Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-18

Lyndy Life Observation: How come diesel pump handles are always filthy? Seriously, every dang time. It’s one of the major drawbacks to owning a diesel engine.

She listened carefully for activity, a door creaking, a window, a radio, anything human. There was nothing but insects and the wind. She felt confident the last remaining worker had gone home for the night, but now a new problem: the locked door.

Her older brother used to boast that he looked forward to passing away. Often she wondered if it was really true, or a kind of false bravado. It sounded like the sort of thing one would hear on the streets Hermosillo uttered by a wanna-be gunslinger. There were a lot of those.

Ducking her head, she dashed across the exposed terrain to the shadowy steel building. Scanning along the east-west flank she detected no movement, then gradually approached the rear exit. Earlier she’d checked whether the hangar door was open, even a crack, but alas it was a no-go. Above the fans were spinning.

She rested her hand upon the holster, a move to comfort herself as she waited for her breathing and heart rate to stabilize. So far it seemed too easy; no one to spring on her from a hidden cover.

The skyline was hazy, shades of orange, mountains a black outline.

Stiffening her back and shoulders, The Spitfire curled her fingers round the metal knob, suffering repeated waves of doubt. Perhaps this theory was all in her head and she was rushing in on an innocent person—startling or waking him from a snooze—causing Bo to shoot her by accident, in surprise. A pretty dumb way to go, breaking and entering on the wrong person, tarnishing her record.

But she shook off her self-doubt. No single factor pointed to the guilt of Bo Rawlins, it was a combination. Sometimes certainty was elusive; the way of things in this business. Thus one needed both evidence and intuition. But there was a big reason for coming here. Jack had gone missing. The one individual who’d openly expressed a distaste for him was Mr. Rawlins.

Bo had the means. He had the weapons, a partner and a getaway vehicle. If her theory was correct he had a motive too. This place remained her best shot.

She squeezed the lock, twisting the knob side to side. There was minimal play, at most a degree or two. One of those nice commercial lock sets, not some el cheapo hardware store copy intended for houses. Unfortunate because it was an expensive mechanical set to perish at the hand of a Martinez, but so be it.

From her pocket she extracted a used tobacco tin, skinny and 2.5 inches long.

Jack would owe her mightily for this act … assuming he was alive; her fee was going up. She took a breath, attentive and listening again. The breeze was picking up in intensity. One positive of a perm, no wild hairs flying in her face while she worked.

Crouching eye level with the keyhole Lyndy wove together strands of copper thermite, each the diameter of spaghetti noodles. Demolition was a specialty at CBB. Although Mr. Chan was famous for smashing a wall or two—Kool Aid man style—she preferred the exothermic chemical reaction approach. Besides, he nearly doubled her in mass.

These types of industrial locks were designed to thwart the average picker. The springs were extra stiff, so it took patience and was an artform threading the thermite deep enough. But after several minutes passed she reasoned she’d packed enough in.

Lyndy wiped her forehead then dried her palms on her shorts. Now for the fun part: she unfolded a foil gum wrapper. Inside, a single stormproof match of the type sold at yuppy camping retailers, mainly to city folk. These matches burned hotter than the paper kind used to light cigarettes, enough to ignite the thermite. Regular matches from a gas station wouldn’t.

Against the wall she struck the matchstick, a swift snap of the wrist action.

The match, held at arm’s length began to puff smoke and crackle like a firework on 4^th of July. She turned her head, shielding her face while she touched the match to the keyhole. A flash of white light followed, punctuated by a shower of sparks extending several feet from the door. The fire burned bright as a welder’s torch and sounding like a pair of Spanish maracas. In the time it took to sing the birthday song blue flames consumed the copper thermite, hopefully in the process turning the brass inner workings to a metal sludge. While still warm, she lifted a heavy axle-shaft off the racks—convenient substitute for a hammer, roughly four feet in length—and raised it above her head like an axe. Squinting her eyes she slammed down the rod as hard as she could, letting the mass do the work.

