, Blake thought. That’s when church stopped making any sense to me when they said stupid shit like "you can’t listen to AC/DC or you can’t listen to Led Zeppelin because Robert Plant said he couldn’t remember penning the words to “Stairway to Heaven”, so he must have been possessed.” Hell, let ’em have How Great Thou Art, I’ll take Metallica!

  Blake just shook his head,
laughed and thumped the steering wheel. This is just what I need, good old rock and roll therapy, he thought. Got the next hour to myself with nothing but blue skies, puffy clouds chasing the cold front, and kick-ass tunes. He rolled down his window, cranked up the volume, and let his hand ride the wind as Blake did “the worm” all the way to Athens.

  ***

  At 3:54 p.m. Blake pulled into the parking lot at The Federal, Athens’ most distinguished restaurant. The glass facade on the exterior contrasted sharply with the earthy brick construction of its surroundings. Athens was, after all, a college town and showcased little of the glassy glamour and glitz like those the architects pumped out hurriedly in Atlanta. That’s probably what attracted Nick Vegas to open his first restaurant in Athens, Blake thought. Say what you want about his ruthless tactics, he was a shrewd businessman. Had Nick opened The Federal in Atlanta, it would have been good, but just another good Atlanta restaurant, nothing special. Put the same place in Athens and you’ve got something folks in both Athens and Atlanta will talk about. And that attention is what Nick wanted more than anything.

  Black brushed metal trim framed the towering glass windows, each showcasing tightly-closed plantation shutters, creating a pronounced sense of privacy. This made the entrance appear quite vertical and served to draw the eyes up to the words “THE FEDERAL”, emblazoned in gold lettering in a substantive font like an old, impenetrable bank.

  There were already a dozen cars in the lot, mostly cooks and staff, Blake figured, getting ready for the Saturday night diners who had no doubt made reservations weeks before. Damn it!...Don’t call them cooks, Blake admonished himself, remembering that, for some reason, they expect to be addressed as chef. Makes about as much sense as calling the owners of a car repair shop Mechanic Fred and Mechanic Barney, Blake thought.

  Blake frowned as he pulled on a sport coat, making himself presentable. He looked down to make sure there was no mud, or worse, on his shoes. Can’t have that now! Comfortable with his appearance, he strolled to the entrance, opened the door, and walked through the black metal vestibule.

  Frank Sinatra was already crooning, adding to the ambiance of the 60‘s era, upscale steakhouse that Nick strove to honor with The Federal. The hostess station stood empty fifteen feet directly in front of him. It was backed by a smoked-glass privacy screen, trimmed in rich mahogany. Behind the screen sat twenty tables on a sunken floor, each with four chairs. On both sides of the sunken floor were eight horseshoe-shaped booths, each upholstered in luxurious, black leather. The booths connected to one another in a long scalloped line with the open end of each booth welcoming two upholstered chairs, providing a comfortable setting for six. Dominating the divider between each booth section was a black iron bull, a nod to Nick’s Spanish heritage and his love of bull fighting. In classic Nick style, each bull was slightly different. Some were covered with lampshades, some served as candelabras, some just stared, fiercely. They had all been, of course, custom made.

  “Excuse me. I’m here to see Nick Vegas,” Blake said to a young girl as she walked by the hostess station.

  “Oh,” she said as she raised an eyebrow and took in his blazer, jeans and scruffy Skechers. “Is...he expecting you?”

  Blake caught her disapproving evaluation. Of course, she had no idea who he was. She was, what...twenty-one? Twenty-two? Probably wasting time at UGA, moved here from some worm hole and now had a big chance to work for Nick Vegas. She had no idea that Blake had owned this town less than ten years ago. Could go anywhere and not have to pay for anything, including at The Federal, which is where he had met Nick in the first place. When Blake and the Georgia Bulldogs were undefeated, Nick invited him to the bar on Saturdays after the home games knowing full well the affluent hobnobbers would be drawn in. They were.

  “Yes. He’s expecting me. Just tell him that Blake is here to see him.”

  Blake looked to the left at the towering, fake palm tree that partially screened the hostess station from the serpent-shaped bar and thought how ironic it was to have a plastic tree in a restaurant that Nick spent two million dollars to construct. Nick brandished that figure back when Blake was part of the “in” crowd, when he was an attraction rather than the redneck hired hand he now was. It should be me dining here, throwing down hundred dollar tips at the martini bar with Angelica on my arm, Blake thought. Now, everything to do with the restaurant reminded Blake of what he had lost. What he aspired to reach but couldn’t. The notoriety of Nick’s fame, the wealth that Nick and his affluent customers exuded, being one of those “in the money” rather than being a servant, like Blake. He hated going there.

  Just let it go.

