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The Raid
After a long, traffic-ridden drive, the three arrived at the Ross Pig Farm in rural Sebastopol. Jake had been silent since they had left Santa Rosa up to, and during, the interview with Joshua Kurtz' boss, Raymond Bloom. The address Bloom gave them was back to the south of Sebastopol, on the Gravenstein Highway. The area got more and more rural, until the trees themselves began to thin out, leaving vast open fields marred only by hills and the occasional flock of cows. Finally, the flood of nothing got the better of Jake and he broke his awe-induced silence.
"I didn't even know there were areas like this in California," he said, staring out the window and the passing hills and fields. "It's like Kansas out there."
"Welcome to Northern California," Simonyi said.
"It's beautiful up here, isn't it?" Ford asked.
"There's nothing there," Jake said. "I mean, I thought Novato was barren."
"You're from Chicago," Simonyi said. "You mean Illinois isn't flat?"
"Yeah," Jake replied. "But you'd expect it from a mid-western state. I wasn't expecting this from California."
"You should see Sacramento," Ford said.
"Oh yeah," Simonyi echoed. "Its like Arizona out there. Nothing but flat desert."
"You would think California would be more populated," Jake said.
"SoCal, dear Jake, SoCal," Ford said. "Santa Monica on down."
"There are towns in Northern California that make Deliverance look like a kids show," Simonyi offered.
"Well, we're here," Ford said.
He pulled the Misery Machine over and parked on the side of the road next to a ditch. There was a gate visible less than a hundred feet ahead, but no sign of a house.
"So what do we do now?" Jake asked.
"Well, you and I are going to go up to the house," Ford said. "Fish, do me a favor and stay here with the radio. See if you can get approval for us to search the house."
"Will do," Simonyi said.
Ford and Jake walked to the gate, which was held shut with an unlocked chain, and opened it. The road, already thin and rocky, disappeared altogether on the other side of the fence. Two tire grooves marked out a trail in the weeds and through the trees that was just wide enough for a pickup to fit down. The trail snaked onward, through trees and hilly terrain, for almost a quarter mile before they saw the house situated on another, smaller hill at the end of the trail. There was a large, aluminum-sided shed off to the side, and as Jake and Ford approached, a dog, chained to the shed, started barking at them.
"Well, there goes our element of surprise," Jake said.
"You check out the house," Ford told him, as he drew his gun. "I'm going around the shed to the other side."
"Meet you there," Jake said.
The dog, a vicious pit-bull with doberman colorings, was not too happy to see Ford, but got quiet as he got closer; apparently nobody had ever dared to challenge it on its home territory. Ford kept a watch on it long enough to make sure that the chain held, then focused his attention on the shed. Around the side, he found a dust-thick window, which he looked through. The shed was made up like a small auto shop inside, with a heavy engine winch hanging from the ceiling, a pair of chocks on the floor, and various tools lying around. It was also empty.
Cautiously, Ford made his way around to the back, then up the other side. He approached the house from the right side, which had no windows. The house was situated on a small hill, and to be level, the back end of the first floor was at least fifteen feet off the ground. There was a wooden, covered porch on the back of the house, and Ford slowly made his way toward it. The first step creaked, so he stopped to see if anyone inside would react to it. When they didn't, he mounted the rest of the flight onto the deck.
There was a barbeque and a picnic table on the otherwise empty deck. Ford noticed what he thought was a pile of rags by the back door. However, when he got closer he realized that it wasn't rags at all; it was Jake, lying face down on the deck, his gun still in his hand next to his head. A small trickle of blood ran down the side of his face.
Ford leapt the last few feet over to him and knelt beside him, feeling his neck for a pulse. He never heard the approaching footsteps. The next sound he heard was a loud crack, like a homerun hit. Then everything blurred and slid sideways, before fading out completely.
When Ford came around, he was tied to a chair inside the house. Jake was tied in a similar fashion a few feet away, but seemed to be still unconscious. Ford tried to call to him, but discovered he was gagged.
Suddenly, a shadow filled Ford's shaky field of vision. Joshua Kurtz, the man Ford had had at gunpoint just a few nights ago, was kneeling in front of him holding a knife.
"Hello, Detective Ford," Kurtz said, smiling. "I'm glad you came."
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