Shards of light were popping up over the tops of the mountains in the east as Frank stepped outside the dome. He was up early and it was as cool as it was going to be. The air was like silk on his skin. He guessed it was somewhere around seventy degrees already.
He was a little stiff, suspecting it was the result of long hours in the driver’s seat, and a stroll around the grounds seemed like a good way to loosen up.
He moved along the perimeter, walking close to the wall. Went past the miniature version of the main house, where Maria and Humberto lived, and forty yards farther along he came to a large outbuilding, which, upon closer inspection, was determined to be a former stable converted into a garage and storage shed.
No windows on the log building so he couldn’t see the Lincoln Continental Larry had talked about, but where else would it be?
He continued on.
The dry air was delightful, his sinuses open and free for the first time in weeks.
Nothing like the desert for your sinuses.
Around back of the ranch house, the adobe wall gave way to a chain-link fence with razor wire on top. He could see the rear of the main house and the pool and the tennis courts. Foot of the mountains was about a hundred yards the other way.
About twenty yards behind and away from the house was a low-slung, windowless structure he figured was the power plant. Rancho Deluxe produced its own electricity. Next to the power plant stood a large satellite dish, which explained the excellent TV reception.
He’d let a Los Angeles Dodgers game lull him to sleep last night, the dulcet tones of the play-by-play guy sending him off to dreamland in a hurry.
Moving on, the desert floor still dark and cool, he could see paths and trails snaking up the foothills, loose rocks scattered along the desert floor.
Coming to a gate in the back fence that had heavy chains and a padlock, he stretched and breathed deeply, a hint of pine scent drifting down from the mountain.
Coming around the corner of the house on his way back to the dome, he saw Larry hurrying across the grounds toward the converted stable. He watched Richards put a key in the padlock on the big front door and swing it open. As Frank came abreast of the open door he heard a starter motor spinning, followed by the sound of a big V-8 engine coughing to life.
Frank stopped and watched a classic, black Lincoln Continental with white-sidewall tires back out slowly. He stood there smiling as Richards swung around, Larry putting down the window and saying, “Off to Sky Harbor International, Franko. Maria’ll cook you some breakfast. I’ll be back in time for brunch. See ya.”
Frank nodded and smiled, thinking he wasn’t so sure he’d be here, as something seemed to be telling him he should get back on the road and leave Rancho Deluxe to the rich boys and the wannabe, thinking that would be a good title for one of those long acoustic story songs Bob Dylan occasionally did.
Here’s Minnesota’s favorite son, Bob Dylan, with his new tune, “Rich Boys and the Wannabe.”
But Frank’s mother had raised him to be polite. And he had enjoyed the hospitality here, so it only seemed right that he stayed and met the new arrivals, if only for a quick meal before hitting the road.
He returned to the dome and started putting his stuff in the station wagon, thinking about another shower and maybe a dip in the pool before the sun was up too high.
(End of Chapter 16)
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