Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-21

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: I hate to be the one stereotyping people, but when you find out a man is named Jimmy-John, can’t you just picture in your mind what he looks like?

Somehow ABBA had been subdued and in its place: Vin Scully. But this time it wasn’t in her head, an AM radio was cracking. She could hear the disembodied voice of Vin calling a Dodger game. There were other baffling sounds of chirping doodads, busy people rushing about. Her back was aching, body fixed in an odd position, unable to turn over.

She felt like one of those rotisserie chickens on a spit.

The Spitfire was frightened to open her eyes but did so anyway. Opening drowsily, her vision revealed an otherworldly scene ahead of her: a contented Mr. Chan in a hospital chair, an apparition dressed in a fanciful red Hawaiian shirt—like a modern interpretation of a Daoist monk’s half-robe—calmly slurping hospital Jello from a wax-paper cup with a spoon. Next to him a decorative iron teapot, two dainty porcelain teacups; something he could only have brought from home, as no medical center would permit such an obscure item.

The funny thing about Chan, he was already a ghostly figure. Whether he existed at all, or represented some transitory metaphysical construct apart from reality was a matter worthy of debate. He mostly presented in two localities: the thoroughly drab cinder block structure on Route-66 known as CBB, and the Riverview Trailer Park, where his singlewide trailer backed up along an embankment of the dry Mojave. If Chan had transported himself from the desert to wherever this room was, he’d done so out of necessity—travel to cities outside his cocoon was practically a last option for him.

Twisting her neck to the side, she observed a plaster cast swallowing three-quarters of her left arm, including the fingers up to the nails. It was bound to a metal chain contraption, held in traction at an elevation greater than her heart. Thankfully it meant her arm was still attached and for the time being that was worth celebrating.

Glancing to her right she could see an IV drip, draining through clear plastic tubing to her right hand. Ominous medicinal names were imprinted in a bold courier font on the label. Looking down she saw she was wearing a hideous hospital gown. Considering all this, feeling woozy and fatigued, she knew this was no small thing. Indeed she was fighting for her life.

Her eyes met with Chan’s.

Grinning with raised eyebrows, Mr. Chan passed her a teacup half-full with a brownish liquid. Cradling it shakily, she raised it to her lips, but kept her eyes locked on him.

“Drink, drink,” he commanded.

She sipped about a tablespoon, them grimaced. “God dang, that’s bitter,” she whispered. She sniffed. Unable to control it, tears were clouding her eyes and she rubbed them with her knuckle. “Where’s my purse?”

“Why?”

“I want my makeup kit. I wanna see my face.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh.” Chan chuckled sincerely. “Melinda Martinez, it is a hospital. Everybody look bad in here.”

“What’s wrong with me?” she demanded, tilting her head. “Aside from the obvious.”

He stood up, shuffling closer. “You have infection in bloodstream and bone.” Tapping on the IV. “Doctor want to remove your limb. Save life. But I reason with him. Turns out his family is from China as well. He agree to try this penicillin mixture for few days.”

“Dios mio,” she shuttered, wiping at her eyes. She felt cold.

“Look over there,” said Chan, pointing to a table and large bouquet of yellow flowers.

“Who sent those?”

“The crazy boy who drives around hammering on rocks.”

Lyndy exhaled, amused. “Ah. Kyle Ellis.”

The discomfort was increasing—would have been better to stay unconscious. The tears she could not control were spilling down her cheeks, landing on the bedsheets. Turning her head away to a window with blinds. “What am I gonna do?” she pleaded.

It was intended to be rhetorical, but to Chan, no question was that way.

“What are you going to do?” he echoed. “You must pray. It is the only way. You are young and you will heal.”

She breathed a long sigh. “But what if …” she trailed off. Reaching for a tissue from the nightstand, she began dabbing her face. It sounded childish to continue.

“What?”

“What if you know … the stuff they said is true … that I’m possessed by a demon?”

He did not immediately respond, nor scoff. Instead tilting his chin down, he paced to the window. He pushed aside the vertical blinds, letting in a midday sun so blinding the saturation revealed nothing of the outside view.

“A demon.” Chan chuckled to himself; it was hard to tell whether he was amused at her suggestion, or giving it serious reflection. At last he spoke, “Well, a demon, they are nothing more than fallen angels.”

Huh. Good point.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” she asked. “Aren’t you missing out on business?”

He was still staring at the view. “This place is dangerously unfortified. Your enemies will soon discover you are here, if not already.” He turned to face her. “Look Melinda, if your brother were alive, it would be him staying here until you are better. In his absence, it will be me. Until then, I put Rita in charge.”

She pictured prissy Miss Lovelace, seated on the mahogany desk doling out bonds.

Her eyes fell upon the lunchroom tray, its formed fiberglass cubbies containing items impersonating food. It reminded her of middle school. But nothing looked appetizing and she felt ill just conceiving of a meal. In a few minutes, she drifted off back to sleep, hearing of a bases loaded and the fourth inning.

 

Lyndy Life Observation: Late one night I’m seated alone, depressed, eating a bad waffle in a Blythe area truck stop. For some reason there’s a middle class family eating there too, and I overhear an eight year old kid shout cheerfully: “I wanna be a trucker when I grow up!” Seconds later this grizzly-bear-size trucker with a ZZ-Top beard, gold medallion against his hairy chest and Texas-style, woven straw hat stands up. Then in the deepest, most commanding smoker voice bellows: “Stay in school, kid.”

On older maps these things were called lonesome gods, stone tower monuments built by unknown desert peoples. Some were hundreds, if not thousands of years in age. If you were a pilot and knew where to look, they could be relied upon for crude navigation.

The secrets of this place she didn’t know; as far as she could tell the rockpile had been standing eons and she’d only added to and bolstered its base over time. A few half-buried flat rocks surrounded, perfect for sitting. The stargazing here on the ridge was spectacular, and often when she needed to think, couldn’t sleep, or simply wanted to visit the ashen remains of her late brother, she hiked to this spot.

Its location was six-hundred feet higher than the town and about a half-mile distant from the airstream trailer. An impressive nolina grew here, its leaves slender and rigid with sharp pointed tips, reminding her of Spanish fencing swords.

Pulling her crocheted sweater tighter, as the coolness of the night had taken hold, she wrapped fingers around a square bottle of Herradura. Touching it directory to her lips she sipped about a capful.

Though unable to see her watch, she knew the hour was well after midnight. She could tell this for two reasons: a quarter-moon was rising over the high mountains, and a certain early AM train had blazed through the Amboy crossing, blowing its horn.

Taking another sip of tequila she began to sprinkle dried flower petals around the base, a mixture of primrose and honeysuckle. She pushed back her hair, now in its natural state, circling the monument base on foot. Ever vigilant for scorpions—they inhabited this area in droves—she’d made certain to wear hiking boots.

Gradually the petals dried up, were blown away or carried off by insects. She would bring more.

Her broken arm was in a cast and sling, immobile. The aching was still overwhelming at times—she’d been given a bottle of prescription pills—and if the bones wouldn’t heal straight there was still a chance of amputation or more surgery. Her orders from the doctor had been to rest. Unfortunately, her chosen career path didn’t go well with time out.

Night after night, she’d been having difficulty sleeping. The cause was no mystery. For this reason she’d been partaking in fewer of the painkillers, to prevent herself from becoming drowsy. It was more than one visit she’d made this week to the ridge.

Instinctively The Spitfire knew spiteful men were coming. Chan had felt it too, the reason he’d been so uncharacteristically helpful at the hospital. But ultimately no one could protect her from every eventuality. Lyndy felt like the tortoise must have felt while teetering on his back.

And that’s when she saw the low beams. They crested the shallow rise at Chambliss, traveling below the speed limit, alone as they were on an arrow straight road. She might have fancied a cigarette, and though the risk was slight, she was afraid to reveal her position.

Nobody sane would drive this way. It was the middle of the night, on a dark highway. Like the song said—a dark, desert highway. And low beams? Huh. There were cows out there, they slept in the road because it was warm. Other animals too. Why not take the interstate?

She observed them for a period of minutes. She would have bet money on it being an American car, but too far to sort out the motor. Her hand slipped to the cold steel grip of the Beretta. It was armed, having been cleaned and reloaded since the shootout at Bo’s repair business.

Days after the drama a telegram arrived at her door. It contained a perforated check attachment. She’d expected some word from Jack Decklin, a half-assed apology maybe. But instead it bore the moniker of a Miss Illyria Jameson. That was his secretary.

Very lawyer like, she explained the check, written in the sum of fifteen-thousand dollars was to cover any further medical expenses, and also to settle the investigative services on the Jackrabbit Homesteader sanction. A prepayment had already been made to the Loma Linda hospital, and no further monies were coming. Depositing this check was considered an honorable agreement to aforementioned terms. And finally, she was to package up and return a steel-cased Rolex watch. Good thing Lyndy hadn’t pawned it.

She’d made it to the bank in a cloud of dust with cartoon-like speed. Lyndy’s next stop had been the sporting goods store, to buy ammo. And then to Darrel’s, to pay him for parts.

She sipped more tequila, rising to her feet. The vehicle slowed as it approached an intersection for the Amboy cutoff. Then it did an even more curious thing. The person driving shut off their lights entirely. If she listened close she could hear the exhaust note, coming in waves then fading when the wind direction became unfavorable.

Why must it always be left to The Spitfire to finish things?

There was still time to escape, sneak off to the hills, wait it out. Tempting to run from one’s problems. But that solution was a band-aid, keeping you living in fear.

The next question was how many.

Near the school complex a series of dirt roads trended north, most of them unmarked where they intersected 66. Here were a collection of tamarisk trees, about the only cover in town. She assumed that’s where they were ditching the car. A tiny flash of light confirmed their presence—a dome or trunk light perhaps—and then nothing. The sound of the motor was gone. No way to tell how many were coming.

 

Several minutes later …

Her early morning congested voice rose above the din of crickets. “I hate finding trash on my property,” she said softly, yet loud enough for Chet and two companions to hear.

They’d expected her to be indoors at this hour, asleep. Normal stuff. Their kicking up dust as they spun around to face her, confirmed this belief. Their plot was foiled.

The scene was vague, only outlines of figures could be discerned, but no question who was confronting who. She was standing by a middle-height mesquite tree, grinning to greet them if they could only see her face.  Her gun was drawn, pointed earthward, fingers clenched tight on the grip. A gap of fifty feet separated her from the adversaries.

She knew it was Chet for a funny reason, his capped teeth were glinting in moonlight. His helpers had longer firearms, size of shotguns, but Chet clutched a polished revolver—in profile appearing like a Ruger Security-Six—double action, taking magnum cartridges. Street toughs didn’t bother with guns like this. Sucker was loud as hell, difficult to conceal, easy to trace. Then again, in the dark she could be mis-IDing it. A frightened man would bring whatever his best was.

“I wouldn’t think less of you all if you ramble on,” she announced, speaking mainly to Chet’s companions. “Ask yourself, is it worth the risk? Feeling like a coward, versus dying out here in the wild for some fool’s revenge. Bo Rawlins is dead. Matt Wallach is in a shitty bare soil graveyard. Who do you think put him there?”

Chet shifted, his eyes quickly darting to each of his companion, wondering whether he’d misjudged their loyalty. He took a breath. “How’s that busted arm healing up?” he inquired with a nod of the head.

Surprisingly, the men in the shadows were holding their ground, as was she.

She jerked her head to the side. “Well, not so good if I’m honest. Sad, but my best origami days are behind me.”

Chet didn’t laugh, but one of his pals snorted, clearly trying to suppress a chuckle. “I got another question for you Spitfire.” He gestured to his partners. “I think you’ve got our motives wrong Miss Martinez. We were coming here to check on your welfare, knock on your door, see if you needed anything. If you kill one of us, how are you gonna explain to the sheriff what happened?”

“Nice try. I don’t think he or anyone else would buy that,” she chuckled, her index finger slipping down, coming to rest lightly on the trigger.

“Tell me this bitch, how you gonna bury 3 grown men with only one arm?”

“Very slowly,” she thought.

She could see the belt of Orion above their outlines, blue Alnitak twinkling brightly.

Cue triumphant ranchera music.

“Trust me gentlemen. You all don’t need to worry about me ever again,” she assured. “I’ll be alright. I have a strong feeling my grave digging days are just getting started.”

The sound of a train horn pierced the night air. A banging of guns and flash of light. She squeezed on the trigger twice. A fast projectile swished her sweater out. Chet fell back with a thud. Smell of gunpowder tickled her nostrils.

His companions were still vertical, but they took one look at one another, then turned tail and bolted off running.

Checking her sweater she saw that there was a circular hole, singed by the shock wave of a .357 magnum, but feeling around her waist she’d suffered no flesh wounds.

 

Next morning at dawn, the black-winged birds had taken to air. Tortoise could see them soaring as he strolled along his morning route, the perimeter of his territory. But it was not for him they flew.

Munching on a pencil cactus he felt a vibration in the dirt, which was odd, since he was a mile and a half from the nearest paved road. It was unremitting and the tempo didn’t match anything he was used to, making him nervous and weary. Humans were up to something; his first guess a new development.

Curiosity getting the better of him and in his steady manner, he began to amble nearer to the source of this activity, using the circling birds as a beacon. The rumbles became louder, accompanied by a scraping of metal on rock.

Cresting a hummock, lingering in the shade of a chokecherry, his old eyes witnessed the female human, one who wore dark colors and the violet lipstick.

She had a shovel in hand, perspiration dripping down and her soaked shirt was unbuttoned all the way to her navel, resting on her lower shoulder, just a black bra covering her top—her brown skin moist and dark from the sun. She was standing in a deep hole with sides up to her hips, pants rolled up and she was digging. Clearly those birds were hoping she’d fail, maybe croak of exertion herself. And though her body was small, her build slight compared to a man’s, her muscles and back had a look of steel resiliency. Knowing what he did about this girl, he felt they’d be wiser to give up on any notions of an easy meal. This human would not stop until a task was finished. This human would never stop.

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-20

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: Sometimes it boggles my mind to remember we used to eat baloney and white bread sandwiches in school. What exactly is baloney?

The Spitfire’s brown eyes were fixated on the bullwhip. The handle lay in the same spot where Bo had dropped it, while slumping over in death.

Her left cheekbone and upper jaw, never injured, were suddenly aching; funny how pain could transfer from one part of the body to another. Like a raging brushfire, it seemed to be spreading in all directions.

This situation—irksome as it was—had turned into an existential crisis. The knowable world becoming blurred out, and in this state she recognized decision making would be compromised. Henceforward she could no longer trust her five senses. Nonetheless, actions were necessary for survival. To allow for inaction was to welcome death and pass the baton to the other side.

