Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-13

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: When Costco was kind of a new fad, Kyle brought me and eight-year-old Maribel there for the first time. Back then they sold a ton of hardcover books—the whole middle section was book bins—and Mari Ellis found a picture book all about birdhouses. It came packaged with a small kit to build a simple wooden birdhouse. She excitedly put it in the cart. Later at home, Kyle helped her put together the birdhouse on the kitchen island and they painted it. It was about the cutest moment I ever saw.

By some miracle tensions had cooled between her and Dr. Ellis—aka The World’s Most Forgiving Man.

Without thinking, he’d lovingly reached for Lyndy’s hand and now both were resting atop the armrest—his fingers cupping hers. Her head was propped on his shoulder and she was happy she’d not attempted to straighten her curls that day. He loved her hair in its natural state—and not all guys appreciated the tangled curly mess Lyndy’s hair could become.

At the same time Maribel was putting on a show for Kyle. Her eyes were delighted as she reached out for the giraffe toy with both arms and he squeezed it for her. Maribel looked so cute and lady-like in her pink crocheted cap, with her brown wisps sticking out the sides. It was funny to think they were sharing him in a way. His two favorite ladies.

On the way she’d been enjoying views of the mountains, riding back to the park. As they passed the entry station, the pines became tall and the woods dark again. The earlier fog had lifted and now it was a pleasant summer evening. She looked forward to a leisurely dinner in the Ahwahnee dining room, some champagne and falling asleep. That is, after she secretly inspected the model for any foul play.

Her eyelids were drooping when she witnessed what looked like flashlights shining in the woods. Her first thought was kids playing hide and seek. Then again, why would there be kids in the lonely backcountry of the park miles from an established campground? They were fifteen minutes out from the valley floor. Why would anyone be here at all?

The vans began coasting, then after a hairpin turn, came to a complete halt.

Lyndy sat up, sniffing and rubbing her eyes, feeling more alert. She swiveled her head. Up ahead, through the windshield she spotted a curious scene. A massive pine tree blocked the park road in both directions. The tour vans were among the first to arrive on scene, apart from two SUVs and a white pickup. A group of three men and one woman were on foot.

The men, wearing jeans, black shirts and boots were facing the vans, standing in front of the fallen tree like it was a barricade. The woman milling about near the roots of the tree appeared to be working a chainsaw, carving a narrow pass-through on the downhill side of the highway. The men had flashlights. It was they who’d been shining into the woods.

It didn’t make sense from an odds perspective. A tree fell and they were the first to arrive? The dam tour? Her heart began to pound. Along with it came a burst of adrenaline. As her motions became more animated, Kyle sensed Lyndy’s unease.

“What is it?” he questioned anxiously.

Her eyes fell upon Maribel. “Crap,” whispered Lyndy. She didn’t want to alarm everyone in the car.

Kyle looked into her eyes again, squeezing her shoulders. “What?”

“It’s me. They want me,” answered Lyndy.

“Why?”

“They think I know something,” said Lyndy, throwing off his grip. “Be quiet, I need to think.” His imagined response played in her head: “Tell them you don’t know.” She answered without him asking: “It doesn’t matter. They’ll assume it’s a lie.”

The low beams on the small white truck were on. Logically, the keys were there.

The trio of men began approaching the vans on the left side. One, who’s jacket blew open by chance, had a metallic object in a holster—a nice modern pistol.

While undoing her seatbelt Lyndy poked Kyle. “Trade shoes with me.”

Kyle began untying his laces in the most comically ineffective fashion. Lyndy flipped off her heels. “Shit. Hurry it up, Kyle. Rip em off!”

After the scolding he worked more swiftly, bending his foot and yanking off his new REI hiking boots. They were the kind with webbing on the sides to help keep your feet cool.

