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Gasoline and Matches Part-10

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-10

Lyndy Life Observation: A man applied for employment at the V-P Roadhouse. His resume listed one of his previous occupations as: “Technical Director for Rapid Human Ejection.” I asked Mr. Potts what that meant and he answered without skipping a beat, “fancy term for bouncer.”

Lyndy used the rifle as a defensive bo-staff, countering each strike and preventing Block from slicing her. He lunged forward as Lyndy bent at the hips, ducking low and kicking with max force at his wrist. Even this blow didn’t dislodge the Rambo knife. Instead, Block’s torso tipped sideways, only serving to knock him off balance. He recovered quickly, but Lyndy continued to fight.

Backing up a step, Lyndy planted the ball of her left foot to brace herself. Because the weapon wasn’t an ideal proxy for a bo, it felt unbalanced, more akin to a broomstick. Adjusting her grip to be nearer the center of mass, with a tighter grasp, Lyndy exercised her fingers.

The hot blood staining Block’s shirt continued expanding. She had to give him some props. He wielded the knife as a trained professional. He was a tough opponent with a high pain tolerance; most men would shrivel up from such a gaping wound.

In her periphery, Lyndy sensed more motion at the building, the front door having been knocked wide open. Sergei appeared holding something tubular on his shoulder. At first, she assumed it was a shotgun, but a second glance revealed it was way too large in circumference to be that. The Tug stalled at last and the motor died.

Lyndy and her foe circled slowly in a clockwise direction.

Repeatedly she tested Block, stamping her foot closer to him as though going in for a quick kill. Her motivations were in testing his response. At first, he showed no reaction, only the permanent crazed look on his face. Block easily ignored the bait, observing her movements like a disciplined boxer. His patience belied strength and one hell of a reach. She did it again, altering her pattern. Once within striking distance, he slashed the knife in a blow that would’ve cut deep into her knee. Except she’d pulled away in the nick of time.

Block’s eyes weren’t tracking as well as before, not like the rest of him. He took another downward slash, almost straight at her in a karate chop motion. Deflecting this with the center of the rifle, Lyndy felt her bones rattle. The sound of the knife impacting the dull finish of the gun created an unnerving clashing of swords sound. Then twisting the rifle by 90 degrees, she smashed the stock against Block’s chin. He seemed not to have registered the oncoming blow, but as soon as it hit him, he appeared dazed.

Twisting the gun again, Lyndy rammed the muzzle into his stomach. As Block doubled forward, she side-kicked her boot into his rib cage—which felt like kicking a telephone pole. Next, she windmilled the stock so it slammed into the side of Block’s head. Amazingly, he still wouldn’t go down. He tried to kick her, but she caught and deflected his foot easily using both her fists cupped together. She knew the tide was turning.

Shifting her attention momentarily onto Sergei, she felt dismayed seeing him aiming a bazooka at the Coleman Tug. That was smart. Without that exotic vehicle, her plan to tear down the dozer-shovel gate would fail. She tried to think fast. In the corner of her eye, she sensed Block bending his good arm back. Making an educated guess he was throwing his bowie knife, she dove with the speed of a fox onto a rabbit hole, dropping the gun and flopping to a push-up stance.

The knife sailed over her body, another twelve or so feet beyond and finally lodged in the hamstring of Sergei. Leaning on an elbow, Lyndy rotated to one side, waiting to see what would happen next. The result, was Sergei had been in the act of firing his RPG as his spine contorted.

Block froze in shock at having wounded his comrade. She used this fractional second and the sandy soil to execute a round-house kick—her strongest—knocking Block in the temple. The blow expelled bloody mucus from his open jaw as Block collapsed into a heap on the soil. His eyes shut. Maintaining balance, she landed back on her feet without toppling.

Because reflexively, Sergei’s leg muscles stiffened and he recoiled in agony, his back tweaked past 90 degrees. His careful aim was thrown way off. Instead of propelling straight at the Tug, the rocket fired at an upward trajectory. With a fiery blast and a blinding bright orange glow, the projectile launched on an arc whisking high across the road and continued gaining altitude. Somewhere beyond the nearby housing, it reached an apex, then continued on a parabolic track back toward a dry wash between neighborhoods.

Lyndy knew two types of grenades: the kind which exploded upon impact with a solid object and the type with a timing fuse. She didn’t know which this was. On the other hand, she knew the fight would continue regardless of where the grenade fell.

Collectively the three of them held their breath. They all were thinking: “Yikes! That’s not good.”

