La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-20

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #174: Better get used to it friend; as an adult you must learn to forgive others on a regular basis. Without complete forgiveness, your daily existence devolves to one punctuated by hatred and self-destructive behaviors. Even more-so if you happen to be female, as the burden is often greater.

This was his best chance to put an end to The Spitfire, exacting revenge for his brother’s beating. So then why had Evan not attempted another shot? Had it become it too difficult to see through the rifle scope?

As sensitive as a human eye is, combined star and zodiacal light are tremendously faint sources, suitable perhaps for slow walking on flat terrain, not much else.

The Spitfire struggled to discern the current time on her decorative watch, because the face and hands were both tinted the same reflective silver. She pictured a page from the Farmer’s Almanac, counting up days from full moon by touching her thumb to each finger. But she knew it must be past midnight, and the waning moon would eventually rise.

Suddenly her body convulsed, and she realized she was fighting off a case of the shivers. Tens of miles away, a semi-truck on the interstate applied engine breaking, making a distinct low sputtering sound.

Long before hydro-electricity and the spectacle of neon lights flooding the white man’s world, human eyes would have been better adapted. She felt sure of this. Crawling on bare hands and knees, Lyndy tapped her way to the water jugs. She was keen to avoid a patch of prickly-pear cactus, spreading beneath the canopy of the Pinyon Pine.

Remarkably, even with her bizarre limping gait, Mrs. Wallach had managed to transport a heaping stockpile for her son; his own little Drum Barracks. Returning to ex’s side, Lyndy placed her right hand in his palm and squeezed, hoping to gain his attention.

“Hey, you know what this place reminds me of?” whispered Lyndy.

“I’m afraid to ask,” groaned Dale.

Her heart rejoiced at finding him alert. The corners of her mouth couldn’t help but curl to an irreverent smile. “Do you remember when we were camping in the sierras, and I drank about 20 Tab colas, then chased it down with 5 shots of reposado … and I was bouncing off the tent walls? Then later I had to pee 15 times in a row as we were getting ready to sleep. And you were all angry cause I kept waking you up, unzipping our sleeping bag.”

Dale cringed, unnaturally flexing his tendons as he clawed at dirt.

“How do you feel now? Are you in a lot of pain? Do you want some water to sip? We’ve got plenty.” Lyndy made a mock rubbing motion on her stomach. “Wow. And for some odd reason I totally have a craving for one of those frozen toaster waffles—know what I’m talking about? The cheap ones at Slater-Bros.”

“Aaargh!” Dale lifted his head, twisting his torso and struggling to cough. “Oh god, Lyndy! Now is definitely not a time to make me laugh. Please cut it out.”

The soles of her feet were feeling unbearably gritty. By undoing miniature gold tinted buckles, she pried off the impractical shoes Rita Lovelace had gifted her. “Dang it. I can’t believe I wasted so much time painting my toenails,” she lamented.

Raising his voice and aiming a shaky finger, Dale scolded, “Did you really just ask me whether I’m in a lot of pain? God I hate you. Don’t you have anything better to do? This is insane.”

“Comprende?” replied Lyndy, with a frown.

Dale lowered his head, grimacing and gritting his teeth. “Can you take a hint? Look at this arterial blood. It’s everywhere. The whole situation is hopeless. You cannot transport me and I’m glad. It doesn’t matter how tough you think you are, Lyn, I’m minutes from bleeding out. Let me die here in peace and quiet.” He paused to catch his breath.

From the quivering way he spoke, she could tell he was being sincere.

“I was actually thankful no one was going to come and rescue me. I was certain. And then, inexplicably, proof that the universe hates me, here you appear out of nowhere—it’s like some bad dream.”

Pinned to one of his side belt loops, Lyndy spotted the keys to the Bronco. She would need those, as her two-seater Jeep was impractical for moving an injured person.

“Dale, now is like the worst possible time for an existential crisis,” she asserted, poking his shoulder repeatedly. “At this point I will remind you I took a stupid community college cooking class because of you. I know how to make meatloaf ten different ways. That was after you voiced a sexist, chauvinistic comment how you wanted a wife who could cook dinner—makes me livid just thinking about it.”