You know how they say a cute young couple has chemistry? Well this was the kind her and her ex-fiancé Deputy Keynes had.

Opening her eyes she saw white brass metal fragments littering the ground, other lock parts had fallen inward. The knob was dented and partially bent. She was committed. She let go of the shaft, dropping it to the concrete.

Unholstering the Beretta she gripped the slide firmly and tugged, arming it.

The door now slumped, beginning to creak open by a half inch. She pointed the gun at the crack, prepared for anything. Keeping alert she used two fingers to coax the door wider. Then with her boot she hooked it even broader, to 45 degrees.

Peering indoors she could see only a quarter of the ceiling fixtures were on. Looming above, the ominous outline of a Patton tank turret. “Hola, Chan’s Bail Bonds,” Lyndy breathed. Freezing in place, she waited to see if anyone would pounce. Still nothing. No longer hearing coyotes she glanced over one shoulder. Out here, even someone lighting off dynamite sticks wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.

Keeping the gun pointed ahead she slipped through the doorway into the darkened workshop. Secured with both arms, she held her index finger near but not resting on the trigger. By now an assailant could approach from multiple directions, and some areas were in shadow. Her heart was racing, hummingbird-like.

To her left along the south-facing wall were toolboxes and work stations. At the far end, in the corner and near the hangar doors was the boss’s office, glassed-in. She knew it was Bo’s. Although a light was on, it was impossible to tell if someone was lurking inside.

She lowered the gun an inch, freeing up her right hand.

On an I-beam support near to the destroyed door she found a square panel with four twistable light switches, oversized for a person wearing welding gloves. She picked one of these at random, twisting it all the way to max. Half the overhead lights flickered to life, one of them buzzing loudly. Reflexively she backed against the wall, but no one came. She picked another and the light in the office became twice as bright.

Concern was mounting inside her. Without cause, it appeared she’d unlawfully entered a business. She was becoming doubtful of Jack’s presence and Bo never said he lived here, not exactly. Maybe he had a normal house somewhere else in the valley.

“Jack?” she called out. Her voice echoed within the expansive. No response.

Lyndy jogged a beeline down to the office. At the door she kicked hard as she could, bursting through with her gun alternately aiming at both desks. Ducking down she searched the areas underneath, sweeping back and forth by 90 degrees to clear the sides. Save for a few old telephone books the space was uncluttered and empty.

No stray cups of coffee or ash trays. No lunch boxes. No pens or paper. Everything in its place. Why?

The Spitfire backed out onto the shop floor. It might take all night to clear this place. Too many vehicles, too many side buildings, heaps of car parts. Too many excellent hiding places.

The Spitfire paced her way underneath the long cannon. From there she could see a print reflecting in the light, the young woman in the bathing suit. Mrs. Rawlins was it?

“Jack!” she cried out again and lowered her gun to waist level, letting her arms rest.

She leaned back at the hips, tilting her gaze to the rafters. Twenty-five feet above the light was still buzzing, a dimmer shade of orange, contained in a hemispherical globe lens cover and protected in a metal cage. Next to this an overhead crane system. Its weight limit clearly marked with black on yellow lettering: four tons. Certainly not enough to move a tank.

Lyndy followed the steel cable with her eyes to a hook dangling mid-air. If one were to drop a line down from this hook straight to the floor it would intersect a steel plate resting flat, same kind used to bridge trenches on city roads. That was interesting.

Re-holstering the gun, she dashed to this panel and knelt there with both knees. It was roughly the dimensions of a plywood roofing sheet. In the center was a shackle loop, hard welded with a carveout and pivots allowing it to lay flat against the floor—otherwise it would be a trip hazard. Looking up, she could see the hook could be attached here without swaying much. Also there were tiny thimble-size holes here and there, darkness below.

Lyndy smooched the back of her hand, holding it moist side down against the holes. She felt cooler air escaping and snatched her hand away. This was definitely not normal.

