Story Not As Simple As It Seems

Chapter Fifty-Six

Don was busy working with Bud and Joe, so Lili decided to visit Patty and the baby. As she neared the General Store, she stopped in for her new favorite treat: an orange Push-Up.

Lili walked straight to the ice cream freezer. On the shelf above it lay a mini circular saw blade a worker had left behind. She picked it up in her right hand, spun it with the practiced dexterity of a card shark, then held it between her thumb and ring finger, her middle finger resting lightly on one of the carbide-tipped teeth.

The door burst open. A Hispanic-looking man stormed in, pistol raised. “GIVE ME ALL YOUR MONEY!”

Lili spat a string of sharp Euskara curses that probably broke several treaties. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the blade flying. It buried itself in the man’s forehead with a solid thunk. His eyes tried to focus on the blade then he dropped like a rock.

Charisse snapped out of her daze, grabbed a pack of large pack of zip ties from the shelf, and hurried around the counter. Not wanting to roll him onto his face with the blade still embedded, she secured his hands and feet with several ties. Shelly, at the other register, called 911. Charisse then pulled out her phone and sent a group text to the men: Immediate help needed at the store.

Pete arrived first. He surveyed the scene and shook his head as Charisse recounted what had happened. Moments later, a deputy sheriff entered with his gun drawn. He looked down at the man sprawled on the floor with a saw bladed buried in his head and asked, “What the hell happened here?”

Bud, Don, and Joe pulled up shortly after. While the deputy questioned Shelly, Bud spoke with Charisse.

“Why didn’t you hit the alarm button?” Bud asked.

“Bud, I swear to God!” Charisse said. “I had turned away from the counter. I heard the guy yell, then Lili said something, and the next thing I knew he was lying there with a saw blade in his head. It all happened in seconds.”

Lili stood calmly eating her Push-Up. “I’m sorry, Bud,” she said. “I went on automatic.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bud replied. “You did good.”

The deputy had already called for an ambulance. Two more sheriff’s cars soon arrived. Lili finished her ice cream, washed the sticky drips off her hands in the bathroom, and waited her turn to give a statement. Bud grabbed a bottle of Mountain Dew and stayed close, listening quietly to the interviews.

After crime scene photos were taken and statements collected, the chief deputy gave Charisse permission to mop up the blood that had dribbled from the man’s face onto the tiled floor.

“This is the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard or seen,” the deputy muttered. “You’re telling me he startled you and you accidentally flipped a saw blade into his forehead?”

“Well… sort of,” Lili said. “My brother and I used to play a game flicking playing cards to snuff out candles.”

Bud silently prayed the deputy wouldn’t ask to check Lili’s purse. She almost certainly had one of her “cards” tucked in her wallet—she had been known to slice ears with a cellulose acetate playing card.



The next morning, the sun rose over the flatlands of Tyrrell County, North Carolina, bathing Bud’s antebellum house in golden light. The air carried the salty tang of Albemarle Sound and the rich, earthy scent of the nearby pocosin wetlands.

Bud fired up his GMC Denali Crew Cab diesel pickup. Hitched behind it was his 28-foot Peak travel trailer, loaded with tools, camping gear, coolers of home-canned vegetables, and several cases of his favorite local brew. The rig weighed about 8,000 pounds—manageable, but it demanded respect on the hills ahead.

Across the way, Joe idled the gleaming Peterbilt 18-wheeler. The big rig hauled a 40-foot CONEX container on a flatbed trailer, packed with household goods, generators, and supplies for Joe’s 985-acre spread west of Armathwaite in Fentress County, Tennessee. The semi’s 500-horsepower Cummins engine rumbled deeply.

Joe’s voice crackled over the CB: “Breaker one-nine, Bud. You ready to roll? This big girl’s thirsty for miles.”

Bud chuckled. “10-4, good buddy. Keep it shiny side up. Let’s get from Columbia to Armathwaite in one piece.”

They pulled out at 7 a.m., heading west on US 64. The first stretch was pancake-flat coastal plain—perfect for getting the rigs settled. The occasional rice field and cypress swamps lined the road, with ospreys wheeling overhead. Bud held a steady 55 mph, mindful of trailer sway. Joe’s governed 18-wheeler matched pace easily.

They crossed the Scuppernong River Bridge, stopped for a quick safety check outside Roper, and reached Plymouth by 8 a.m. At the truck stop they fueled up—Joe taking on nearly 150 gallons—then continued through Williamston and into the rolling pine forests near Rocky Mount.

Lunch found them in Raleigh’s western suburbs. They navigated the beltway carefully before merging onto I-40 West. The interstate hummed with traffic as they rolled through Durham, Burlington, and Greensboro. They kept their speed at 60–65 mph to stay together.

Conversation flowed easily over the CB: weather reports, trucker stories, and Joe’s plans for the farm. “Gonna run some cattle and a small sawmill on the east side,” he said. “That trailer like yours would come in handy.”

By early afternoon they reached the Blue Ridge foothills. The terrain steepened as they merged onto I-77 north, then I-81. Grades reached 6–7%. Bud downshifted on the climbs; Joe’s big Cummins growled under the load. They stopped at a Love’s near Elkin, then again at a Flying J past Fort Chiswell to stretch and refuel.

Construction zones tested their patience, but they handled the lane shifts well. Once past Knoxville, they left the interstate for smaller highways—TN-52 west toward Elgin and finally the farm.

Night fell as they descended into Fentress County. The Cumberland Plateau air was cool and dry. Joe’s 18-wheeler took up most of the two-lane road, but traffic was light and courteous. After fifteen hours, they rolled through quiet Armathwaite and turned onto the gravel-and-dirt drive to the farm.

Joe backed the semi into position with Bud spotting. The air brakes hissed as the big rig settled. They killed the engines under a starry sky alive with crickets.

“Made it, partner,” Bud said, unhitching his trailer. “That’s one for the books.”

Joe clapped him on the back. “From sound-side marshes to plateau pines—hell of a haul.”

They cracked open cold beers and ate the toasted BLTs Tom’s wife had waiting. Sitting on the porch, they recounted the day: the easy flatlands, the Piedmont’s steady flow, the mountains’ challenge, and the quiet reward of the plateau. Deer moved in the distant fields; an owl hooted nearby.

The next day would bring the CONEX placement, positioning the Peak trailer on the RV pad, a meeting with Bud’s general contractor, and a few stakes in the ground. But that night, under the Tennessee stars, the long road felt complete—450 miles of American backbone, two old friends, and rigs bonded tighter than ever.
 
Wonderful finially caught up. took me 4 days from the beginning to here, great story,, and love the saw blade, back when i worked construction we had turnaments with saw blade at a sheet of 3/4 inch plywood, had a target, we all got pretty good but hitting a head, never were that good.

love the story. cant wait for more
 
Chapter Fifty-Seven

The next morning, Bud positioned the trailer on the RV pad—a few dozen yards from the house site but still shaded by the large oaks at the forest edge. He hooked up the water and sewer lines, then went inside and turned the water on. The trailer had been fully stocked with food before they left, minus eggs and other perishables. He could pick those up in Jamestown later. Bud filled the water jug he kept in the fridge so he’d have cool water ready when needed.

When the general contractor arrived, Joe brought him up to the building site and introduced him to Bud. Bud stepped into the trailer and returned with an armload of rolled-up plans and grading drawings. They sat down together to review them. The contractor, James Dewey, studied the plans carefully and asked Bud several questions. The cabin was a one-story, wedge-shaped design with the open end facing the sandstone bluff. The wings of the house would sit only a few yards from the rock face. Bud also planned to build a garden shed that would extend from the house and cover the doorway leading into the storage area he intended to excavate inside the bluff.