“Mr. Decklin, you were a weightlifter. On one of your best days, what’s the most you ever squatted?”

Jack exhaled. “Maybe 350 or 375. I don’t remember exactly.”

“Then together, I’d wager we can move that plate,” she surmised. “I think I can do a hundred pounds at least, deteriorating as I am.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you,” he sighed drearily. “Good luck Miss Martinez.”

In many ways Deputy Keynes, her ex, was a male enigma. He frequently voiced blatant untruths, changing his personality from one week to the next, but charming all the while. He could be loving and tender one day, morose and indifferent the following. Yet there was something redeeming which she had trouble pinpointing. And now in this strange moment she’d at last identified it. When she needed him, really needed Dale’s strength and presence, his loyalty was unwavering. A man of action, he would protect her fiercely and fight alongside her against any odds—having done so on occasions when they were vastly outnumbered. Therein lay part of the attraction. Something of a Martinez in him, an honorary member of the family. Well, that and his looks.

This made Jack Decklin a new version of low. What kind of a man would sleep with a woman, but not lift a finger to help or defend that woman? Very unsettling.

“Come again? You’re refusing to help get us out of here!” she exclaimed, mopping sweat from her brow with her elbow, so copious it dribbled to the floor. Yet even touching fingers on her tender skin felt like pin pricks, spreading the flames.

“Sorry,” he repeated meekly.

“But you aren’t paralyzed? You can walk!” Mind in a daze, The Spitfire felt explosive anger rising again. She paced to Bo’s corpse. “We simply don’t have time. I’m dying. You’re dying. I’m down to one arm and I weigh 130 pounds soaking wet. We’ve got to combine our strength in one final rally to get out of here. We have to try and slide the plate together. Can’t you see something greater in yourself? Isn’t there something you want to finish? I need your muscle.”

Bending down, she took hold of the whip and immediately tested it. High craftsmanship, producing a really sharp crackling noise including a popper; Bo knew his livestock herding implements.

“Jack, it’s obvious I can’t do this on my own. For god sake, stand up you idiot.” Stuffing the handle of whip in her waistband and returning to the square chamber, she began yanking away the remaining blankets, angering Jack.

“Stop it,” he argued, rolling onto his side.

“Mr. Decklin sir, would you like some help up?” The Spitfire offered, standing over him and glaring. Droplets of blood peppered her exasperated face like freckles.

“I just told you I can’t move,” he answered defiantly. “Didn’t you hear me? Do you ever listen to anything!” he pleaded.

“Jack, let me remind you, it was you who sought my services, not the other way around. You came to me. And it was you who wanted the toughest, meanest PI in the county for you foolhardy quest. I should never have trusted you. And now look what’s become of us! I should never have deceived Mr. Chan. Every time it happens the result is calamity.”

“Show some mercy woman. I can’t move.”

“You just don’t get it. Your brand of irrationality puts mine to shame. One doesn’t come to a woman with my reputation and history of personal affairs, asking for mercy. “I’m gonna offer you one last chance at redemption, a count of ten. And when I’m finished, you will be standing up.”

She waited for Jack’s agreeing response, but none came. Lyndy cracked the whip on the floor. “One,” she began coldly.

“You’ve gone insane.”                     

“Two.” Again she cracked the whip upon the floor, near to Jack’s ears, causing him to flinch. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Stop this, please Lyndy,” Jack begged. “Let me be.”

She snapped the whip again.

“Three.”                                                                                    

“Fine. Jesus Christ. I do admit, my train had been there before. I was going to tell you when the time was right.” He pressed his fingers against the floor, fully uncovered. “I have made mistakes, but we all do.” His back started to arc as he re-positioned his feet. “The first time, my father told me we needed to suppress a worsening story in the media. I was young. I went along with him. I did what I thought I had to do.”

“Four.”

She could see now he was telling the truth about having been beaten and battered. His shirt was torn, only a few strips of fabric left. His skin where exposed, showed both bruising and lengthy ugly scabs, foamy and oozing.

“Will you just settle down,” he complained through gritted teeth, moving too slowly.

With a flick of her wrist the tip of the whip raked across the middle of his cheek. “Ten,” she shrieked.

“OWW! OWW! Do you know what that thing feels like?” Quickly Jack put a hand against the laceration, pulling his palm away and eyeing fresh blood. He pointed an accusing finger. “Damn you Lyndy Martinez! You were on FOUR you little brat.” But he shot up to his knees, then scrambled to his feet, suddenly filled with savage energy.

They don’t call me The Spitfire for nothin.

Backing six feet away out of reach, Lyndy whipped Jack again across his upper thighs. “Let’s go you indolent bastard!”

Looking terrified he assumed a defensive position, twisting to face her. His bloodshot eyes were tracking every move now. “I can see why people hate you.” He watched her arm closely. “Take another shot at me girl. I dare you,” he threatened, cupping his fingers toward himself.

As he stared her down, she had little doubt if Jack could somehow get to her he would deliver a massive beating. “You’re quite a talker for one who stinks worse than a house fouled by urine of fifty cats, then set aflame. Someone ought to put a garden hose on you.”

“You stink too. And I can see why you’re single,” he replied. “You’re effing crazy.”

“I can see why you’re divorced,” she quipped.

With Jack closing in, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, she backed further away. When he lunged for her Lyndy eluded him, moving to the opposite corner of the room. “Just end this.”

“You’re ten times richer than any of my boyfriends, and yet on balance you aren’t half the man that Ted Crawford, or Kyle Ellis, or Rickman, or even Dale are now. Certainly aren’t as handsome as Dale.”

“Well … well … your hair is bad and that waitress Catherine is way prettier than you,” Jack challenged. He paused catching his breath, knowing the argument had turned farcical.

She huffed the kind of mock chuckles substituting a laugh, because a laugh would have expended far too much energy.  “Alright, alright … ouch,” she replied.

Lyndy allowed the whip to fall to the floor, putting her hand on her hip while she battled another installment of nausea and pain. Preventing an all-out breakdown, she backed to the wall and collapsed in a corner, coming to rest on her right shoulder.

“Can we at least call a truce now?” Jack reasoned, his voice having returned to calmness.

Lyndy nodded in answer, her eyes downcast and set upon the floor.

“Okay then,” said Jack. Using both hands he massaged his brow, chuckling and mouthing, “fouled by the urine of fifty cats…”

“I’m exhausted and metaphors were never a strength of mine,” she whispered.

Using a hand to steady himself, Jack began sidestepping along the horizontal passage, heading to the ladder shaft. “If we get out of here I never want to see you again.”

“Likewise,” she replied, her voice cracking, but following his footsteps.                                            

Catching up mid-way she held out her black pistol by the barrel, offering him the grip side. He glanced down solemnly, asking with his eyes why she would do this.

“This vile thing discharged without a magazine in place. I need you to re-arm it.”

Jack nodded, pulling on it sharply, causing it to emit the familiar click as a new cartridge entered the chamber. Achieving this he passed it back to her without emotion.

He pointed briefly to the mock stairs. “If I balance on that third to last rung, where will you stand?”

“The one higher, crouched but pushing upward. That way I can go first.”

“Okay,” he replied.                                                 

Ascending the iron rungs with renewed vigor—perhaps he wanted to be rid of her—Jack guided himself into position using the tunnel walls for bracing. Satisfied with this perch he rotated his body, putting his back up against the plate, then offered a hand to Lyndy. Her fingers locked with his as he helped her up.

Climbing around and behind Jack, she positioned herself slightly above, with a hand pressing upon the plate hoping to increase their combined leverage. She knew she had to be ready, because assuming they could get this thing to budge, a gun battle might ensue.

Pushing his lower back up against the coarse, rusty steel, he strained his leg muscles— a disgusting and excruciating thing to consider, as she’d seen how scarred up his back had been. She was glad to not see his face, would have had to look away. Teeth clenched, she began to do what she could to help, her whole body shaking. Blood or some mixture dribbled down the sides of Jack’s heaving rib cage, each rib covered in so little bodyfat that the stream arced up and down. He grunted loudly as he struggled and she shut her eyes in disgust.

Feeling her arm begin to throb and her stomach spasm, she didn’t know how long she could hold this position. But then she detected the faintest scraping noise, something she’d not been sure was possible: metal in friction, sliding against a concrete floor.

She felt Jack fighting, trembling so much his body kept brushing against hers. He groaned louder. Then miraculously a whiff of new scent entered her nostrils, the shoe polish odor of the workshop. This combined with the sound and feel of motion was making them both work harder. Little by little, they knew their efforts were succeeding. The sounds of scraping intensified, until at last they’d managed to force it sideways enough to create a 15-inch opening. The gap size was adequate for both of them to squeeze through.

Up above the lights were bright. She’d known there’d be no time for celebration. Before emerging she reached down to unholster the Beretta. Nine bullets.

At the mouth of the tube she set her elbow atop the shop floor. Like a groundhog weary of a circling hawk, she popped her head out, feeling Jack supporting her from below. The lights were dazzling at first.

It’s funny the things which stick in your brain. Those stencils on the side of the Patton tank; she counted ten kills. Truly one hell of a survivor. Chilling.

Unfortunately Take a Chance on Me had returned with a vengeance. On top of this a patter of footsteps, followed by motion and the bang of a door closing, then silence. “The one to the office?” she wondered.

“Someone’s here,” Lyndy whispered to Jack. “Must be Teri.”

The amount of clutter in this space would make it difficult to track somebody. Setting the gun down a moment, she used her arm and knee to lift herself out of the tube. She rose to her feet swiftly, scooping up the gun as she did.

Barely scurrying away, a burst of automatic weapons fire shattered the silence. Having no other choice she dove for the floor under the tank. Her eyes detected traces of movement in the play of shadows near the rolling toolboxes. But the person was out of sight.

Crouching beneath the cannon and extending her elbow, she held her pistol steady at arm’s length. It was too late to find better cover. Another burst came and she watched the muzzle flashes, squeezing the trigger three times, aiming for the source of the gunfire. Empty casings pinged to the floor. The lights flickered again.

“She’s trying to draw your fire,” said Jack, still not able to safely exit. The last of the echoes faded and all went quiet again. Unfortunately Jack was a sitting duck, under the yellowish cone of a bright light.

Rather than wait, extending this game, Lyndy began creeping along the floor near the bogie wheels and toward the aisle side. Ahead, her sightline inches above the floor, she could make out a person’s silhouette, their boots moving near the office. She sheltered by the disassembled tracks.

“I’ve got grenades,” shrieked a woman’s voice.

Lyndy caught her breath. Her heart was pounding again and it was a bad time for that—at least she knew she was alive. From the darkness she watched the door.

“You’re bluffing,” Lyndy responded. I hope.

She heard the clink of an M60 magazine engaging followed by another burst of gunfire, bullets ricocheting off the hard floors and spraying the indestructible armor of the tank. That gun could turn a person into a human colander. Lyndy squinted her eyes as chips of concrete peppered her body, stinging like tiny needles but preferable to bullets. Looking back, she thought she saw Jack’s head poking up.

“Drop the gun,” cried an angry Teri Rawlins.           

“We didn’t come for the money. Just let us go free. It’s all we want,” Lyndy yelled, voice echoing in the room.

“Drop yer gun and I won’t have to use this grenade.”

The sound of footsteps again stomping toward her, twenty feet away. Lyndy got up on one knee, pointing to where she expected to see the silhouette. Behind she heard Jack moving to another position.

“I just pulled the pin.”

Lyndy waited ten seconds then dove, rolling out across the aisle and taking partial cover behind a workbench.

She commenced shooting before she actually had a lock on her opponent—a risk she almost never took. But the grenade must have been a bluff as no explosions followed. Instead, with a screech like a banshee Mrs. Rawlins came charging her direction, the assault rifle pointed ahead of her supported in a shoulder strap. In her other arm she held a green canvas duffel bag. Though Bo’s claim of her death was false, time had been unkind to Teri’s looks.

Teri was headed straight at her with nowhere to escape. Pumping the trigger through the opening in the legs of the workbench, Lyndy watched a bullet tag Teri in the collar bone. Her arm slumped causing her to let go of the bag. But her other armed lifted, and that one had a finger on the trigger of an M60. The same large gap which provided Lyndy the open shot, offered an easy kill to Mrs. Rawlins as well. And she could fire 30 or more rounds, a guarantee of strafing Lyndy. Knowing she was in the line of fire Lyndy figured she’d have at best time for one shot only, so she aimed at the center of Teri Rawlin’s chest. In that same instant Lyndy witnessed Teri being slammed sideways by a massive football-style tackle from Jack. The woman hadn’t been weary of someone attacking from the side, probably not expecting Jack to be up and moving.

Narrowly missing Jack, her one bullet zinged off harmlessly to pierce the hangar doors. Meantime the sound of the tackle was like the crunching of metal, her body being crushed into steel cabinets and though she’d not seen Mrs. Rawlins hit the deck, she knew by the crashing of bodies that Teri would either be gravely injured or dead. The assault rifle fell to the floor.

She heard Jack huffing, spitting something on the floor, then regaining his composure.

“Is she  …” Lyndy trailed off, waiting. Using the bench to steady herself, she clambered back to her feet. With the aid of her mouth again she tightened the makeshift sling.

Jack soon arrived carrying the duffel bag, and the look on his face told her everything she needed to know. Something in his demeanor seemed baleful and Lyndy stayed far away from him as they hurried for the broken door. Once through the door, they realized the night air was moist, and a drizzle falling from a weakened summer storm—an unexpected surprise to cap off every other weirdness of this night.

“Where’s your car?” he questioned.

“I hid it, bout a mile down the road,” she answered. Fearful he might express anger over this inconvenience, or else extract revenge for the ignoble whipping, she held tight to the Beretta. Otherwise she would have holstered it.

But he said nothing, made no complaint, holding tight to the bag full of presumably his safe contents. The Spitfire led the way into the darkened driveway, their path lit only by the glowing perimeter lights.

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-19

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: If life is a giant game of chess, then I made some pretty rotten opening moves.

Bo was hobbling again, trouble in his hips. The odd item he’d been clutching unraveled, plummeting quickly to the floor. From where Lyndy was crouching it appeared like a thick extension cord, black and somewhat reflective.

As hellish as Camp Pinegate was known to be, one had to admit valuable life experience could be gained there. Warden Dixon had pitted her against some far superior athletes. They had taught her a lesson or two. Sometimes it was simply, how to lose and live to tell about it. Other times it was the nature of people. The more insecure an adversary, the more likely they were to launch all their best attacks early on, and at once. Thus if she could survive through the first round, the opponent would show far less energy in subsequent ones. Over time she’d become sensitive to this. It was the way she’d triumphed over a so-called Olympic boxing hopeful. The Spitfire just needed to keep from falling unconscious.