Lyndy reached behind her, snatching the baby sling. She flipped the straps out and was contemplating whether to bring Maribel. It was a tough call. If she left her with Kyle, the baby might be in danger. They could use her child as a bargaining chip. That would work, as she knew she’d do most anything for Maribel—whether bonded or not. If she took the baby with her, the danger was certain and they might both die on the run. It would be geometrically more difficult to evade capture with a baby weighing her down.

On the other hand, they might hesitate to shoot with a baby on her chest. Depended on how committed they were to their cause.

She wasn’t open to reasoning with this group. She had a feeling they weren’t here to reason anyway. The other four passengers in the van had initially been unsuspecting, but were now uneasy.

The Spitfire tugged on the boots, not bothering to lace them. Kyle’s foot was about a size larger, but she didn’t care. She just stuffed all the laces down the side.

“Unlock the door,” Lyndy commanded the driver.

“Pretty sure this goes against all baby-care logic,” thought Lyndy. She secured the straps and stuffed Mari into the kangaroo-like pouch, except facing her. With her free hand, Lyndy supported the sling. Mari was so caught off guard, she just made an “oof” sound, but hadn’t started crying.

“Are you nuts? Where are you going?” Kyle demanded.

“Shut up,” said Lyndy. “If I’m not back by Saturday night, then … get everyone out of that hotel. Pull the fire alarm if necessary.”

“What?”

“No time. Trust me. It’s a cult the Gardeners were involved in. They’re trying to disrupt the Silver Pacific meeting. I have to get us away from here,” Lyndy said, as she threw the door wide and kicked it to prevent it bouncing back. The opening faced the downhill side. She jumped, landing on her feet but barely, using her good hand to brace herself.

The chill of the mountain air hit for the first time all day. So did the smell of fir, freshly cut. Acting on instinct, she wanted the vans as cover when she darted for the base of the large tree, where Lyndy had spotted the lady and the white truck. She heard shouting and someone honked. It was chaos.

Knowing the men were onto her, Lyndy felt her senses and focus sharpening. A fox on the run. She dashed horizontally along the downward slope of the mountain, parallel with shoulder of the road. She kept her head low. The soils were soft and she had to concentrate to keep from sliding further.

She heard more shouting.

It was twenty yards to the tree and when she got there, the woman with the chainsaw had whipped around. She was heavyset. Near the rear of the truck, she charged Lyndy, still clutching the chainsaw with two hands above her head.

“Don’t run,” said another voice to her left.

The angry female revved the sputtering motor, continuing to threaten Lyndy. Glancing to her left, Lyndy could see the men closing in.

The Spitfire knew she needed that vehicle. She dodged the attacking woman, who made a diagonal swooshing motion like a katana. If it landed, it would’ve sliced her and the baby diagonally. But chainsaws were heavy, and the laws of physics meant one could only make this move with a relatively slow and deliberate action. Lyndy reeled, shifting weight to her back right heel and arching her spine to avoid the blade.

Then with the woman bending at the hips and off balance, Lyndy lifted her foot and pivoted, landing a boot lug in the woman’s back and forcing her toward the male voice. Proceeding from there, she swept the woman’s legs out from under her. With the female on her side, falling against the limbs of the tree, Lyndy ripped the chainsaw from her grip and hurled it at the man.

“Hold your fire!” he shouted. “She has a kid.”

Next Lyndy turned her attention to the trio of males, the nearest, about six feet and with long hair had ducked to avoid being hit by the saw. He was reaching to grab her clothing. “Don’t run,” he warned. “We just need to talk to you.” His voice sounded reassuring.

“Not falling for that,” thought Lyndy.

Lyndy flipped the handle on the door to the Ford. Bracing against the truck bed to gain leverage, she side kicked the door at the attacker nailing him in the chest. Part of it had hit him in the hand. He backed up, clutching his wrist on his chest as he started reaching for his waist band with the other. Didn’t take long to go from we just want to talk, to prepare to die.

Lyndy didn’t wait to find out what type of firearm he had, instead she stomped on the clutch while twisting the key. She didn’t bother closing the door or even to climb all the way inside the truck. She only had half her butt positioned on the vinyl seat.