Creepy music starting now.

She knew this type of crane would have beefy switches for operation, high amperage cables and oversize control buttons the size of milk caps. She scanned the walls with both eyes for anything comparable. Nothing of the sort was visible. The wire bundles were leading to a wall mounted junction box, high up out of reach.

The plate itself was three-quarter inches thick and perhaps five feet long by four feet wide. Mild steel weighed a third pound per each cubic inch of material. She had no pen and paper, but reasoned 12*4*12*5 was a sizeable number. Even multiplied by 3/10.

Wanting to test the weight anyway she went into a catcher’s squat. Holding her right ring, middle and index fingers together, she passed them through the shackle. She did the same with her left. Knowing most of the work would be done by her legs she tested the mass, seeing if there was a snowball’s chance of sliding it. But even with every leg and back muscle straining, huffing and holding breath—absolute limits of her power—the plate wouldn’t shift a millimeter; felt like Thor’s hammer welded to the floor. Had to be over 275 pounds. She put her hands on her lower spine. Good thing her back was young.

Lyndy stood up in defeat, hoofing it to the office. This time she flipped all the desk lamp switches, making the room even brighter. She could see bundles of wire extending into the ceiling. The whole joint was wired for 50-amps. Yet much of it was out of reach, blocked by metal cabinets and shelving weighed down by junk. She couldn’t follow any of it at floor level. This building was vexing. One didn’t want to mess with an electrical system which could fry you like a crispy critter.

She hadn’t told Chan she was coming here, worried he may try to talk her out of it.

Returning to the plate and shackle she reasoned all she really needed was to slide the plate horizontally by a foot or two, not up and down. An everyday winch could do the job, and fortunately she was in a room full of old military vehicles.

Twelve feet away were the pair of vintage J8 Jeeps on blocks. One had been fitted with an aftermarket power take off style winch in front. These winches utilized direct mechanical connection to the transmission. She stepped up onto a block of wood, standing on her toes while examining the engine bay. Inside was a so-called “dauntless” V-6, but the six-volt battery was missing from its compartment. She might be able to scavenge one, the other mechanicals were present. Then she noticed the distributer cap and her heart sank: its rotor arm and contacts were corroded and rusted solid. The chances of getting this motor running were nil, even for a well-trained mechanic.

Disappointed, fearing failure, her eyes fell upon the cargo bed. Suddenly she spotted something familiar, with darkened red paint coated in decades of dust and grime. Reaching inside, brushing off loose dirt and cobwebs she unearthed the one prize that could save this operation. A Wyeth Scott more-power puller. Farmers loved those.

“Okay, we can work with this,” she whispered, reaching in to retrieve the heavy cast iron manual winch. Those things were tedious and primitive, but surprisingly effective. Given enough time one could get a Jeep unstuck from a ditch.

She loosened the winch allowing it to unspool while visualizing the plan in her mind. With one end of the puller hooked to a tow point on the Jeep, using it as the anchor, she attached the other end to the pop-up shackle on the steel floor plate. Then she locked the ratcheting mechanism in place, linking it to the bull gear.

Lyndy changed her stance, spreading her feet apart to achieve a rock-solid footing.

It created a unpleasant noise, but she found the process of cranking the handle back and forth a bit like rowing in place. The braided steel went taught; sections were rusty and fraying. She feared it may snap. But soon the plate began to move accompanied by a hideous screech. Seeing some progress made her work harder, repeatedly pulling then pushing the grungy handle. Each cycle resulted in another half inch gained.

Once it had slid roughly eighteen inches, she let go of the handle to check on progress. If she held her arms close and breathed in, there was enough space to squeeze in the hole. Kneeling by the opening she saw that the shaft had a depth of no more than ten feet.

A ladder constructed of iron rebar allowed one to descend, kind of like a pool exit, but diffuse light from the main floor illuminated only a blank cone on the lower level, and one could observing nothing of what was beyond.