“I must remember to breath,” she told herself.

“Me and that ol’ cripple Steve, we’ve had our differences in the past,” spoke Bo in an irritated tone. She watched as he twirled his wrist. Now she could see it was a bullwhip he was holding. Bo snapped it against a wall. “We two used to work together. But really, I was hoping ya’ll might stick it on the bastard Brennik. Drives the same truck as us, and believes in every dang government conspiracy theory ever conceived.”

The tunnel lights flickered, the electric crane sapping energy. From below they could hear the buzzing as it unwound. It had a surprising rhythm to it, like a ticking watch with two slow beats and then a fast.

“But … but I liked you Bo,” she moaned. “I defended you to Jack.” Her hand was inching nearer to the Beretta. Ever so subtle, yet the fingers were quaking. With one rapid motion she would need to undo a snap, then palm the grip.

Meantime Bo kept advancing. She could feel warm tears forming in both her eyes, unsure whether they were due to pain, fear or disappointment. She knew this much: the Beretta was armed.

Rapidly as she could The Spitfire unholstered the gun, tugging it loose and straightening her good arm in the direction of Mr. Rawlins. In a flash the business end of the whip raked across her elbow, stinging like a scorpion tail; and though it didn’t coil all around, her shaky grip let loose. To her horror the matte-black 9-mm went sailing, landing six feet away and skidding impossibly out of reach.

Bad luck.                                                                                                 

For a fellow of his stature and condition, Bo’s reflexes were keen. If only the holster hadn’t been secured she felt she would have beaten him.

He quickly waddled to the spot where the gun landed, grunting as he bent over, clearly a painful thing to do. Then he pinched the barrel of the Beretta between two fingers, lifting it.

Bo cleared his throat. “Them fellas tell me you’re possessed by a demon. Any truth to the rumors?” She watched as he held the gun arm’s length from his body, released the clip and allowed the magazine to smack onto the floor. It was the sound of her plan failing.

Slowly she shook her head, following him with her deep brown eyes. Her left wrist was throbbing. She sniffed as tears began to pool, letting loose, sliding down one cheek. “I don’t suppose you have any more of those cold sodas do you?” she asked.

Bo stared at her unamused, locking eyes.

“What’s become of Jack?” she squeaked.

“Dead and buried.”

The steel plate landed with a sudden crash and blast of air. The ladder exit—possibly the only way out—had been sealed.

She felt herself hyperventilating. “Look Bo, as you can see I’m hemorrhaging blood. I’m dying.” Her voice became a whisper. “So I’ll let you in on a secret I’ve never told anyone.”

He paused, still roughly eight feet distant, waiting but skeptical.

“What you’ve heard is true. Demons are real and I’m possessed by one. Its name is … is … Mabel Dixon.”

In many ways, a fitting name for a demon.

Bo tilted his head. He still held the gun in one hand, the bull whip by the other; a single loop one foot in radius curled on the floor. “Ain’t never heard a demon by that name.”

“Well now you have. Do you wanna meet this demon?” she offered.

“Why? What sort of game are you playing?”

“Not a game. I can’t control it. I promise as I die, you will meet the demon.” She began to inject more of a drawl and hissing into her speech. Her only reference was how demons talk in movies, a limited bank of experience.

An amused look came over him. “Cut the crap, Spitfire. What a joke.”

“You gotta come closer,” she coaxed.

She started to make her eyes roll up in her skull, showing more of the whites.

He came nearer, crouching. “I didn’t wanna kill ya. You’re worth a lot of money to right people. Maybe I can get something for your corpse?”

“Closer Bo, the demon has something to say.”

“Stop messing around,” he demanded, but he was listening.

“Curious about demons are you?” she hissed. Her fingers wrapped tight round the knife and she plunged it into Bo’s ribcage, underneath his left shoulder, keeping it parallel to the floor to maximize likelihood it would pass between ribs. A look of shock and anger came across his face.

He slammed a fist into her ear and she squinted. For a moment one pain superseded the other, her skull hurting greater than her snapped wrist. Meantime Bo reached for the handle of the bowie knife, wincing as he extracted it from his torso.

Knowing Bo was distracted she reached down and grabbed his hand, the one holding the gun. She slipped her finger over the trigger and squeezed, sending the sole chambered bullet into Bo’s right thigh, in one side and out the other.

The cracking of the gun reverberated so loudly her ears went numb—like being in close proximity to a celebration cannon—as slivers of the parabellum zinged from the walls.

Bo slumped over, clutching his knee and screeching like an animal. Indeed being shot through the thigh, having a shattered bone that way would put anyone in shock. Now the Beretta was truly empty and she needed to reload the magazine.

First she needed to extricate herself. She was battling waves of nausea. Placing one knee atop her good right arm, she let her fingers wrap around the trap handle. Then biting her lip until she tasted blood, she used her leg to aid in leverage as she forced the handle into the trap-set position. Grimacing and straining with everything she had left, she felt the trap beginning to scrape open.

As the jaws of the trap released tension, the blood from her injury began to flow more freely and pool on the floor. In spite of the discomfort, she pitched back away from the trap, feeling relief just being able to stand. Her left arm was mangled and useless. She felt another wave of nausea and gagged. Her stomach unable to hold its contents, she hurled on the floor.

Catching her breath, outfit now splattered in vomit, she stared at Bo. He was writhing on the floor, clutching his leg with both hands and bleeding profusely from double wounds. Soon he started to choke, unable to speak or scream. The one under his shoulder was the gravest of the two injuries, and likely she’d pierced a lung. She’d seen a man or two get stabbed this way and unless it happened a stone’s throw from an operating room, there was hardly a chance of coming back from it. Bo was a goner. On the other hand, her situation was no better and in some ways she envied his easy way out. A disgusting compound fracture like the one in her wrist would take longer, but could kill as easily—just meant an extended period of suffering.

Being trapped in a fallout shelter and bleeding out, if ever there was a time to panic it was now. Except she had no time.

The Spitfire knew she needed to fashion a tourniquet desperately. Perhaps she could repurpose something from Bo’s belt, or a section of the whip? Bo continued mumbling things unintelligible amidst gurgles, his eyes wide and vacant, as frothy blood foamed from his open mouth. He kept twitching too, making her uncomfortable.

As she re-holstered the gun, Lyndy looked down at him with a twinge of pity. “Sorry dude, but you left me no other choices.” Still out of breath, whilst reaching down to retrieve the full magazine she added, “and say hi to the devil for me.”

Lyndy Life Observation: Know how they have those famous 24-hour wedding chapels in Las Vegas? I would love to find out the percentage of those spur-of-the-moment marriages which actually lasted. Do you think ten percent? Too high?

“Must concentrate,” she told herself.

Haunted by weariness, a pop tune had somehow invaded her psyche, planting itself in her brain: Take a Chance on Me by ABBA. “Oh god. Please not now,” she thought, as the piano kicked in. Catchy, but entirely the wrong moment.

With shock setting in, Lyndy recognized she may be losing her grip. Every exposed skin surface had become shiny with excess perspiration. Her head felt heavy, her view of the room clouded and reasoning hazy.

Panting, she glanced around, her eyes darting. The corridor was sealed and how many backyard fallout shelters had more than one entry and exit? None that she’d ever seen. Might as well be a tomb.

She could try pressing against the steel plate but she already knew the outcome; even with two functioning arms and her legs straining, the plate hadn’t budged. The thought of raising it from beneath was unfathomable in her condition. “I’m really in deep shit now.”

Her broken wrist was throbbing, hanging too low down below her heart; she needed to do something. It was breaking her concentration.

Observing Bo, she could tell he’d ceased twitching. She poked at his ribs with her boot. A fresh dribble of blood flowed from his mouth, but otherwise he didn’t react. Heart must have stopped.

Crouching down, The Spitfire grabbed hold of his work shirt. Twisting the flap around her hand to obtain a better grip, she jerked her right arm. At first it was stuck under the weight of Bo. She yanked harder throwing her full body into it, finally causing the buttons to loosen or snap. The shirt ripped with three-quarters breaking free, leaving one sleeve behind and the hairy white body of Mr. Rawlins uncovered.

She cradled her left arm at the elbow, drawing the smelly shirt around her neck like a shawl. Using her mouth and her hand, she tied the sleeve into a crude overhand knot.

In another pulse of surging pain seeming to radiate up her torso, she bent at the hips and tucked her good arm across her navel. Nothing could allow her to continue during these. Paralyzed, she was forced to squint and endure this episode. Her strength was fading fast.

Once on the down swing and able to move again, Lyndy began to explore, staggering wearily to the square room. As she’d anticipated it was a dead end, the bleak chamber having poured concrete walls on all sides, only one way in or out—like a death row prison cell. A busted transistor radio, plastic buckets and ammo cans populated the corners, plus a spartan metal shelf. Nothing remotely useful—not like dynamite or a plasma torch. One small vent in the ceiling roughly four inches diameter. What she wouldn’t give for a clean dry towel to absorb her blood.

A pile of dirty blankets littered the floor, taking up the middle. It smelled strongly of human piss and the concrete floors were stained. Near to this a dog bowl, rust colored water.

“Ay-ay-ay,” she mouthed, rushing back to the rebar ladder and surface tube. With one arm she started climbing. At a high rung three from the top, Lyndy balanced uneasily, having to lean into the wall. Then reaching up she pressed her palm flat against the steel. The thought of moving it this way was laughable, obviously no give at all. Ascending an extra step, contorting her body, she tried pushing her upper back against it. But it seemed risky, inviting a bad fall. Plus she was unable to apply much force. This situation was hopeless.

“Dang, if only I had Jack here,” she whispered. “But he’s dead like Bo.”

Moving sloth-like, yet intermittently having to jerk her arm between the rungs Lyndy descended. Touching boots to the floor, she gazed back in the direction of the big square room. Glancing at her makeshift sling she could see the fingers were turning an ugly shade of purple. It was becoming difficult to stand.

“What sane guy marries a chick with just one working arm? Scratch that. What sensible fellow dates a one-armed girl?” she shuddered.

Personality wasn’t going to make up for this deficit. Let’s face it. My personality is crap. But I will save big money on manicures.

With a closed fist she smacked herself in the forehead four times. “Get. It. Together. Spitfire,” she muttered, emphasizing as if each word were its own sentence.

Chest heaving, she continued gazing to the square room and the pile of blankets. She sniffed. “This shithole smells horrid. Why?” she thought. It wasn’t Mr. Rawlins—too soon for that. She got a sinking feeling. If horror movies had taught her anything, then something was lurking under there. A corpse? A monster? Jimmy Hoffa?

Tilting her head, Lyndy at last marched up to the pile of blankets. Reaching down gripping by an edge, she swiped the uppermost off like one would a tablecloth. Underneath was another blanket. She frowned. As uncomfortable as it was, triggering yet another wave of intense pain, she squatted as low as possible. She then went down on her knees to become more eye level with the clutter.

“Jack Decklin?” she whispered.

“What,” came a weak reply from the darkness.

Her spirit was reeling. “Holy crap! Have you been here this entire time?” At first she was thrilled just not being alone. Were the situation any less dire her heart would have rejoiced for this reason. But something seemed offbeat.

Like a frightened tortoise Jack extended his head in a guarded fashion from underneath his pile of blankets, craning his neck to peek around.

Was his memory wiped? Did he know who he was? “Mr. Decklin,” she repeated, a little louder. His eyes were vacant.

“Lyndy,” he replied.

“Yes. Yes. Can you stand? Walk I mean. Can you walk?”

Sullenly Jack shook his head. “No. Too weak.” Reaching out with two fingers he clawed back the blanket she’d moved aside. His face was blackened with dirt.

“Why? What’s happened? Are you paralyzed?” she asked.

“They captured me, tortured me with a chain. I fell prey to one of their damn booby traps.” His voice was raspy, breathing irregular, face looking feverish. “I keep passing out so they stopped … temporarily.” He nodded to the upstairs. “My back is one big open wound and now I have an infection. Haven’t eaten in days. I think they had plans for me, but Bo couldn’t transport me. I’m too ill. Every time they touch me I start screaming and lose consciousness.”

“But you realize Bo’s dead now?” Lyndy pointed to the end of the passage. “I killed him. I was forced to; him or me. So let’s go.”

Jack barely acknowledged her.

“What happened to your gun?”

He grinned to himself. “I pulled the trigger to shoot Bo and it jammed, like a stovepipe where the previous cartridge stuck in position. Worst possible timing.” He sounded sheepish as he spoke the words. “Got any smokes on you?”

She laughed, partly from the absurdity of it all. “Oh man, you’re kidding.” Getting back on her feet she saw blood, a dark claret red, soaking through the makeshift sling. She felt her life force depleting. “Okay, we should catch up later. Listen, with Bo out of the picture, how many people do you suppose are still upstairs?”

Jack inhaled and winced, as though in agony. “What time of day is it?”

His eyes remained shut now. He smelled repugnant, and she’d still not forgotten the story Leonard Mack had told her.

“It’s after dark, probably nine-thirty at night,” Lyndy replied.

“It’ll be only Teri Rawlins now. They sleep in a trailer out back. Watch out, she’ll be armed.”

The shift in personality was dramatic and what little she could discern, revolting. He’d once projected the strength of a male who could handle anything. Now Jack seemed reduced to a whimpering toddler. A part of her felt sorry, but she felt so many conflicting emotions at once, she wasn’t sure what to think. And anyway there was no time for this nonsense.

“We have to get out of here as soon as possible. I’m literally dying and at this rate I won’t make it through the night. You’re not long for this world either. One way or another, we’ve both got to move.”

“Teri won’t move that plate for love or money … or anything.”

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?”

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-17

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #190: The modern wristwatch comes in countless variants, with hundreds of features, both analog and digital display, endless complications, styles, levels of decorative bling, but I’ll tell you something: the most important feature of a wristwatch after timekeeping accuracy? Legibility. That’s it really. Just has to be legible.

The rear entryway leading to unkept sandlots and creosote was propped with a broom handle, allowing a modicum of air circulation within the tiny CBB building.

She prayed for a thunderstorm, anything. Stirring her tiny paper cup of ketchup using a limp In-N-Out fry, she fanned herself with a glossy copy of Cosmo magazine. Her purse rested open on her lap, legs in tight pedal-pusher jeans. Earlier, thousand island dressing had drizzled from a double-double onto her pearl white sleeveless blouse and she’d left it be. Hopefully it would come out in the next wash—whenever that would be.