Bud, Joe, and James laid out the basement foundation and pounded in stakes. K&K Excavating would begin work the day after tomorrow. Bud didn’t mention the low entertainment deck, outdoor fireplace, or shed he planned at the base of the bluff. He, Joe, and possibly Tom would build those later once the cabin was up. By then, the area would be clearly visible from the front of the house anyway.

The log home kit from Southland was scheduled to arrive in a couple of weeks. Southland had “Getaway” model cabins scattered across eastern Tennessee and western North Carolina. There was one exactly like their floor plan up on Fontana Lake, so Bud intended to reserve it for a weekend so Patty could walk through it and decide how she wanted to outfit their version. James, however, assured them they could have the cabin erected within a week if they sent the right crew and equipment. Drying it in with chinking would take a little longer.

Bud gave James the contact information for the solar company in Knoxville. The cabin’s battery bank would go in the basement, with a separate system for the three-car detached garage.

Bud quickly learned that any outdoor relaxing could be ruined by mosquitoes, midges, black flies, and no-see-ums. Joe offered to order more minnows and mosquito fish from the nursery, but Bud was already looking into propane mosquito traps. Each unit could cover an acre. Joe mentioned bug zappers, but Bud preferred the traps, which would be placed at the edge of the property to draw insects away from the house. Tom volunteered to set them up once they arrived, warning that it could take a couple of weeks for them to become fully effective. Bud ordered them and had them shipped to Joe’s farm address.

On the day excavation began, Joe and Bud watched for a while before heading back to North Carolina. As they were leaving, trucks loaded with ICF blocks pulled in. This might not take as long as I thought, Bud reflected.

He felt rejuvenated as he drove down Sound Side Road. Patty and Sean were sitting in the shade of the live oak when he pulled in.

After a joyous reunion, Bud took a shower while Patty started his favorite dinner: chicken fried steak, fried okra, mashed potatoes, and butter rolls. He emerged from the bedroom in shorts and a T-shirt and poured himself an iced tea.

“Don’t fill up on tea,” Patty warned. “Supper will be ready soon.”

“Just preparing my taste buds. And I missed yours—there’s no shortage of iced tea up there, but it’s not the same.”

“When can we go up and see what’s been done?” Patty asked.

“Let’s give it about a month. They might have the walls completed by then,” Bud replied. “We can fly up for a long weekend.”

Helen stopped by almost every day with new clothes for Sean and at least two packs of diapers. A guy at the dump had once told Bud that diapers lasted as long as glass in the landfill and were best burned. Another contact at the scrapyard had built him a simple incinerator from a boiler tank. Bud had been burning all their burnable trash ever since, hauling only recyclables to the county bins. It was a chore—every hour or so he had to stir the smoldering mess of plastic and soiled diapers and douse it with more diesel to keep it going. He often joked that he needed more kids just to justify the effort.

James sent Bud regular updates with photos and progress notes. They had poured the basement floor and finished the walls. Next would come the sill plates and then the assembly of the logs. Pictures showed stacks of logs and packages from the kit spread around the site. Tom had improved the farm road so trucks and the crane wouldn’t get bogged down in wet weather. He had also begun digging a ramp in the deepest corner of the lake near the house site for a seaplane. Later, Bud would have pre-fabricated slabs laid on the ramp like the one at Sound Side and would contract for a steel hangar to keep the plane out of the water. Tom planned to clear trees near the ramp; the wood would be saved for firewood at the vacation home.

Everything remained quiet in the Sound Side community. Word had apparently spread that the residents knew how to protect their property. Pete had set up axe and hatchet throwing targets, and they saw few suspicious visitors. Most customers at the store were locals, with the occasional Canadian couple passing through—no one minded them. Residents praised Charisse for always having those last-minute items everyone ran out of. Bud and Patty kept their own inventory well-stocked and still made monthly trips to Sam’s Club. Diapers and baby supplies now topped Patty’s list.

Judging by James’s reports, Bud and Patty decided to fly up at the end of the month. Bud called Tom to make sure fresh food was stocked in the trailer while Patty packed as though they were going to Europe. Bud limited her to one clothing bag for herself and one for the baby. She scheduled a check-up with Sean’s doctor, who cleared him to fly as long as he didn’t develop a head cold. After much rearranging, they ended up with three clothing bags, one bag of lotions, creams, medicines, and powders, enough diapers to last a month, and a small cooler of drinks.

The morning sun glinted off the rippling waters of Albermarle Sound near Columbia, North Carolina, as the Campbell family approached the Viking DH2 Turbo Beaver seaplane parked near the hangar. Bud had already loaded their luggage.

Bud settled into the cockpit while Patty secured the baby carrier into its frame in the seat nearest her. Once the gauges checked out, he eased the throttle forward. The big propeller bit into the air, and the seaplane accelerated smoothly down the ramp and across the calm surface. Spray rooster-tailed from the floats as they gained speed. Then, gracefully, the hull lifted free, and they were airborne, climbing steadily over the coastal lowlands of eastern North Carolina.

They turned westward, climbing to a comfortable cruise altitude of 5,000 to 7,000 feet. The Viking’s turbine sipped fuel efficiently on the roughly 300–350 nautical mile trip. The landscape changed dramatically below them: flat farmlands and pine forests of the Coastal Plain gave way to the rolling hills of the Piedmont and finally the rugged, forested ridges of the Appalachians. The Turbo Beaver handled the light turbulence with ease. Sean woke once, fussing for a diaper change and feeding. Patty moved to the back to take care of him—a new experience for Bud, flying while his wife breastfed their son behind him.

Nearing their destination in Fentress County, Tennessee, Bud began his descent toward the serene man-made lake about seven miles southeast of Jamestown. He set up for a glassy-water landing, judging the wind and scanning for boat traffic. The floats kissed the surface with a soft hiss, throwing up twin sheets of spray as the plane decelerated and settled into a gentle taxi toward the northeast corner of the lake.

Stepping out onto the float, Bud breathed in the fresh air scented with pine and water. The journey—from coastal takeoff to plateau lake landing—had been everything he loved about seaplane flying: freedom, beauty, and a front-row seat to the American Southeast, one water touchdown at a time.
 
Chapter Fifty-Eight

Bud was amazed at how much had been done on the property. The workers had already left for the day, so he and Patty got Sean settled in his crib inside the trailer. Once the baby was asleep, Patty powered up the baby monitor and clipped the receiver to her belt. They walked over to the house, and even without landscaping, it looked beautiful. The doors and windows were already installed. A temporary limestone path stretched from the front steps to the area where the crews parked, keeping mud from being tracked inside.

The front door was unlocked. They stepped into the spacious 18-by-12 foyer. It felt almost too big until they saw what it opened into: a closet on the left, a half-bath on the right, and then a 26-by-12 dining area that flowed into a generous 28-by-14 Great Room with a massive stone-faced fireplace.

“Oh my God! Did we go too far?” Patty asked.

Front_final.png“Nonsense. We’ll need the space for all the kids you’re going to have,” Bud teased. “The wide doors are because, as Tennessee women get older, their butts get wider. Oh, and you’ll need to either learn how to smoke a corncob pipe or dip Tube Rose snuff.”

“Oh, shuddup!” Patty laughed. “Seriously, did we really need a place this big?”