Not wanting to overthink or give herself an out—because this rescue mission seemed more and more risky—she hiked up her shorts and re-secured the gun holster. Then taking a breath, she lowered her boots, one after another onto the top rung of the ladder. Next, hand over hand she began to drop into the square shaft, until her head was the only part of her left sticking up. The Spitfire took one last look around, wishing she’d brought a flashlight, then dipped into the tunnel.

On each rung, the rebar had been flattened and embossed with a diamond plate pattern to prevent slippage. She down-climbed swiftly, knowing the ladder put her in a vulnerable position and skipped the bottom rung entirely.

Landing on both feet, Lyndy spun around to face the darkened passageway. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and not as much was revealed as she hoped. Near all the light was coming from the shaft above and bouncing diffusely. Wishing she possessed the abilities of a cat in the dark, she squinted to see down a hallway which was arched like a sewer tunnel, leading to a larger room with a square opening. This bunker could only have one purpose: it had been a fallout shelter dating to the Cuban missile crisis. Everything fit.

The Spitfire felt for the walls. Up ahead in the larger space, there were indications of items on the floor, possibly a pile of blankets or clothing. She reached in her pocket for the lighter and holding the flame in front of her, she proceeded along the wall, toward the objects.

“Jack?” she whispered. Clearing her throat, she spoke louder: “Jack, is it you?”

That’s when a confusing event happened. She tripped, stumbled front ways and heard a startling crash as she landed, like one of those metal cellar doors abruptly being slammed on itself. Simultaneously she felt something clamping ahold of her left wrist. She assumed at first someone had seized her from beneath, thus she tried yanking her arm back, but it was obviously caught, immobilized. Then a horror came over her, a fear so visceral and raw she’d scarcely experienced anything comparable in life—and she worked for Chan. A wave of panic hit her nervous system.

Now she could see what terrible thing happened, it was a monstrous booby trap, corroded and old; her arm had been captured in an antique wolf trap, placed on the floor in this exact location specifically to ensnare someone. One needn’t have seen a cruel wolf trap in person to recognize one. She felt hot blood oozing down her wrist, dripping on her useless fingers. Her skin gashed, only the bones, themselves broken, prevented her arm from being severed. With all this realization, she was surprised how little she felt.

Moments later a lamp clicked on in the tunnel, near the square room.

Next came the hurt, a stabbing pain radiating all the way to her shoulders and making her feel like vomiting. She fumbled for a release mechanism and indeed one side of the wolf trap exhibited a lever which needed to be pressed down to the floor, to release the upper jaws. She was in an unfortunate position, as the leverage required was too great. Despite her straining, she was having trouble getting the rusty non-oiled mechanism to budge. Were she able to stand, her body weight could have provided the necessary leverage.

This would be the worst time for one of those fainting spells.

She tested her grip, squeezing harder on the handle and trying to get her knee in position to help with the plunge, except every movement of her body caused a new wave of pain to travel up her arm—even a breath.

From the end of the passage she heard the voice of Bo: “I wish you wouldn’t have come.”

The lamp glow at the large room was dazzling and she could only see an outline of the man. He was stepping towards her.

“Them sons-a-bitches supposed to catch you in the legs, not an arm,” he remarked. He was holding something in his right hand, not a gun, more like a baton and a coiled rope. “You must be pretty darn clumsy to get stuck that-a-ways. Yer arm is toast.”

Bo slapped his fist against the tunnel wall and shouted: “Close it up!”

From the opening she could hear the whirring of the crane, moving into position and unspooling. “Crap,” she thought. These events were connected.

Gradually she slid her right hand nearer to the thigh holster, as Bo was closing in. “Did you send someone to kill me at the rest stop?” she questioned.

Bo chuckled. “That fool had three dudes and you were all alone, without a weapon.”

She groaned. “So you were trying to pin this on Project Genesis all along?”