Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-14

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Peering down at her outfit she could see her shirt had been splattered with a man’s blood, as were her hands. Hard to tell though since it was all black. That’s what comes from bashing on a dude’s head with bare hands; better their head than hers.

Jack was in the driver’s seat. His bruised fingers curled tightly round the steering wheel. His shirt was torn and several buttons were missing. Underneath, his skin was moist from the exertion.

“Which way, Lyndy?” he demanded in a shout. “Have to choose now.”

It was a key decision. One direction and they’d never find the rider or the purse. The other, perhaps with luck, they’d catch up to the motorcycle.

“Go straight,” she replied, directing him to cut across the landscaped rest top without regard for the defined road.

To travel east they’d need to gun it across both westbound lanes. Thankfully the winds had abated some.

She stood up, lifting her glasses and searching closely for evidence. Faint but there tracks extended through the center median.

“East! Go east to Needles!” she shouted at Jack, still standing and waving her arm toward the Colorado river. He floored it as trucks bore down on them.

Despite its pathetic slowness the Jeep had an advantage. Ordinary cars weren’t able to traverse the ditch separating east and westbound lanes on the interstate. The motor zoomed as they scooted through, perpendicular to lanes. She could see Jack struggling with the clutch, knowing the car was hard to shift. The big trucks blared their horns, as well as a car or two.

Bouncing over the worst of it they emerged, whacking down a bush or two. Accelerating eastbound, a sedan swerved as they entered from the fast lane side at a lowly forty mph.

“You alright?” he questioned.

“Yes,” she yelled back. “Actually I had a heart attack bout two or three minutes ago, but I’ve recovered.” She rubbed her eyes in a hopeless attempt to clear them of dust. She checked behind. “Thanks for … for well … literally saving my life.”

He shrugged. Eyes fixed on the road and one hand on the wheel, he slanted his head to speak more directly in her ear. “This clutch is very hard to shift,” he complained.

She smiled at the observation. “Yes and watch out cause it jumps out of second. Needs a new transmission.”

Jack tapped on the plastic dashboard speedometer. “Good news is I don’t think we’ll be needing that particular gear for a while.”

Scouting ahead, they saw nothing but cars disappearing in a dusty haze. She slumped back in the passenger seat. Cupping her left hand around the knuckles, she massaged her right fist—it was aching from the punches. Her head was aching as well. She felt memories slipping in, impossible to seal away, like muddy water from a flood coming in a closed room.

Never taking eyes off the motorway he added, “Lyndy, how we gonna catch him in this clunker—all due respect? Wait until he runs out of gas?”

She set her head against the roll cage to rest. “There’s hope still. Remember what I said, that gun is cursed.”

Jack frowned in skepticism, but pressed onward.

 

Lyndy Life Tip #187: Never prank a biker. Nearly all members of motorcycle gangs have zero senses of humor. Remember that.

What was it about high school career counselors? They used to say that freedom meant the ability to choose one’s career; made you think your life path wasn’t set in stone. “You can be anything you wanna be.”

But in the rural town of Hermosillo life was all about destiny. You never chose a path in life, the universe and god chose for you. You were born to it.

Thus being born a Martinez meant one day she’d be sleeping on a stiff canvas cot at Pinegate Detention Center, arms strapped to the sides, hearing rain pattering on the metal roof. She never recalled a sunny day at Pinegate, though undoubtedly in the mountains above Ojai—that golden California climate—there were many.

The dormitory building was cold, roof leaky. In places moisture dripped on the rotten wood floors. Half the old windows were cracked, never replaced. People used to scream in the night here.

Ms. Dixon was standing near to her bed, pleased or upset—it was the same guise regardless—speaking hushed sentences to a guard, her favorite lackey whom she trusted.

The Spitfire remained motionless. Fingers throbbing from many blows, still wrapped tight in white tape. Bruises on her face, one swollen eye, having a lost a fight but still declared the victor; the other girl was now shipped off to intensive care, complications from internal bleeding. They assumed Lyndy was unconscious and her ears couldn’t detect the whispers. They were discussing her.

He shook a stack of papers: “It’s a court order. We can’t ignore this.”

Mabel Dixon sighed. “Damn. I knew this day was coming.”

“Judge Carter says you have to release her. Her sentence has been reduced.”