“And your cooking is still rotten,” Dale interjected. Squinting his eyes, “… but for the record I do apologize. I know you mean well. Now go away!” He paused for a breath, as he was running out of air. “I just thought it might be nice if Miranda got some insurance money out of this, and I simply faded away.” Dale twisted his body, reaching down as if attempting to unbutton his holster.

Lyndy grabbed firmly ahold of his forearm. Using pursed lips, she exhaled hard to blow up her bangs.

“Hand me my gun, would you?” requested Dale.

“Sheesh! No way in hell,” replied Lyndy, blocking his hand. She could feel the tension release as his arm fell limp upon the sand. All the strength was leaving his body.

With the tails of her fancy shirt, she dabbed more sweat from Dale’s forehead.

“The valley is a radio dead zone. You have to get to the pass if you want to call dispatch,” Dale added. One could scarcely hear him now. He was slipping into unconsciousness.

“I know,” said Lyndy. She undid the clasp on the loop, pocketing the truck keys.

Then, brushing aside his straight brown hair, she leaned in for kiss, whispering: “Shhhh. I promise I will take care of this. I’m stronger than you think.”

For the moment, his chest continued to rise and fall, but she was beginning to detect a gurgling sound in his lungs.

Lyndy rocked back on her heels and rose up. Using the back of her hands, she wiped away dribbles of snot from her nose and moisture from eyes. Then she paused to prepare her mind, staring up at the hundreds of twinkling stars filling the sky, and a sawtooth outline of dark ridgetops. There were many tall boulders, and somewhere amongst them was a man desperate enough to shoot at a cop.

“I’m praying for you Dale,” Lyndy mouthed, “because this is about to get a whole lot worse for us, and we’ve got a long way to go.”

Planting her butt in the soil, with a stance akin to a rower, Lyndy hooked Dale’s ankles underneath her shoulders. Now with her legs bent and parallel in front of her, she was able to push away on the balls of her feet, maximizing the leverage and pulling power. With exertion, Dale slid another six inches. Inhaling deeply, feeling her muscles getting warm, she did it again. And again. It was miserably slow going.

Like rowing a Viking boat across the sea – except without an overseer cracking a whip and the banging drum.

Traversing a total of eight feet, her confidence level increased, and she did it again.

Once or twice Dale began to moan, pleading in disjointed phrases, asking her to stop. But he kept losing consciousness, and Lyndy pretended not to hear him. When he was silent, she experienced the serenity of hard work, and concentrate on her own rhythms of pulling and breathing.

It was a stunningly clear night. A white glow began to form beyond the apex of Granite Peak, like the halo of an angel. Trees started casting moon shadows across the land.

“Darn, I think it’s Saturday,” pondered Lyndy. “Then the party is this afternoon—and I never tricked Ted Crawford into asking me.”

 

In the dusty Sonoran town of Hermosillo, where Lyndy’s father and uncle were born, the people still feared spirits and ghosts. They would cross their heart and make whispering statements like, “Mira tu lengua, Melinda. Be careful what you say muchacha, our ancestors inhabit the rooms of this adobe house. They might overhear you.”

Or when pointing to a ridgeline on the horizon: “the spirit of Zapata still rides in the mountains. You will know by the hoofprints.”

Yet, who could argue with them?

Particularly when somebody had been wronged in life, it seemed the likelihood of a haunting notched up a few ticks. So if ever there was a personal item which could be said to be possessed, it was the handmade Beretta, same one Hector had been carrying on the day of his death. That unfair fight at the dump was the only situation The Spitfire ever knew of it letting a person down; he was shot in the back.

Her brother had been there for her when everything seemed lost, rescuing her from the hell of Pinegate. The rebellious teenager she was had taken it for granted. Her deepest regret was not being able to repay the favor, nor offer gratitude. She knew somehow Chan felt the same.

She learned of Hector’s passing through a concise telegram, requesting she proceed to the morgue, not the hospital; they needed someone to ID the body.

Against her uncle’s wishes, Hector had been cremated; he had never been a practicing catholic and so she was only following his instructions.