Her bare feet were pushing on one end of the mahogany desk, toes fresh with sparkly nail polish after a pedicure; Chan usually hated this behavior as the smell drove him ape, but was so engrossed in an episode of Gilligan’s Island he seemed less affected by the outside world, including oppressive heat. On the tube The Professor was busy repairing their white transistor radio, also drinking a mai-tai, trimmed in the customary pleated paper umbrella.

Chan exhaled in frustration. Turning to Lyndy and gesturing at his new color television. “Shit, how many of those freakin cocktail umbrellas did they bring with them for a 3-hour cruise? They’ve been there what, two years now? Still have a Captain Morgan supply?”

Lyndy chuckled. “It was so realistic up until this point,” she posited. “I’ll bet you a dollar a coconut is going to fall on The Skipper’s head.” Chan loved TV.

He lowered his head, touching the desk.

Sipping cold Tab through a straw in a glass bottle, she tried to avoid over-thinking. A peaceful week had passed since the ill-fated encounter at the rest stop and the long night with Jack. Her heart ached, lonely for the touch of a man … not Jack … a more caring one, Dale or Ted Crawford.

She checked the underside of her arms. They still had bruising from the crazy fight, but gradually were blending to her normal mocha skin tone. Wanting to see in daylight she stood up, re-attaching shoes. Her heals clicked on the tiles as she made her way to the front.

Parting the blinds she could observe the white mustang occupying third spot from the door, now approaching complete restoration. She was being more careful with it than any car she’d owned prior. Beyond the first row and sidewalk, an elegant sedan made a wide left turn into the parking lot, seeming out of place for Barstow.

But it was the glint of a pointed and shiny object residing on the hood which really caught her attention, a statuette—like a silvery version of a Hollywood Oscar—and a church-organ sized radiator as none other. Behind the windscreen a man in valet’s cap was driving. The car’s flawless paint and chromed accents contrasted with blacked out windows for the rear, obscuring passengers.

“Mr. Chan, you ever see a Rolls-Royce in Barstow before?”

Chan shook his head. “Not since Sonny and Cher stopped for gas.”

He was joking. Or was he?

She swallowed hard. “Ugh. There’s a police cruiser tailing. It’s for us.” Intuitively she backed away from the door, scanning her memory for anything which would explain this. Incompetent IRS filings? Probably not. Tax collectors didn’t drive such nice automobiles. Plus no one from the Lovelace Corp had a Rolls, not even Rita.

I could still make a run for it.

“What makes you assume they’re coming here?” queried Chan.

“Are you kidding?” she answered, dread in her voice. She flipped open her makeup case, checking her hair and eyes. “You think they’re going to the Pump-N-Pay for Cheetos and beer?” With her free hand she lightly fluffed her perm.

“Well, you’ve got a point,” replied Chan, switching off his TV and hastily sweeping empty burger wrappers from atop his desk. Pinching the ketchup cups, he dropped them one by one into the waste basket. Then clamping an inch-tall stack of loose printouts from the fax machine, Chan hastily stuffed these into a plastic milk crate.  He stood up, re-tucking his shirt in his pants and hooking the top button to class up his collar.

One knew it was a touchy situation when Chan was uncomfortable.

He exhaled dramatically: “Why you gotta look pretty to get arrested!”

“Have you ever been arrested?” she whispered. “No? Then pipe down!”

She was standing in heels, smiling, purse strap across her chest when seconds later, the bells jingled and door flung open. The first man who entered was wearing an expensive wool suit and fedora style cap—like a classic G-man. He was followed close behind by a uniformed lawman in cowboy attire and enormous belt buckle, a recognizable legend known to all in the east Mojave.

Sheriff Granville Jackson was already scowling due to having his daily routine interrupted by whatever this mess was; they’d never gotten along, not as well as he and her brother.

Chan shot her a look like, “What the hell did you do?”

Discretely Lyndy shrugged back, mouthing “I don’t know.”

The older gentleman in the suit lifted the hat from his head, holding it by one arm as he stood at the cabinet. He slipped on bifocals and in his other hand, he palmed a card-sized slip of paper. “I need to speak with a woman known as … The Spitfire.” He stated it business-like, looking her in the eye. “She’s a contractor for The Lovelace Corporation. Is that you?”

“It is. What’s this regarding?” she asked.

“My name is Jack Decklin Senior.” He paused to clear his throat. “Apparently you were among the last persons to see my son. He spent a night at your … dwelling—a trailer home located off old Route-66—after which he visited a friend for breakfast at the depot commissary, and hasn’t been seen or heard since.”

She felt a sense of mounting panic. She glanced to Sheriff Jackson, a six-foot man, he was showing no emotion. He stared back sternly. She looked to Chan, who was puzzled.

“Jack’s disappeared?” She massaged her temples, having had a premonition of this. “The car he was driving, it was a black and gold Trans Am—very showy.”

“I’m afraid we haven’t located it,” said Granville. “I’ve got every deputy looking.”

“Ay caramba.” She reached for the arm of the client chair, pulling it closer. “I need to sit down.” She pressed her fingertips together. Both men continued to stare. “But he told me he was going to a wedding.”

“His twin sister’s wedding,” added Decklin Senior. “He only has one sibling. She was inconsolable, so were his mother and I. The gala event was ruined.”

Lyndy eased into the chair, sitting in a hunched forward position, elbows resting on her knees and feet so close her heels were touching. “All he said was he was traveling straight on to Santa Barbara.” She slowly shook her head, squinting at her dangling purse.

Decklin Senior inched forward, glancing to Granville. “Lemme ask the obvious question, you wouldn’t have a speculation as to where he might have taken a side trip, on his way to the coast. Did he mention any ideas, any leads he wanted to check out on the way?”

She looked up. “No.”

“I don’t buy your answer,” asserted Decklin Senior.

“Dude I feel awful, but I don’t know where he is. He wasn’t forthcoming with his plans, or really, anything.” Removing one shoe at a time, she began massaging her feet. “But he was quite clear he intended on being at the wedding.” She paused. “I know cause he asked me to come with him. I said no.”

Chan rolled his eyes.

“So if we get a search warrant for your place we aren’t going to find any evidence.”

Shit. The watch.  She said nothing.

“Where is my son,” he demanded.

“Sir, I have no earthly idea,” she repeated, louder than before.

“Arrest this woman,” he barked to Granville.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on a minute,” spoke Chan, stepping between them. He pointed to Lyndy. “It’s a fact, Melinda is … the most insufferable, self-absorbed, loud-mouthed migraine inducing citizen in the county. Some days, you just want to throw Melinda off a bridge.”

“Hey!” Lyndy interjected. “I’m right here.”

“But I digress.” Chan cleared his throat. “Looking at it another way, sometimes I wonder if it not her fault. She born this way. I have known her since she was sixteen, and I can tell when this girl is lying and when she is telling the truth. Melinda is telling you the truth. She doesn’t know where your son is.”

“I trust Mr. Chan,” assured Sheriff Jackson. “Miss Martinez somewhat less so, but in this circumstance I believe her.”

Senior seemed agitated. He glared back at the two of them. Then he turned to Lyndy. “Very well. I’ll give you 48 hours. Not a minute more.”

She shifted her shoulder position into upright posture. “I’ll find him. It’s what I do.”

---

Lyndy Life observation: I wonder, do people ever really “trade places” like in a Hallmark movies. i.e. does the princess of a small, quaint, eastern European nation trade places with a chick from Illinois who just happens to look exactly like her?

Pressure was on and not the good kind, the do or die.

Seated in the shade of a thriving pepper tree, dressed in jean shorts with a black crop top, she had her elbows bended round her knees. She’d worn no makeup.

All morning there’d been scant activity at the Brennik residence, but she was noticing new things. That’s the way when one is too focused on a singular goal, too driven. You miss details. She wasn’t far from the homemade keep out and booby trap signs.

She hadn’t seen the last time, but someone had once constructed a small homestead across from the Brennik property. Probably a two-roomer shack. All the wood walls and roof were gone—likely burnt up in a fire—but what remained was a front stoop, formed of sandy concrete mix and a fireplace, flagstones still stacked in their original position. Adjacent to the fireplace, hidden amongst invasive weeds, the rusting springs of a double bed. Near to this a grapevine, not a wild variety, someone had brought it here; it was eking out a living in the shade of the tree, ascending the chimney. It even had small spherical grapes dangling from its many limbs.

The humans had moved on, but the plants were left to adapt or die, and some of them adapted.

The Spitfire was in the dumps. Other troubling thoughts were entering her mind. At this point she wasn’t sure she wanted to find Jack. If her ass weren’t on the line she might have let him stay missing.

Nobody was at home on either side of the pavement. Every creature of the desert with greater than three brain cells was sleeping somewhere cooler, awaiting the night. Lyndy jerked her head, igniting a fresh Newport, shoving the lighter in her back pocket. Then she paced across the one-lane, sighting no cars either direction.

A part of her anticipated the worst, a kind of old west justice. Often aggression and a macho attitude led to such an outcome, a six foot hole in the desert, an unmarked grave. But how could she explain this to Jack’s father? He wouldn’t accept the answer.

She searched, combing all around the white trailers for Hartley, but somehow she knew he wouldn’t be there. It was a school day and though the little survivalist hated school, it was the only explanation. His newest, small-shoed prints led to the roadside, where presumably he’d caught the yellow bus.

Shell casings littered the grounds. So did beer cans. Brennik Senior did a lot of shooting and beer drinking, but none of those were crimes; didn’t make him a thief, bad parent maybe.

Tracks in the sand told stories of other vehicles coming and going, some large like the two-and-a-half ton. But none matched the Pontiac. Even Chan would have said to let this one go. Out of luck and out of time, she moved on.

Setting off in the Needles direction she punched the gas, weaving between semis on the I-40 and speeding the entire way. At Crucero Road she exited.

Not daring leave pavement—too soon—she patiently observed the comings and goings from beside the interstate ramp. Of course the white mustang couldn’t make it to the plateau, be lucky to get beyond the first couple switchbacks. Yet trucks loaded with produce crates were coming out in groups of two and three. A bountiful harvest. Nothing too suspicious about that.

She rolled back through the underpass to the other side, tapping a finger on the fuel gauge. Like most parts on a restored junkyard car, it couldn’t be trusted. Pulling under the awning, the pump closest to the office, she uncapped the center fuel cap. Checking herself in the mirror she confirmed what she knew, she appeared like a freak show attraction. She was planning to wash her hair when this was over, forget about the awful perm. Topping it off her face was breaking out.

With eight rolled up dollars, a sweaty shirt and cigarette in her lips, she sauntered into the station c-store. It was the same one they’d stopped at in the Jeep CJ, where she’d seen Miranda driving in the green sedan. Would be just her luck to bump into her ex-fiancé’s new spouse again.

The Spitfire was in a daydream. She slapped her money on the counter, checking the hour on their plastic Coors beer clock. Recognizing her, the sweaty clerk set down his Jolt soda and belched. Behind him, her eyes were drawn to an autographed photo: a smokey barroom stage. A man on a stool, holding an electric guitar. A grinning country-type fellow in huge straw hat and sunglasses.”

“Bocephus,” grunted the attendant, pawing her money away.

“Bo what? What did you say?” she asked.

“That picture you’re looking at.”

“Is it Hank Williams son?” Lyndy inquired.

“That’s Bocephus all right,” he replied.

Suddenly out of breath Lyndy bent down at a 90-degree angle, gripping her hands on her knees.

“You alright ma’m?” asked the clerk, genuinely concerned.

“Just a cramp,” she replied through gritted teeth, because it would be too hard to explain what was causing her pain: the sudden realization she knew exactly what became of Jack.

---

Later that evening …

She could hear a pack of coyotes in the distance. Unseen, they were yipping and barking; some said it indicated a kill, others said they did this to discourage competing packs from invading their territory. Either way it was nerve-wracking.

The yellow exterior lights were coming on; a breeze was picking up.

She’d nearly encircled the property with no trace of the Trans Am. Safe to assume it was here, but only a fool would have left it visible.

Maybe I ought to consider a career change?

Crouched at the highest corner of the fence line her whole body was trembling. A combo of anticipation and keenness to be moving. She touched her fingers to one of the no trespassing sings. Its weathered paint came off like chalk on her nails. She’d watched cars departing, Bo’s employees, but no sign of the boss himself. From this vantage one could see most of the paved area surrounding the hanger-like workshops—the place with the tanks. No other movable cars were evident, just mountains of junk stacked on its sides.

She’d not forgotten that pump-action shotgun.

To her left ankle she’d strapped a hunting knife, on her right thigh tucked in a holster was the 9-mm Beretta—loaded to full capacity. Her purse was in the Ford, under the seat and parked over a mile away. In a culvert under the roadbed with tumbleweeds piled up, it was so well disguised, if she died here they’d have a hell of a time ever finding it.

Bo had been emphatic that his wife was deceased, even shed a tear, but now she was questioning everything about Mr. Rawlins; his name included.

From her back pocket she retrieved a thrift store set of wire cutters. With one hand covering the other for increased leverage she snipped three of the lower links, creating a hole large enough for a tortoise to stroll through. Either that or a very determined but small woman wriggling on their stomach.

She tossed the cutters away.

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-16

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: Are you aware the year 2100 is not a leap year? Nor was 1900. But year 2000 is. (Of course, if you’re reading this and the year is 2100 then you probably knew that, but more importantly, I must say I’m amazed Lyndy Martinez is still relevant!)

The light in the room was weak, old fashioned and definitely of its era, like a soap opera set. But then again antique things delighted him.

Jack chuckled as he shoveled a five layer pancake wedge in his mouth.

“Sir, all due respect, that one may seem a charming cute girl to spend a weekend with. She dresses nice I’ll give you that. Trust me though, from all I’ve observed there’s an ancient demon lurking within; it’s probably got a biblical name. Know what I mean? She will hurt you man. She’ll hurt ya bad.”

Pretending to scribble on a napkin, Jack mused aloud, “Dear Abby, my girlfriend is cute and charming, but seems to be possessed by an ancient demon. What should I do?”

Dylan nodded. “Signed, alligator stuntman.”

“You’re wrong. She’s not that way deep down, but point well taken. I happen to have seen her fight. It’s eye opening.”

Dylan swiveled his stool by 180, facing reverse of the counter. He supported his elbow on the rounded chrome edge, sipping orange juice through a straw. “I’m guessing you didn’t come all this way for relationship advice or to tell me how wonderful my trade is.”

“Naw. Absolutely not.” Jack cleared his throat. “Here’s the truth. I’m hoping you know of a way to help me—not asking you to do my job—but think with me. What can you tell me about the Project Genesis … cult…I guess you’d call it?”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Them people keep to themselves. Admirably hard workers, mostly. I can respect that. Some of em have side jobs here and in Needles, others stay long enough to buy supplies and jet.”