“Too late. It’s already built. Now you just need to fill it with furniture. Come on, I’ll show you the rest.”

He led her to the right. “Over here is the kitchen. I deviated from the original floor plan to add this pantry. That let us keep the front porches exactly as we wanted them.” He opened a door. “This leads to a short foyer and two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom and walk-in closet.”

They toured both suites. Patty stayed quiet until they returned to the main foyer.

“When Sean is old enough, we’ll move him into the smaller bedroom,” she said. “The larger one will be for his sister. She’ll need the extra space to get ready for her dates to the local hoedowns.”

Bud grinned. “She probably won’t need much room when her date shows up in clean but well-worn bib overalls.”

“Show me the rest of the house,” Patty demanded, smiling.

Bud led her back through the dining area. “This door opens to a library space, plus a utility closet and mechanical room.” Patty peeked into each one while he continued. “And here is the 12-by-10 office. Off the office is our master suite—32 by 14, with bath and walk-in closet. I had them add a door here so we can step straight onto the back porch. What do you think?”

“I love it!” Patty’s eyes shone. “When can we start moving furniture in?”

“It’ll be a few more weeks before it’s ready. You can start picking things out now, though. I’ve got a spare set of floor plans you can mark up. When we get back home, I’ll lease storage trailers for anything you want to buy. The Dexter brothers can haul them out later.”

“I want to go back through and take pictures with my phone. It’ll help me visualize everything.”

“Go ahead. There’s something out back I want to check on,” Bud said.

He stepped onto the rear porch and inspected the fireplace. He’d had the architect flip this section of the plans so the interior and exterior fireplaces sat at the back of the house. He was extending the porch outward and enclosing it as a sunroom with its own fireplace, using a double chimney. Bud crossed the yard, pleased to see there would be plenty of room for a dump truck and skid steer. They’d need the space to haul away the sand. He walked to the edge of the bluff and confirmed a loader could easily remove the talus slope to reach the stone wall.

Before their next trip out, he’d have Graham ship the Tickler so he and Tom could assemble it and run a few tests while Patty played house.

When Bud returned to the trailer, Sean had woken up. The baby sat happily in his carrier on the dinette seat while Patty sliced tomatoes and chopped onions for hamburgers and hotdogs. Bud went out, pulled the propane grill from its compartment at the rear of the trailer, and sprayed the grate with cooking spray. He waited to light it until everything else was ready. The bug traps were doing their job—there wasn’t a mosquito or fly in sight. He set up the folding table and chairs under the awning so they could eat alfresco.

Patty brought out Sean in his carrier and went back for the burgers and dogs. Bud lit the grill, let the grate get hot, then sprinkled a little water on it. The water danced and steamed. He laid down three burgers and pierced the hotdogs so they wouldn’t split, then added them to the grate. While they cooked, Patty gathered condiments, toppings, and rolls. Bud set a paper plate aside for the finished meat. When everything was done, he toasted the buns, melted cheese on two of the burgers, and assembled his own fully loaded masterpiece—mayo, mustard, relish, ketchup, lettuce, onion, tomato, salt, and pepper.

Patty ate one hamburger and one hotdog. Bud demolished two cheeseburgers and two hotdogs. Content, they sipped iced tea and watched the sun sink behind the trees.

“How far is it to Knoxville from here?” Patty asked.

“Around seventy miles. A little over an hour’s drive.”

“That’s too far to shop for furniture, isn’t it?”

“Pretty much. You should wait until we’re back home. Hit the stores there or order online. Like I said, we’ll store everything in trailers and have it delivered later. I’ll grab a bunch of moving blankets from Harbor Freight. Tom can round up some help to unload and position the pieces.”

Bud cleaned up while Patty took Sean inside to feed him and put him to bed. As the sun disappeared, he bagged the trash and stored it in the trailer compartment so raccoons and possums wouldn’t pay them a midnight visit. He cleaned the grill, put away the tools, and left the table and chairs under the awning. Once Sean was down, they climbed into bed and watched the prime-time lineup on Fox, falling asleep before Gutfeld came on.

The next morning, Tom stopped by as Bud and Patty were finishing breakfast burritos. Bud showed him where he planned to dig into the base of the bluff and explained what would be involved.

“We’ve got a skid steer, a tractor with a loader, and a dump trailer,” Tom said. “We can spread the sand in that swale over yonder. Plenty of room.”

Bud called James Dewey. The contractor came out that afternoon and gave them a fresh update on what had been completed and what the crew would tackle the following week.

“I have a question about the kitchen,” James said. “Next to the gas stove, you’ve got a forty-inch-wide space left. What’s that for?”

“A wood-burning cook stove,” Bud replied. “We’ll use gas in the warmer months and the wood stove when it’s cold.”

“Good idea.” Tom said. “We’ve got plenty of hickory and oak around here for firewood.”

“Save me some deadfall. I might need it this fall.”

“My younger brother is staying with me now. He could gather you a few cords.”

“I’ll gladly pay him the going rate. I’ll talk to James about building a woodshed to keep it dry.”

“My brother will be happy to help,” Tom said with a nod.
 
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:) thank you. I love heating with wood, nothing like it. My husband never had. He was a city boy and it all started for him with our first home having a fireplace with a heat-a-lator. We would go up into the mountains to cut wood. He loved it, then I told him I knew just how to cure venison, no wild taste and don't ever run an animal lol. He got into hunting and loved that as well.
 
Chapter Fifty-Nine

Patty wanted to explore the nearby towns, so Tom agreed to drive them around. Bud rode shotgun while Patty and Sean sat in the back seat. Tom first took them to Jamestown and pointed out the grocery stores, shops, and hardware store. There wasn’t much to offer. Bud had Tom stop at the Community Bank of the Cumberlands so he could open an account. He had already researched the other banks in the area and liked this one best. He transferred $800,000 into the new account and received a temporary debit card. His permanent cards would be mailed to his North Carolina address. Bud told the banker he would update the records if and when he permanently moved to Fentress County.

They continued on to Livingston, where Tom showed them the grocery stores, shops, garden center, hardware store, and building supply yards. It was similar to Jamestown but a little larger. Then Tom headed down Highway 111 and drove them through Cookeville. Of the three towns, Cookeville was the largest and had the most stores, but nothing made Patty want to rush out and start shopping. She had already resigned herself to picking out furniture back in North Carolina.

They stayed three days longer at the retreat than Bud had planned, at Patty’s request. Even so, she spent most of her time dodging around the workers, formulating ideas and taking notes. When they finally left, Tom was there to see them off. Bud handed him a box of perishable food they hadn’t eaten and helped load their bags. He said goodbye to James and Tom, and they lifted off from the lake without issue—just two days ahead of a big storm moving in. The flight home was uneventful. They touched down on a glassy Albemarle Sound. Sean had slept most of the way, lulled by the steady hum of the aircraft, but the moment they reached the house he seemed to sense it. He was raring to go.

As soon as Bud had the bags inside, Patty was on the phone with her mother and friends, letting them know they were back.

Bud had plenty to keep him busy. The garden needed its first spring plowing, soil tests, and amendments. The pecan trees wanted fertilizing, and the two yearlings were fat and ready for slaughter. He would call the meat packers and arrange for the steers to be picked up.

Spring had arrived, and Charisse was gearing up for a big Spring Opening at the General Store that weekend. The event had been widely advertised. Bud paid little attention to their preparations—he had more than enough of his own work to do.

