Novel- Heartland Chapter 1

Chapter 1



The town of Beaver, Utah, situated about 200 miles south of Salt Lake City, was much like any of the other thousands of isolated rural towns across the country.  A close-knit community, but not so small that its inhabitants felt as if they were living under the magnifying glass of their peers’ scrutiny, at least not all the time.

         The town boasted three freeway exits, all the major fast-food chains, and an abundance of wide-open space.  The desert spread out in every direction from the town until it met with the mountains in the east, and a little further out in the west.  Where there wasn’t town, there was a vast expanse of juniper, sage, and irrigated farmland.

A nondescript minivan, identical to any number of vans parked in driveways in the town, exited the freeway and drove east.  There were no clouds, and the distant mountains were clearly outlined by the sky behind them, their pitch black, hulking silhouettes contrasted with the constellations they abruptly dissected.

         Most people in town farmed.  Even if they weren’t farmers, they farmed.  A town like Beaver doesn’t exist without agriculture, so even the pimply 16 year old tearing tickets at the two-room movie theater farmed.  If you didn’t own land, you probably worked on someone else’s, or you fixed diesel equipment, or worked at a feed store.

         Growing up in Beaver meant hunting coyotes and jack rabbits on summer nights.  It meant taking the truck and the four-wheelers out on the weekends, and lining the curbs of Center Street each year for the Fourth of July parade, which would be repeated in just a few weeks.  Growing up in Beaver meant hard work from the time you were 10 until the time old age forced you to let your kids, and their kids, take over.  You’d finally get to relax, but that didn’t mean you had to like it.

         The van drove past the parking lot of the darkened state liquor store. A Sheriff’s Deputy’s car pulled alongside that of a State Trooper, drivers’ open windows together as the occupants spent the uneventful late hours discussing anything but work.

         To many people driving through, the town was nothing more than a place to get gas.  They would just as soon live on the moon as in such a small town.  But to those who called it home, it was the best place on Earth.  It’s not that they didn’t know what was out there in that big world, they just preferred home, and many that did leave came back eventually.

         The calm air in the town and surrounding farmland was broken up intermittently by a gentle breeze that poured from the mouth of a nearby canyon. The temperature had dropped by a full 40 degrees over the last few hours since the sun had dipped below the western mountains.  The dry desert air didn’t hold heat well. 

The van drove toward the mountains.

         “Which street?” asked the driver, his furrowed brow belying the dead calm in his voice as he directed his question to the passenger beside him.

         “Keep going.”

         There were four men in the van.  Each wore blue jeans or khaki pants, with a windbreaker or light jacket over collared shirts.  Tennis shoes adorned their feet and each man wore a knit cap on his head.  The two in the back sat in anticipation, treating the seats of the van more like sideline benches at a basketball game.  Players waiting to be put in the game.  They said nothing.  One looked with rapt attention at the front passenger while the other sat rigidly with his eyes closed, his lips moving as he repeated a phrase under his breath.  The passenger looked at his watch.  He was monitoring a GPS unit mounted to the dash.

         “Turn here, this way.”

         They drove down what passed for a residential street in Beaver.  The houses were evenly spaced, situated on  plots that were too large to be called yards, but not big enough to be called anything else.  No one was worried about running out of land here.  There were no street lights, although here and there a light was seen on a porch or coming from a rear window.  The stars and a waning moon provided enough light to give the darkness an eerie quality of luminescence.  Many of the homes had gardens planted to one side, evidence of the agricultural life that was so inseparably a part of the local culture.  An open ditch, two feet deep, sometimes used for runoff, sometimes for irrigation, ran along each side of the street.  It was dry this time of year, but the thick coat of healthy grass clinging to the earthen ditch demonstrated that it hadn’t been long since water had flowed through it.  Driveways of gravel or concrete bridged concrete pipes and ran off to each home.

         The driver studied each house as it approached, his serious expression marred by a tightness around the eyes that seemed to hint at an emotion somewhere between disdain, curiosity, and fear.  “This looks perfect.  Which house is it?”

          “God willing, it will be.”  The passenger looked at a fragment of paper in his hand, “Not far now, turn down the lights.”

         The minivan drove on, more slowly now, the only proof of its passage the quiet sound of the engine, and a muted glow from the GPS screen inside.  The air inside the van was charged with anticipation.  It was as if the four men shared a heartbeat that could be felt pulsating against the tinted glass of the windows.  It seemed the glass would shatter outward at any second from the pressure that was trapped in the vehicle.  The passenger alone appeared at ease, even peaceful.  A gaze of resolute determination met the darkness he surveyed.

         “There,” The passenger gestured ahead with a gloved hand.  “Two houses forward.  On the left side.”

         The driver maneuvered the van onto the grass in front of one of the homes, the two wheels closest to the house resting on the gradual slope of the ditch, creating a downward slant for the axles. 

         “Engage it in park.  No brake lights.” The passenger was speaking softly now even though the doors were still closed.  “Are you ready my brothers?  It is an honor to be entrusted with this.” 

         He put a hand on the driver’s shoulder and gestured with his other to one of the men in the back, “Do not worry, the next time he will drive.”  Then, looking at each man in turn, he said simply, “Three minutes.”