“I met their esteemed chief architect, a Brother Steve. I like his title.”

Dylan tilted his head, swallowing a big bite of bagel and wiping his mouth. “You know, I hear he used to work for the company too, but they let him go ten years back. He’s got a permanent disability, would have to make too many accommodations.”

“Interesting.” Jack’s chin sunk. He took a breath, bracing his forehead and supporting it by his palms. “What I really need is a way of identifying former employees by their face alone, not a full legal name.”

Dylan perked up, now fully engaged, excited at the prospect of being asked to assist in an investigation. “You mean the train robbery was done by insiders?”

“One insider at least. Had to be.” Clearing his throat he continued, “trouble is, I only know him by how he looks, I don’t trust him to provide a real name.” He gestured to the offices. “Which makes the company directory useless. We don’t have headshots in there.”

“You wanna describe him to me?” queried Dylan.

Jack shook his head. “He’s a plain dude. White male, guessing brown hair and beer belly. Forty or forty-five. Might be too hard to narrow this down.”

Dylan exhaled in a laugh. “Ah. You’re describing three-quarters of our employees.” He stood up suddenly. “But there could be a way. We used to have this employee of the month award. They stopped doing it, but for a while they would take a polaroid picture of you—a headshot—and put it up on this plaque in the hall, with your name and job title.”

“Can you take me there?”

“Sure can. Follow me.”

Jack wiped his mouth and hands with a napkin. “Those pictures always come out awful.”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

---

Lyndy Life Tip #189: The food label “all natural” means virtually nothing and applies broadly to almost any category of processed food.

Certain days she wondered why she remained here, far-flung from every defining symbol of the state—especially the beaches. But the shade of an improbable oak tree or dip in the cool springs on a hot day, and the countless stars at night reminded her.

And then there was piloting a fast car on a two-lane desert road, windows lowered, radio loud, fresh air cooling your skin. Folks who didn’t understand never would.

She was feeling elated. Both passenger and driver’s side windows down, bare feet on the pedals, planted in the vinyl bucket seat of the k-code mustang—Darrel had shined it up—one fist on the four-speed rowing gears and another on the steering wheel.

Only problem: this was not a dark desert highway, rather it was Darrel Ward’s crummy attached stucco garage. The white mustang was motionless on jack stands, looking sad and pathetic. It was missing both bumpers, hood leaning against one wall, new headers spread on the floor, coated in decaying header wrap like the stuff Frankenstein’s monster wore.

The child inside her wanted to mimic throaty engine noises, but the mighty 289 4-barrel was tough to imitate.

“So Darrel, how much horsepower you think we can squeeze outta this engine? Three hundred? Three fifty?”

No answers came. Tones of Darrel’s rock-n-roll station, a beach boys song, could be heard coming from his transistor radio.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Know what we ought to do when we get this baby running? You know how they sell those ridiculous four-foot tall margaritas at the Tropicana in Vegas. You and I should cruise out there … bring Catherine too…ratchet up the chaos.”

From across the cramped garage a relaxed Tammy Ward half-snorted and half-laughed while fanning herself. She was seated in a striped vinyl lawn chair—outfit consisting of a pink bikini top and sonic blue hot pants—hair in multi-color curlers, feet up with a romance novel. She shook her head. “Nope, you’d just be asking for trouble.” Tammy went back to reading her book. The garage door was up, and by her feet, a plastic spray bottle she used to mist the air with water.

From under the car Lyndy heard Mr. Ward pleading in frustration, “Hey Miss Martinez, I really need you to concentrate right now. I’m trying to bleed these brakes—your brakes—which are vital to safe operation of a fast car.”

“Oh right, right,” Lyndy replied. “Keep pumping then?”

“Yes please. Up … down …. up … down. And if you blow this engine apart by being reckless, revving up over 6500, don’t come cryin back to me to fix it.”

“Lo siento.” The pedal had that spongy feel, when air had surely worked its way past the master cylinder.

Out of nowhere a horn beeped, two times, directly below on the driveway.

Darrel’s head shot up, banging against the front quarter panel. “Argh!” he grumbled, worming his way back out. “Who the heck is that?”

Tammy lowered her romance novel. “It’s the new parts delivery guy,” she replied.

“Honey Bunny, can you sign?” asked Darrel. “Please?”

“On it,” replied Tammy.

Her flimsy chair creaked as Tammy leveraged herself upright.

The delivery truck for the auto parts store was an import pickup. Huffing up the Ward’s sloped driveway came a tall man in uniform—almost too small to fit—having a logo of the auto parts store.

The black man used a shop towel to dab at his forehead, holding three boxes under one arm, but he was all smiles and friendly. Meantime Tammy signed, standing on one foot and switching one to another soon as the skin could no longer tolerate the heat.

The Spitfire adjusted one mirror to better see their interaction, still pumping on the brakes for Darrel. Seconds passed and she tried to not be distracted from her duty.

“Have a real nice day Mrs. Ward,” she heard him say. Returning to the shade Tammy dumped the load of boxes, some of them tumbling onto crowded workbenches. Lyndy could hear her mumbling something to her husband about buying too much.

Tilting her chin, Lyndy set her gaze upon the empty seat next to her. She set a finger on her lips, slipping on her sandals.

An instant later she shoved open the door, bursting out of the garage, purse dangling and scrambling down the driveway—flip-flops buckling as she weaved her way between the parked cars and brick retaining walls.

Hopping the steep slope she saw the man restarting his ignition and checking notes on a clipboard, about to reverse away.

“Brother Leonard!” she exclaimed. “I knew it was you.” She pointed a finger.

His head shot up. Staring at her through the windshield, his look was dismayed. She could see it in his eyes.

“Remember me?” she queried, a beaming smile on her face. She pointed to the eastern line of mountains. “Project Genesis! You were there, I’m sure. We spoke about the deuce-and-a-half.” She charged the driver’s side door, intending to put her elbows on the window frame.

He shook his head no. Hurriedly Leonard threw an arm on the seatback, reversing into the street at a dangerous speed.

Lyndy held up and waved her empty fingers, trying to show she meant no harm. “What are you doing?” she questioned.

She saw him mouthing something unheard, seeming to reply: “I don’t know who you are lady.” His delivery truck raced away.

Disappointed, Lyndy adjusted her sandals and hiked back up to the cars. She folded her arms. “Well that was strange.” Reaching for the spritzing bottle, she amply misted the air around her head like putting on hairspray.

“What did you do to the delivery guy?” Tammy asked.

“I don’t know,” she lamented, checking the time on her watch. “Usually takes a couple dates before a man flees from me like that.”

Tammy grinned. Darrel was standing now, holding a big screwdriver, frowning as he slapped the plastic handle against his open palm. “Shall we?”

“Say Darrel, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s like the record for doing a complete engine pull and swap, start to finish?”

Rather than snap back, Darrel cocked his head, considering, as though Lyndy had for once asked him something thought-provoking. “I dunno about a record, but in my twenties I was on top of my game. Me and a friend came here after work, started on a swap at six-thirty on a Friday and we were test driving the car by 11:00 that same night.”

The Spitfire nodded. She gestured to the front yard by the chain-link entry gate. “Ya’ll need to setup a hose and sprinkler system out here; we can each take turns runnin through it like ten-year-olds.”

“Now yer talkin sense,” replied Tammy, flopping back in her chair.

---

Hours later …

Sun was setting, final rays merging into the horizon. These summer days stretched onward, lasting too long.

Something in the air smelled different, a hint of peppermint—main ingredient of menthol—overpowered by the excessively smoky burger-shack kitchen. Another person had been in this parking lot recently, cause Leonard Mack didn’t smoke.

He dismissed the thought; too busy to contemplate. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he had one more delivery to make. Leonard wasn’t even hungry. Too tired to be hungry.

He braced himself on the bed of the truck, staring at trees rustling, a row of them behind the strip mall parking lot, each branch moving in an out in a slow dance, framed against the desert sky. Black starlings were roosting there, dozens of them.

Days like this when he had a back-to-back nonstop schedule, it seemed all he did was work. Leonard hadn’t taken a weekend off in two years. He couldn’t remember what it was like to have free time; didn’t know what he would do with time off or how to relax. Because he didn’t know himself.

Did he like fishing? Did he like music? Did he like golf?

He didn’t know. All life was work. His mom had been the same way.

There was Leonard, man of faith. There was Leonard the divorcee, who still supported his ex-wife cause she had no one. Then there was Leonard the man who worked three jobs. Other than that, he slept.

Following this delivery he had seven hours to rest before starting his next job.

He stacked the blue and white boxes from the auto parts shop, double checking labels and names. He opened the door, setting a half-page size clipboard on the dash, breathing a sigh, resetting the odometer. Facing away from the truck he sat down on the bench seat, rotating himself into position. Then he put a foot on the clutch pedal, inserting the key in the ignition. From the avenue a car horn honked. At a distance, an angry driver yelled. Atop this one could hear a freight train, a distant rumbling.

All at once he got the shivering sensation he wasn’t alone, his foot jerking off the clutch. Had he not been so tired he would have known sooner. He cursed himself for letting his guard down. The whole cab shook. He’d never been held up, but there was a first for everything.

He turned to face the intruder, ready to fight. But instantly he recognized them, an attractive girl who worked for the bail bondsman, purse in lap. She had fierce brown eyes, accented by a dark eyeliner.

“Hi there,” she said cheerfully. She held up an ancient driver’s license by her finger and thumb, for him to see. “Says Mr. Mack,” she emphasized. “I only knew you as Leonard til now. Seems nobody has a last name in Project Genesis. Good thing this was in the door pocket.”

“You startled me woman,” he scolded.

“This is a Georgia driver’s license though,” she replied. “And it’s expired.” She smiled kindly, passing it over to him.

Momentarily Leonard gazed at the black and white headshot, displaying a younger and slimmer version of himself. But his own eyes were the same.

“I have a California one too,” he defended. “It’s funny. Guess I been hanging on to this to remind me of something … an old home.” He relaxed a bit, slumping his shoulders and sinking in the seat. Sliding the card in his shirt pocket he rested his hands on the wheel. “I’d bounce you outta here lady, but somehow I don’t think I’ll be rid of you. You have a reputation as a pest. Plus I’m bushed. So why you been followin me?”

“Sorry to bother,” replied The Spitfire. “But you refused to talk to me earlier. Why?”

“I know where you work. You find people who don’t wanna be found, whether they like it or not.”

“Whatever else you heard, it’s an exaggeration. But I’ll confess that last part is a fair description.”

The pickup truck had bench seats. Whatever fabric material used in manufacture was cheap and fraying; beaten by the sun and repaired using copious amounts of duct tape where it wore through.

“I recognized you up at Project Genesis. Others did too, that’s why they acted coldly.” His tone changed, becoming solemn. “Except I’m the only one who recognized Mr. Decklin.”

With that change she knew she desperately needed this man to open up. Reaching across, she laid her hand on his forearm, offering a caring smile.

“Where you from anyway?” asked Leonard Mack, brushing her hand away.

“East LA. Rough neighborhood.”

“Your mom a white woman or something?”

Lyndy nodded. “How’d you guess?”

Leonard shrugged. “I dunno. Your last name is Martinez, not Wilson or something.”

“Someone told me she was gorgeous, but I never knew her.” Lyndy exhaled.

Leonard was silent, still holding onto the wheel. “Bein pretty don’t count for shit in this life.”

“The older I get, the more I’m starting to realize.” She unbuttoned the flap of her purse, reaching in to retrieve her leather wallet. “So I got a couple tens in here. Would it buy me some of your precious time? Maybe you fill me on Project Genesis and what you know about Mr. Decklin?”

“I don’t need money woman. If I tell you a secret, will you go away and leave me be?”

“Of course,” she said eagerly. “I promise not to make trouble for you.”

Leonard gazed back at her in a way that showed he was unconvinced, but willing to talk regardless. “Brother Steve is a visionary and a generous man too. He’s a great leader, always treated black people right, as equal partners in Project Genesis. But he can be dishonest. He sugarcoats the truth.”

“How so?”

“Project Genesis is not self-sufficient. Not even close. Most of us got second jobs, other sources of income.”

“Makes sense.” She squeezed the front seat edge with her fingers. “Would he say, be willing to steal from the filthy rich to make his dream happen.”

“No way. He didn’t do it. Let me put it this way. If that man saw a dime on the sidewalk he wouldn’t stoop to pick it up—not cause he’s disabled—because he’d know it wasn’t his for the taking, it was somebody else’s.”

“I see. Another way of saying he practices what he preaches?”

“Exactly.”

“Then what do you know about Jack?” she asked, intrigued. “How do you even know Jack Decklin?”

“Let me ask you? Did he seem at all nervous or uncomfortable, being here in the town of Barstow?”

“Now that you mention it.”

“Was he wanting all kinda extra protection for himself?”

Lyndy inhaled, setting a finger on her upper lip and rubbing her chin with her thumb. “Yes. He brought a huge swiss pistol with us even though I was already armed. I have the Beretta.” She stared up at the drooping headliner. “My late brother used to say, if you need anything more than a simple revolver to diffuse a situation, you should surrender.”

Leonard Mack nodded, feeling vindicated. “You probably don’t wanna hear this. About two years ago there was a rash of thefts affecting the railroad—small time stuff, few hundred dollars here and there—but poor folks were going in and bustin open freight cars parked at the yard. Sheriff Jackson wanted to get involved, but the company wouldn’t let em. Turns out the railroad had one of them rogue security guards, straight outta the nineteen thirties, likely hell bent on impressing the higher ups. He can’t find the actual burglars, but some school boys were just standin by the tracks, late night mindin their business—wasn’t them doing the stealing—and they got beaten with batons. Now it was all up in the papers. Whatever was goin on internally, you be the judge. But the railroad had an image problem, conjured up by bitter memories of the bad old days.”

“Week later,” continued Leonard, “the young Mr. Decklin gets involved. He was staying down at the depot in one of their fancy executive rooms, acting tough as he likes to do. He may be their top agent, but his investigation was a joke. He fired one guard, put another on leave for thirty days. There weren’t any criminal charges. That’s the key, and headlines came across the paper there would be no prosecutions. Again, I don’t know his motives, but the message was clear: don’t mess with the trains. Look Miss Martinez, I’m a peaceful man. I don’t condone violence, but there is definitely a time and place for showing force. That was not the time or place. So the night before he was scheduled to leave, someone wearing a mask broke into the depot and beat the shit out of him; got away and never were caught. Mr. Decklin had it comin. Anyone could see he didn’t do enough. And he was cocky too.”

