up the job posting. “In a nutshell, how do we pull this off?”
Big Bill Hogan growled and took up occupancy at the edge of his desk.
“One of my old employees left behind her notary stamp. I have a good copier. Faking letterheads is one of my fortes. I’ll have to work your real college education into a fake one, change your MBA from Law to Education and manufacture some teaching credentials at defunct institutions to eliminate the paper trail.”
“You left out the part about breaking and entering into offices to plant dead paperwork, hacking databases and accessing cold files in warehouses,” Battle smiled.
“Minor details,” Hogan said, point blank.
Battle pulled a wad of money from his coat and tossed it at Hogan. “Will that cover your new expenses?”
Hogan took half the stack and tossed the rest back at Battle. “This isn’t brain surgery but it will take me a couple of days. Now, what kind of teacher do you want to be?”
“Just like the flyer says. ‘Special Education.’ Just what is a Special Education teacher responsible for, anyway?”
“Beats me, but I’ll find out.” Hogan wrote down a list of things to do, opened the filing cabinet with his foot, reached in and pulled out a whiskey bottle and two glasses.
“Care to imbibe?”
“No,” John said bluntly.
“Let me ask you,” Big Bill said, pouring himself a stiff drink. “Aren’t you scared about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I never think about it. Only today.”
“Good answer, John.” Hogan leaned in towards him. “But you’re full of it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You can honestly sit there and say straight-faced that you’re not afraid to die?”
“I’m not afraid to die. I’m disappointed that I’m going to die. There’s a difference.”
“Once a lawyer, always a lawyer,” Hogan chugged down his glass and grumbled. “You said you wanted to come back here and fix your little problem. Instead, you’re taking on five problems. I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I,” John said. “Neither do I.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
John Battle leaned against the SUV at the Garden of the Gods overlook. Down below, sandstone formations rose like jagged pinnacles from the valley floor. He felt like he was standing on the division of a topographical map. The high mountains supporting Pikes Peak hung from the sky to the west while rolling prairies to the east seemed to devour the windblown remains of half-dead riverbeds.
A Winnebago camper pulled up to the overlook. An elderly couple from Ohio climbed out. The happy wife carried a plate of sandwiches to a large flat rock nearby while her husband restrained a panting old dog on a leash with one hand, careful not to spill a metal water bowl in the other. The dog was in exploration mode, its nose intent on parking lot gravel, dirt, rocks and lunchmeat. The couple noticed John and smiled brightly.
“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” said the wife, striking up a conversation.
“Yes,” John said.
“Twenty rock formations and eight miles of trails down there,” the husband said. He set the bowl down for his Labrador Retriever. “You like dogs?”
“Love dogs.”
His mind flashed to a distant memory of the three dogs he had in his youth. They were all mutts but each loved him unconditionally.
The old man stared at the southern landscape. “Plenty of trails along those ridges and canyons. A man can get lost real easy.”
“I imagine so.”
“You don’t want to be on ‘em in the rain. They’re muddy and slippery as hell then. Especially Cheyenne Canyon. We got stuck up there in the afternoon yesterday. Shower only lasted ten minutes, but I near killed myself coming down the trail on that wet red clay.”
“Like glazed potter’s clay,” said the wife.
“A regular slip and slide.”
Battle looked at the time on his watch and adjusted the collar of the blue sport coat Mrs. Powell had given him. He studied himself in the window of the vehicle and decided to take off the loud tie he was
Big Bill Hogan growled and took up occupancy at the edge of his desk.
“One of my old employees left behind her notary stamp. I have a good copier. Faking letterheads is one of my fortes. I’ll have to work your real college education into a fake one, change your MBA from Law to Education and manufacture some teaching credentials at defunct institutions to eliminate the paper trail.”
“You left out the part about breaking and entering into offices to plant dead paperwork, hacking databases and accessing cold files in warehouses,” Battle smiled.
“Minor details,” Hogan said, point blank.
Battle pulled a wad of money from his coat and tossed it at Hogan. “Will that cover your new expenses?”
Hogan took half the stack and tossed the rest back at Battle. “This isn’t brain surgery but it will take me a couple of days. Now, what kind of teacher do you want to be?”
“Just like the flyer says. ‘Special Education.’ Just what is a Special Education teacher responsible for, anyway?”
“Beats me, but I’ll find out.” Hogan wrote down a list of things to do, opened the filing cabinet with his foot, reached in and pulled out a whiskey bottle and two glasses.
“Care to imbibe?”
“No,” John said bluntly.
“Let me ask you,” Big Bill said, pouring himself a stiff drink. “Aren’t you scared about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I never think about it. Only today.”
“Good answer, John.” Hogan leaned in towards him. “But you’re full of it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You can honestly sit there and say straight-faced that you’re not afraid to die?”
“I’m not afraid to die. I’m disappointed that I’m going to die. There’s a difference.”
“Once a lawyer, always a lawyer,” Hogan chugged down his glass and grumbled. “You said you wanted to come back here and fix your little problem. Instead, you’re taking on five problems. I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I,” John said. “Neither do I.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
John Battle leaned against the SUV at the Garden of the Gods overlook. Down below, sandstone formations rose like jagged pinnacles from the valley floor. He felt like he was standing on the division of a topographical map. The high mountains supporting Pikes Peak hung from the sky to the west while rolling prairies to the east seemed to devour the windblown remains of half-dead riverbeds.
A Winnebago camper pulled up to the overlook. An elderly couple from Ohio climbed out. The happy wife carried a plate of sandwiches to a large flat rock nearby while her husband restrained a panting old dog on a leash with one hand, careful not to spill a metal water bowl in the other. The dog was in exploration mode, its nose intent on parking lot gravel, dirt, rocks and lunchmeat. The couple noticed John and smiled brightly.
“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” said the wife, striking up a conversation.
“Yes,” John said.
“Twenty rock formations and eight miles of trails down there,” the husband said. He set the bowl down for his Labrador Retriever. “You like dogs?”
“Love dogs.”
His mind flashed to a distant memory of the three dogs he had in his youth. They were all mutts but each loved him unconditionally.
The old man stared at the southern landscape. “Plenty of trails along those ridges and canyons. A man can get lost real easy.”
“I imagine so.”
“You don’t want to be on ‘em in the rain. They’re muddy and slippery as hell then. Especially Cheyenne Canyon. We got stuck up there in the afternoon yesterday. Shower only lasted ten minutes, but I near killed myself coming down the trail on that wet red clay.”
“Like glazed potter’s clay,” said the wife.
“A regular slip and slide.”
Battle looked at the time on his watch and adjusted the collar of the blue sport coat Mrs. Powell had given him. He studied himself in the window of the vehicle and decided to take off the loud tie he was
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