Saturday morning, he packed the Defender with all the gear a new mother hauls for her baby and they headed to the store. Charisse was expecting a big crowd, so Bud set up near the picnic tables. He put Sean’s portable crib under a shade canopy beside the shelter, and Patty brought him a cold Mountain Dew. She helped roll out moving blankets over the ground to protect Sean from sand spurs, and Bud set out two camping chairs.

Pete had two pig cookers going—one loaded with two shoats, the other for burgers and hot dogs—taking up an entire end of the picnic shelter. As the morning wore on, more people arrived. Charisse had to send someone to the warehouse twice to restock.

Around eleven, Bud noticed a group of well-dressed people making their way through the crowd, led by James Haskel, Mayor of Columbia. Haskel spotted Bud and steered the contingent toward him.

“Bud, I’m sure you know Congresswoman Sanders,” Haskel said.

Bud stood. “We’ve never met.” He did not offer his hand.

“The Congresswoman is here to get a feel for her constituents and see how things are going back home,” Haskel explained.

“Well, with Congress’s approval rating hovering around twenty percent, I’d think they’d already have a pretty good idea what their constituents think.”

Haskel cleared his throat, but Congresswoman Sanders placed a hand on his arm.

“Mr. Campbell, what do you see as a problem in Washington that we can address?”

“Congresswoman, this country is in a sad state when the people’s representatives get to pick their voters instead of the voters picking the people they want in government.”

“But Bud, we can set the boundaries of our political districts,” Haskel said.

“And then the representative starts tossing out our tax dollars to a brainwashed electorate to keep themselves in power—basically buying their votes. Jury-rigging District boundaries won’t change how I vote. I vote on character, and so far I’ve seen few worth more than a mouthful of warm spit.”

“Bud, it’s called gerrymandering, not jury-rigging,” Haskel corrected.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Jury-rigged used to mean something makeshift. But the partisan gerrymandering going on these days borders on criminal. A few politicians ought to be swinging from a rope for it.”

“Bud, gerrymandering is the status quo,” Haskel said. “Both parties do it.”

“And that’s exactly why I won’t donate to or support any politician who accepts it. What about you, Congresswoman Sanders? Didn’t you help push through the latest map changes up in Raleigh that favored a Democrat power grab?”

The congresswoman’s aides began tugging her away as reporters edged closer with cameras and microphones.

Haskel threw up his hands. “Bud, she could do a lot for this area!”

“Haskel, you can keep kissing the master’s feet. I don’t hold it against you—you’ve been washed in this crap your whole life. You brought those Rhode Island instincts down here with you.”

As the political entourage drifted away, the reporters closed in.

“Mr. Campbell, do you plan to run for office?”

“And piss on my grandfather’s grave? Not on your life. But I’m more than willing to saw the lumber and hew the logs to build the gallows when the people finally wake up.”

The reporters retreated gingerly, unsure how much of the exchange they could actually air.

Pete stood by the cookers, tongs in hand, his belly shaking with quiet laughter. “Bud, you better watch out. People are gonna start pushing you to run for something.”

“Not in my lifetime, Pete. I don’t run—I stand and fight as long as I can protect my family. Like I said, I’ll cut the trees and hew the logs when the time comes.”

“Where’d the congresscritter go?” Pete asked.

“Back over there somewhere, probably expounding on her self-importance and how secure the country is under her watch.”

Joe and Diana arrived a short while later. Pete wasted no time telling them about Bud’s encounter with the congresswoman. Joe’s grin widened with every detail.

“Still defusing bombs with a spork, huh?” Joe asked.

“Don’t you start,” Bud grumbled.

The following week, James sent photos of the flooring going down in the Tennessee house. Bud had tracked down a wood supplier in the Shenandoah Valley that carried the wormy chestnut he wanted—reclaimed from old barn beams. Even with a volume discount, it had cost nearly as much as the roof.

The Viking appliances and the wood-fired oven arrived while the flooring was being installed, so they were being stored in one of Joe’s outbuildings until the house was ready.

Bud got the garden plowed and worked in some cow-manure compost, but he wouldn’t start planting for another month. Diana’s arborist checked the pecan trees; all they needed was their spring fertilizing. Bud still had about two hundred pounds of last fall’s nuts to shell. He figured it was time for a shelling bee or whatever you called it—boil some crabs, invite friends over, and let everyone crack pecans with the claw crackers while they visited.
 