The tiny four-cylinder motor growled to life and the vehicle began to shake. She shoved the shifter and it screeched and squealed into first. Meantime the long-haired man hadn’t drawn a gun. Instead, he was reaching into the cab through the door. Lyndy fought with him by pushing on the door, then clawing his wrist with her nails. When that didn’t work, she stomped on the gas making the truck lurched forward.

The aggressor was knocked off balance. His shoulder was conked by the mirror and he twisted away, falling. The other two fellows blocked her path and aimed guns at her through the windshield.

“Ay caramba, this is not how I hoped it would go,” mouthed Lyndy.

Maribel was wailing. Lyndy flopped on her side like a dead fish, straining with her hand to keep the gas pedal pushed down. She peeked over the dash, needing to steer so she didn’t crash into the mountain on the other side. Sensing flashes of tree trunks, she wrenched the wheel a half-turn to the left.

The two men must’ve moved out of her way, as she felt nothing lumpy roll under the car. Then came rapid gunfire: a POP-POP-POP-POP. They were each emptying a magazine. The back window shattered, raining shards over everything. Instinctively, she squinted her eyes while ducking again. She tried to steer straight and could feel the road sloping, accelerating as fast she could.

Popping up like a meerkat, she needed to steer. In a split-second Lyndy jerked the wheel to the right, avoiding going straight over the side of the grade.

They had two spare SUVs. So, they’d be following, but at least she was on the move and she had a head start.

“What am I doing?” Lyndy voiced, trying to catch her breath.

She looked down at Mari, who was crying. She tried to think. She pushed back her bangs as she glanced at the dash. Her relief was short lived. The gas gauge was low and falling. The brake light was on. They must’ve struck the tank and damaged the brake line. “Wonderful!” At least it wasn’t the tires. Well, might be those too.

She nudged the shifter into second, picking up speed and using the sloping road to gain momentum. She wanted to go as fast as this rig could move and gravity would help.

“Shush, Vanilla Bean,” said Lyndy, trying to sound soothing.

Lyndy pounded on the plasticky dash and glove box. She peeled down the sunshade and a new pack of cigarettes fell in her lap. A Bic lighter was stuck in the door pocket. She continued to steer back and forth, using the brake as little as possible. The needle on the speedometer crossed fifty.

Lyndy read the label: “Maverick brand? Gross! Who buys this shit?” It was the most rotgut brand ever. Still, Lyndy crumpled the pack, plunging it into her dress. She did the same with the lighter. “Just save these for later.”

Lyndy glanced down into Mari’s unhappy face.

“Oh, don’t do it. Don’t you dare judge me,” scolded Lyndy aloud. “I carried you around for nine months. I sacrificed a whole dress size for you! Which I’m not getting back. Means nothing now, but one day you’ll understand.”

Lyndy needed to steer. The tires screeched for mercy as they negotiated a tight curve at twice the recommended speed. She looked down at Mari’s face. The look in her eyes was pure terror. As the wheel jerked back the other direction, they slid off the edge of the road and into a lumpy dirt ravine. Lyndy corrected at the last possible instant, saving them from certain doom.

Maribel squinted and screamed.

“Look Mari, you’re my kid. You’ll have to get used to some close calls.” With her teeth, Lyndy peeled off her gloves. She felt ridiculous in the fancy dress. “I know I’m not the kind of mom you would’ve signed up for. Believe me, I wouldn’t have picked my own mother. Yer grandma the redhead is one cold-hearted b-word. But ya know, let’s face facts. You’re like 75 percent mine. In case you didn’t know, Kyle doesn’t do much in the child rearing department.”

An oncoming station wagon honked. They were tourists frightened at her speeding and erratic driving behavior. Another car honked.

“Brakes are fading now,” Lyndy lamented, while feathering the pedal. “Time to pray.”