As soon as it landed in the dry ditch, the rocket detonated—meaning the impact kind. The blast was deafening and absurdly bright to a human eye adapted to the darkness. The dry foliage in the wash exploded in fire, torching all the smoke trees and a number of protected Joshua trees.

Sergei whipped around to face Lyndy with rage in his small eyes. Ignoring the knife wound in his leg, he raced at her like an angry bear. Lyndy did the same, and for an instant they ran toward one another like two locomotives on a collision course. When he was within range, Sergei threw a full body punch, aiming straight at her face. The blow would’ve killed her, but Lyndy blocked it by raising her elbows and rotating at the hips. With her other leg, she sprang off the ground and windmill kicked Sergei in the chin. While he was stunned, she uncapped the bear spray in her pocket. Pulling the pin and hitting the trigger, she marked a thick line right across his eyes and nose.

Instinctively Sergei put both hands up to cover his face, bellowing in agony. The bowie knife was the type with a blood gutter. Lyndy rolled into a crouch. Gripping the handle as tightly as she could in her right hand, she yanked the knife horizontally out of Sergei’s thigh.

Next, she elbowed him behind the knees, causing him to double over.

Meantime the third driver—the one who’d been originally in the overalls—exited the building. This time, the attacker had a real pump-action shotgun. He immediately aimed the gun at Lyndy and Sergei, resting it on his shoulder in a hunter’s stance. Before his finger could pull the trigger, Lyndy chucked the knife she was holding as hard as he could.

It sailed through the air, lodging in the man’s belly, near his beltline. The knife plunged so deeply in his gut, only the handle showed. A state of shock came over him. The fellow dropped the gun. Flailing desperately to remove the knife in a clumsy motion, he fell against the wall. Within seconds his body become limp. He collapsed in a heap.

Sergei soon went fleeing for the BMW, holding his cheeks. He was waddling as fast as his legs could carry him, given the injury to his thigh. Without even shutting his car door, he fired it up and spun the wheels to accelerate away. “What a sissy,” thought Lyndy. A real warrior would’ve checked on his comrades.

Pulling the Berretta, Lyndy checked on Block. He wasn’t moving. She’d expected him to be faking unconsciousness. Holding steady, catching her breath with a bead on his head for half a minute, she waited for something to happen. Nothing did. She approached his limp body and gave him a nudge to the groin. There was no response.

Hurriedly, Lyndy checked herself for unfelt injuries while attempting to calm her nerves. In the intense heat of battle, it was easy not to notice having been hit. But all she felt pain wise was the ache in her bones, from a car accident and fighting much larger men.

Distantly she heard sirens, snapping her from the momentary calm. The Spitfire ran for the Tug, knowing she needed to get it started.

With a hint of optimism that it would restart, Lyndy retrieved heavy cargo chains from the storage area under the hitch. She heaved one coil of 3/8 chain over each shoulder and marched to the pneumatic fence. Alone, the coils weighed over 40 pounds.

Trudging through the dirt, with her ankles and thighs straining at the mass, she looped the chain over each corner of the barrier. Then, shrugging the weight, Lyndy shifted into a tug-o-war stance. Using this method, yanking and pulling, she squirmed like a fish until both were taught. With a snatch hook, she clipped them into the tow hitch on the front bumper of the Tug.

Now she just needed the damn thing to start.

But of course, it didn’t. This time when she turned the key, the starter buzzed but the motor wouldn’t turn over. She tried again, twisting the key and pressing the cutch pedal flat with her entire weight, using her wrists to push on the roof. NADA! Buzzing but no joy. Exhaling, she let her forehead slam onto the wheel. The flex plate or something in the rain of gunfire must’ve become mis-aligned. And the sirens were getting louder. Probably fire trucks to put out the small brush fire in the wash, before it spread to homes or the surrounding areas. Hopefully they were pre-occupied.

Hopping out, she grabbed for a hammer and bounced on the ground. Rolling under the car, Lyndy located the starter and gave it a good sharp THWACK. The gong sound rang her ears. Pitching back and rolling into the clear, she climbed up to the cab.

This time the primitive motor cycled over. Coughing and sputtering, the diesel roared to life. The chugging of the diesel, normally an irritant—like someone making a motorboat with their lips—was music to hear ears.

A part of her feared the snapping chains would let fly, becoming deadly projectiles and pinching her head off. But no time to worry about such low probability events. Sooty exhaust puffed like a volcano into the air as the engine rattled. With its herculean pulling power, the massive pneumatic shovel blade began to tip forward, pulling out huge concrete pylons from the ground beneath it. The pylons were like the root balls of a massive oak. Once they’d been liberated from the soil, the rest of the gate mechanism came tumbling forward.