Clearly, this explains a lot. I need a drink.

“Thank you for telling me all this. I did need to hear,” she said, heart feeling heavy.

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-15

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: Zorro puts on a tiny raccoon-style mask and the entire Spanish- California government can’t determine who he is, even though the population is 3000 people in the county. Meantime I can walk around in a bear suit and somebody would recognize me.

She felt the warmth of pure sunshine on her skin, unfiltered; a screen window left open. Amongst the comforting sounds and aromas of the desert, something was different.

Opening her eyes without stirring, the outline of a male body came in focus. He was seated on the bed’s edge in the nude. Shrapnel scars ran down his right side, contrasting with otherwise smooth skin on his back. His unshaven face and ruffled hair were reflected in a floor length mirror attached to the hall door; those green eyes his best feature. With one finger he was touching the wall calendar, tracing out days. It hadn’t been current she’d known, but now he’d changed to the correct month.

She glanced to the crowded nightstand. Her alarm clock was reading 7:15. To the right of this her black Beretta—same spot it always spent the night—next to it a man’s wallet, pack of camels and Rolex explorer, showing many wear marks on the case.

“What are you thinking about?” she whispered, her voice a bit congested from sleeping and allergies.

He exhaled sharply, ending in a frustrated laugh. “I like this place,” he replied.

She sat up, pushing higher with one hand, holding the sheets against her body; for what reason she didn’t know. “But?”

“But I think I can still make the wedding.” He looked to her with a gentle smile. “I think my family would appreciate it. I know my sister would.”

She rubbed her face with her palms, staring at the tangled bedsheet. “Okay.”

“Don’t say it like that. I’ll come back.”

“I simply don’t believe you,” she replied, throwing a shirt at him.

“Hey, you could come to Santa Barbara with me? Picture it, the symbol of California, a sandy beach, magnificent oak trees, the mountains, ocean air. We’ll stay in a fancy B&B.” He chuckled to himself. “You do not have to attend that silly wedding. That’ll be my cross to bear. You’ll be sipping sparkling wine, or whatever the expensive tequila you like is called.” He tilted his head. “On the other hand, if you want to watch a total circus, maybe you should attend the wedding.”

She grinned, picturing it all in her mind while shaking her head. “No way. I can’t.”

He gazed back at her like only a fool would turn down such an offer. She was an enigma.

Jack reached to the nightstand, wrapping fingers round the steel braceleted watch. “My father gave me this. I never liked it much. It’s a perfectly fine gentleman’s watch, just not my style.” He set the watch in her hand, closing her fingers about the weighty case. She felt the coldness of steel and her thumb rubbed across the nubs encircling the screw down back. It was the first and only time she’d held a watch costing more than a  year’s pay. “I’ll leave this item with you, to show you that I’m coming back. I keep my promises.”

He leaned in for a kiss and though hesitating, she responded.

 

Two hours later …

With nicer weather it felt like a flare skirt and knee-high stockings kind of day. But also long sleeves—a lace decorated blouse top fitting loosely, tying in front. Her arms had purple bruising, needing to be concealed. Her ribs were tender too; she felt the discomfort as she was transporting a pink doughnut box against her side. She hoped none were broken, as those bones took forever-and-a-day to heal.

She’d lost the spring in her step; it was a slow-moving day.

Entering at the front, bells jingled and the door creaking, its milky glass protected in a crisscross metal screen. Using one foot she wedged it open, meantime sliding the pink box into position atop the dusty file cabinet. Sunlight flooded the office through gaps in the blinds. The space was serene, the way she liked it. Though only 9:00, the overhead fan was whirring, with its one or two worn out bearings.

She wanted a choco-bar for herself, but settled for hot coffee with cream.

Pacing across the room she halted midway and squinted, rubbing a fingernail rapidly up and down behind her ears. She sniffed. “Hey Mr. Chan, you ever have trouble with flakey, dry skin behind your ears?”

The newspaper sprawled across his mahogany desk and Chan sat hunched over, reading. It made a rustling noise of crinkling each time he turned to a new page. Barely tilting his head, she knew he was pretending to ignore her, however his eyes were tracking her movement.

Scooting a client’s chair closer to the desk, she slipped off her shoes and put her feet up. With both arms she created a square picture frame effect around her head, still gripping the coffee cup. She glared at him. “I have an important question for you and I need you to be brutally honest.”

Uneasily he locked eyes with her, a tortured expression coming over him as though he’d just swallowed orange juice post brushing his teeth.

“Can you be honest?” she repeated.

Mr. Chan grunted something akin to yes, but might have been no as well. His vintage Hawaiian shirt was black, decorated by a pattern of clustered palm trees and variety of  fifties era wooden surfboards.

“I’m wondering if I have a normal size head for my body, meaning is it proportional, or is my head too large for the rest of my frame? It always seems like the latter, especially now with this loco hairdo.”

Looking as if he were engaged in a poker tournament, he dipped fingers casually into a carton of vanilla wafers. Gripping a stack of three, he crammed these into his mouth all at once and began chewing, numerous crumbs tumbling on his shirt. Chan swallowed hard, sighed, tilting back in his swivel chair—accompanied by a loud creak.

She leaned back too, mocking his behaviors, calmly observing him still.

“Are you done being irritating?” he asked at last.

“Affirmative. Got it outta the system,” she replied, sipping her coffee. “Weirdo!”

“I would estimate you have normal girl-sized head. It is hair making seem too large.” He rubbed his hands flat against one another, warming them. “So Melinda, how are we feeling today? Well?”

“Uhh, sure, ” she slanted her head by thirty degrees, counting on her fingers. “Young, fit, prime of my life really … sexy. … hopeful for a brighter tomorrow.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh.” He grinned, tapping at a news headline with his index finger, rapping on the desktop. “Cause there was a bad-ugly fistfight at the Desert Oasis rest stop—what a shithole—reads like an episode of Kung Fu. Couple white supremacist dudes ended up in the infirmary.”

She resisted an urge to smile. Pointing to his outfit she declared, “You’re looking trim. Is that a medium fit Hawaiian shirt?”

Cracks in his façade of displeasure were forming, but Chan continued raising his voice, “And then late last night I working on balancing the books, going through the pile of carbon copy sanctions …”

“Really helps distracts from your bald spot,” interrupted Lyndy.

“.. and I find this new one I not remember approving.” Holding it up, he shook the one she’d penciled in for Jack Decklin, a manhunt, sums $1000 plus $4000 plainly visible from a distance in bold print.

“Memory loss,” alleged Lyndy.

“Five big ones eh?”

Gazing at the floor she remained silent.

“Shall I snip this one into squares, put it by the toilet in case we run out of TP.”

Sheepishly she nodded and exhaled, mimicking a sad pirate accent: “Aye.”

Chan shot up—hiking his khaki pants and tightening his belt—aiming for a rendezvous with the fresh doughnuts. But unexpectedly he pivoted, paused, resting both meaty palms on her bony shoulders. “How would you like a nice relaxing back massage?”

“What? Ewww, ewww, no thank you pervert,” she replied

“You sure? You used to love massages.”

“Yeah, before I knew how creepy you were,” slapping his hands away. “Stop talking.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh. Why so jumpy Melinda?”

“Dude, got any real work for me or not? Otherwise I’m escaping to Tammy Ward’s house to watch daytime talk shows and possibly help Darrel work on my car.”

“We have two witness location jobs. I’d previously set them aside for Rochelle, but she’s off doing some stuff with Andy this week.”

“How much do they pay?”

“One-hundred per day, each. Gotta find the witnesses first.”

“Oh sheesh, I’ll take it.” She shook a Newport from the pack, sinking deeper in the chair. Squinting, she held the tip of the cigarette above the apex of the flame.

Biting a choco-bar topped with nuts which he cradled in a napkin, Chan stared out the window at morning traffic. “This young man place you in danger.”

“No he didn’t. It wasn’t his fault those bikers cornered me. It was coincidence.”

“A coincidence which could not have happened, if this man hadn’t put you in that place at that time.”

Chan was a hard one to argue with.

“Is he good looking or something?”

She exhaled. “Aye. A hunk.”

Chan chuckled, a genuine one this time. “Melinda Martinez, I have Hawaiian shirts in my closet older than you. No one offer big cash unless job is unsafe. The thing you’ll have to learn to balance is this: It’s better to have a steady, reliable client who feeds you dull work, than it is to have a hot shot who promises the world.”

 

Lyndy Life Observation: Popular rock-n-roll song lyrics go: “Mama why, why do I always fall for the crazy ones?” and as I listen to the radio I’m thinking, “It’s all on you dummy. Your personality must be the very thing attracting them.”

He ditched the flashy Trans Am under the First Avenue bridge—sum of his current worldly possessions stashed in the trunk—in a shaded area out of view. He continued to the depot complex on foot, but carrying his badge and ID should anyone ask. The thunder of a passing train and shriek of halting brakes filled the air.

He had his gun holstered, but wouldn’t be needing it.

Jack was seeking a certain acquaintance, one he’d noticed at the Vanishing Point; having been there with Lyndy it wasn’t the right time to speak up. But he knew the tall mechanic to be outspoken, and oftentimes opinionated.

It was a gamble coming here, as he didn’t know the young man’s schedule. Perhaps unluckily, it was his day off; on the other hand these guys loved to rack up overtime.

The road tar was so warm it stuck to his shoes, sun’s rays already catching up to him—sapping energy—and all he wanted was to be indoors. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Transiting an unlocked gate he hurried toward a red brick warehouse, a 50 year-old building housing the machine shops. Bold signs at the doors warned of furnaces and heavy equipment in use, public not allowed. Yet the door had been propped open with a two-by-four scrap of wood.

Attempting to avoid confrontation he watched the scene unfold from the doorway. But with his eyes he traced the room, littered with train equipment and a half-dozen men.

The worker he’d spotted at the billiard tables was there, hunching over a metal workbench; he sported a leather apron having seen years of hard use. Like a true brakeman his clothes were discolored by layers of soot, some grease and a sprinkle of metal shavings. Corresponding smudges showed on his face, even from a distance.

Before him, an iron vice the size of a cannonball clamping a two foot shaft of steel in its jaws. The fellow was passing a blow torch side to side over it, methodically. In the span of one minute the metal transitioned through a dozen shades of orange, settling to a rich tone of red. The act of working the glowing metal was mesmerizing, slowing time. For this reason Jack continued to wait patiently in a moment of zen.

Finally satisfied with the even temperature of the piece, the worker set down the torch. Now in his right hand he picked up an old hammer, its wedge shaped head specialized for metal work. Lifting the hammer above his head he brought it down on the steel in a massive thud; it echoed throughout the room. He repeated the action again and again until two large rivets separated from the piece, popping out and clinking on the floor. The worker jumped back, fearing hot rivets landing in his boots, but both rolled harmlessly out of view.

Now that it was quieter the fellow perceived he was being watched, turning to the door.

“Mr. Decklin sir!” he exclaimed, a welcoming in his voice. “Been awhile since we’ve had the pleasure.” He removed his thick gloves, setting them aside on the workbench. Grabbing a shop towel only a slim margin cleaner than his gloves, he rubbed across his face and beard.

Jack stepped forward into the room.

“Curious what it’s like to do actual blue collar work are we?” the fellow teased loudly.

“I know what it’s like to do blue collar work,” Jack responded, with enough candidness and positivity to indicate he was in no way offended. “I’ve had all sorts of jobs with this company, including the inglorious.”

Other men were staring, having paused their efforts, wondering what a high-up rail inspector would be doing here. He felt he was interrupting the routine.

Shaking both hands in greeting Jack was surprised to see the man he thought was much younger, up close must be comparable in age. He had forehead lines, graying hairs in front.

“Dylan,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”

Jack nodded toward the rest of the depot buildings. “Is there a place we can get a bite to eat?”

 

Minutes later …

They were seated at the breakfast counter in the employees cafeteria, an area more refined than a typical business commissary, as it once served hungry travelers in the heyday of passenger service. As such, ornate wood paneling reminiscent of Victorian times inset with etched glass mirrors decorated the back of the serving counter.

Dylan seemed pleased to be having brunch on the house, and with an executive no less. He spread butter and jam across a thick bagel, as a young woman topped off their mugs with coffee. Some of the jam was getting caught up in his curly beard.

Aside him Jack spooned fresh strawberries onto a short stack of pancakes and drizzled maple syrup. One could hear a clanking of silverware and plates coming from the kitchen.

Dylan chuckled to himself. “We had some of these management types come down here, tour our shops, try out the jobs. Got this guy with slick hair, glitzy suit and smarmy look about him. Went to an ivy league out east and he’s dying for me to ask about it. Instead he tests out my job for no more than ten minutes, declares it’s fun to be a blacksmith, made a speech how lucky we are to be here, gettin to work with our hands all day. But I wanted to ask him how he would like it facing thirty-five years shoveling coal in a blistering firebox, makes your skin stretch like rawhide, crossing the desert night and day with only steam, clearing rockslides outta their path by hand to get across the mountains on time and on schedule, helping to bury his friends with the same damn shovel, like my granddad did.”

Jack nodded, exchanging a look of solidarity, then turning back to his plate. “Imagine that, a locomotive chugging uphill, powered on corporate mottos about teamwork, positivity and diesel fuel. There’s no such.”

“Damn train runs on the sacrifices of decent men … women too.”

“So may I ask a question? Don’t take offense, but why were you guys mad-dogging me at The Vanishing Point?”

“We saw you hanging with the half-Mexican chick.”

“And …,” coaxed Jack.

“She isn’t called The Spitfire for nothing.” He paused,  dissolving sugar cubes into coffee with a teaspoon. “Ever see one of those dudes on TV who stick their hand in the open mouth of a live alligator?”

Smiling uneasily, Jack adjusted his position on the seat. “No, but I can imagine.”

Dylan continued, “He performs this roadside stunt for the thrill, a small crowd and a few bucks pay. Then one day, after he does his cheesy act a hundred times without incident, the alligator chomps down and he loses an arm.”

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?”

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-13

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #186: It’s far easier to diagnose mental illness in others than it is to see the same in yourself. Guilty.

Balancing awkwardly on a heel, she elevated her other boot. Checking the bottoms she winced in disgust. This building they spoke of as their garage wasn’t up to the same standard as Brother Steve’s office. It fell short in countless ways, reminding her of a neglected animal shed.

Their dirt floors were coated with an inch of old straw. Mice or other small pests lived in it, ate rotting fruit, left their droppings and fur. With so many holes there would be no practical way to keep them sealed out. Snakes would love this place too.