  As he meandered along the wall, Blake stared at the framed clippings that Nick displayed in each of his restaurants, headlines that wove a trail of success among anything Nick had touched. Nick no longer bothered with the hometown praise from the Athens Banner Herald that he was so proud of in the beginning. Even the Atlanta Journal-Constitution was relegated to a montage of headlines recapping Nick’s accomplishments in the past decade. “Athens Chef Wins Coveted James Beard Award.” “Vegas Takes Winning Recipe to Miami, D.C. and Boston.” “Author and restaurateur Nick Vegas Signs On With The Cooking Network.” All that praise was displayed humbly in a small frame. The large illuminated frame, like a showcased Monet, was reserved for the cover of “Forbes”. It featured a smug picture of Nick in front of his expansive Buckhead home. At his feet sat the Spanish bulldog he brought with him from Spain when he moved to lay claim to his American dream. The caption read simply “America’s Wealthiest Restaurateurs.” That’s what Nick wanted; for everyone to see not that he was successful and wealthy, but how successful and wealthy he was.

  “Set...hut hut!” Nick called to Blake as he strolled across the parquet floor, as if he was calling a play from the line of scrimmage. “How’s it going, Blake?”

  Blake turned and saw Nick approaching, his whitened teeth beaming brightly and contrasting starkly with his perennial tan. He already had his right hand extended, both to shake Blake’s hand and, Blake figured, to put his gold Rolex on full display. Blake didn’t recognize the man walking with him. “Hey, Nick. It’s going all right.” Blake offered Nick a weak handshake.

  “Blake, this is Wade Ferry. Wade’s been working with me since day one.”

  Wade Ferry was a name that Blake had heard from Nick before. He was the “Ferry” in Ferry/Jenkins, the largest executive search firm in the United States until, several years back, Wade sold the company he had founded for about $220 million. Evidently he missed being part of the “action” so he had taken to angel investing in a few ventures, mainly software start-ups. Even so, Nick was by far his most successful investment. It was Wade who bankrolled the two million dollars to get The Federal going. It was Nick who got the recognition, the awards, and even the series on The Food Channel, but Wade had a stake in everything. All ten restaurants up the eastern seaboard, the TV series, Nick’s books, even the olive farm that Nick started in south Georgia to create authentic, Spanish-style olive oil. And Wade had lots of high-level business and government contacts from his years in executive and board level placements.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ferry,” Blake said, without meaning it.

  Wade looked about Nick’s age: thirty-eight, forty, somewhere in there. Blake knew he was rich. He had heard the stories, but evidently Wade didn’t feel the need to showcase it the way Nick did. He was dressed smart casual; khakis, black leather shoes, and a golf sweater that said Augusta National.

  “Shoot, it’s a real pleasure to meet you, Blake,” Wade said in a slow and very authentic Georgia drawl. The kind you didn’t hear too much around Atlanta anymore since hordes of transplants had descended on the city. “And you call me Wade. Heck, my family has had season tickets between the hedges for sixty years. I never missed one of your games. It was a real shame son, that injury of yours. A flat out crying shame.”

  Blake started to say something, but Nick jumped in.

&
nbsp; “I thought Blake was going to make it back from that. I really did,” Nick said, patting Blake on the shoulder. “But...he moved on to bigger and better things...didn’t you Blake?” Nick kept his hand firmly on Blake’s shoulder.

  “A real shame,” Wade said shaking his head and sounding as if he actually meant it. Blake had heard this a thousand times from folks and never knew what to say. At least Wade didn’t say—

  “Well, God works in mysterious ways, son. I’m sure he’s got a plan.”

  Blake wanted to tell Wade what he thought of God’s plan so far but thought better of it. “Thanks. I reckon so.”

  Had he been the one with all that success, Blake figured he might have just kicked back and enjoyed it. But not Nick. He just pressed the accelerator and chased even more glory now that the restaurants were on autopilot for him. That’s when he and Wade concocted the idea for 50-Forks that they were now pursuing at breakneck speed. Blake knew it must be big money, real big. Enough for Nick to have dangled a quarter million dollars in front of Blake to deliver what he wanted.

  “Let’s talk over here, Blake.” Nick headed past the plastic palm and walked alongside the bar, its top curved in the shape of a question mark. Nick walked past the bar to a smoked glass table surrounded by three red velvet chairs and pulled out a chair for Blake. He took the seat. “I hope you don’t mind Wade sitting with us,” Nick began. “We’re preparing for an investor meeting and he was just here with me.”

  “Fine by me,” Blake said, realizing there was nothing else he could say.

  “You know, the kickoff dinners for 50-Forks are in six weeks,” Nick said as his smile vanished. “The Food Channel is all set to televise it here in Athens and I want everything perfect. Are you all set on your end?”

  Blake glanced at Wade and then back to Nick. Nick leaned back in his chair with his legs crossed and arms wide open as if they were gracing the armrests. He couldn’t have appeared more confident, more in control. “Yeah, I’m in good shape,” Blake said. “I’ll deliver everything you asked for the week of the dinners.” Blake eyed Wade again.