Ahern, Jerry - The Quest

“It’ll take you a while,” Rourke commented to Rubenstein, “before you can really see all I’ve put up, but you’ll catch on to it. Check the inventory sheets.” Rourke took down one of four clipboards hanging on hooks at the far end of the shelving. “Now look behind you. My pride and joy—” Rourke gestured to the far wall, a gleaming black Harley-Davidson Low Rider suspended a few inches off the floor—“to protect the tires.” Rourke walked back to the end of the shelf row and hit another switch and the side cavern behind them went dark. Rourke hit a second switch and the darkened smaller chamber ahead of them illuminated.

Rourke commented, “Work room,” and pointed along the walls and down a row of log tables. Vises, reloading equipment, power saws, drill press, then ranked on shelves above these were oil filters, spark plugs, fan belts, tools hung on pegboard wall panels beyond these. Rourke set his CAR-15 on one of the tables, withdrew the six-inch Python, setting it beside the rifle, next he snatched both Detonics stainless pistols from their double-shoulder rig and set them down as well, then the small A.G. Russell black chrome Sting IA.

“Gotta clean these tomorrow,” Rourke observed.

Rubenstein took the Browning High Power from his belt and set it down, then laid down the Schmeisser, “I’ll get the little Lawman and the Steyr later,” Rourke noted. “Come on.” Rourke walked past the rows of tables and hit the light switch, then turned a corner and, once again, they were in the main cavern, but at the far end of the great room, the sound of the waterfall splashing beside them.

Rourke stripped away his leather jacket, his Alessi shoulder rig, and the Ranger leather belt, and set them on the arm of what looked like a leather-covered chair.

“Vinyl,” Rourke observed. “Hate the stuff, but it’s less susceptible to damage than leather and more easily repaired.” Rourke started into the room, then stopped, turned to Rubenstein, and took off his sunglasses. “What would you like to see first? I bet, the bathroom, hmm? How about a real shower?” Rourke didn’t wait for an answer, but started toward the near side of the great room, walked up a row of three low stone steps and pointed toward the opaque curtain of stone. “In there—help yourself. Grab yourself some clothes. I’ll use it later.” Then Rourke turned and walked across the great room toward the television set, the stereo, the books, the guns. He stopped in front of the glass gun case and slid the glass panel aside. He heard Rubenstein’s voice behind him, turned, and saw him with a handful of clean clothes. Rourke smiled, pleased the younger man had found his way back to his motorcycle, already learning to make his way around the retreat.

“What’s that, John?”

“Come and see,” Rourke said, staring back at the cabinet. He heard Rubenstein stop beside him, then pointed at each weapon in the gun case. “That’s an Interdynamics KG-9 9mm assault pistol,” Rourke began.

“Looks like a submachine gun,” Rubenstein commented.

“Only a semi-automatic, though,” Rourke said, then pointed to each succeeding item, identifying it in turn, “Smith and Wesson Model 29 six-inch, Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported; Smith and Wesson Model 60 two-inch stainless Chiefs .38 Special; Colt Mk IV, Series ‘70 Government Model; Metalifed with a Detonics Competition Recoil system installed and Pachmayr Colt Medallion grips. That little thing is an FIE .38 Special chrome Derringer, and the little tubes on the shelf down here are .22 Long Rifle and .25 ACP barrel inserts made by Harry Owens of Sport Specialties. Makes the little gun able to fire .38 Special, .22 rimfire, or .25 ACP. I’ve got more of those insert barrels for my Detonics, for my shotguns, et cetera.” Rourke pointed back up to the cabinet. “That gun is a Colt Official Police .38 Special five-inch—Metalifed with Pachmayr grips. Same frame essentially as a Python, so I had it reamed out to .357 to increase its versatility.” Then Rourke moved to his right to the long guns, racked one over the other. “That’s a standard AR-15, no scope. That’s a Mossberg 500ATP6P Parkerized riot shotgun. Safariland sling on it. That’s an original Armalite AR-7 .22 Long Rifle. Take it apart and it stows in the buttstock, even floats. Had enough?” Rourke turned, smiling at Rubenstein.

“How much—I mean it’s rude, John, I know that but how—”

“Every cent I could scrape together for the last six years, after the cost of the property itself. I gambled. I’m sorry I won, but it paid off I guess.” Rourke closed the case and walked toward the sofa in the center of the great room, then leaned down to a small box on the table, and looked inside. “Empty,” he muttered, and crossed the room.

He glanced over his shoulder, Rubenstein following him. Rourke smiled, saying, “You’re more curious than eager for that shower, aren’t you?” Rourke kept walking, up the three low stone steps and into the kitchen. There was a long counter with stools beside it, on the other side a six-burner range with a double oven, a double-door refrigerator, and more counter space. At the far left were two chest-type white freezers. “I’ve got a big meat locker back in the side of the utility area, maybe you saw it—this is for stuff that is most commonly used.” Rubenstein was next to him as Rourke opened one of the freezers, the entire left half of it was filled with aluminum-foil-wrapped packages. Rourke took a package from the freezer and turned over a roast, looked at it, then closed the freezer. He unwrapped the package on top of the freezer, extracted one of the small cigars he liked, rolled it between his fingers, smelled it, and put it to his mouth. He lit it with the Zippo.

“You’re kidding,” Rubenstein said, his voice sounding to Rourke as though the young man were shocked.

“What’s the matter? What’s so strange? All the comforts of home.” Rourke stopped, the lighter still burning in his hand as he stared over Rubenstein’s shoulder, past the counter to the small table on the side of the couch. There was a picture there—he couldn’t see it, but knew it—of Sarah and the children. “Almost all the comforts,” he said, his voice low. He snapped closed the cowling of the lighter and dropped the lighter in his pocket.

“How did you get this up here?”

“With the truck,” Rourke answered, as he went to the refrigerator, opened it, and took out an ice tray. He took a large glass beer mug from an overhead cabinet and filled it half with ice. He replaced the unused ice cubes, muttering, “Help yourself to anything you want,” then turned on a small black switch next to the sink. There was a rumble, a mechanical hum, then Rourke turned on the cold water faucet, the spigot sputtering a moment. “Air gets in the system,” Rourke remarked, then water spattered out, and Rourke walked away, leaving the water running.

He went to another cabinet, this time below the counter level, and extracted a half-gallon bottle of Seagram’s 7, twisted off the cap, breaking the stamp, and poured a good three inches in the beer mug over the ice, then closed the bottle and replaced it under the counter. He returned to the sink and added two inches of water to the glass, shut off the water, then turned off the pump switch.

“You’ve always got to remember to turn on the switches for the water—only thing different from ordinary plumbing—electrically operated pumps. I use several, so if one breaks down it won’t kill all my water at once.” Rourke started out of the kitchen and back down the steps into the great room. Rubenstein was behind him. “John, this can’t be real, I mean—” “It is, Paul,” Rourke said, turning. “It is. Go get cleaned up. Later I’ll fix us something to eat.” “How about steak and eggs?” Rubenstein asked laughing.