Chapter Sixty

Patty, Helen and Sean immediately went on their furniture hunt. She found most of it in Raleigh and Greenville, always well-built durable pieces. She also began picking up duplicate cast iron cookware, seasoning it, and a new set of stoneware dinnerware for the kitchen, sets of glasses and what not she used in her sound side home. She also picked up large bottles of spices at Sam’s Club she’d have to go all the way to Knoxville to get. She wanted to return to the Retreat after James informed them the appliances had been installed and set up her kitchen. Ryan built her a sturdy crate that had forklift slots that would fit in the spacious cargo hold. Bud was also gathering hand tools he wanted to have on hand rather than borrowing from Tom all the time. The locals were still kidding Ryan about his talk with the congresswoman. Ryan brushed it off. He’d just said a little of what was on his mind. Not that he had anything against her, except she was a Democrat, and had publicly shown she believed the person with the most melanin should always be thought to be innocent. Bud stayed away from the General Store for a while, keeping away from the political comments. He got the steers butchered and processed, gained a few more tins of tallow, which he planned to take half out to the Retreat to store. He was getting two more yearling steers in a couple of weeks. Patty had set up a binder that contained her notes on what she wanted to do with the place. Rough drawings of landscape plans were sitting in document protectors with pictures of examples she found in magazines. She did an online search of landscaping companies in the area of the Retreat and called them. One down in Cookeville seemed promising; they also sold rock, gravel, compost and mulch. The listing in google said they did landscaping but when she was talking to the man on the phone, he stopped her and said his sister handled that and she waited until she got on the phone. She seemed knowledgeable enough and said she had connections with a local nursery for plants and she would make whatever Patty wanted. She was sending Patty some pictures of completed projects for Patty to judge. Patty put her at the top of her list and began looking for others. She had checklists of things she had in the crate and things to add. Random Post-It notes littered the pages of the binder. Ryan was also keeping notes on what he wanted to do at the Retreat. The garden shed would just be a façade to cover the entrance to the storage area dug into the bluff. Between the shed and the house would be flower beds and a low deck. He didn’t want any grass back there to mow. Placed on that deck, somewhere, he wanted a fire pit. While searching for something like he wanted, he ran across a company that made and sold stainless-steel smokeless fire pit inserts. They had holes around the top and bottom edges to let air flow freely. He could build the rock pit first, then build the deck around it to keep the composite decking away from the heat. He bookmarked the site, printed out a copy of the website home page and cataloged it in his own binder. James sent pictures of the new woodshed with a guy stacking wood inside. James noted the young man was Tom’s Younger Brother, Jeff. The shed was opened on one long side facing the house for easy stacking and retrieval of wood. Bud noted to pick up several packs of stainless steel snaps and canvas to put up canvass to keep the weather out. They were almost finished with the flooring and what wormy chestnut was left over, Tom was storing it in an outbuilding for him. Bud told Patty if she was going to fill the crate, she’d better get to it. James should be notifying them in a week or so the appliances were in. Bud went down to Plymouth and got three cases of assorted alcoholic beverages. Beer wouldn’t last that long at the Retreat unless it was kept cold, and the refrigerator would be turned off when they weren’t there. He could always call Tom and tell him to turn the refrigerator and the ice machine on before they went out there. If Bud was going to live in the boondocks for any time, he still wanted plenty of ice, so he had bought a Viking ice machine that produced about twenty pounds of ice a day. The refrigerator and ice machine were on the same electrical circuit so the flip of a switch could turn both on at the same time. A valve in the pantry would have to be opened to get water flowing into the ice machine and refrigerator. Furniture was starting to be delivered to the farm. The hardest part was transferring it from the delivery truck to the trailer that was to haul it to the Retreat. Harbor Freight had to rush order a new shipment of moving blankets. Patty made a trip to Walmart where she and Helen filled their buggies with those little things a cook in the kitchen couldn’t seem to work efficiently without. Bud stopped her filling the crate and packed the rest of the top with moving blankets to cushion everything. After screwing on the top, he banded the crate securely and loaded it on his trailer. Later, he took it to be weighed on the trailer. He already knew what the trailer weighed and the crate turned out to weigh 1875 pounds; a little more than he was expecting. When the word from James finally came, Patty was ready to go. Helen was staying at the house to stay with Sean so there wasn’t all the baby paraphernalia to load, but Patty had her bag packed. Bud pulled the plane out of the hangar and positioned the plane’s Alaska Door facing the drive. He brought the crate up to the aircraft and Joe guided him in. They strapped the crate down as forward as they could get it and after calculating weight and balance, Bud knew he would need more elevator to control the plane. The next morning the sun hung low over Albemarle Sound, painting the broad, glassy expanse in shades of molten gold and copper. Near Columbia, North Carolina, the water lay calm as a millpond, broken only by the gentle lap of tiny wavelets against the floats of the Viking DHC-2T Turbo Beaver. The big seaplane, painted in deep forest green with yellow accents, sat tail-heavy on its amphibious floats—loaded with the crate of supplies and baggage, and the quiet hopes of temporary escape for its two occupants. Pilot Bud Campbell eased into the left seat, his wife Patty buckling in beside him. Their Retreat awaited in the hills near Jamestown, Tennessee—a Newly built home tucked against the Cumberland Plateau, far from the coastal humidity and the grind of everyday life. The Beaver was their trusted steed for the journey. But the aft-loaded CG made her feel a bit skittish, like a spirited horse with its weight shifted back on its haunches. Jack had double-checked the weight and balance; everything was within limits, but he knew he'd need a delicate touch. "Ready?" he asked, voice calm through the intercom. Patty nodded, gripping the edges of her seat. "Let's get there." Bud ran through the checklist one last time—water rudders up, flaps set for takeoff, mixture and prop in the green. The big three-blade Hartzell propeller bit the air as he advanced the throttle. The PT6 spooled up with a rising whine, then settled into a throaty roar. Spray rooster-tailed behind the floats as the Viking began to move, accelerating across the sound. The tail-heavy condition made itself known immediately. The nose wanted to stay high, reluctant to unstick fully, but the Beaver's legendary STOL pedigree shone through. Water rushed beneath the hulls, the floats planing faster and faster. At around 50 knots, the big wings—high and broad with their flow fences and aileron extensions—began to bite the humid Carolina air. Bud held the yoke steady, letting the aircraft lift itself rather than forcing it. A slight porpoise threatened, but he eased the power and trimmed forward just enough. The sound fell away beneath them in a cascade of glittering droplets.⁠ They were airborne. Climbing out over the vast waterway, the Viking leveled its wings as Jack retracted the water rudders and adjusted the flaps. The altimeter wound upward steadily—500 feet, 1,000, 1,500. Below, the Albemarle stretched like a silver mirror, dotted with distant crab boats and the low green shoreline of Tyrrell County. To the west, the land rose toward the Piedmont, and beyond that lay the Appalachians. "Feels good," Patty said, relaxing as the engine settled into its cruise hum. The tail-heaviness translated to a lighter elevator feel in flight, responsive but requiring constant attention. Jack kept a gentle hand on the controls, the aircraft trimmed for hands-off stability at 110 knots indicated. The turbine sipped fuel efficiently, promising the range they needed for the roughly 350-nautical-mile trek without drama. They tracked westward, crossing the Chowan River and the flat farmlands of northeastern North Carolina. The morning haze burned off, revealing patchwork fields and winding rivers below. By the time they passed Rocky Mount, cumulus clouds were building to the south—harmless for now. Bud climbed to 6,500 feet, finding smooth air above the lower terrain. The Turbo Beaver purred contentedly, its modern avionics quietly monitoring everything while the couple talked of the Retreat: the woodstove waiting to be lit, the trails through the nearby forests, the peace of the plateau nights far from the coast. Hours slipped by in the rhythm of flight. They skirted south of Raleigh Durham area and their congested air space, threading between ridges as the Blue Ridge gave way to the higher folds of the Appalachians. Fuel burn was right on numbers. The tail-heavy loading made descents a touch more eager, but nothing the big rudder and responsive controls couldn't handle. As the Cumberland Plateau rose ahead, Jack began a gentle descent toward the lake and the Retreat. The familiar ridgelines appeared—forested and rugged, the kind of country that swallowed worries whole. Patty pointed out their usual landmark, a bend in the Clear Fork Creek. Bud set up for a landing on the lake, the Viking's floats kissing the surface with a soft hiss after a textbook approach. Power back, propeller in reverse, nose up just a hair extra to account for the CG, and they settled like a duck coming home. Taxiing to the dock, Bud cut the engine. The sudden quiet enveloped them, broken only by birdsong and the drip of water from the floats. They had left the sound behind and found their sanctuary in the hills. "Another good one," Bud said, smiling as he helped Patty out onto the dock. Their Retreat waited, just up the path. The Beaver bobbed gently behind them, already dreaming of the next adventure.
 
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Chapter Sixty-One



Tom and his brother were already there with the tractor, its front-end loader fitted with forks, and a trailer. They unloaded the smaller items first, then pulled the plane around until the floats rested against the bank so they could remove the crate. Using the winch on the side-by-side, they dragged the heavy crate onto the forks, lifted it clear, and hauled it up to the house.

Jeff set the crate down beside the kitchen door, shut off the tractor, and helped Tom unband it while they removed the screws from the lid. Patty rushed inside and stood starry-eyed in the kitchen, taking everything in. Both refrigerators were already running, and she could hear the ice machine dumping fresh cubes into the bin. She began opening drawers and cabinet doors, mentally mapping where everything would go.

Bud joined her, and the two of them walked through the house together.

“I’ll need a new vacuum for these beautiful floors,” Patty said.

“I suppose you already have the model picked out?”

“Yes—the Dyson V15s Detect Submarine Absolute.”

Bud chuckled. “I guess you do. We’ll probably have to go to Knoxville for one.”

“I can order it straight from Dyson.”

“Then do that. I don’t want to drive all the way to Knoxville unless we really have to haul back a big load. Let’s start a list of everything else we’ll need. We can pick up cleaners and basics in Jamestown or Livingston.”

After their walkthrough, Bud and Patty began unpacking the kitchen items from the crate, unwrapping each piece and placing it in its new home. Helen and Patty had carefully washed and wrapped everything in plastic wrap before packing. Bud set his cases of whiskey in the pantry for now and followed Patty’s directions.

“We need garbage bags,” she said.

“Write it down. We’ll make a run once the crate’s empty,” Bud replied. “Tom said there’s a decent Mexican place next to the IGA.”

“Good. I’m going to need real food soon.”