“Yuck!” She pinched her nose.

“He-he. We don’t bring our guests through here. Probably shoulda given it a once over,” voiced Brother Steve, a bit chagrined. He seemed like he wanted to start sweeping, but wasn’t able to in his condition.

Constructed of corrugated metal nailed to a wood frame—having no interior lighting—shafts of sunlight exposed every gap in the aging walls and ceiling. Empty crates were stacked ten high in corners. In total she estimated a thousand square feet of space.

Electricity was one thing Project Genesis obviously lacked. How they made do without modern refrigeration was anyone’s guess.

A trusting man, Brother Steve had accompanied them into the shed alone, hobbling with his squeaky crutches, yet maintaining a cheery disposition.

Already Jack had trekked his way to the monster they called Goliath. He uncapped one of the saddle tanks, checking the fuel level by dipping a pinky finger, sniffing. He then whipped open the cab door, climbing up with one leg and boosting himself to check the seats and dash. What he hoped to prove with his hands-on tech inspections wasn’t clear, perhaps simply a show to make them believe he was thorough, not to be fooled with.

“Ya know what we really need up here?”

“What’s that?” Jacked asked, pounding a fist against the front tire, checking air pressure.

“An aero-plane. Can you imagine it?” A child-like positivity shone on Brother Steve’s face. “Know what I mean? A piper cub? Picture one a them buzzing along the mesas, bound for Phoenix.” He looked to Lyndy, seeing if she supported his hairbrained idea.

Jack slapped his palms against his chinos. “Hey Brother Steve. Forgive me for asking, but I got to. You have a great deal of activity here. How exactly is Project Genesis funded?”

Brother Steve tilted his head. His blue eyes blinked as he followed Jack. “At first it was all donation. Truthfully, it was youngsters and their life savings, given freely from everyone who joined. But those were the early days. Now we’re all self-funded.”

She could tell Jack wanted to ask a few more questions but they were interrupted by footsteps approaching, and the heavy barndoor sliding wider in a screech. The three of them turned to see. She’d assumed one of Brother Steve’s helpers was coming to check on them, but not exactly. It was the lone African American fellow from before. Now that he was near, she could see he was well over six foot.

“Ah, howdy there Brother Leonard!” announced Brother Steve excitedly. “Leonard has been helping maintain Goliath, doing a little delivery work for us too. He’s a gifted mechanic.”

Leonard smiled shyly, nodding to Lyndy, hands buried deep in the front pocket of his overalls. “Despite the name, these days Goliath isn’t so mighty.” His voice was confident and deep. “Running terrible at the moment; got a fuel supply issue. Parts are harder to come by than the GM version. Been parked this-a-way for gettin on three days while we wait.” Brother Leonard pointed to the mess of empty boxes. “As a matter of fact I haven’t gotten a chance to unload the back.”

“What’s wrong with it?” asked Lyndy.

“Fuel pump is dying,” Brother Leonard replied. “I can try starting it if you like. You’ll notice right away.” Pulling up his hands and shuffling closer to the truck, he then folded arms across his chest.

“Yes and we need to get it running soon,” added Brother Steve. “Got a load of sweet corn to harvest.”

Lyndy could see the last flickers of hope dying, draining Jack’s face, but he shook it off. Bracing himself with a hand on the fender he asserted, “Listen Brother Steve, you’re a candid man. But is it possible to imagine someone in Project Genesis borrowed this truck without your knowledge?”

They would’ve had weapons. But where to store them?

Casually approaching the truck Lyndy elevated the canvas flap, catching glimpses of the cargo. She saw nothing but empty crates; if guns were there then they were well hidden. She turned back.

In the meantime Brother Steve went through the tedious exercise of extracting his wrist from the crutches. Leonard moved in to steady him, should he lose balance. Brother Steve then adjusted the brim of his hat and the straps on his suspenders, setting them straight and even, a show of independence. He sniffed, clearly assessing, putting a hand on the back of his neck. At last, with a half-hearted chuckle he answered, “Son, I understand how you believe you’re on to something. But I assure you no one would try what you’re implying. This place …” he paused, looking out the opening to the sunny, green fields. “… it was founded on love, rooted in dedicated toil. Look how far we’ve come. Think I could jeopardize everything we have by robbing a dumb old train, or letting my followers do it for me? Wouldn’t hardly be worth it.” Brother Steve met eyes with Jack. Lyndy watched from the side.

“In a big organization, sometimes stuff happens we don’t want or know about,” Jack challenged.

“Young man, can you picture when I was your age, the poor folks used to steal from the railroads every dang day. They’d sneak off with piles of coal for their stoves, old railroad ties, wire spools to fix up their fences. Inspectors such as yourself looked the other way.” Brother Steve exhaled, as unpleasant memories came flooding back. “What was taken from you that could be so valuable, to make you come all the way up here … on nothing more than a bill of sale and false narrative about … jackrabbit homesteaders?”

Her ears perked up at the use of such a term. Two strikes on this guy.

“Why not send the law up here? Some days the sheriff gets paid to hassle me.”

Even still, Lyndy was starting to feel moved by Brother Steve’s reasoning.

“If you don’t mind my asking, why are you so fierce about gettin your possessions back? Maybe you should let it go.”

Glancing to Leonard, she could tell he was amused by Jack being given a dose of his own medicine.

“Doesn’t matter now,” voiced a discouraged Jack. “I doubt you’d understand.”

“Now if you’ll pardon us we must make preparations for our afternoon worship session. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

“I’ll pass,” replied Jack with one hand raised.

 

Lyndy Life Observation: Here’s one of those redneck jokes. If you’ve ever purchased a single mismatched and worn down tire for a vehicle you own, just so you don’t have to replace the whole set of four. Guilty.

Today wouldn’t be a day to convince someone the desert was a glamorous place to live. Days like this you’d think the world was ending.

A west wind had been their constant companion on this adventure. As feared it carried aloft microparticles of dust unleashing a miasma of foul air in the valleys; cumulative effects were offensive to the lungs, terrible for the expensive hairdo. Her pink sunglasses protected her eyes, but visibility on the interstate had been reduced to snowstorm-like conditions. The farther out one looked, the more ominous, like driving into a mile-wide tornado.

Since departing the mountains the open top Jeep had become unbearable; among the worst options for the day. Glancing over to Jack she could tell he was miserable as she, yet hadn’t spoken. With one hand he brushed his forehead, keeping his eyes shut tight, loosening dust from the eyebrows.

Fortunately they were coming up on Newberry Springs, a state rest stop where toilet paper always seemed in short supply—mostly cause cheap creeps kept stealing the big rolls. Blow sand often coated the roadbed here, blurring lane divides. This odd oasis had been here as long as she had.

“Dude, I have to go number one,” she shouted, gesturing to the exit sign.

He sniffed, squinting out at the bleak surroundings and uninviting cinder block shelter. “That’s fine. I’ll wait in the car.”

You know when they say 4 out of 5 dentists would recommend this toothpaste? Well 4 out of 5 travelers would not recommend this rest stop.

“Sure ya don’t have to go? This is a good opportunity,” she encouraged.

“Nah. I’ll go behind a bush or something.”

She exhaled. “Were I a male, I’d do the same.”

He shrugged. No other cars were around.

She remembered eons ago, racing eastbound, engaged in an argument with Mr. Chan—what it was about she couldn’t recall, probably money. Chan disgusted with her, pushed her out the door, left her standing by the road and told her to thumb it home. Stamping her feet, arms folded across her chest like an angry teenager she fumed in the heat waves, hot air blowing her blouse top over her head. Still, a much nicer day.

Cutting across the raked dirt area and concrete walkway, she hurried to the shelter of the ladies room. Like a hard slap to the senses, entering she was hit by a combo of bleach and cleaning solution—an affront strong enough you could taste it. The floors were damp from being hosed, while exposed rafters above held cobwebs. The wind howled.

She proceeded to the first stall.

The flimsy plywood dividers included metal hooks, a single nicety meant to stow your purse and keep it off the sloppy floors. One did not want to touch anything. A plastic seat cover dispenser was empty; wonderful, she’d have to hover. At least the door slider latched.

In the midst of going and thinking she perceived footsteps, unexpectedly weighty for a female. The sounds echoed off the cinder blocks. Another tourist taking shelter? A Phoenician bound for LA? A female truck driver? She considered calling out a howdy but it would have been weird. No one wanted to be acknowledged in a motorway rest stop.

It felt ominous, out of equilibrium.

“Jack?” she called. She covered her mouth with her hands.

Under the gap she saw the romper-stomper motorcycle shoes. Suddenly a fist reached up over, hooked her purse and whipped it away. Her eyes went wide.

This was very bad. It was a biker.

More footsteps and chuckling. That queasy sensation as her breathing paused. No time to wipe. She zipped up her jeans. No time to flush either.

Undoing the latch, she allowed the plywood door to swing gradually open.

“Funny. Ain’t been day drinking but I’ve seen a striking hallucination. It was a maroon color four-wheeler. A long dead bounty hunter used to drive a Jeep like that.”

She recognized the squeaky voice; a member of the weakened, but not fully dispatched Wallach Gang. He’d been one of those who fled the dry lakebed after she killed their leader. A cowardly fellow, but cunning and experienced in the justice system. She could picture him in her mind, a black and white portrait pinned to the files at the Sheriff station. His name was Dwight or Chet or Chad, or alternate generic white dude synonym. He liked to talk.

The Spitfire stepped into view.

Scratching at a thin graying goatee, he continued. “Guess what? Your number’s up bitch. I got yer secret weapon!” His mug was as she recalled. Pointing a crooked finger he grinned in delight. Probably it was Chet.

“Just an ordinary gun,” she replied plainly, her tone laced with bitterness.

“And Stonehenge is a goddamn stack-a-rocks,” Chet replied, swinging the purse to a partner who ran out with it.

His pals snickered. One gone, but he’d brought two others, heaviest clutching a water pipe prison yard style, wearing mirrored sunglasses. “She’s tiny! Lot smaller than I remembered,” he chuckled. They were either bikers, or musicians in a southern rock tribute band. At any one time two of these clowns were on active parole.

Damn. Where was knuckle bashing Deputy Keynes or impossibly hard-headed Mr. Chan when you needed them? Out of reach. Come to think of it, where was Jack Decklin?

“Ya’ll get off on bein the pretty Senorita Martinez don’t ya? Yer bother, ugly as sin, but you always wanted boys to fancy you—they like the scary goth chicks.” Chet smiled with bad teeth, half capped. His other brass-knuckled friend, standing next to him, had a head band accompanied by a ZZ-top beard.

Unless more were hiding it was three against one, counting the leader. She felt the hot anger burning, tightness in her fingers, hairs lifting on her forearms. The experience brought back visions of Pinegate Detention Center and unspeakable horrors of Warden Dixon.

Exhaling. “You idiots know nothing. And I’ve lost patience for your intro to psychology bullshit. You want a fight, then bring one.”

She charged forward, jumping at the last minute to grip the rafter. Bending her knees she directed her sharp heels at the face of the fellow with the goatee. Chet put up his arms to block her feet, crossing wrists to protect the eyes. Twisting and springing off his shoulders with both hands she landed on her feet. The floors were slick; she was fortunate to maintain balance. Chet was knocked off his, so next she delivered a swift jab to his stomach.

His brass-knuckled partner threw a long wild punch. Lyndy dodged it by ducking down. Launching off her right heel she rammed a shoulder into the same man’s hip. Then raising her arms, she elevated his legs and rolled him to one side. He landed hard. Once down she delivered a sharp series of blows to his ribs.

Simultaneously the man wielding the water pipe brought it down perpendicular, in the motion of someone swinging an axe to chop firewood. She caught the pipe with both arms, raising her shoulders and pushing with all her might. He was astonished at the power of such a small person. Launching a leg backward, she kicked toward the leader Chet again. Next she spun and punched his jaw.

The fellow with the headband had risen up. He wrapped his arms around her waist and he was strong, able to pull her away. She squirmed, kicking out both legs and twisting her body. However it was difficult to hurl oneself in this position, feet swinging in air. She dug with her nails.

“I need to do more situps,” she thought. Cut down on the drinking too.

With The Spitfire being pulled into a corner, Chet massaging his jawline, stepped forth. Reaching down, he seized on both her ankles. The man with the water pipe moved in. He aimed for her chest; instead of swinging he pressed it against her throat. The panic hit.

“HALT!” came a thunderous male warning. “What on earth is happening?” It was Jack, his profile in the doorframe, tossing away a half-smoked cigarette. Lyndy was relieved—though hopefully he wasn’t about to get an ass whupping too.

“What kinda F’d up yuppie are you?” voiced Chet.

“I hired Lyndy Martinez,” Jack replied. “Who in the F are you?”

Undeterred by Jack’s physical presence, the goateed Chet advanced. Jack blocked his punches, caught him by the forearms.

Repositioning and lifting him by the shoulders, Jack rammed Chet into the nearest wood divider; it split down the middle—sounds of boards snapping—as he was sliding. Jack bent at the hips, pounding him, dunking his head in the toilet water. The man holding the water pipe rushed in, swinging at Jack from behind. She cried out.

Jack was hit in the lower back. He winced in pain. A pause ensued, during which Jack’s face and upper chest went extreme red.

The men were distracted. Lyndy burst free. She caught the pipe, at last ripping it from the heavy man’s clutches. With a cat-like motion, Jack thrust a fist and captured the headband man by his beard. Jack yanked him further into his grip.

In the meantime a single blow to his cheek brought the heavy man to the ground; his glasses went flying. Lyndy tossed the pipe away. Straddling with both knees, she hammered on his face with her fist. Gripping him by the hair, she slammed his head into the floor. Tide turning, she looked to see what Jack was up to.

There’s a first for everything. Seeing Jack body slam a two-hundred pound man in a rest stop bathroom was one of the great firsts in CBB history. The fellow didn’t even move after, rendered unconscious and probably suffering multiple fractures. But no time to celebrate.

One could see the terror building on Chet’s narrow face. He bolted off into the abyss of the sand; it made her smile but there was no time for celebration.

“We gotta get that purse back!” Lyndy exclaimed.

Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #185: This is the essence of being human: you’ll put off a task for weeks and weeks because you’re convinced it’s too difficult. Then when you sit down to accomplish it, it takes all of 15 minutes and you’re like, “god I hate myself.”

By mile four they’d gained another five-hundred feet, topping out on a plateau of sorts. No longer ascending, but curving north, they passed beneath a wrought iron arch spanning the roadbed; it reminded Lyndy of the type placed proudly at entrances to cattle ranches. Adorning the newish structure were interesting symbols, some stars, a moon and a handful matching ones seen earlier. At the same time she spotted a collection of single story white buildings coming into view. It was a town.