The gates to the city had fallen. Now Vikings were running amok through the heart of Paris. And Godzilla met his match.

45 minutes later…

A string of lights floated in the sky—like glowing orbs—representing the long line of Southwest planes approaching Ontario. All waiting for a runway.

Chan would’ve called it her greatest hat trick ever. She wished he were still alive. She would’ve loved rolling up to his trailer, cracking a beer or two and regaling him with her tales of battle. He probably would’ve called her “Melinda” and done one of his trademark: “Huh, huh, huh,” deep laughs. Nowadays she missed those.

She kept smiling, and a few times she laughed into the wind.

Though her confidence soared, The Spitfire still checked her mirror about a hundred times between the town of J-Tree and Banning pass.

The surge of pure energy from a victory of epic proportions began waning as she approached the base of the San Bernardino’s and Highway 18.

Other than survival, nothing much was on her mind. Until now.

Soon Lyndy began pondering, “Just what type of valuable, case-breaking clues were in this car for which she’d risked life, limb and the future success of her offspring?” A crummy Jetta would not be worthy.

A simple glance behind the seat suggested nothing of substance. A wrapper for a candy bar and a Diet Coke can the only items reflecting in the scant shine of streetlights.

A sinking feeling began to settle in the bottom of stomach. “híjole!” Lyndy mouthed, with a sigh. Before taking this thing up the hill, she decided to give it a once over.

Next morning …

Lake Arrowhead CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: On a summer afternoon Rickman was busy working underneath his Cobra Jet Mercury in the side yard. Must’ve been 90 degrees or more, cause I was wearing a bathing suit top and cutoff shorts. He needed a different size wrench, and I kept circling back and forth to the garage bringing him the wrong one. Obviously, I didn’t know fractions to save my life. He was very frustrated with me but trying to stay patient and not look like an A-hole. He was like: “No Lyn, listen carefully, this is an 11/64, I obviously need a 3/16.” Finally, I go to the garage and drag his entire 165-pound tool bin, containing every earthly wrench he owns across the driveway, the lawn and into the side yard.

As she came to, Lyndy heard strange voices emanating from a TV set. She knew she must be crashed out on the rustic loveseat, cause every damn sofa in this cabin stunk for sleeping. Compact design and oversize pine logs serving as arm-rests, meant her ankles and feet were simply dangling in space. Placing her fists on her eyes, Lyndy rubbed the sockets with her knuckles.

Every muscle and joint ached. She knew it wasn’t only the fighting that did it, rather the terrible wreck when the truck plowed into the brick building. Her body slamming against an unpadded metal dash—that’ll do it alright.

Letting her head slump rightward against her shoulder, she could see the TV was on a network station, running a popular daytime talk show. Today’s topic scrolled at the bottom edge of the screen: My husband is a truck driver; I just found out he secretly has another family across state lines. Which might have been amusing, if not for hitting close to home. Dr. Ellis did in fact have an entirely separate family, whom he’d been neglecting. Although they lived in Riverside, with Becky—the alpha wife.

Reaching out to the rectangular oak coffee table, Lyndy closed her fingers around the Costco-size bottle of liquid Advil. Beyond this, the wall of windows opened to a magnificent view overlooking the lake. Mid-morning sun streamed down on the lake, making it shine.

A moment of, “oh dear god, I think I’m a mom! Where is my baby?” swept over Lyndy. I mean, seriously, where is my baby?

But all was well. Refocusing a bit closer, she could see Mari Ellis safely corralled in her pack-n-play, surrounded by baby toys, a teddy bear and her favorite blanket. She’d been busy with one of those rainbow wire spaghetti toys containing the wooden beads one could move around. That chaotic invention could keep a baby occupied for an hour or two.

It was like an abacus, but for math on an inter-dimensional level. Hmmm.

Seeing her mommy awake, Mari ceased her activities, then commenced staring at her while teething on her soft foam giraffe. The look-through-you with blue eyes stare.

Lucky for that pack-n-play thing too. God knows what would’ve happened without it. Maribel Ellis smiled to her mother, then resumed the all-important task of moving a bead from one end of the spaghetti to the other.

Twisting the cap on the Advil, Lyndy dumped four of the capsules into her mouth, swallowing them dry.

“Mommy had a rough night okay,” whispered Lyndy, a hoarseness in her voice.

Over at the kitchen island, lunch sat untouched. Mari had neglected a meal of steamed carrots, chicken cubes and elbow pasta. Lyndy couldn’t remember even cooking that. Geez.

A spark of resentment stirred inside. “Do you know when I was a kid I had like 2 toys?” Lyndy remarked to Maribel. “Now look at this place.”

