Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-20

[Hi Everyone, Lyndy says have a very Merry Christmas / Happy Holidays! Thanks for reading. –ASC]

Coconino County, AZ, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: Telephone answering machines used to have actual cassette tapes, and one could change the greeting by swapping these tapes out (if you were born after 2000 this doesn’t make a lick of sense). While cleaning out my storage unit, I found a box chock full of these old cassettes belonging to my 1980s answering machine—like a time capsule. For fun, I put one in a player to see what random messages might still be on it. I soon hear the intoxicated voice of Catherine Cookson, slurring speech: “Lyn! Lyn, … you won’t believe what just happened to me. I got trespassed out of a See’s Candies for eating too many samples! Hahahaha!”

Miss Thurgood, in a pensive mood, popped the tab on a Michelob Ultra while listening closely to Lyndy’s Santa Barbara saga. Sipping beer and occasionally chewing on a fingernail, she focused her attentive green eyes on The Spitfire the whole time.

Lyndy Martinez told of her encounter with Mr. Fred Simmons, how she met his strange daughter named Gillian, the enormous pile of money at stake, and the fact there was more than a passing resemblance between the fragile girl in the rental and the late Rita.

In truth it was the longest stretch Lyndy could ever recall holding Rhonda’s focus, as the businesswoman had one of those millennial attention spans. Like Maribel, Rhonda could ignore a room full of people in a loud nightclub, if only an Apple device were present.

Lyndy explained how uncomfortable it was to seek out help, as it wasn’t a very Lyndy Martinez thing to do. Admittedly, asking advice from someone half your age felt humbling.

At last, Rhonda crushed out the can. Extending one of her bare ankles and crossing it over the other, she rotated her frame to face the TV. There, a generic cable news channel with anchors like puppets, showed scenes of a hurricane battering Florida. Near the bottom of the screen, a dizzying scroll of stock quotes looped interminably.

“Hmmm,” was all Rhonda said at first. Being this close, Lyndy noted Rhonda had one of her eyebrows pierced, a feature she’d nearly mistaken for a fishhook injury.

Lyndy exhaled, anxiously lacing her fingers, pondering whether the decision to use up an Ace asking Rhonda for help had been fruitless. I mean, why should she care anyway?

But Rhonda opened her mouth again, questioning, “If Gillian actually is the living heir of Rita Lovelace, would you want her to have her inheritance?”

“Of course,” answered Lyndy.

“But if not?”

“You mean if they’re con artists? Well, Rita despised con artists. She hated any kind of swindler. She’d go out of her way to expose them and on occasion ….”

Lyndy trailed off, thinking of a few situations in particular.

Rhonda leaned forward with a grin.

“Hopefully the statute of limitations has expired,” mumbled Lyndy.

“The more I hear, the more I think I would have enjoyed meeting Rita.”

Lyndy nodded in the affirmative. “You would. I was telling Gillian, Rita’s nickname used to be Rita-the-Rocket cause she had so much energy and was unrelenting.”

Rhonda shrugged on her wrap, stuffing her feet into pink flip-flop sandals. She paced to the accordion doors, wide open to the sunny day, revealing a grand view of sandstone cliffs. Those were the same reddish cliffs Wesley Powell might’ve slept under, on his expeditions down the river, long before the reservoir.

“If only there were a way to match the DNA of Gillian to the DNA of the Lovelace clan,” lamented Lyndy. She sipped from her cold, fizzy can.

“Miss Martinez, you ever watch one of those cheesy rom-coms where it’s an American tourist who stumbles into the love of their life overseas? Eventually they have to snag a green card to sneak their partner back into the US. Hilarity ensues.”

Lyndy’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

“Immigration asks probing questions, like uh, what side of the bed do each of you sleep on? Or what brand of toothpaste does your partner use?” Rhonda whipped around with a gleam in her eye. “You mentioned you lived with Miss Lovelace. Did I hear that correctly?”

Lyndy chuckled thinking about it. “Yes, yes, the odd couple.” Her head bobbed side to side. “Heck, we shared the same bed a few times—always platonically, cause sometimes we’d get a hotel suite with only one king bed. We weren’t ya know, into each other.”