She continued to jerk the wheel and tried to keep from accelerating more. She glanced down to the fuel needle, which hovered on the orange E. She needed to get somewhere she could swap cars. She thought about hijacking somebody at random, but that would turn this into a felony. Plus, she didn’t have a weapon to threaten with. Just her fists, which frankly wouldn’t be scary coming from a woman in a dress with a baby Bjorn.

So then maybe the dark woods were the best chance to hide? She needed to find a dirt trail—anything, leading away from the park main road.

She checked the rearview on a long straightaway. Sure enough, a black SUV was gaining—one of those Mercedes brand imitation Jeep things. If only they had been the ones with the lights on, she could’ve stolen that.

Lyndy felt under the seat, hoping for anymore goodies. She only found one empty coke bottle, McDonald’s wrappers and a fistful of Doritos.

Lyndy locked eyes with her baby. Mari let out a great big: “WAAAHHH!”

“Same,” Lyndy agreed. “We need to get to the river. It’s better than the woods. Why you ask? Okay Lesson-1. The river is loud. It will negate the use of sound to find us. If we walk it, it will erase our tracks.”

At last, a narrow-paved road intersected the park highway from the right. It must be the one leading to Foresta camp. A good bet. She jerked the wheel right and they skidded into the new road. The truck fish-tailed around an outside curve, kicking up loose rocks.

The grade into Foresta was even steeper than expected, causing The Spitfire some regret. At the bottom of the hill was a hairpin curve to the right and she knew it would be too much. Desperately she tried to arrest their momentum, mashing the brake pedal to the floor, shifting to lower gear and wobbling the steering.

Sure enough, at the bottom they couldn’t manage. The truck bounced, went airborne and landed hard. Lyndy swerved to avoid a tree, which they would’ve hit head on. Lyndy tried her best to cradle the back of Mari’s head, lessening the jarring. She jerked the wheel and the white truck blew through a berm, catching air again and tipping at 45 degrees into a downward trajectory.

The little Ford went onto two wheels, nearly rolling headlong, but by the skin of its teeth flopped back down and they veered off into the heavy brush. Lyndy ducked and the car was slowed by increasingly thick trunks of manzanita and baby trees.

Thankfully, they came to a complete stop. When she sat up, she found a fresh tree branch had impaled the steering wheel through the middle. A ringer! Course, it would’ve been her scalp had she not stooped to the floor.

Lyndy pushed open the door, which had never fully latched.

From the outside, she caught a glimpse of the truck. Was a wonder it made it thus far. Bullet holes marred the tailgate like it’d been used for target practice. She scouted around, desperately thrashing her way to the road. She was trying to get her bearings while catching her breath.

The land was too exposed here. Even the woods weren’t deep enough. She’d be too easy to find in the night.

High above, she could see the grade of Big Oak Flat. That was where the sharp turnoff had been. On the steeper Foresta road she could see headlights of twin SUVs speeding down. They were coming right for her, having witnessed the wreck.

With the sun now dipping below the horizon, night was setting in quickly. She tried to remember what phase the moon had been, waxing or waning, but couldn’t recall. Either way, she needed to move. But to get to the Merced, they needed to lose another six-hundred-feet or so of elevation.

At last, she spotted the faintest hint of a game trail on the right. She jogged toward it while the baby screamed again: “WAAAAAAH!”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” replied Lyndy, in a motherly tone. “We’re not gonna die or anything. Though I suggest you use those baby fingers of yours to hold onto my dress. On a scree slope, Lyndy quit running and began to glide on her feet and partly her back. The good news, they were dropping fast, on their way presumably to the water’s edge. If she could get there, there were cabins, roadside motels and other settlements. They’d be close to supplies, baby formula perhaps. Plus, there’d be better hiding places.  

[Disclaimer: Please don’t go writing in claiming Lyndy Martinez is being irresponsible. Just generally do not imitate anything Lyndy does. You’ll be okay. –ASC]