She’d need to do a little vacuuming before Kyle returned from his business trip.

Compared to growing up an orphan in East LA, this love child enjoyed a life of pure luxury. Maribel Ellis dined on fancy food from boutique grocery stores, she had a top-of-the-line car seat, a similarly space age stroller and slept in a beautiful crib made of yellow oak. The crib itself had clean, crisp sheets.

By contrast, in one of her earliest memories, Lyndy Martinez awoke covered in biting ants, since her mattress was always on the floor and the insects had been attracted to cake crumbs she’d been eating when falling asleep.

Lyndy knew it was petty to resent Maribel for not having to suffer. Logically she didn’t want her child to suffer. Of course not. But it was annoying feeding this baby the equivalent of a three-course meal, then watching it go cold.

She heard footsteps on the stairs.

Lyndy froze. Maribel did the same, pausing mid-activity. Too early for Kyle. Both of them stared at the landing where the stairs connected to the kitchen. Even Mari knew it wasn’t daddy, or she would’ve been shouting the word “DADA” over an over.

“Hello?” The voice of Helen Mason echoed from the hallway stairs. “Lyndy Martinez? Are you here?”

A panic set in as her eyes bugged out. “What was Helen doing here? Aye caramba!”

The kitchen and living room were an absolute disaster zone. The ape exhibit at the zoo was a cleaner, tidier environment to have friends over and Lyndy had no time. Worse, she had visible bruising showing on her arms and face, no time to apply makeup. Even worse, she actually wanted Helen Mason to like her, thus caring how things looked. This was completely unexpected.

Did they have some coffee date she’d forgotten? And why hadn’t she locked the door? Foolish! Lyndy checked her watch.

Helen’s profile appeared near the top of the stairs, looking perfect as ever. She had a purse with a brand logo Lyndy couldn’t even pronounce. Something like HPHFO—apparently, they were expensive. Her sporty headband matched her leg warmers, and her spandex pants hugged her hips perfectly.

There was nothing to do but spectate in the slow-motion train wreck.

“I was coming back from yoga class and I saw this strange car in the driveway, where your vintage Mustang usually is. And I thought, you know—that’s sort of off. Maybe I ought to pop in and check if everything is okay.” Helen had been still coming up the second flight of stairs while saying all this. “And the front door was open … and ….”

Pausing for a breath or two, Helen slowly took in the top floor scene. The many dirty dishes. The uneaten food on the counter. Lyndy, sprawled out on the couch in a blood-splattered tank-top and panties. A metal baseball bat on the floor beside her.

“Oh my … how awful! Lyndy…,” the look of horror showed on Helen’s face. Bracing herself on the counter so she wouldn’t collapse, Helen stammered for the right words. “Oh, sweet, sweet girl, you’ve been assaulted!” Helen’s head swiveled as she took in the mess. “And in your own home.”

“No, no, Helen,” Lyndy jumped up to correct, wishing she had a robe or something to cover up. She poked the mute button the TV remote. “I’m totally okay.”

Explaining that, if anything, she’d been the one who’d done most of the “assaulting” seemed like fanning the flames. Probably the wrong thing to say in a time like this. First order of business was to prevent Helen from dialing 911 on the wall phone.

Gasoline and Matches Part-9

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Frisco Colorado, 1960s. Aside from unchanging Buffalo Mountain in the background, this spot is virtually unrecognizable today due largely to the expansion of businesses along I-70. Gorgeous card! -ASC

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-9

Note: If you’re enjoying this new story arc, could you do us a favor and hit the like or consider subscribing to the blog? I promise we won’t bombard your inbox. You’ll only receive a notification when a new chapter is published. -ASC

Joshua Tree, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: At an early morning makeup call, a model named Brie Northcott decided to lecture myself and Rita in an obnoxious manner regarding the health hazards of artificial sweeteners in soft drinks. In particular, she put down our favorite Tab and Diet Coke. Later the same day, Brie was unceremoniously escorted from the building, after being caught in the bathroom snorting a powdery substance from the marble sinks.

It was a warm, clear night idling in line at the Carl’s Jr drive thru—Hardees to you Midwesterners. Fine night for a modern battle at The Alamo, she mused. Lyndy Martinez couldn’t resist tapping her fingers on the oversize metal steering wheel to the rhythm of the 90’s banger Boot Scootin’ Boogie, while waiting for her western bacon cheeseburger meal and jumbo size Diet Coke.

