Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-19

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: File this under odd superstitions growing up in East LA: we had to freeze in place whenever the Dodgers were on a rally. Suppose you were listening to the game live on radio or watching TV. Any sudden move could jinx the rally. No matter what you were up to, you pretty much had to stop and wait. On a September afternoon Deputy Keynes was in hot pursuit of a speeding Corvette. The driver was fleeing a traffic stop and it happened to be the bottom of the sixth inning. The Dodgers were down by two. Bases were loaded. When the next runner scored—the batter hit a line drive—Keynes was forced to pull over. Meanwhile the perp got away. Que sera sera!

Sunshine warmed her bare, itchy skin and kissed the tender cheeks of Maribel Ellis. The tiny baby seemed pale in this light, another cause for worry. Her brown eyes were slits and she blinked them lethargically. Lyndy inhaled deeply, resting her own eyes and squeezing Mari’s tiny body closer to her chest. She couldn’t let anyone take this precious thing from her. Who knew she could become so attached like this? Or love another so completely? Nurturing, let’s just say it wasn’t a trait running in the Martinez bloodline. But now she felt it—a newfound power.

They followed the park road for 15 minutes more, snaking their way deeper into the Merced canyon, not quite to the actual Yosemite Valley floor. She felt a sense of relief when the car slowed and Kristen took a sharp turn down an unmarked lane. Abruptly Kristen slammed on the brakes, throwing the shifter into neutral. The motor continued idling.

Lyndy watched in the mirror as Kristen hopped out, retrieving a whisk broom from the rear hatch. Hastily she swept pine boughs, twigs and other deadfall into the road to cover their tracks. It was a small precaution, but demonstrated care, something Lyndy appreciated.

With that task complete, they continued along the two-track dirt road til they came to a locked gate—the beefy metal ones meant to stop a truck. Lyndy had wondered if there were private inholdings within the park boundaries. This confirmed her suspicion. The gravel access road was shaded in dense new growth pines, some standing fifty feet tall. Bushes like dogwood intruded into the road, making it even narrower.

“Be right back,” Kristen remarked.

This time she undid a beefy combo padlock and was able to walk the creaky pipe-rail gate to the side. It went squeaking on rusty bearings the whole way to 90 degrees. She felt grateful for Kristen helping her. Lyndy still didn’t trust her of course, but even this respite was a game changer. Unless it was the most elaborate ploy ever, Kristen truly had gone rogue from the cult.

From here it was slow going. None of the rutted, intersecting trails had been smoothed for decades, sporting countless humps and potholes. Some of the puddles held water, and the tires splashed mud into the fender wells of the car.

The Corolla puttered deeper into the flats, where black oaks shaded a series of charming but run-down cabins. The car came to a halt near the front steps of one, with a porch screened by mosquito nets. The cabins had wood siding looking like Lincoln logs and cedar shake roofs, nearly covered in green moss. Shafts of light poked through the canopy, shining on grassy areas once used for picnicking.

Lyndy’s mind was racing, searching for evidence of a trap. Were other vehicles present, figures behind trees, or boot prints in the muck? Nothing sloppy like that existed. Pressing the car door open she stood up, clutching Mari against her body while carrying the formula with the other arm.

“Used to rent out these cabins for tourists,” explained Kristen, as she jiggled the key and kicked at the lower quarter of the cabin door to force it open. “My family would stay here from time to time when our kids were young.”

The interior of the unit was coated in dust. Dark pellets on the floor looked like rodent droppings. Filthy, hazy windows glowed white in midday sun as if they were frosted. The floors were wide plank. Though creaky, they were in decent condition, save for not having a polish in a decade or two. Though outdated, the unit had three rooms and a well-equipped kitchen.

“No electricity here,” admitted Kristen, using a match to light a storm lantern. “These used to have power. Place was nothing short of magical back then. On a summer day birds would be chirping. Kids out here playing, learnin about nature.” Kristen pointed out the kitchen window and exhaled. “Course, it was the seventies. Long time ago. I memorized the code on one of the padlocks and all this time nobody ever bothered changing it. Always had a thing with numbers.”