Instinctively she let up on the gas, decelerating to a painfully slow ten miles an hour. The last thing they needed was to piss somebody off by kicking up a dust cloud, or give the appearance of a threatening  approach.

“Is that Hebrew lettering?” questioned Jack, pointing to the symbols on the arch.

As the mining road leveled out it became better maintained. Flat rocks were placed on either side, controlling the path of cars where it skirted round a neatly groomed vegetable garden. The garden had linear rows, so straight and parallel as to be done with modern machinery—and yet none were available here.

She’d been paying close attention to the scenery when she felt a nudge from Jack to her ribs. What seemed at first glimpse to be a lifelike scarecrow, was in fact an older gentleman, long graying beard, reddish skin despite a straw hat, wearing blue overalls with a white shirt underneath. He’d been waiting near motionless at roadside, using the handle of a garden hoe as support. He scrutinized them with milky-white alien eyes, symptomatic of advanced cataracts.

Unnervingly, he offered nothing in the way of a greeting or wave. One thing was certain, he wasn’t seeing much.

Several hundred yards on she could see a small crowd forming, two woman and three men, each dressed in the blue overalls with long sleeve white shirts underneath. Again they were watching but offering no form of greeting. One knew strangers were a rarity.

“Hey, at least it’s not a nudist camp,” whispered Lyndy to Jack.

He nodded back to her. “Yeah. There’s that.”

She didn’t know the name of the feeling but she’d experienced it a time or two before: the awareness you were meant to arrive some place, to see it in your lifetime. A chill. Why you were here would only become clear later, sometimes never.

Nearing the first in a series of white structures Lyndy slowed the Jeep to a crawl. Up close the walls were clad in corrugated metal sheets, nailed on, a low-cost siding technique used in mining camps.

More people began to emerge, appearing in doorways, having been laboring inside. Others were approaching from adjacent fields. All were sporting the same blue overalls. In total some 30 folks clustered together.

From a seat on the porch of the largest building a key figure rose. He was sixty-ish, with black rimmed glasses and white hair. Most striking about this character was the way he stood, once a tall man and handsome, now he was severely hunched over. His bent body was supported by metal crutches—the kind with cuffs you slipped your wrists into—and giving the appearance of having not two but four legs.

With him there was something intangible making it obvious he was a leader. It could have been the way people were circling, as members of a village respectfully gathered round a chief. He had a commanding presence even in his current state.

Reaching the shade of a cottonwood Lyndy brought the CJ to a standstill, switching off the motor and setting the e-brake. The silence was now evident. No one had yet spoken, yet all were waiting in anticipation.

She placed her sunglasses on the narrow dash. Meanwhile Jack twisted his body, checking behind as his eyes darted about. She could tell he was anxious.

The Spitfire took deliberate breaths, wanting to exude a certain serenity.

They waited as the man with crutches came to meet them. Moving stiffly from the shade he took each step with a calculated vigor. The look on his face indicated pain, stemming from his hips. Squeaking metal on metal due to those supports, energy more mechanical than human, it took half a minute for him to traverse fifteen yards.

The increasing crowd—including both male and female—held tight to their gardening implements, mainly hoes and shovels. While preferable to firearms, it wasn’t putting anyone’s mind at ease. They pushed up to within inches of the burgundy Jeep on all sides. The two were vastly outnumbered.

When at last he was within a few feet of the driver’s side, he finally spoke, still bracing himself. “Welcome weary travelers in these troubling times! What a glorious afternoon the Lord has made! Can I help you two with something?”

It was a relief to hear English. His voice was cheerful—a little hoarse in the dry air—but commanding enough to be heard by the crowd. Jack stood up, gripping the windshield frame and towering over everyone. “We’re searching for the owner of this …” he looked around, “… village?”

The man smiled. “Well it’s funny you say that. We all own this place collectively,” he asserted. “But perhaps I can explain. My name is Brother Steve. I’m the chief architect, which also makes me a leader of sorts. At least as many days as my health holds out.”

“Sorry we forgot to bring our overalls,” Lyndy stated facetiously.

No one laughed, not even a stray chuckle. Jack shot her a glance like she was acting foolish, but Brother Steve continued to smile graciously. From the get-go one could tell he was the type whose face never revealed unpleasant or strong emotions—one click short of a creepy funeral parlor personality—but somehow reassuring.

“Right on. Pleased to meet you Brother Steve,” said Jack.

“Why don’t you all come on up to my office?” Brother Steve extracted his wrist from one of his crutches. With his freed hand he adjusted his glasses, studying The Spitfire as though she were a curious desert illusion. Then he flopped his hand, gesturing to the entry of his raised white house. “You folks can explain to me why you’ve come and I might offer you a bit of history regarding Project Genesis.”

Lyndy shot the crowd a snotty look, demanding space for her to kick open her door. The sweaty men congregating nearest the Jeep backed away. She opened her door with a loud creak, and as her legs dangled out the side she tightened the buckles on her shoes. Then she adjusted her top so it sat higher, guessing modesty would be imperative. Reaching under the seat she retrieved her purse, heavy with the weight of the Beretta.

Ethnically it wasn’t the most diverse group, but she counted among them two or three Latinos and a tall African American man with dreads, held in place by a hair tie.

“I assume ya’ll don’t get many strangers here,” Jack asserted.

Grimacing as he took the first steps, Brother Steve answered. “No sir. But all who seek truth humbly are welcome.”

That surely describes us.

He tackled the stairs one by one, having assistance from a younger man supporting his shoulder. Brother Steve seemed to not like receiving help, as he kept his head down, barely acknowledging the other fellow.

From the outside state it was difficult to tell, but the interior revealed considerable age of the dwelling—they simply didn’t build places like this anymore. The way the boards had been sawn, the kind of thick wood planking used in the floor and walls, dated the structure to mining booms of the twenties and thirties.

Either someone had been crazy enough to move it here, or they’d hand assembled it on site at this remote location. In any case it was well cared for and clean, smelling of pine sol.

The main room was undivided and spartan; only a single table occupying the center and two rows of chairs pushed against opposite sides. On display under glass was a USGS topographic map with black pen lines overlaid, planning for future property improvements. At the northern end of the building were a foursome of tall windows, offering views of a garden and orchards. Another benefit, they were providing ample natural light.

Residing on the floor at the sides of the table were wooden crates. Nested in beds of straw were samples of fruits and vegetables, many beautiful garden tomatoes, yellow squash, peaches and some apricots. A single cantaloupe the size of a cannonball and a watermelon were the heaviest food items.

Lyndy and Jack assembled by the table. She was taking a back seat again, waiting for Mr. Pennybags Decklin to break the ice. Tilting her head, she wanted to seem attentive but her eyes were constantly drawn to the outdoors; in particular, healthy plants in the vegetable gardens and the miraculous size of the fruit trees. Never had she seen anything so thriving in The Mojave. And when something seemed out of place it was a caution flag to her. Chan would be suspicious too, were he to know of this.

Brother Steve took a seat on a wooden shaker stool. His assistants, two younger men, moved in position behind him. The others remained outside and gradually were trickling back to work. The excitement was over.

With Brother Steve now comfortable Jack extended his arm. “I should introduce myself. Name’s Jack Decklin. I’m an investigator for the Santa Fe railroad and this is my colleague Lyndy Martinez.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” replied Brother Steve, seeming more at ease in this near eye-level position. “You know it happens I was a gandy-dancer as a young fellar, living up in northern Idaho. Slept in a cold caboose, or under the stars some nights.”

She looked at Jack with curiosity. “Gandy dancer?”

“It’s like a railroad section hand,” he explained. “They use those long claw bars to lever the track into alignment.”

“Exhilarating but hazardous work I must say. And very low pay,” declared Brother Steve. “Sometimes with your whole body you have to balance on that teetering rod.”

“Nobody does it that way anymore,” assured Jack, seeking to get the conversation back on course. “Anyhow, what did you call this place? Project Genesis?”

“Correct.” Brother Steve pressed his palms together, almost giddy in explaining. “We’ve got limitless fresh air, old fashioned holy work—we work with our hands see—camaraderie, and of course prayer. It’s a place of a peace and redemption. People come from all over the country to join us in our quest.”

Through a gap created by the open door she could see someone lingering. Checking again, it was the man with the dreadlocks, sweeping the steps.

“So this is a real farm?” Lyndy asked, beginning to drift away from the table and toward the windows. It felt like a vivid dream—a mass hallucination.

“You bet!” he replied excitedly. “We’re selling our naturally grown fruits and vegetables in markets all over the state. Look for the label with the olive branch and two hands folded in prayer.” He held up a peach with a tiny white sticker. “Some of the finest restaurants on the Sunset strip buy direct from us. We don’t use pesticides—don’t need em—so there’s nothing to harm the body. Our motto is: ‘Food the way it would have been in the Garden of Eden’. You know, the way God intended.” He offered the ripe peach to Jack. “Sample our finest wares?”

“Please do not eat that,” she thought.

Jack touched the top of his head, checking his hair, frowning in equal parts wonderment and confusion. They were both thinking the same. Of the mining road they’d traveled on. The wind storms. The loose boulders and round stones, filled in with a nutrient poor sand.

“No thank you sir. We had a really big lunch.” Jack patted his stomach for emphasis. “But in this desert, up here on top of a ridge, not in a valley. You’re growing all that?” He stepped to the windows as well, gazing out on the orchard. The old floors bowed as he moved about. “I mean, how do you even acquire water up here?”

“It’s one of our miracles. You see God’s chosen people, the Israelites have faced the same environmental pressures we do. During the last recession a bunch of us moved out here. We studied the ingenious system of dryland farming, the drip irrigation method, which they invented. We only possess one reliable water source, coming from a well down in the valley. But our humble well serves acres and acres of productive cropland. A series of plastic pipes carry the water from a central set of tanks, like capillaries, to each and every plant individually, giving it precisely the dose of water it needs each day to thrive; no more no less. Because it’s all contained in pipes directly from the central tanks to the plant itself, we don’t lose any to evaporation.”

“Impressive stuff,” said Jack.

“Oh you’d be amazed at the wonders we’ve accomplished working together.” For a brief moment Brother Steve shut his eyes, moved by the spirit. “You know in school they wouldn’t believe me when I told them I will accomplish great things. But sometimes you can just feel it. There’s synergy everywhere. God really is all around, working through us.”

“Pardon me for saying this, but aren’t you suffering from some sort of ailment?” Jack gestured to the crutches.

Brother Steve opened his eyes. “Only a touch of the rheumatoid arthritis, autoimmune in nature—been sufferin with it my entire adult life. Them doctors can’t help me much, only God can. Medicines and painkillers do no good. It seems to be my cross to bear. But I’m not going to let it stop me. How about you folks?” his gaze shifted between Lyndy and Jack. “Have you experienced the glory of the Lord working in your own lives?”

Such a heavy question hung in the air. She didn’t want to insult the man. Slowly, tactfully, she nodded her head. She turned to Jack, expecting him to say something diplomatic in response. Yet his face lacked the appropriate reverence and to the contrary, he seemed ready to blow his top.

Jack sighed. “To tell the truth, not so much Brother Steve. Was a guy in my platoon, damn near the kindest person I ever met. While I was drinking and gambling and being an all-around scoundrel, he was back at the base helping others and saying his prayers in chapel. We all liked him. He was aiding a wounded civilian, a poor villager, when there was a miscommunication over the radio and artillery shells fell on his position. Son of a bitch was killed in friendly fire. You’ll forgive me if I’m having a crisis of faith.”

“There’s a reason things happen the way they do. We may not always have the answer,” explained Brother Steve. “But God does.” Brother Steve’s assistants glared back.

Lyndy rushed to Jack’s side, gripping him at the shoulders and squeezing. “Okay, okay, let’s all not over think this. Why don’t we get to why we’re here?”

“Very well,” answered Brother Steve, grinning eagerly.

“I dunno if you folks read the papers much, but recently there was a train robbery which happened near the town of Chambless. Not your ordinary open the boxcars and toss crap out the side, but a real old-west style robbery with gun-toting bandits.”

“Is that so? What a hoot!”

“Yeah, what a hoot,” mouthed Jack.

Brother Steve was doing a darn good job listening and acting as someone would having zero expectation of what was coming. Judging by the faces of the men standing behind, they were equally clueless.

Jack on the other hand was scowling, but letting her continue.

“Today we’re following up on leads, hoping to recover the stolen items. Funny thing is, we have this one really big clue. The people we’re seeking were driving a two-and-a-half ton military truck. It’s called a deuce-and-a-half in some circles. Thing is, there simply aren’t that many of those trucks for sale.”

Brother Steve raised his eyebrows, at last turning to his assistants.

“Turns out someone from your Project Genesis purchased a vehicle of this weight class at a government auction.”

“Ahh yes, Goliath,” said Brother Steve. His companions were suddenly growing nervous.

“Goliath?”

“Our Goliath. We nicknamed it! Those trucks will run on any combustible from kitchen grease to moonshine. We’re using it for hauling loads between the mountaintop and the valley. Once there, we transfer the goods to more ordinary big rig trailers and box trucks, for transport over the interstate highway. It’s parked right now.”

“Do you mind if we take a look?” Jack requested.

“No trouble. Why don’t I run you folks over to the garage and on the way I’ll give you a quick tour to boot.”

Lyndy turned to Jack, exchanging a guardedly optimistic glance.

 

Minutes later …

From the seat of a bouncy golf cart with knobby desert tires, crutches strapped to one side, Brother Steve could give Mr. Toad a run for his money. For a man with disabilities and a Christian spirit, he had the heart of a risk taker and nimble, go-cart racing instincts.

Lacking restraints, the cart swayed left and right in tight corners. Lyndy clung to a pillar supporting the flimsy canvas roof shade. Jack, being a male, had been assigned the backseat facing reverse. She seriously pondered how he hadn’t been launched out.

On the other hand, the elevation and movement of cool air felt wonderful to her skin. The sun was shining bright and they were well above the haziest part of the atmosphere.

Wheel sliding left and right in his fingers, Brother Steve lifted an arm and pointed to a field: “Over here we’ve got our zucchini planted, ready to pick in a week. We can grow two harvests per year. Over there are the boarding houses, separate ones for men and women, but all equipped with bunk beds.” He’d obviously given this tour many times.

“You sleep on a bunk bed in your condition?” Jack shouted the question from the back.

“Yeah but I get a bottom bunk,” Brother Steve clarified.

Lyndy laughed. As inappropriate as it might be, she couldn’t help but wonder: it couldn’t be the first time in history a person faked a handicap for personal gain.