Sadly, no radio or cassette player in the Coleman Tug, but those sweet country licks thumping from someone else’s farm pickup truck were sufficient musical accompaniment. Another issue: the seating position in the Tug left a great deal to be desired, as the L-shape bench with minimal foam padding was far from comfy. Trust me on this, when you reach your forties, lumbar adjustment becomes less a convenience and more an essential feature. God save anyone with hemorrhoids attempting to pilot this contraption.

At least it was high, so your knees were level with the hips. And one could look out over other cars with an unencumbered view.

Another point in the plus column, this bizarre machine distracted from the fact Lyndy Martinez had dressed herself like a participant in a Dia de Los Muertos parade. Or the bass player in a heavy metal hair band—picture the kind where the guitar literally looks like a battle axe. She felt like a badass.

Her outfit: black wrangler jeans. Black tank undershirt. Combat boots. White-bone face paint with the black around the eyes. This was no masquerade; the brown Tug was loaded with chains, power tools, pipe-cutting equipment, gasoline, defensive weapons from her trailer and extra ammo if needed.

Indeed, there was an art to prepping a car for an all-out demolition derby. She’d learned these skills from one Daryl Ward, same mechanical genius who built the white mustang for her. She’d removed the window glass, attaching riveted netting—NASCAR style—in its place. She wanted nothing to shatter, or risk impaling her.

Folks hardly noticed her all black goth appearance when she shouted into the speaker. She pondered her fate while munching her high calorie late-night snack. She had big plans—screw the diet at a time like this.

Having Dr. Ellis out of the picture a few days had been ideal timing. Only challenge was what to do with baby Maribel. Luckily, her daughter had transitioned from formula to mostly solid foods, making feeding time a little more straightforward and predictable. Jackie Cordray was really the only option in a bind like this. Asking anyone else for assistance was perfectly fine an hour or two throughout the week, but certainly not all night. Thus, with Kyle away on business Lyndy invited Jackie to stay over. Heck, she knew something about kids.

When she’d finished the cheeseburger, Lyndy sopped the grease from her lips with a wad of napkins. Then she crammed the paper wrapper under the seat, setting off for her destination in top gear. Regrettably, maximum speed ticked only a hair over 45 miles per hour—with the wind at her back. No music, having left civilization.

She was alone with her thoughts. And her burps—a few of those.

Only The Spitfire would attempt something this grandiose yet very ill advised. For an everyday new mom, an activity as risky as going to war against three half-crazed Russian tow-truck drivers would seem incomprehensible.

She felt her heart pounding harder, reminding her of old days working for Chan.

Prior to making herself known, she chose a darkened intersection roughly three blocks distant from Godzilla Towing. Using the left side mirror—the only glass remaining—Lyndy re-did her ponytail until it was tight and contained all her bangs. She shook the wax paper cup, sipping a few more precious swallows of diet soda.

Over her all-black attire, The Spitfire strapped a Kevlar police vest. She sensed the hard outline and weight of the cold steel stuffed in the front pocket, a small comfort. She adjusted the Velcro straps to fit snug against her small rib cage, then laced her hiking boots. That was another Chan-ism. He often said a person lacking comfortable footwear wouldn’t make it a quarter-mile in this desert without stepping on something sharp. One sliced foot would be the downfall of many a fugitive.

Stretching a moment with one foot on the tall front tire, she studied her surroundings. A handful of shacks dotted the neighborhood, on roomy lots roughly an acre in size. Still enough people living out here that one or two might see. Then again, with dark clothes and a painted face, they wouldn’t have much to describe.

After checking she had the key, Lyndy set out on foot at a brisk marching pace toward Godzilla Towing. With only one spare tow truck, the place felt empty and yet flood lights shone brightly. The hour now well beyond midnight, a veil of serenity had taken hold. Still, it would be safe to assume these weirdos slept during the day—like vampires.

The place gave out creepy vibes.

She covered the remaining distance with added attentiveness in her actions, pausing and listening near to the parked M-series luxury sedan. Dogs were barking and a breeze swirled through the barrenness of the sandy parking lot. One might also be safe in assuming they were watching, with cameras hidden somewhere in the fence line or in recesses under the eaves.

The sports sedan had such a heavy tint one could see nothing of the interior.

A part of her wanted to drop a wad of thermite on this thing—right on the hood so it melted through the engine bay. Only pricks drove this BMW model. But why escalate by poking the bear in the eye? After all, her mission still retained the option of a peaceful outcome, her intentions chiefly to negotiate the release of Sabina’s car. Rather than giving in to her destructive urges, she merely braced herself by resting her hip against the hood and quarter panel.

Lyndy checked her watch, wondering how long before Block or Sergei came waddling out to greet her. She wouldn’t have had time to strike a match and light a Newport. The door flung open with a forceful kick from a larger, man-size commando style boot. Fifteen seconds was all it took.