“I get it,” replied Rhonda, “I didn’t think the latter. But still, it means you have intimate knowledge. You could make a quiz, one this Simmons fellow should be able to easily pass assuming he’s telling the truth.”

A hunky male bodyguard without a shirt entered the room, his hawk-like gaze fixed on Rhonda. Without a word he moved the kitchen, to hover over Lyndy.

Rhonda locked eyes with him. “Let’s try,” she remarked. “What side of the bed did Rita sleep on?”

Lyndy recalled many a hotel suite in Vegas, shoving their way through a crowded lobby as fans trying desperately to snap pictures with Miss Lovelace, pleading her for an autograph. Touching finger to thumb with both her hands, making the shape of a square, Lyndy replied: “If you’re facing the bed—I can picture her lying curled up against a pillow—it was the side nearest the windows. A fancy glass ash tray on the nightstand. I never asked, but I bet her choice of side related to a lifelong phobia of fire. She believed in the worst-case, a hook and ladder truck would come and she could escape out a window. Whatever side faced the door, it would’ve been me.”

Rhonda giggled at her own idea: “We should make it like a multiple-choice Cosmo quiz: You know, what would my Spice Girl name be?”

Lyndy exhaled, tilting her head back against the padded sofa cushion and shutting her eyes to think. “Right. Right. I like it. So then, we need better questions—something Fred would’ve known being married to the most adventuresome fashion model who ever lived.”

---

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Maribel had an Alvin and the Chipmunks sing the hits CD (not sure where it came from, but she received a lot of quirky gifts from Kyle’s extended family). We used to play that at home or when driving Kyle’s car, which had a CD player unit in the console. Unfortunately, on a long trip to Arrowhead, after being requested for the umpteenth time, it was mysteriously “lost” (out the window) and never seen again. Wink!

The winding, rocky trail up to the sawmill almost proved too much for Kristen’s aging sedan. The little car huffed and puffed for oxygen, threatening to stall after each switchback. Copious ruts tried their best to swallow the skinny highway tires, causing the engine to bottom out on its oil pan. Good thing Lyndy was adept at working a manual clutch, as she might not have made it.

The crumbling ruins were concealed in thick pine woods. The irony being, back in the day this entire ridgeline would’ve been felled clear by the axes of lumberjacks. The imposing mill structure once stood surrounded in nothing but depressing stumps. Eight decades or so of intervening years allowed forest to overtake the area yet again, albeit the fast-growing tree species and thus with less overall diversity.

Signs along road warned of a restricted area, that park service employees were the only ones allowed to pass. However, Lyndy encountered no gates.

Happening upon a graded pullout where others had parked, Lyndy stopped the car with the engine running. She checked her surroundings.

From this vantage one got an initial view of the 3-story barn-like buildings, clinging to the steep grade on crumbling foundation blocks. Another set of signs warned hikers to keep out of the historic structures.

Lyndy knew it was the place, having gotten directions from Sarah Palmer.

Turning uphill, switching off the ignition, The Spitfire set her sights on the mill. In certain ways it resembled a haunted house: weathered side panels, narrow busted out 8-slat windows, a dock at one end and a rusting crane type mechanism for loading trucks on the other. Colonies of bats probably slept upside down in the eaves.

At the time Sarah described this place, the gruff lady had been hyperventilating, making it hard to answer questions. Lyndy put a finger against her lips, uttering the SHHHH sound. It wasn’t so much she wanted Sarah to be quiet, as she wanted Sarah to breath and stop freaking out over pain. Being so bent out of shape put you at risk of shock.

“I want you to tell me how to get to Charlie,” demanded Lyndy calmly.

Through a series of heaves, Sarah muttered, “The Sawmill.”

Thus, directions brought her to this secluded hideout.

Glancing down, she checked on the baby. Surprisingly, Mari had been sleeping in her sling. Lyndy reached down, adjusting the straps to gently secure the load tighter against her torso.

Stepping from the driver’s seat, Lyndy paused briefly to lace Kyle’s boots. She considered yet again whether to hide the baby. It had been her original plan, perhaps to lock her safe under the hatch. The weather was mild here, a hazy afternoon and she would’ve been okay to breathe.

But that just didn’t make sense. They were in this together.