Kristen moved to the kitchen sink, twisting both the garden hose style knobs until a cold clear tap ran. Lyndy observed as Kristen swallowed a large pill from an amber bottle, washing it down by holding her head under the flow. “Heart failure. Wouldn’t recommend it,” she commented.

While gently rocking Maribel, Lyndy listened for others. She heard nothing out of the ordinary. Good chance the place was deserted. The potential for a trap had yet to materialize. Maribel began to murmur, so Lyndy got to work opening the formula container with her fingernails.

Meanwhile Kristen bent down, checking the lower cabinets, searching for a bottle using the lantern as her flashlight.

Lyndy frowned. “Why would you help me?”

Kristen paused, turning her head to face Lyndy. “I dunno.” She cracked a smile. “My kids are all grown, but I remember what it was like being in your shoes.” One could see Kristen’s face clearly, lit by the lantern and a silvery glow shining through the kitchen window. Weariness showed in many creases around her eyes and sagging skin on her cheeks, but in her day, Kristen must’ve been something. She continued to search the lower cupboards while Lyndy swapped out Mari’s poopy diaper.

“Heard you got tangled up in this mess on the radio,” Kristen added. “Figure with the way they been treatin me, you might need a hand.” The tone in her voice belied truth. “These days my kids don’t want nothing to do with me.” Kristen crouched down and pushed some stuff around under the sink. “Their dad turned em against me after I joined Sierra Spring.” In a burst of excitement, she set aside the lantern and fished her arm as far as it would reach to the corner. “Ha! Check this out.” She whipped around holding an antique baby bottle. The feeding bottle looked to be 40 years old, made of green tinted glass. It had those vertical ribbed sides. “I remembered this cabin number had baby stuff.”

“Perfect!” said Lyndy.

 Kristen unscrewed the metal cap—with a trace rust in the lid—and rinsed it for Lyndy. Lyndy felt a wave of relief. The tip wasn’t soft anymore, but Mari would adapt.

“I couldn’t breast feed,” admitted Lyndy, readying the bottle for Maribel.

Lyndy transferred a level scoop of formula into the retro bottle. She filled the rest of the way with water and screwed on the cap, before shaking it vigorously. Technically you were supposed to boil the water, but these were desperate times and the stove was electric. Pulling out a dusty stool, she took a seat at the table, then positioned Maribel in her lap in a feeding position.

Kristen braced against the counters, seeming like she was out of breath again.

“Can I tell you a secret,” said Lyndy. “I didn’t want babies. I had given up on the idea. But I knew Kyle loves kids, so even though I felt too old, I made a decision to put myself through it. Kind of pathetic, but I think I wanted him to love me.”

 “Did it work?”

“So far. But now that I have Mari, I’m falling in love with her.”

“That’s not pathetic, it’s smart,” replied Kristen, bitterness in her tone.

With the bottle tip shoved in her mouth, Maribel’s expression changed. Her eyes opened wide with surprise and she began gulping the liquid aggressively. So much so, Lyndy had to prop her up occasionally and burp her to keep her from choking.

“Holy smokes, look at her go. I’ve never seen her this thirsty,” Lyndy remarked with a chuckle. “It’s good. I just hope she doesn’t spit it up.” Lyndy wiped around Mari’s mouth, where it was dripping with milk.

“Right about now brunch at the Ahwahnee is sounding pretty enticing,” said Kristen with a wistful grin.

“Same here. Though I could honestly eat Taco Bell at this point.”

She wanted to ask Kristen many questions: the identity of Charlie. The potential a bomb was planted in the hotel—the reason she was hiding and avoiding her favorite hangout. About the purpose of the pin code. But Lyndy held back, because she could tell Kristen was nervous. She was concealing something.

Lyndy looked her in the eye, continuing to support the bottle for Mari. “Why did you run from that black car on the bridge? I saw you arguing.”

“I can’t remember,” answered Kristen, being rather cryptic.

Lyndy gazed down at Maribel, who continued to gulp formula. “This stuff is literally a life saver. Kyle was ticked at me the first few days, like I’m some kind of defective female.” She laced her fingers together as she held Mari, who was rapidly draining the bottle.

“Who is Kyle?”

“Dr. Ellis. My boyfriend. He’s here for the Silver-Pacific meetings.”

