Page 28 of Red Mountain Burning
With all the seriousness in the world, she said, “I believe this is my last life.”
A dark wave of sadness rushed over Otis, thinking she might not be with him forever. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I just know.”
“So I’ll be cast back onto this earth, forced to run around with all these looney tunes, while you disappear into the cosmos like stardust?”
Joan lay back on her pillow. “That all depends on how you choose to live this life, Otis.”
“I’ll probably come back as Bellflour’s lap dog,” he said. “If that’s not hell, I don’t know what is.” All this talk of life and death was too much for Otis. He leaned over and put a hand on her cheek. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
She kissed him and smiled. “It’s okay, darling.”
“I love you,” he said. “With every bit of me. Now go to sleep.”
Almost as easily as flipping a switch, Joan was soon fast asleep. Otis ran through their discussion in his head. Though much of it made sense, the simple truth was that he was an old dog too weary to change his life. The only legacy he would truly leave was what happened to Red Mountain, and it was looking like he’d be six feet under before the mountain realized her true potential.
At least, in his dying breaths, he would know that on a late, late night in mid-May, he’d infiltrated the Drink Flamingo compound, torn up a few of their precious, high-scoring cabernet sauvignon vines, and in their place, planted none other than the most frowned-upon variety in the industry, pinotage. No matter what happened, he would always know that Drink Flamingo would never bottle a true Red Mountain wine, only a poor attempt poisoned by a variety that had no business on this mountain, or, arguably, anywhere on earth.
Eager to take the upper hand, he slipped out of bed and found the pile of clothes he’d left in his office. All day he’d planned this mission, and an important part was making sure Joan was left in the dark. She’d never let him get away with such absurdity. Once he was dressed, he poured himself two fingers of Del Bac single malt whiskey—his favorite lately—and tossed it down his gullet.
With the smoky burn fueling him, he stepped out into the starlit night. The wild dogs were out there somewhere, howling. He crept toward his vines, hoping he’d find Jonathan before his friend unleashed a chorus of barking that could scare off the Reaper.
He heard a growl in the darkness, and Otis rushed to silence him. “Quiet there, ol’ boy. It’s just me.”
The dog met him at the fence line, and Otis rubbed the animal’s ears. “Just you and me and the night.”
Otis hiked up to his winery to get the wheelbarrow carrying the pinotage vines, wire cutters, and a shovel. With the wheel cracking gravel at his feet, he pushed it up the road until the property came into view. Below the McMansion and the pool were long lines of plastic grow tubes that they’d put over the vines to protect them in their youth.
Deciding it would be best to enter from the opposite side, Otis pushed the wheelbarrow along the fence line. TheNo Trespassingsigns glared back at him. Once he’d settled on the spot, he retrieved the wire cutters and went to work, starting at the bottom.Clip, clip, clip.
He cut two waist-high lines on both sides and pulled the fence back. He tossed the shovel and the two bags of vines in, then crawled in himself. It was the most fun he’d had in ages, and he couldn’t stop the smirk playing on his lips.
Once Otis was safely on the other side, he stood and surveyed the land. An excavator was parked in between the pool and the vines with its bucket jammed into the dirt.
For a moment, he thought about checking for the keys. Forget pulling out a few vines. What about ramming a John Deere right into the bowels of the McMansion? Knowing Bellflour, he’d probably used the cheapest materials possible. Otis could probably push it over if he tried.
Returning to the mission, he looked left at the long lines of grow tubes visible in the moonlight. He’d already decided that he would sprinkle the pinotage vines in over a few rows. That way, they’d be harder to pick out. In fact, without someone deeply invested in the vines, it was possible that no one would ever know these vines had been planted. Otis could delight in the prank for a lifetime.
Sneaking down a row, he lifted off the grow tube and pulled back the black irrigation tubing, then plucked the first vine out of the ground with ease. He dug a hole eighteen inches deep into the already loose soil. Reaching into the bag like Santa Claus, he drew out the first pinotage vine and set it into the hole with a satisfied grin. He picked up the shovel and covered up the hole, admiring the small vine standing tall and proud like the most allegiant of Otis’s soldiers.
He slipped the grow tube over the vine and replaced the irrigation tube. “Welcome to Red Mountain, my little friend.”
Otis repeated the procedure twenty-nine more times, always saying an encouraging word at the end. Then, with a bag of cabernet sauvignon vines and a shovel, he crept back under the fence. Oh, how he wished he could tell Joan about his accomplishment. He might be losing the war, but tonight, he’d won a major battle.
Returning to his own property, he heard the coyotes calling out to him. Jonathan found him again, and Otis strolled with his dog into the night, feeling the truth of Red Mountain all around him. Sometimes, a man must cross lines to protect what he loves.
Otis looked up to the sky, past the stars and the Milky Way and into the black. Then, with everything he had, he howled.
Ahhwwoooo!
Jonathan lifted his head and howled as well.
Ahhwwoooo! Ahhwwoooo!
The coyotes up higher on the mountain called back, and for a few moments, Otis felt whole inside.