Lyndy already deduced what type of man would be waiting for her. Though deranged, he’d proven he wouldn’t hurt Maribel. He’d hurt a mom if necessary, that was clear as day. Not a baby. Sometimes you just know someone—call it intuition.

A gravel trail led north from the wide switchback, up an embankment where steps had once been carved, but degraded and washed away by time. Lyndy felt the elevation, as her heart was pounding. Old half-bricks scattered the hillside where they’d come loose from the foundation. As if to foreshadow the purpose, a discarded sawblade with bent teeth could be spotted two-thirds buried in dirt. The rusty steel disk had been over 4 feet in diameter judging by the part sticking up.

Lyndy didn’t bother looking in a mirror. She’d been too busy thinking what to say to him.

Her mind felt cloudy, but in her gut Lyndy was angry. The renegades and bank robbers who caught her eye when she was young were old fashioned outlaws. They couldn’t convince her to join them. Easy choice. There were plenty of good ones out there too: Ted Crawford, Nash Spotted-Wolf, Dale, Rickman, enough to capture her heart. Kyle of course. This man was different. One of those passionate idealists—persuasive too.

Lyndy entered through the western side, where a doorframe canted at twenty degrees, and the door itself had long since been stolen or discarded. The weathered trim surrounding the entrance was all coated in fuzzy green moss, temping her to brush against it with her fingers. She half expected bats, or hoot owls to come flooding out like a Scooby Doo cartoon.

 Chan would’ve advised not to enter here at all; a young Lyndy might’ve agreed. There was a time and place for caution. Strands of spider webs hung from the ceiling, adhering to every rafter. Inside it reeked of sawdust, sharp enough one could taste it on their tongue. This dust and sap mixture tarred up, filling every corner and crack.

Moving forward not only were the floors decomposing, they were sinking, folding into valleys wherever joists rotted away. The room was mostly shadows, but it quickly dropped off revealing a larger, deeper void. Indeed, the ground entry was on the second floor, and the taller first floor had been carved into the hillside, shored up with brick. This was the main work space. It took time for her eyes to adjust. A dusty warning sign, with peeling paint was still barely legible: An accident brought you into this world; don’t let one take you out! Sawmill dudes at peak humor.

Ancient equipment, driven by belts and electric motors, sat motionless in haunting vestiges. Even a half-hewn sugar pine log, 8 foot in diameter, sat stuck in the largest circular blade she’d ever seen. Balls of sap the size of grapefruit adhered to the log, turning hard and dark like chunks of real amber. It was eerie to think, one day the whistle blew, the men quit work and never came back.

Maribel murmured, expressing concern.

“I know,” whispered Lyndy. “It’s okay.”

Lyndy treaded along the catwalks at the perimeter of the building, peering down upon the main floors. At the same time she had to watch her feet, to avoid stepping into a gap or upon a board which might breakaway like a rice cake.

Her eyes scanned the room, lingering upon the shadows, gaging if each figure-like object were indeed a person. She heard the rustling of something living and the creaking of a chain. Her eyes were drawn to the source of the sound, a boom like a crane for hoisting heavy logs, erected from the brick wall over the main floor. There straddling upon the tip of the boom, a human silhouette. He might’ve been mistaken for a block and tackle at first, or other wiry apparatus, were it not for the feet clad in hiking boots.

His arms and legs gripped the sides of the wooden beam like a watchful leopard. He’d been waiting, listening to her footsteps, and the baby.

“Your people tried to kill me,” Lyndy voiced angrily.

She heard him heaving a sigh, but it was too dim to see facial features. She simply knew it was Neil Conner.

“You’re wrong though. They weren’t trying to kill you. They’re afraid of you.” He raised both arms to get her attention. “Half of em are laid up in a hospital bed, the rest have quit on me.” It was the soothing, baritone voice of Neil.

“You’re like one of those people who say sharks are more afraid of you than you are of them.”

Neil chuckled. “You should have minded your own business and not answered someone else’s phone. You’d still be living your best life. This didn’t have to happen.”

“Damn right it didn’t! That’s why you need to let go of this maniacal plan and leave me and my family alone.”

“I want you to go on a hike with me first,” Neil argued. “Promise it’ll be worth your time.”