“I have a plan,” Mabel whispered. “There’s a new girl in building seven. She’s probably fourteen years old, an illegal. Got big hair like this one. Approximately same height and build. Her English is truly awful and she’s from Zacatecas. But something tells me she needs to be released, and her name when asked will be Melinda Evangeline Martinez.”

The Spitfire wished to die, but the universe would not permit it.

Mabel removed a polaroid picture from the pocket of her shirt. She showed the guard. His eyes darted between the photo and the cot. “Huh. If you look closely, that Melinda isn’t anything like this one,” the guard replied. “This Melinda is …”

“What?”

“Mas bonita,” he said.

Warden Dixon chuckled, putting a hand on his shoulder. “They won’t notice.”

Thus the summer day she opened her brother’s case and found his Beretta 92FS clean and in mint condition, her fate was sealed.

Looking back, she couldn’t have chosen any other path.

 

Lyndy Life Tip #188: Wanna relive a really dumb idea from the seventies: remove the door to your bedroom by taking it off the hinges, replace it with those hanging beads on a string. See what happens. Why did anyone go for that?

“Hey, hey, we might be in luck,” Jack exclaimed, tapping her on the thigh.

She jerked back to alertness, the present day.

“What is it?” But she already knew the answer. The freeway had come to a full stop in a sudden midday traffic jam. The fact that no one was moving around them could only mean a severe accident blocking all lanes.

He squinted. “I think I see a bike. Over there.”

Jack jerked the wheel 90 degrees clockwise, proceeding onto the gravel shoulder. The biker heard the commotion, saw them coming. A sedan honked behind. The biker walked in between cars using his feet, keeping the engine revved but not in gear, making his way to the side.

The Jeep began bouncing across ruts, carved by thunderstorms, through a sloping rocky terrain. In open desert they pushed down ironwood and creosote, some of it getting caught in the grill and fenders, larger branches whacking at them from the side windows. They were headed to a low wash.

“Dude, lemme have that Buck Rogers gun of yours,” Lyndy demanded with her open palm, standing up again and gripping the windshield frame.

He pointed to his side holster. “Reach under my shirt and grab it.”

“Is it loaded?” she questioned.

“Of course.” He gave her a funny look. “What are you planning to do?”

“Shoot out his tires. Trust me, I’ve done it before.”

“That only works on TV,” argued Jack.

It was heftier and longer than the Beretta, a bit cumbersome in comparison. She fiddled with the slide to get it to arm.

“Push here,” he pointed to the lever to release the safety.

She pointed her right arm and squeezed the trigger. A loud pop and recoil; poof of dust from the ground near the biker. He knew they were shooting at him and started swerving. She pointed again, closer to the tire, trying to anticipate his moves and fighting against the swaying of the jeep’s worthless leaf sprung suspension.

She fired again.

“Oh crap,” she said, turning to Jack. Clear liquid began squirting off the side of the bike.

“What did you do?” he asked ominously.

“I think I nailed his gas tank,” she replied. As she uttered the words the air cooling fins on the cylinder burst aflame, causing the rider to focus attention on his legs. Panicking, he ditched and leapt off, slapping at his blue jeans. Allowing his precious bike to slam to one side—something a Sportster rider never did—he started fleeing on foot.

Lyndy flicked the handle on the half door, causing it to swing open only stopped by the limit strap. “I like this thing,” she quipped, then shoved the Swiss gun in Jack’s lap. Shakily gripping the tub sides she jumped to the ground, not waiting for the Jeep to slow.

The biker was running. Stumbling on loose rocks and tripping over a cactus, he turned back. In desperation he threw the big white purse to her from twenty feet away, and shouted, “Take it. Take it back.”

She dove and caught it, preventing it from slamming on the hard ground, but further trashing her outfit.

 

Two hours later …

They’d each rinsed off in the outdoor shower. Though lukewarm, it felt wonderful.

From her kitchen sink she filled a tiny copper watering can, possessing a long skinny spout. She’d changed to a pair of athletic shorts and comfy ruffled tube-top shirt, exposing an inch of her abdomen, navel included. Her feet were bare.

He observed her attentively as she leaned out her window, dribbling water to the cereus cactus, moistening bark pellets and tiny round stones.