For weeks after, Lyndy remained close to the trailer. She stopped eating, consuming mainly cheap tequila and soda pop. Her depression sank deeper than any encountered at the work camps, or resulting from her broken-off engagement. She wished it had been only about mourning for her lost brother, but that wasn’t the whole truth. She was feeling more sorry for herself. Yet another parental figure was out of the picture, and the universe had dealt a very unfair hand.

On a particularly dreadful afternoon, Dale arrived unannounced. He lifted her up out of bed, then carried her like a sick relative to his car. He drove her to Yermo, forcing her to eat real food at a beloved Mexican taco stand. He made decent progress, as much as anybody, but couldn’t shake her from her continued funk.

Days later, with a Help-Wanted section spread across her kitchen table, The Spitfire considered various career opportunities; none of which she qualified for. Prospects were bleak for a young woman with a high school diploma and mediocre 2.00 GPA. Of course, there was waitressing, a tough trade Cathy seemed to thrive at. But that girl was calm, sweet as apple pie, and able to charm the spots off a leopard. By contrast, Lyndy Martinez had the urge to smack other folks for the slightest grievance; she knew she couldn’t survive one day at The Vanishing Point.

But in this world one needed currency. Even water costs money.

As summer dragged on without rain, she lost sense of time, not able say what day of the week it was. All the while the dull metal case was there, looming, undisturbed on the kitchen counter.

 

All at once, a covey of startled quail took flight. Darkness still held sway, but the desert shadows were retreating fast as The Spitfire came upon the green and white bronco. Sweat had moistened her neck and back, and stained her shirt. Judging by the morning star, her progress was better than she first imagined.

Dale remained in an unconscious state. She propped him upright against the chrome bumper like a crash dummy. Then she separated her feet in a wide stance; people always said lift with your knees. What remained was the capstone to the entire rescue mission, and Lyndy envisioned herself heaving into place a totem pole, the closest analogy she could think of. Counting to three and pushing with all the residual might of her legs, back and shoulders, she raised Dale’s hips, his center of mass, over the lip of the bumper. Once she had him wobbling there, she folded his legs up and pivoted the rest of him in. Thankfully, these things had a flat cargo area, and she could lay him on his side.

With her back bracing against the tire carrier, she rested, taking stock of her situation. With two fingers on Dale’s wrist she tested for the pulse, again confirming he was still among the living. He was one lucky dude.

The Bronco was equipped with a hearty V-8, a tremendous step up in power compared to the tired Jeep. Easily, she could do a hundred on Kelbaker Road. While ascending, then crossing the pass, she attempted to connect with anyone listening on the police band. Holding the mic in one hand, she knew the words were frantic, but they were understood.

The next few hours were a blur. She met an ambulance somewhere in the flatlands around Newberry Springs, passing Dale to the trained hands of the paramedics. Then she followed the ambulance into town. Over the radio, she was able to explain what had happened to Dale, essentially that he’d been hit by the fugitive Evan Stone, who was camped in the Granites. She was hoping she wouldn’t have to explain the same tale to Miranda.

By the time she arrived at the smaller Barstow regional facility, Dale was being prepped for transport by helicopter to Loma Linda—their surgical center was better equipped.

The Spitfire pushed away several of the nurses, all of whom were wanting to attend to her.  She was covered head to toe in dust, and caked with blood, like someone who crawled free of a collapsed mine tunnel. The rest she waved off.

The mood in the tiny sitting area at the trauma room was grim, and chaotic. Lyndy’s feet were bare, and this was not the kind of floor you wanted to tread on without shoes.

Sherriff Jackson was there, holding the wall-mounted phone at the nurse’s station, listening and quietly taking notes. Miranda had arrived, and a female deputy was seated adjacent, comforting her. Other officers were there too, some she recognized, others not.

Lyndy felt unwelcome. She wanted to melt away, without having to speak, but Granville made eye contact with her while still engaged in his phone conversation. At intervals he began shouting to someone, something about not doing their job. An impatient nurse seemed like she wanted her phone back. She kept making faces, shifting her gaze to a payphone a few yards down the hall. But Granville would have none of it.