Patty moved through the house, making a detailed list: paper plates, towels, plasticware, cups, toilet paper, trash bags, and quick meal items. Bud borrowed Tom’s truck, and they headed for Livingston.

Patty insisted they eat first so the groceries wouldn’t sit in the hot truck. The enchiladas were excellent, the Dos Equis ice-cold. Hunger satisfied, they walked next door to the IGA and filled their cart with cleaners, paper goods, coffee, creamer, eggs, bacon, frozen hash browns, and easy-fix meals. They made it back to the retreat as the sun was turning the treetops orange.

Tom’s wife Linda and Jeff’s girlfriend Amanda arrived just as they were unloading, carrying a large pan of lasagna and fresh homemade bread. Patty went inside with them while Bud grabbed as many bags as he could and dumped them on the kitchen island. He grumbled about the flimsy plastic bags, remembering the time he’d seen one melt on a catalytic converter and catch fire. Patty stopped him from throwing them all away, saying she reused them for everything. Linda took the half-full trash bag with her, explaining they incinerated most of their waste and recycled glass and metal.

Bud checked his watch. The truckers should be nearing I-81 by now; they planned to overnight in Wytheville and arrive around noon tomorrow. He called Graham Hancock and told him to ship the Tickler. Graham confirmed the address and promised delivery the next day.

With nothing left to unpack, Bud made drinks for himself and Patty. Since they had no porch furniture yet, they sat on the front steps and watched the evening darken around them.

“What time will the trucks get here tomorrow?” Patty asked.

“Around noon. Tom’s already got a crew lined up.”

“It’s nice out here tonight,” she said softly. “I could get used to this.”

“Yeah. We’ve still got a lot to do, but it sure is peaceful.”

“Well, we need to set up sleeping arrangements before we turn in,” Patty said, smiling. “Help me, and I’ll wash your back.”

Bud drained his drink and followed her inside.

He unrolled the sleeping pad, inflated it, and zipped their two sleeping bags together. He set the thermostat to 68° so the house would feel cool and comfortable. They weren’t tired yet—the excitement of being here kept them wide awake. Bud made fresh drinks, and they went back outside to study the stars and talk late into the night.

The next morning Bud was up early and had coffee brewing by the time Patty came in. She fried bacon and eggs in the big cast-iron skillet while he sliced and toasted some of Linda’s homemade bread. They spread it with “Made in Tennessee” muscadine jelly and enjoyed a quiet breakfast. Afterward, Bud washed and dried the skillet, then stepped outside.

He checked the back wall of the garden shed. Just as requested, the panels came off easily—one person could remove eight large thumbscrews and slide them aside to reach the sandstone bluff. As soon as he cut a few feet into the rock, he could start on the fire pit and the first section of the low deck. He needed to leave enough clearance to remove the accumulating sand. Graham had assured him the sandstone would be straightforward to excavate—no major stratified folds—and the color suggested high quartz content that would cut cleanly. He studied the sketch Graham had given him, noting where to leave support columns.

Tom, Jeff, and four other men arrived at eleven to help unload. The trucks didn’t pull in until 12:30, but the crew already had a solid plan and went to work the moment the doors opened. Patty directed traffic, telling the men exactly where each piece belonged. She had planned the loading order carefully: upstairs bedroom furniture first, followed by select master-bedroom pieces, then the second truck with downstairs items, linens, office gear, and remaining kitchen goods. The flow went smoothly. In just three hours everything was inside and in place. Linda and Amanda stayed to help Patty make the beds.

Joe broke out a cooler of beer and sodas. Linda ran to Jamestown and returned with enough pulled pork and fries to feed everyone. The meal was devoured in appreciative silence. Bud paid everyone in cash, and soon it was just him and Patty on the porch. Once the trucks and crew left, the property grew quiet again.

They decided to stay one more full day before heading home. Patty was thrilled with how well the furniture fit. They did a final walkthrough, and Bud unboxed the Starlink Gen 3 system and got it online.

The following morning the Tickler arrived on a box truck. They uncrated it behind the shed at the base of the bluff and assembled it, running the machine for an hour to get comfortable with the controls. Power came from a Yamaha 7200-watt generator. They removed a forty-by-eighty-six-by-six-inch section of sandstone, then shoveled the sand clear. With the chutes attached to divert the spoil, they timed the next run. At twenty minutes, the Tickler averaged four inches per minute. The sandstone melted away like warm wax under the grinding wheels.

Bud was more than pleased. He backed the machine out, folded it down, and stored it in the shed. After replacing the removable wall panels, he carried the operations manual inside as the truck and driver pulled away. His mind already churned with logistics for moving tons of sand.

That evening Patty cooked salmon patties with turnip greens and mashed potatoes. Their conversation was already turning to their next trip to the retreat. They agreed they could trade off driving if they drove out on their next trip.
 
Chapter Sixty-Two


Bud was up early the next morning, meeting James as the workers began to arrive. They were finishing the three-stall garage Bud had added to the plans after selecting the log home kit. Rafters, purlins, and braces were rising on the combination log-and-timber-frame structure, while the metal roof sheathing and insulation sheets sat stacked and ready.

The garage’s roofing system differed slightly from the house. Instead of a double roof, it would feature two layers of steel with Styrofoam insulation sandwiched between them. The roof’s pitch and the resilient insulation layer would minimize hail damage, giving the surface enough springiness to shrug off impacts up to softball size. That might have seemed like overkill elsewhere, but tennis-ball-sized hail wasn’t uncommon in the state. Summer storms had been known to strip entire forests, leaving ghost-like stands of bare trees. To their northeast, in the Big South Fork National River and Recreation Area, you could still trace old storm tracks by the damaged timber. With the recent uptick in tornadoes and derechos, Bud wanted every edge he could get. The basement storm shelter was already finished except for supplies and furnishings—Patty and Linda were handling that.

The same concern had prompted Bud to switch from a standard steel hangar to a Quonset-style one; its curved profile had proven far more resistant to high winds. Even the garage was fitted with high-wind-rated, hurricane-ready doors and windows.

Bud and Patty decided to stay a couple of extra days so Bud could find a reliable vehicle to leave behind. That way they’d always have transportation ready when they flew in. Early one morning, Bud and Tom drove down 62_Suburban.pngto Crossville and returned with a fully registered, tank-filled 1962 Chevrolet Suburban 4x4 wagon. The previous owner was a good old boy with Walter Mitty tendencies who had rebuilt the truck to support the Arkansas Defense Force during the next big New Madrid quake. He had grand plans but lacked the follow-through. After listening to him talk, it was clear he had never heard of Occam’s Razor.

The Suburban came with its own low-profile disaster-relief trailer loaded with emergency supplies and outside racks holding tan military water cans. Sadly, the man was selling the rig to pay off his wife’s cancer treatments. Bud paid a little above Blue Book value—it felt like the right thing to do.

While they were gone, the garage roof went on and the doors and windows were installed. The finished building looked as much like a fortress as a garage. Bud spent the rest of the day reviewing future construction plans with James, especially the hangar. James had already located a farm manufacturer that built Quonset-style structures with roller doors rated for high winds.

As the crew cleaned up for the day, Bud backed the trailer into one stall and parked the Suburban in the next. He called Tom over, and the three of them inventoried the trailer’s contents: thermal rescue blankets, rain capes, flashlights and headlamps with fresh batteries, red light batons, six-volt handheld work lights with spares, dozens of work gloves in assorted sizes, collapsible water containers, sealed hard candies, emergency food bars, Gatorade powder, first-aid kits, sanitizer packs, high-visibility traffic vests, hard hats, block-and-tackle sets, first-responder rescue tools, and plenty of room for more.