“Princess of the Night,” she declared with a coy smile, setting the watering can back in its place. She was leaning against the counter under a glowing yellowish kitchen light, as Jack squeezed into a seat at the table. A cooling breeze wafted across them from the open screen door, and the window.

“Great description,” he said, taking a first sip of clear tequila from a delicate shot glass.

“I meant the cactus,” Lyndy corrected, as she artfully sliced a ripe Valencia orange into six equivalent wedges, using a bowie knife and holding it in her bare hand. She offered a juicy section to Jack, which he gratefully accepted.

“So did I,” he asserted.

“Thanks for driving me straight here. I’m beat,” she said.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he replied, emphasizing with both hands. “I should be thanking you. Just drop me back off at the hotel in the morning.” He took a breath. “But I have to say, it is nice to finally meet someone who lives in a smaller dwelling than I do. This is your place right? You don’t have like a one-story bungalow in town, and this is a secret hideout?”

Lyndy chuckled. “No, this is it. Everything I own. I bet your sleeper is fancier too.” She poured herself a capful amount from the square Herradura bottle. Outside crickets were chirping and a lonely bird call, reminiscent of a canyon wren. Distantly, one could also discern the low rumble of a night train.

His eyes traced up her body from her feet to her chin; he was poor at hiding it, and she knew he was attempting to.

“I dunno. Somehow this groovy airstream just fits everything about your personality.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she teased, pressing a wedge of orange into her mouth and taking a bite. “I’m trailer trash or something.” Then she swallowed the tequila.

“No. I totally meant that as a compliment and it backfired.” Jack downed the remainder of a tequila shot, swiped the cuff of his shirt sleeve on his lips. “What’s the real story with yer boyfriends? I’m a male. I saw the way people were looking at you, you know, at The Vanishing Point. You’re the talk of the town, you and Catherine that is.”

Lyndy sniffed, dropping her chin against her chest, knowing eventually she’d have to answer. She rested her eyes. “Alrighty, here’s the deal. When I was younger, I fell deeply in love with a man who worked alongside my brother and Chan. And like I said, we made plans to marry. He was a sheriff’s deputy. He wanted a classic marriage, me as a housewife, and we looked at homes together—little ones, but honest to goodness stucco houses—not trailers or apartments.” She tilted her head back, now gazing at the miniature skylight with its distorted, somewhat fuzzy view of the stars. “Well, I’m still in love with him. I was so angry at first. But in the end I’m thankful things worked out like they did, because,” she shrugged.

“I felt that way after my marriage ended. Kinda better for the both of us. She just wasn’t cut out for my lifestyle, always on the go.”

“There’s more. I’m a tough chick, but I know I’m not tough enough. I’ve accepted it. I’m expecting to die young. Those people I put away for The Lovelace Corporation and Mr. Chan, they hold grudges and they’re coming for me one day. You saw it today; luckily they were incompetent. It won’t always be like that. Mr. Chan sleeps with a shotgun in his bed, no lie. A nice guy gets too attached to me—and I seem to have a knack for encouraging affection—then I start having to worry about him getting hurt or god forbid, worse. The more I let in, the more people I have to worry about. It’s snowballing as it is.”

“And your brother?”

“Yes. Exactly. He seemed to know my calling before I did; he was the only one…except for Mr. Chan. He probably knew too.”

“Is that why you dress the way you do? Black fingernails, pale makeup, the lipstick. You’re a dead girl right?”

She nodded with a half-smile, tilting her head side to side. “Geez, I have to hand it to you. You are smooth.” She exhaled.

“How so?”

“That’s the most I’ve opened up to another person in months; been a few weeks since I strung that many sentences together.” She set down the shot glass. “What’s happening to me?”

A train horn sounded in the night, thundering from half a mile away; they both knew it was the freight approaching an intersection in Amboy. “I have a little riddle for you. Who was the only kid happy to get coal in his stocking at Christmas.”

Lyndy snorted. “That is the single dumbest joke I ever heard.”

“Good.” He stood up, putting a firm hand on her waist, inching closer. She felt his warm fingers caressing her skin. And she wanted his touch. Placing his other hand on her cheek, he drew her face nearer. She set a hand on his strong arm, looking up into his eyes. Then on her toes, going to max height, she pressed her lips against his. He wrapped his arms around her body, eventually lifting her off the floor. In between kisses she whispered in his ear, “do you want to see what the bedroom is like?”