Kristen nodded. She took a seat at the table, scraping dirt from her fingernails while occasionally staring out the dirty windows to the idyllic glen. Perhaps she was recalling something, a pleasant time here with family before the estrangement.

Lyndy tried again. “Were you arguing about the quake?”

“What?”

“The earthquake prophesized in … uh … Luke?” It was a long shot, but Lyndy knew three of the four gospels mentioned something on earthquakes. She retained at least that much from catechism.

Shifting her focus to Lyndy, Kristen raised a suspicious brow as she peeled off her yellow handkerchief. “You mean Luke 21:11?”

Lyndy mimed a, “why don’t you tell me more…” face. She then inverted the bottle Maribel had already finished, preparing another helping.

“It’s about Jesus’ return to Earth. It talks of famine too.”

Lyndy frowned. “If you think about it … there is one in the central valley. An ongoing drought. The cattle are starving cause there’s not enough reliable water to grow feed. That’s one reason why they’re building the dam.”

Kristen sighed. “I was trying to explain it to Charlie. We were arguing about that very subject—which we always argue about. He thinks we need to combine our strength to fulfill these prophecies, and I was telling him they will come to pass on their own. I keep saying he should listen to us more and not the outsiders. He’s been perfectly happy taking me and my second husband’s money. Also using our car.”

“The Porsche,” thought Lyndy.

Abruptly Kristen stopped speaking, as if catching herself saying too much. “Ah look, why don’t you rest,” Kristen offered as she stood up. “There’s a set of bunks in the back of each of these units. They’re a little dirty, but you can make do. I need to re-park the car; right now it’s visible from the air. Also take care of some other chores. I’ll get food for us later.”

Lyndy nodded in agreement.

The cabin bunks had one sheet and marginal padding. But she was exhausted. As soon as Lyndy went horizontal, her eyelids became heavy. Maribel, having drank two bottles full and with a fresh diaper change, seemed happy as a clam. Lyndy fell asleep with the baby flat on her chest.

---

Hours later …

Lyndy Life Observation: Ever see a fifty-year-old fit dude at the beach, working out in blue jeans and no shirt. Like not even breathable modern jeans which incorporate stretchy fabric, the old-fashioned stiff ones. That’s a major character red flag.

Sarah Palmer never much cared for the Gardeners. To her they were zealots, and in the aftermath of a disagreement Kristen was prone to episodes of going AWOL. It was bad for the unity of the group. On the other hand, Charlie tolerated them. He’d welcomed them to the cause as he did anyone who expressed a sincere passion for conserving Yosemite.

The husband at least, had strong ties to the investment world. It got them access to places anyone else in the team couldn’t.

She met Kristen at the pipe-rail gate, the one the park service erected to keep people out of the closed camp. The Chevy was idling, a whiff of steam floating from the tailpipe. As Sarah puffed a cigarette, she looked back at the passengers.

This time she’d brought reinforcements. Two extra Sierra Spring members who were fresh. And her partner Chip, whose cheek was black and blue from a previous encounter with The Spitfire. He had a vendetta now. More firepower too. In the back was his assault rifle, plus their pistols were loaded.

It seemed improbable that a relatively small in stature woman could have done so much damage to the team. Irony was, Charlie wanted her treated with kid gloves. He considered the Latina something of a fragile flower, a new mom with a baby in tow. But he’d been very wrong in that assumption. Their previous attempts at capture had gone almost comically askew.

To Sarah, it wasn’t funny.

Sarah sniffed as she crushed out the cheap cigarette. She leaned an elbow on the passenger window, scowling as Kristen hobbled up. She was pointing to the spot. “See Cabin 4. She’s napping right now. Out cold. I checked on her five minutes ago.”

Sarah glared at her. “Sleeping?”

“You heard me,” confirmed Kristen. “I still want the reward. I’m the one who brought her in.”

From the driver’s seat Chip interjected, “Oh for … that’s bull! We coulda had her already if you didn’t intervene.”

Sarah agreed with the sentiment. “Kristen, you don’t need the reward anyway. Charlie should be punishing you for going rogue.”

“Figure it out later,” grumbled Jim from the back. “We’re wasting time.”

The Chevy rolled on to the middle of camp, stopping just shy of the cabin in question. With its clouded windows, Sarah was extra cautious. Stealthily, she signaled for the two in the rear seats to circle round the left and right sides of the structure. They were to watch the windows, or in case the stroller mom somehow eluded custody.