         As the three opened their doors to exit the van, the feeling of tension which had abated somewhat from the passenger’s words rushed out into the summer air, leaving the driver waiting in the minivan, engine still quietly humming.  The tension had been replaced by a sense of implacable certainty.  Each man’s eyes betrayed a knowledge that  events could not be altered even if they so desired, which none of them did.  Each man’s eyes were filled with unquestioning, unflinching devotion.  And with hate.

         They closed the doors silently, leaving them slightly ajar.  To anyone passing by, the only sign that the vehicle might still be running would be a glimpse of the shadowy figure waiting in the driver’s seat.

         The house they had stopped at was unremarkable in comparison to all the others on the street.  It was a single story home of medium size, with white wooden siding.  The roof extended a few feet beyond the front walls to protect a wooden porch raised a foot or so from ground level.  The yard was well kept, though not meticulously, and the leafy vines of what looked like melons could just be made out in a garden off to one side.

         The three men avoided the gravel driveway and moved briskly up the concrete walkway that led down to the mailbox, moving with a businesslike air of hurried nonchalance.  They stepped around a bicycle that had been abandoned in the middle of the path, and when they got to a series of colorful chalk drawings, opted instead to walk on the grass.  The passenger had clearly become the leader.  His demeanor and those of his men in relation to his actions made it clear that he was in control.  He mounted the single step to the porch, the slight creaking of the boards under his feet seemed in perfect harmony with the sound of a homemade wind chime suspended from a nearby eave.  He crossed the porch in two silent steps and put his hand on the front doorknob while the others took positions in practiced fashion on either side of the door.

         Each man pulled down their knit cap to reveal a makeshift mask with holes only for the eyes that had clearly been cut out with scissors.  From underneath his jacket, each man produced an automatic pistol with a black cylinder extending from the tip of the barrel.  The weapons were held comfortably, and only a slight tremble in the gloved hands of the two men flanking the door revealed a remaining vestige of the tension that had ruled in the van.

         With a silent look into each man’s eyes, the leader slowly turned the doorknob.  It wasn’t locked.  He craned his neck to listen for the slightest sound coming from within the house, as he carefully pushed inward on the door.  It opened on silent hinges to reveal a darkened room.  A hardwood floor that would benefit from refinishing gleamed dully in the low level of ambient light entering through the open door.  Three shadows blocked that light in turn as each man passed through the door, pistol held ready.  The leader entered first and followed a wall straight ahead adorned with family photos hung above a faded leather sofa.  The wall led to the opening of a hallway, down which could be seen a few doors on each side.

         The other two followed a diagonal across the room, passing the TV and reclining chair and came to a door that opened into the kitchen.  The digital clock on the oven range read 12:56a.  There was a set of keys on the kitchen table, along with a half eaten plate of macaroni and cheese.  A glass paneled door led from the kitchen into the back yard.  The kitchen was deserted.  In fact no sound had been heard at all in the 15 seconds it had taken to clear the front portion of the house.

         The man in charge motioned for the others to join him at the entrance of the hallway, and gestured towards a door that stood slightly ajar at the end of the corridor.  The hum of the swamp cooler drowned out the sound of settling floorboards as they entered the hallway. Distorted shadows jerked across the hallway as the men passed single file by the open bathroom, in which a night light shone.  From within the room could be heard a gentle snoring.  A slash of moonlight from a partially draped window revealed a large bed with a man and a woman lying motionless.  The snoring continued as the three slipped into the room, their tennis shoes making only the slightest shuffling across the carpeted floor.  Each leveled his pistol as the leader raised three fingers in countdown fashion.

         Three seconds later, a series of thump-clicks echoed down the hall.  The snoring stopped.

         The men emerged from the bedroom and the leader signaled for each man to take one of the two remaining doors in the hallway.  One of the doors had pink flowers on it.  He watched as each man entered, and listened as a series of muted shots, and the metallic clink of brass hitting the floor was absorbed by the walls of each room.  Apparently those rooms had hardwood flooring as well.  Each man emerged, and although it was too dark in the hallway to see into their eyes, their bearings, combined with the acrid scent of discharged powder transmitted an unmistakable attitude of victory.

         “Allahu akbar,” intoned one of the shooters with a subdued yet fervent quality. 

         The other echoed in response, “Allahu akbar.”

         The third man motioned emphatically for them to be silent.  “Two?” He gestured to one of the shooters.  The man nodded in the affirmative.  He repeated the gesture to the other, who shook his head and signaled “Just one.”.

         “Are you sure?  You must be sure.” He whispered forcefully.

         “I am sure, Mahfouz.”

         The leader paused briefly, “It will have to be enough.  We must go.”

         They turned towards the front door, weapons holstered beneath their jackets, and filed towards the exit.  Mahfouz looked at his watch.  It had only taken two minutes, ten seconds so far.  They reached the door and the two shooters stepped out onto the porch and down onto the concrete walkway. As he crossed the threshold and started to close the door, a baby began to cry.  Mahfouz stopped.  He motioned for the other two to wait in the van, then he drew his pistol and walked back toward the master bedroom…