Block came rushing out with his Kalashnikov in hand, armed and ready to fire. He was followed by his brother and comrade Sergei, dressed in civilian clothing. With a gap of 30 feet between them, Lyndy drew her pistol. She pointed it dead center on Block’s chest, using both hands to steady the brick like gun.

“This day will be your last if you come a step closer,” Lyndy commanded.

Meanwhile an unknown car approached from the south with headlights dimmed. Lyndy refused to take her eyes off the two men, hoping the new arrival was not part of their gang. Pushing away from the car in a controlled manner, Lyndy never shifted her gaze. With her feet planted sturdily on the gravel, she regained maneuverability. Holding her frame steady she formed a wider A-stance with her legs. This would make for a cleaner shot, preventing her from tensing up. Good thing, as she had two adversaries to dispatch.

Skidding to a stop in the dirt, an arrogant smile formed on Block’s squarish mug.

He lowered his rifle, the muzzle tilting back toward the earth. “Okay girly, no problems,” answered Block. “We aren’t looking for trouble.”

He moved his quivering finger away from the trigger.

“But please do step away from M-series,” warned Sergei. “I recently have car repainted. Trying to avoid scratch.” Sergei’s waving arms and cracking voice indicated genuine concern for his BMW.

Who worries about their car at a time like this?

Lyndy lowered her aim to match Block.

“I’m not hurting anything,” assured The Spitfire.

“Vhut are you doing here?” Sergei demanded, in his vampire like accent.

“Just out for a nature hike,” answered Lyndy facetiously.

The approaching car continued traveling on a b-line to their standoff.

Sergei’s snakish eyes studied her like a game of chess he’d been playing back in the old country. “We know you … you were the one who wanted the black Jetta, correct?” Sergei filled in the space between Lyndy and Block, standing equidistant. “I can see you’re upset. Let’s talk. What you’re doing … it is highly illegal.”

“Go right ahead and call the police,” Lyndy replied confidently, recalling Jackie said the authorities were frightened of this place. “By all means.”

“Let’s be reasonable.” Sergei stammered with one twitching, squinted eyelid. “Sergei is patient man. What is it exactly can we do for you?”

“Turn over the effing Jetta to me. Simple. No questions asked. And while you’re at it, stop cheatin innocent people.”

Sergei shook his head grimly. “Not until Sergei is paid.”

“I will not be paying. You have a court order to hand it over. I don’t wanna burn this place, but I’ll do what it takes. I’m gettin that car.”

Sergei paused to consider. For the first time, cracks were showing in his smug pawn shop operator facade. He gazed at his palm, then shifted his sights to his partner. Both men seemed to be evaluating whether Lyndy meant what she said.

“I can’t…,” said Sergei, bitterly.

“Can’t what?” Lyndy interrupted.

Sergei exhaled in frustration. “You are sane or crazy woman?” His inflection made the jumble of words form an actual question.

Lyndy sniffed. “That’s a debatable fact. I’ve got mental illnesses psychologists have yet to identify in literature. But imagining myself in the head of a sane person, I can tell you I would never pay 50 grand for a vehicle potentially involved in a serious crime. It should already belong to the police.”

Sergei wiped moisture from his forehead, glancing to Block, sneering.

Block’s finger fluttered, inching closer to the trigger of his gun. He’d been raising the rifle gradually until it pointed to her ankles, only a few more degrees of arc to target Lyndy’s midriff. A wicked smile curled on the edges of his lips. Her own nerves were pulsing. No doubt he’d spray her full of bullets at the drop of a hat.

The stranger’s car arrived on scene, screeching to a halt in the road, straddling the center line. It was tough to get a look at the driver in the harsh artificial lighting. Though it seemed the person had abruptly taken stock of the situation. The motor revved violently. The driver flicked the gear lever in reverse and began retreating at high speed. He made it several blocks before summoning the nerve to do a poorly executed three-point U-turn, hastening back to the main highway.

“The real question is, how much is a rotgut import sedan worth to you?” challenged Lyndy, after the interlude. “Cause you’re still standing in my way.”

Sergei’s chest and belly heaved. His small, deep-set eyes were darting between The Spitfire and his comrade, knowing she had a trick up her sleeve. “The people we work for are not to be trifled with,” he warned, in a grave whisper she strained to hear between breaths. “Their legacy dates back centuries, before this country even. They study you, waiting, and when they are ready to strike, take from you whatever you hold most dear. Even your family name will be cursed.”

Lyndy rolled her eyes and chuckled. “Oh great. Like some secret society.”