“I’m not in the mood anymore for hiking,” Lyndy replied, with anger infused words. She smoothed the wisps of Mari’s hair. “I’ve had a very bad experience these past two days. I’m exhausted. I have a headache. Even my hair hurts. But I have the code, so that’s that.”

“Your boyfriend is boring,” commented Neil. “And hair is dead. It’ can’t hurt.”

“Don’t lecture me. I get enough of that from Kyle.”

Scooting off the side, Neil dropped into a hang on the end of the boom, then let himself descend to the main floor with a THUNK. He landed on his feet, and the decaying boards cushioned his landing.

“How can you stand that guy? He’s such a tool!”

“Kyle’s not a tool. He’s earned my respect. I like boring men.”

“Why?”

“They’re predictable.”

Neil sighed again. “Come on, just go on this hike and you’ll never have to see me again if you don’t want.”

Maribel whimpered again.

“I see you’ve found a way to bond,” Neil added.

“No thanks to you,” Lyndy snapped back.

Neil shrugged. With lightning speed he climbed a ladder, one hidden from view unless you knew it was there. He arrived atop the catwalk, grinning.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to take a walk with me,” Neil repeated, as he rushed toward her. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?” Neil had been concealing something against his arm.

Lyndy heard the crackle of electricity, but had little time to react before a tingle pierced her spine, then rippled through her body causing every muscle to quiver and contract. Paralyzed, but regrettably conscious, her limp body flopped backward on the rotting floorboards. A poof of dust rose in the air.

With breath knocked out of her lungs, Lyndy gasped and Neil easily scooped the baby from Lyndy’s weakened grip. The pain from the cattle prod hurt like the sting of a scorpion, making it feel as though even her fingernails might pop off.

Mari started wailing.

Rubbing her eyes, hoping to clear her vision of stars and floating spiral patterns, Lyndy coughed out the words: “You are such an immature prick!” She tried sitting up, reaching out her arms for her baby, but her swings were wildly off.

Mari continued crying “WAAAAH! WAH!”, even as Neil cradled her, trying to calm her. In his right arm, he continued to grip the charged cattle prod.

“Great! Look what you did!” Lyndy lectured, wiping her forearm across her lip. “She was calm up till now. God that thing hurts like a ….”

“I’ll give you Mari back once we take a walk.”

“You should give her back now,” shouted Lyndy, pushing to her feet with her palm. This placed excess pressure on her bad shoulder. Wincing, she stumbled onto her tailbone again. With the baby crying in his left arm, Neil threatened Lyndy with the poker. One squeeze and it emitted the BRZZZT sound, hurting their eyes with a blinding blue lightning streak. Even the air smelled of ozone.

Though her will was strong, reflexively Lyndy shied away. A part of her wanted to rip that stupid thing from his hand, push him over the railing. Except they were on a catwalk, and if he lost grip of the baby the results would be disastrous. Or worse, he might accidently turn that thing on Maribel.

“For God sake! What is so important I have to see right now?” Lyndy demanded. Clawing for the wall behind, Lyndy pulled herself to a standing position, keeping her gaze fixed on the man holding her baby. “Fine I’ll go for a stupid walk with you,” Lyndy huffed. “But I’m never giving you the code.”

Neil smiled, cradling Mari again and trying to sooth her. “I don’t need it. I figured it out. Took much longer than it should have, wasting tons of precious time, but I figured it out.”

“So, it was a bomb? Now its armed?” For the moment, Lyndy’s concern had shifted from herself to whatever plan this wannabe madman hatched. A half-dozen crazy scenarios began to play out in her mind. Her thoughts went to Kyle. Maybe he hadn’t cleared out like she’d warned him? Things had been quite a daze when they parted. Obviously, he’d be searching for her, but in that case he might’ve setup shop in the hotel. She’d not heard any news, being without a phone or a radio. Anything could’ve happened.

Neil’s gaze shifted from the baby’s face to Lyndy. Her back was pressed against the wall. She looked down at the baby. He continued to hold the prod in a raised position, like golf club he was about to thunk her with.

“I armed it,” Neil said in a whisper.

“So then, the hotel is …” Lyndy trailed off.  

Neil nodded. “Rubble,” he answered.