Bud told Tom that if the rig was ever needed to help neighbors during an emergency, he should take it without hesitation. “Don’t worry about replacing what you use,” Bud said. “We’ll restock it later.”

The following day, Bud and Patty prepared to head home. They left the refrigerators and freezers running—fridges turned up a bit higher, freezers stocked with partially filled collapsible water jugs that had frozen solid. Boxes of Arm & Hammer baking soda sat inside each unit to absorb odors. Patty boxed up the remaining perishables and dropped them off with Linda.

The next morning, Tom and Linda came up to see them off. Bud gave Tom the door codes while Patty handed Linda the food box. They loaded their bags into the Beaver, Bud warmed up the engine, and when everything was in the green, he taxied to the far end of the lake. He took off into the wind, lifted over the eastern ridge, and set the navigator for Columbia, North Carolina. Once clear of the terrain-induced turbulence, he engaged the autopilot and sipped from a mug of iced tea.

As they crossed the Roanoke River, Patty groaned. “Get us home, Bud. My legs are numb. Next time, we schedule iced-tea stops.”

Bud just grinned. “Yes ma’am.”

The winds were light and the air warm and dense, so the plane floated extra long in ground effect before settling onto the water. Had it been a runway landing, he would have needed to go around. Instead, he slowed quickly and taxied straight up into their yard. Patty let out a huge sigh and unbuckled.

Helen stepped outside. Little Sean grinned and waved his arms at his mother.

“I am never leaving you home again!” Patty said, eyes misting.

Bud carried their bags into the great room, then joined the family in the kitchen. Helen had cold banana pudding and iced tea waiting. Patty already had Sean in his highchair, feeding his greedy mouth spoonfuls of pudding.

Bud finished his pudding and moved on to cold sausage, cheese, and Breton crackers. Patty looked over at him. “I don’t feel like cooking. Can we order from N-Seine tonight?”

“I’ll go pick it up,” Helen offered.

“Yeah, call it in,” Bud said. “Get me the seafood platter with extra clam strips.”

He took a sip of tea, then untied his chukka boots and peeled off his socks. The cool wood floor felt wonderful against his bare feet.

Helen left for the takeout run. Bud carried the travel bags into the bedroom and tossed his socks into the laundry basket. Patty handed Sean off to him while she took a quick shower and changed into lighter clothes.

Bud rolled around on the floor with a giggling Sean, teasing him with a toy otter. When Helen returned, they set Sean in his highchair with a condiment cup of ranch dressing and a celery stick. He spent the rest of the meal dipping, gnawing, and dipping again.

Bud savored every bite—scallops, stuffed crab, fried shrimp, flounder strips, and clams. He mixed horseradish and hot sauce for the clam strips and added dabs of tartar sauce with the flounder. The room stayed quiet, everyone focused on enjoying the meal.
 
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Chapter Sixty-Three


Bud went down to see Joe the next morning.

“How’d it go?” Joe asked.

“Very well. Got everything into the house, and the Tickler arrived. I ran a few passes with it—that thing digs fast. I’ll have to pace myself between excavating and removing the sand.”

“That’s good. I’ve got the skid steer if it helps. Tom’s brother could run it and keep up with the sand removal.”

“I’ll check with him.”

Joe leaned back. “What do you plan to do with all that storage space?”

“Fill it with supplies in case…”

“You’ve got plenty of time for that.”

“Yeah, that’s probably what the people in Pompeii said.”

Joe studied him. “You really think things can get that bad?”

“Joe, you’ve seen the same things I have. Fragmented government, people electing socialists, Marxists, and outright Communists to local offices, the constant backstabbing, the flood of migrants who refuse to assimilate. It’s all going to come to a head someday. In some places the phrase ‘Kill them all, let God sort them out’ is already taking root.”

Joe nodded slowly. “You think I need to map out fuel stops between here and the farm? Just in case?”

“The military draws up plans all the time that get shelved and sometimes never used. Doesn’t hurt to plan. Keeps your mind sharp.” Bud paused. “What happened to the Jetson mobile?”

“Stan Marlboro’s flying it now. It’s due for upgrades. They’ve made real improvements to the gravitic propulsion. Stan says it handles much better. Before, it was like trying to steer a car with shopping-cart wheels. Switch off the AI and you fought it every inch. They decided to make manual flight safer and more intuitive. I have a feeling they’ll weaponize it and turn it into a space fighter.”

“I hope not,” Bud said. “That would open a whole new can of worms and kick off another arms race.”



Bud stopped by the marina later. Pete was standing with the driver of a fuel truck that was refilling the tanks.

“Well, the wayward traveler returns!” Pete called, grinning.

“Hi, Pete. How are things?”

“Business is picking up. I’ve gone from one fuel delivery a month to two or more. The fishing boats like topping off here before they head out. I haven’t run the final numbers, but we’re up at least twenty-five percent in customers.”

While the driver filled the DEF tank, Pete and Bud stepped into the office.

“I’ve had a couple of yearly slip leases come in,” Pete said. “Everything else is still summer-only through Labor Day.”

“Sounds like business is really booming,” Bud replied.

“How was your trip?”

“Great. Weather stayed perfect, and it was nice being away from the seagulls for a while.”

Pete chuckled. “I used to have a little vacation cabin up near Maggie Valley before the amusement park closed. Should’ve kept it. Rented it to skiers in winter—mountain air was wonderful.”

“Joe said it’s usually hot and muggy this time of year, but we had nice breezes and cool nights. Perfect weather for a fire pit.”



Back home, Bud thought about future preparations. He needed to stage some guns and ammo at the Retreat before things got worse. He was sure Joe already had an arsenal out there, but several hundred yards separated their houses. He began a mental list of things to do: fill the pantry with long-term storage staples, but it was still too early for large orders. He really needed a couple of solid weeks with the Tickler to get ahead on excavation. He’d have to talk to Patty about that.

Sean was bouncing happily in his walker while Patty had him corralled behind baby gates. Bud stepped over a gate and entered the kitchen.

“I’m thawing four ribeyes,” Patty announced. “Don and Lili are coming for supper.”

“What’s the menu?”

“Steak, twice-baked potatoes, salad, and can you make that parsley sauce you do?”

“Of course. Have you started the potatoes?”

“They’re already in the outdoor oven.”

Bud played with Sean for a few minutes, then grabbed a harvest basket and shears from the silo and headed to the garden for fresh parsley and oregano.

He washed and chopped the herbs with his Ulu knife, weighed them, then added chopped scallions and four cloves of garlic. In a bowl he mixed olive oil, a little hot water, red wine vinegar, a dash of lemon juice, red pepper flakes, and freshly ground black pepper. He folded everything together, covered the bowl, and slid it into the fridge.

Fifteen minutes later he checked the potatoes, then seasoned the steaks with sea salt, black pepper, and granulated garlic. He let them sit while he and Patty took drinks out to the porch with Sean, enjoying the early afternoon breeze.

When the potatoes were done, Bud brought them in to cool. Patty took Sean inside for his feeding and nap. Bud scooped the potato flesh, mixed it with butter, fresh cream, sea salt, pepper, onion powder, and a pinch of granulated chicken bouillon. He added a pat of butter to each shell, filled them, topped them with smoked paprika and onion powder, and slid them back into the oven. Once the tops began to brown, he basted them with melted butter and sprinkled on chopped parsley and placed them in the warming oven.