Sergei frowned.

“Give em this message for me,” stated Lyndy. “I promise they will never know what I hold dear. And like duh, we’ve already had a curse on our name for generations.” Plus, cursing Martinez would be like cursing the name Johnson.

Even so it was obvious Sergei and Block were too stubborn to budge. As she’d guessed before, they weren’t the kind of folks to reason with. Neither was she.

While keeping a steady watch on the men, her hand ready to fire at even a subtle twitch, she began back peddling away. Without twisting her neck, save for a split-second to get her bearings, she stepped into the road and then continued retreating at an increasing pace.

Likewise, she saw Block’s silhouette backing under the eaves of his fortress-like structure. Sergei watched her like a hawk. He didn’t start moving sideways to the door until Lyndy was across the street, stepping down the residential lane. They expected something was coming. Probably not what exactly, but something big. Goliath-like.

Seconds later …

The diesel Tug fired to life with one twist of the key and a halfway push of the clutch. Satisfying. Major Bales had done a bang-up job mending the essential components. Feeling an odd sense of calm, The Spitfire jammed it in first and began accelerating toward the tow yard. The heavy machine rattled and bounced down the potholed street. Even so, there was a trustiness about it too—like a reliable old tractor.

A glint from a muzzle flash first caught her attention, as she steered the nose of the Tug on a vector intersecting the cinder block building. She hadn’t even reached the area where the BMW was parked.

Ducking sideways, with her head tilted to the passenger side, bullets began raining down. They impacted in sequences of threes and fours, making an ear-splitting TINK-TINK-TINK-TINK sound as they pinged off the steel body and doors. The sheet metal on this service vehicle was four times thicker than anything on a civilian car. Yet still, the bullets were penetrating. Every now and then, a ricochet zinged off something hard, like the frame rail. She heard glass bursting, not from the tug—which had none—but likely the BMW, meaning stray bullets had impacted Sergei’s precious ride. So much for the swell paint job.

Worryingly, some of the shots were punching holes in her roof. She could feel whatever dirt and grime had accumulated in the headliner pelting her. Noxious dust clouds and particles of decades old headliner material started filling the cab, irritating her eyes. The bits were getting stuck in her hair, lashes and bothering her nose. Some of the bullets were lodging themselves in the metal door, visibly poking through—an unsettling measure of the rifle’s power.

It became harder to breathe.

Col. Rickman used to say if you were field stripping an M16, you’d better do so in a very clean building. On the other hand, an enemy soldier sporting a Kalashnikov could re-assemble their rifle in a swamp and it would work fine. She’d never tested this theory, but considering Rickman was usually right when it came to knowledge of war, she believed him.

With her palms, she rubbed her eyes to keep them from clouding.

Contorting her ankle, The Spitfire feathered the gas pedal, applying medium pressure. A tricky measure, but necessary to prevent a stall. Though slowing some, the Tug continued rolling across the lot on a collision course with the front gate mechanism. Despite the hail of bullets, the engine kept chugging as though unharmed. She wondered about the gas tank which might be one of the weaker points. Certainly, the tires had been pierced. She could hear air hissing as they drained and feel the cab sinking closer to the earth. But she didn’t really need those inflated, just to stay on the rims.

After what must’ve been a whole magazine clip emptied, the Tug continued its relentless path across the lot staging area. Amidst the bedlam, Lyndy couldn’t keep her wits enough to count shots. Odds favored the curved magazine Block had on his rifle matched a type holding roughly 30 to 35 rounds. Given the Swiss cheese of holes in the roof, a barrage of said amount felt probable. The onslaught slowed, like when popcorn in the microwave is nearing the end of the cycle and you don’t wanna burn it.

Nervously, she lifted her head an inch at a time until her eyes were level with the door window sill. Wiping dust from her brow and squinting, Lyndy peeked out, toward where she assumed Block would be standing.

Light glinted from his watch. His fingers moved rapidly, as he was in a kneel changing the magazine at that very moment—the act of reloading.

Fishing with her arm behind the seat, she used her own fingertips to identify the weapons within reach. Her hand landed upon the cross bow, not the Beretta. Possibly good, as he wouldn’t be expecting this. This might be her best chance. Raising it as rapidly as possible, she winked one eye to aim using the door as a prop. Squeezing the trigger, she felt the tension release as the skinny steel bolt let loose. She could hear it whooshing as it cut through night air.

Half a second later, the truck slammed into a corner wall of cinder blocks, missing the steel gate by a yard. Her body was thrown and crashed against the dash. Had she been seated upright, her head would’ve impacted the wheel, possibly knocking her unconscious.