Stepping up the set of three stairs to the screened entry, Sarah tested the door lever. Behind her, Chip held the rifle stock pressed against his shoulder. He kept a finger next to the trigger.

The door was unlocked. The lever turned with light force and a squeaking noise which Sarah tried to muffle using her sleeve. In Sarah’s left hand she gripped her pistol. They both listened, as Chip joined her on the small porch by the threshold.

Pacing across the oak floors in the kitchen, Sarah felt the springiness in the planks. They creaked as she walked. Her nervous eyes fell upon the counter, where a cylindrical container of powdered formula rested. Some of the powder had spilled, a dusting of white surrounded it. By the round table, a box of diapers had been opened.

Carrying the roll of tape on her wrist like a silver bracelet, Sarah gave it a spin. She had zip ties too in case the tape didn’t work. In the vehicle, a laundry sack had been set aside for the ride to Charlie’s camp. Sarah moved past the corner, as Chip entered the cabin, looking out.

The door to the bedroom was open a crack. She could see to the lower of the bunks, a twin bed. The bed had a lump under a sheet. The sheets rustled, stirring slightly up and down in a breathing motion. They heard the sound of human breath, and the murmurs of a sleeping baby.

Chip sidestepped past Sarah, with the rifle pointed at the lumps in the bed. He advanced to the corner, separating himself by five feet. He made a sideways glance to Sarah and she did the same.

“Alright, let’s go,” barked Sarah. “Wake the F up! I’m takin you to Charlie. Until then, we’re takin your baby.” Seconds passed, with the lumps not moving. Sarah rushed forward, snagged the sheet, ripping it away.

They heard a muffled pop, feathers exploded from a pillow and she felt a stabbing pain in her foot, like someone punched an ice pick straight up through her arch. It pierced every nerve and Sarah grimaced which made Chip panic. She lifted her foot in both hands and fell backward against the wall.

Chip pulled his trigger, blasting the bunk with six rounds and popping her ears with the thump of multiple shots. The old feather pillows which had been stuffed under the sheets exploded.

“What happened?” begged Chip.

Then another snap. This time Chip bent forward. “My foot!” he exclaimed. “Someone shot me in the foot.” Red blood started squirting from his hiking boot.

Sarah, still upright, began hopping madly. She reached down to unlace her boot while blood was oozing from her sock. Chip seemed even more debilitated. He’d dropped his gun and went down to his knees, unable to tolerate the pain.

Suddenly the windows began to explode over the bed. It was the men from the back, shooting blindly into the cabin. Horrified, Sarah pleaded: “NO. NO. NO. NO! HOLD FIRE!”

Chip grabbed both his ribs and collapsed. “I’m hit.”

Sarah dove for the floorboards, inching along and searching the area under the bed. “She’s under here somewhere,” shrieked Sarah, exhaling frantically to blow feathers away from her face. “Get her.” She crawled like a dog, feeling for loose boards, open knots where she could stick one eyeball and peer down. But the area underneath was dark and she had no light.

Glancing to Chip, she could see he was incapacitated with two gunshot wounds. “She’s under the cabin, get under there!” Sarah commanded to the pair outside.

She felt something clamping onto her ankle. The strength of the person was unexpected, drawing her down like a shark. As the boards buckled, she was pulled under into the crawl space. Sarah’s eyes struggled to make anything out in the shadows. She felt herself being dragged along; she clawed using all her fingers on the dirt trying to keep from being drawn backwards. She’d lost hold of her gun somewhere.

Sarah felt the tape being wrapped around her thighs, and though she fought, more and more layers were wrapped around. She bent into a fetal position. When the chaos stopped, she felt the coldness of a pistol pressed against her temple.

“Call them off,” she heard The Spitfire say in a cold, raspy tone. “Tell your partners to run. I’ve got no reason not to squeeze this trigger.” A chill ran through Sarah’s body. For once, she wished she’d not underestimated another woman. Lyndy whispered in Sarah’s ear. “I’ve seen folks die from being shot in the foot. It’s slow, but it happens.”

“She’s got me. Get out of here!” Sarah screeched.