Patty tossed the salad and mixed a simple white wine vinegar and sunflower oil dressing. Everything was ready except the steaks.

Lili and Don arrived around four o’clock with a bottle of good red wine and the story of a big drug bust they’d seen that morning near Turner Honda.

Bud made drinks while Don recounted the swarm of police cars. They all moved to the porch as Bud lit the grill.

“It used to be that Schedule I drugs were actually treated like Schedule I,” Bud said. “Now politicians figured out they could tax them. Instead of cracking down, you get a slap on the wrist. Users should be on chain gangs—cleaning ditches until every trace is out of their system, plus thirty days. Dealers should get a minimum of ten years.”

“Then you’d have people escaping the road crews left and right,” Don said.

“Not if you had the right dogs,” Bud replied.

“Patty, anything I can help with?” Lili asked.

“Nope. Bud just needs to cook the steaks. When he puts them on, we’ll set the table. Inside or out?”

“Let’s eat out here,” Lili said. “The air feels perfect.”

“How was your mini-vacation?” Don asked.

“A lot of work, but really enjoyable. Everything’s set up now whenever we want to slip away again.”

“Where exactly is it?”

“About thirteen clicks southeast of Jamestown, Tennessee.”

“That’s not far from Wolf’s Den.”

“Sixteen clicks as the crow flies. Rough terrain for a ruck, but beautiful country.”

“You two should use it sometime,” Patty offered. “The house is free. Just bring fresh groceries—we left a few things in the pantry, but not much.”

“It sounds intriguing,” Lili said. “We’ll let you know.”

Bud brought out the steaks, adjusted the coals, and seared them hard on both sides before raising the grate to finish. Patty sprinkled shredded white cheddar on the potatoes to melt. She and Lili carried out the rolls and side dishes, and soon everyone was seated at the porch table.

There was little conversation during the meal—only compliments on the food, the soft sounds of shorebirds, and the quiet click of silverware against plates in the warm afternoon air.
 
Chapter Sixty-Four


After the meal, Don and Bud took their drinks and settled in by the fire pit.

“Did you see Cassidy at the Wolf Den?” Don asked.

“I went nowhere near that place,” Bud replied. “It’s seventeen clicks overland from the Retreat. I have no idea how far by road. Nope, I kept my phone off and my nose in my own business.”

“The way Joe tells it, the farm is pretty remote.”

“It’s not bad. Jamestown is only a few clicks away. Population around two thousand, and the state’s oldest winery is nearby. You’ve got your choice of hiking or drinking wine—or drinking wine and then hiking. The air is good, the neighbors are friendly, and the area is dyed-in-the-wool conservative. Only eighty miles to Knoxville.”

“Sounds nice and quiet.”

“It is. I’m looking forward to spending more time out there.”

When Patty and Lili came outside, they were still deep in conversation about the Retreat. Patty continued filling her in on the décor and the landscaping plans she had for the future. Bud and Don sat back and listened.

“Do you like it better than being near the coast?” Lili asked.

“Not necessarily better,” Patty said. “It’s just different. No screeching seabirds, and the worst thing you have to deal with is emptying the mosquito trap.”

“Which you didn’t do once!” Bud interjected.

“Well, it’s a nasty job!”

“Don’t they get a lot of tornadoes out there?” Don asked.

“Not as many as some parts of Tennessee,” Bud replied, “but I’m building a storm shelter into the sandstone bluff behind the house.”

“Man, to build something like that and then have it destroyed by a weather event,” Don said, shaking his head.

“Same as here,” Bud countered. “We could get wiped out by a hurricane. Boards and logs can be replaced.”

“Do you have a storm shelter here?”

“If we decide to ride out a storm, we can head to the warehouse. It’s strong enough to handle a Category Four.”

The wind picked up as darkness settled in, so Lili and Don headed home. Patty turned on one of her favorite 1800s period dramas, and the two of them watched it until bedtime.

Bud was up the next morning at the first sounds from Sean. He changed his diaper, placed him in the playpen near the kitchen door, and gave him a bottle. Sean drank contentedly for a while, then stood up, watching Bud and jabbering away as breakfast came together. Twenty minutes later, Patty joined them and took over cooking the eggs.

Bud moved to the island with a pad of paper and began making a list of things he wanted to order for the Retreat. At the top: a cell phone signal booster for the storm shelter/storage area. Next, a quality set of masonry bits so he could drill through the sandstone to run the booster’s cable into the protected space. He also wanted to build a proper vehicle shelter beside the house—something sturdy enough for temporary parking. In winter weather they’d use the garage, but otherwise the vehicles could stay under the carport. Tom had warned him about heavy hail. A flimsy bolt-together tin shelter wouldn’t cut it. Bud wanted pole-barn construction with wood framing and a fifty-year metal roof.

He had read about a roofing technique that placed foam insulation under the metal panels. The slight give supposedly helped hail bounce off instead of denting or penetrating. With thick enough panels, it might not dent at all.

Before he got too far ahead, he needed to go back out and focus on excavating the storm shelter and storage area.

His first call was to James, the contractor. Bud explained what he wanted for the carport, and James assured him it would get done.

That evening, Bud talked with Patty, laid out his plans, and convinced her to let him fly out to the Retreat alone for one week. He wanted to excavate as much as possible and get the bulk of the heavy work behind him. He also needed to establish a realistic timeline and removal rate for the Tickler. Most importantly, he emphasized the need for a finished storm shelter before the family spent any extended time there. She agreed, on the condition that he build her another shipping crate—there were more items she wanted him to take.

Bud built the crate and left it in a bay in the garage. The trailer that once occupied the space was now parked under the warehouse.

When the cell phone booster arrived, Bud packed it in the crate along with several small Craftsman tool sets, six cans of Corrosion-X, a couple of cans of WD-40, a grease gun, and a gallon can of all-purpose grease.

Two weeks later, Bud flew out on a Sunday morning and was setting flaps at the lake by noon.

Tom helped him wrestle the crate out of the plane and onto a utility trailer. After unloading everything, Tom positioned the skid steer and a dump trailer near the excavation site. Bud used the Tickler’s timer for the first time to measure how much material it could remove in an hour. He set everything up, fueled the generator, and turned the machine on.

It was surreal to watch. The Tickler slowly pushed itself forward, biting into the sandstone while sand cascaded down through its grinding wheels. Bud slipped away long enough to fix a jug of ice water and brought out a camping chair so he could sit and observe. Occasionally he’d shovel sand away from the machine and back toward the entrance.

As he watched, ideas for finishing the entrance took shape. He wanted to be able to seal the door properly. A simple door seal wouldn’t work well against raw rock, so he decided he’d need a concrete saw to cut a recess around the opening, then face it with wood and install a ledger.

By sundown, the Tickler had carved out a ten-foot corridor into the sandstone bluff and left behind a trailer-load of sand. Bud took measurements, then turned the machine ninety degrees and began excavating the perimeter of the storm shelter. A ten-by-ten room should be big enough for short stays without feeling too claustrophobic. All that would remain would be to remove the interior material and leave five support columns that would also frame storage shelves in the center of the space.

Bud’s mind raced as he watched the Tickler work. Getting all the sand out of the rooms was going to be dusty, miserable work. A warehouse-style brush floor sweeper and a large shop vacuum would help, along with plenty of dust masks. A Power Wheel Barrow would be a big help removing the sand from the rooms too. However, those items might have to wait to be purchased until he returned home.
 
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