The twins were seated on the floor, reading out of a book, too young to fully comprehend what was happening—just knowing their father was hurt.

With his badge and serious lawman hat on inside a building, he looked a great deal more intimidating. Making matters worse, flashes of Pinegate were tormenting her thoughts, brought on by the dismal setting and a lack of sleep. Lyndy knew she wasn’t Granville’s favorite private eye, and the timing was worse than asking Chan for a new car. But no more appropriate time to speak would come, and she wasn’t accepting blame for everything that was to follow.

In view of the whole room, including a head nurse, The Spitfire strode up to the white counter. Granville still had the phone pressed to his ear.

Using two fingers, she firmly pressed down the lever on the cradle, causing the line to go dead. “Excuse me, Sheriff,” she said.

Granville whipped his head around.

“You and I need to talk.”

“I was on hold with the FBI!” he shouted.

“This is more important,” said Lyndy.

This is probably more important.

A sudden shock on his otherwise stern face switched to anger. “May I help you Miss Martinez?” he grumbled, allowing everyone in the room and some folks down the hall to hear his booming voice. “Let me share with you a riddle. When you walk into the bank to make a deposit, do they have loud music, fog machines, mirror balls and go-go dancers in cages?”

Lyndy did not comprehend the point of his question, but presumed it was going to be something negative about her character and reputation. She sighed. “Of course not. That wouldn’t be appropriate,” she offered up, to keep the conversation moving.

Ordinarily it would have been embarrassing to be ripped a new one like this, in view of nurses, deputies and bystanders in the room. But she wasn’t really there. In her mind she could hear midnight screams in the drafty Quonset-hut-like bunkhouse, feel the tight leather straps restraining her to the bed—straight out of a psych ward—and the evil face of Warden Dixon standing over her.

“It’s because it’s a place of serious business Miss Martinez! That’s why you aren’t allowed inside my station. I know you enjoy visiting with your pals, playing poker, gossiping about your personal nonsense, but it’s not a daytime slumber party, or a place to nurture your pet romances with my deputies. Do you understand me?”

Now was not the moment for smart alecky comebacks, so Lyndy respectfully nodded. She could feel emotions overcoming her, and perhaps a few tears soon. With her left hand she gripped her knees, and she held her right in front of her mouth, to hide her lips.

At least Granville truly cared about his deputy, and that was something to admire. In his mind, he was probably readying another string of put downs, but others were fearing she was about to hurl.

Shakily Lyndy replied, “I uh, …. certainly deserved that. I haven’t always behaved like an angel—putting it mildly. It’s kinda my trademark. But people change.”

He halted in his tracks. One could tell the unexpected response had taken all the wind from Granville’s sails.

“Sheriff, this is very important. I know how we can stop Evan Stone, without involving outside agencies. Please hear me out.” Lyndy pointed discretely to the end of the hall, a place out of earshot.

His angry breathing was audible, but starting to resume a normal cadence. After a moment to collect himself, he threw up his hands and followed along.

Long windows at the end of the hall overlooked Route-66. It was morning, with all the bustle of people coming and going. From here, you could see to the Shasta C-store, and the busy truck wash. Granville planted a boot on the low sill, and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. When at last he spoke again, his tone had changed.

“Miss Martinez, I have to tell you, there was an older parolee being treated at Loma Linda. I saw him. His name is Matthew E. Wallach. He was suffering from massive head trauma, had bandages all over his face, jaw wired shut—complained that an off-duty deputy beat him to an inch of his life. But he couldn’t ID the man. The doctors said his injuries were consistent as though he’d been hit repeatedly with a blunt object, but Wallach claimed his attacker only used his fists. Not many dudes in the county have knuckles that hard.”

Lyndy placed her fingers on the glass, casting her eyes downward. “It was Dale,” she admitted. “Please don’t fire him. I’m the one who told him Wallach insulted my looks.”

Sheriff Granville cleared his throat and looked her in the eye. “Is this somehow related to the Evan Stone case? He was a CBB client.”

Lyndy nodded. “They’re brothers, Evan and Matt.”

“So then is this a form of payback?”

“I’m not sure.”