Chapter 17

After leaving the isolation and dense forest cover that overhung most of Warwoman, the small town of Clayton emerged as something of a rural metropolis after Blake snaked through the morning fog along Warwoman Creek. Turning south on 441, he drove past Regions Bank, Bi-Lo groceries, Chick-Fil-A, the new Super Wal-Mart and Home Depot, thinking of all the businesses Clayton now had where he could likely get a job. Places he would never have considered working before. He always thought he was far too good for them then, wanted way more out of life than they could ever offer. Now, they dangled everything that he wanted. Stability, honesty, security. More than anything they could provide a place to hide, to blend in, and be somebody by being nobody.

Blake drove under the nameless overpass that led southbound cars to Rabun County High School and recalled how he had once daydreamed that the overpass would be named after him. You’re now passing under the Blake Savage overpass, he said to himself in a mocking manner, realizing how foolish and insignificant a dream that had been.

He continued on 441 past Tiger and Wiley, surveying all the businesses run by good, honest people. Respectable people. People doing what he now felt he should have done. But no, he had sought riches and glory. Fame.

After he was forced to surrender his football dreams, he became intoxicated with the notion of becoming a celebrity farmer, a ridiculous notion that made Blake chuckle when Nick had first mentioned the idea to him. Nick had told the stories of how his own father was a famed charcuterier in Spain, as was his father before him. Both had raised the revered black-footed pigs in the mountains, fed them acorns and cured the highly prized Jamón Ibérico de Bellota hams in mountain sheds, letting them hang for two years. Even in Spain those hams can cost over one hundred dollars per pound, Nick had said. Lured in by Nick’s grand vision, Blake imagined doing in northeast Georgia what no one else was doing anywhere in America, creating what chefs across the country craved. Reproducing the mountain-cured hams from acorn-fed, black-footed pigs and selling to Nick’s line of exclusive restaurants. He knew that Nick would get the glory, but Blake figured he would still be in the game, so to speak. And richly rewarded. Nick was as fascinated by the idea as Blake was, partly because there were hordes of pigs that descended from the Iberian pigs, right here in Georgia.

“When my people, the Spaniards, came through a few centuries ago,” Nick had explained to Blake, “they brought the black-footed pigs with them and left them on an island near Savannah. That way, the next wave of Spaniards would have something to hunt, something to eat. At some point we stopped coming, and the pigs took over the island and thrived. All you have to do is get some off the island, raise them in the woods, and cure them in the cool mountain air.”

Nick had made it sound so easy. So seductive. And he was so persuasive, partly because he was willing to pay a lot to get the real thing, not the inferior industrial version that other restaurants were able to get. Once the USDA had approved the process of allowing some Spanish hams to be imported they had basically been ruined. Sure, they had the name Jamón Ibérico and were quite good compared to American hams, but comparing them to his father’s hams was like comparing drug store champagne to a bottle of vintage Louis Roederer Cristal. Both could claim to use the champagne method, but one taste of the latter would uncloak the former as mere toilet water. Nick wanted the absolute best for his restaurants and for his new 50-Forks club, and he was willing to pay for it to be made the right way. The way his father and his father before him made it, not the way the USDA would have it cooked and salted to death. But he needed an accomplice...someone to do the dirty work, Blake now realized. And Blake was only too eager once Nick did the math for him. Now, Blake began to do the math once again as he drove south, paying no attention to the SUV that had pulled into the lane behind him and now followed him.

I’ve got 200 hams hanging now, about fifteen pounds each. That’s 3,000 pounds. Nick will pay me seventy dollars a pound when they’re ready, that’s just over $200,000, not counting the other parts...the shoulders, bellies and so on. Half the hams are ready now but they won’t all be ready for another six months at least. I gotta get Nick to take everything now, or maybe take some to other chefs... Blake was immersed in his thoughts as he approached the Tallulah River. Delivering hams for the 50-Forks dinner was just the beginning. Nick wanted hams cured the way his father had done it and on a regular basis. And he wanted to make sure that no other chef had access to those hams, those rare black-footed pigs. Blake exhaled as he tried to figure a way out of having to continue working with Nick.

He glanced in his rear view mirror and saw a rack on the top of the car behind him. Blake looked more closely to see that the rack was actually the lights of the sheriff’s vehicle. Instinct forced him upright. He corrected his posture and lifted his left hand to the wheel at the 10:00 position to face his right hand in the 2:00 position. He caught his breath and didn’t exhale, his throat instantly parched. What the hell do they want?

The car stayed on Blake’s tail about one hundred yards back, keeping its distance precise. Blake slowed a little and continued south. The sheriff’s car slowed to match Blake’s speed and stayed behind him. A trail of cars now followed the sheriff’s car as no one dared pass, even though Blake was now driving five miles per hour under the speed limit. He looked at his speedometer and pushed the accelerator slightly, increasing his speed to fifty-five. The train behind him kept pace.

Blake saw the fog rising from the Tallulah gorge ahead of him indicating that he was close to crossing the bridge, where he would leave Rabun county and enter Habersham County, out of the sheriff’s jurisdiction. JUST GET OFF MY TAIL! Blake screamed to himself. His pulse was rapid and his face was flush as he tried again to calm himself.

What do I have to be afraid of? What have I even done? Even if something happened to those boys, how is that my fault? I didn’t do anything!

Blake tried all the logic he could muster, but his rational thinking was no match for his inner voice.

What about what’s in the back of your truck that you’re taking to Nick? How will you explain that if the sheriff asks?

In the mirror, the sheriff’s car zoomed closer, right on his tail now as the bridge approached. Jesus! Blake crossed the bridge and entered the fog. He slowed and turned on his lights as the fog thickened. Slowly, he began the winding ascent up and around Tallulah gorge. Blake exhaled as he passed the sign for Habersham County and flicked his eyes to the mirror. The fog lights from the sheriff’s vehicle stayed tethered to his truck, matching it curve for curve.

Jesus! What the hell does he want? Blake thought about pulling over at a gas station, a tourist stop...any place. Instead he continued, concentrating on the road. He took one hand off the wheel, wiped the sweat from his palm on his pants, and then repeated with the other. Blake glanced down at his pants to see the momentary stain left by the sweat and looked back in the mirror. There was nothing there. No sheriff, no cars.

What the—

Blake couldn’t see where anyone had gone. The rapid curves and hills offered no more than a view of a hundred yards or so at many points without the fog. In the fog Blake was lost, alone. He just wanted out, to see that he was safe. He wanted Angelica, to be by her side. He admonished himself again for letting his life come to this. That’s it...I’ve had it! Blake pounded the wheel furiously. I’m telling Nick that it’s over. I’m done with all this! This Sunday, I’m going to church with Angelica and getting some peace back in my life.