Having been a harder impact than she anticipated, her bell was rung. She shook her head, trying to come to her senses. The wind had been knocked out of both lungs.

Oddly, she wondered if and when the gunfire would resume. But as she willed her stiff joints to bend and her lungs to refill with air, it felt as though everything around her was stuck in slow motion. Lyndy twisted in place, to an upright position. With one foot, she flicked the latch mechanism to ease open the door. This revealed a view to where Block was crouching.

He had the metal arrow sticking in his collar bone. Warm blood was oozing from the wound. His squarish jaw twisted in an expression of agonizing pain, as he used his left hand to grip the tail end of the projectile. With super-human force he was attempting to dislodge it from his shoulder.

She blinked at the scene, trying to regain her sense of balance.

Mr. Chan used to say, the best thing about a crossbow was that no one would waste time thinking they could remove a bullet—but the opposite was true for the bolt.

Clawing with both arms she pulled herself free, landing hard on the dirt. Then as she got her feet under her, she sprang forth at max effort ignoring any sense of injury. Though her lungs were gasping to refill with air, Lyndy used every ounce of reserve to run. She didn’t even check to see whether Block was lifting his gun into position. Lowering her head she rammed into him with a full-force head butt. Were he not weakened by pain and down a shoulder, she’d not have enough physical power to wrestle the machine gun from his grip. But using the advantage she’d gained, she set one hand on the stock and one hand on the muzzle near the tip. She thrashed with her body side-to-side like a catfish, fighting for control. Even in a weakened state, the man was frighteningly strong.

She could barely get the rifle free, even while kneeing him in the stomach and kicking his ankles. He somehow overcame blood loss and the projectile lodged in his shoulder. Her original plan had been to disable Block with a blast of bear spray, except there was no time.

At last, his sweaty palms slipped off and she lurched backward with the gun in her possession. In an instant, with lightening reflexes he flicked a bowie knife from his boot. The blade flashed in the bright light. He clutched the knife in his good hand and sliced at the air. His arm moved with such ferocity it made a FWOOSH.

Gasoline and Matches Part-8

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I like how there’s a business called Dairy King (as opposed to Dairy Queen) with a two-tone forward control Jeep truck parked in front. Good stuff. -ASC

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-8

Joshua Tree CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: In a packed food court scene near old town Albuquerque, Miss Rita Lovelace came face-to-face with my doppelganger. A woman near the taco stand had my same shade of hair, color eyes, matching body type and facial features. She even had my same manner of stride in her walk. Rita, somewhat dumbfounded, approached the young girl asking, “Lyn? What … are you doing here?” The stranger frowned and hurried away from Rita, thinking she was a crazy person. Smart girl to run away.

As the summer day wore on, skies turned gray and overcast. The air temp remained no less forgiving. Fortunately, the gas-guzzling Land Rover had an excellent AC system, keeping both momma and baby comfy.

Reaching across the dash, Lyndy lowered the volume on the radio.

Her lap supported a ring-bound Thomas Guide, open to the Joshua Tree pages. She’d been flipping between them to get here. Looking over her shoulder, Lyndy double checked the street number on the rusty mailbox, knowing it was an odd time to call on someone—in the middle of dinner—with crickets chirping and the sun already dipping below the horizon.

Checking on the baby, she saw Mari was sleeping soundly.

A north wind blowing hard made it uncomfortable to linger outside, as it carried aloft grains of sand and they were sharp on the skin. All afternoon a river of cumulous clouds floated across the desert sky, taking on a silver sheen from ripples of ice crystals and the fading light. With any luck the clouds might turn pink in a few minutes.

She’d called ahead from a payphone. The impatient fellow who answered claimed the tug was still available, then promptly hung up.

She couldn’t have painted a precise picture of a fellow selling a thirty-year-old aviation support vehicle for $390 in the weekly auto trader, but she had some vague stereotypes in mind. She wasn’t even sure what to say, but in theory it was a straightforward transaction. If it simply idled and drove, it passed the key test. Didn’t need a pink slip since the vehicle was never intended for highway use.

The home of the seller was modest, a single-story mock adobe bungalow, a bit run down with no landscaping. But the lot was huge, over three-quarter-acre, including sheds and a Quonset hut. The rest of the property was surrounded by a healthy forest of Joshua trees, yucca and smoke trees. These native varieties did a good job filling in sandy flats between boulders. For the majority of the year the smoke trees weren’t what you’d call attractive, but following a summer rain produced a lovely lavender colored bloom.

Speaking of attractiveness, Lyndy checked herself in the rearview mirror, wishing she didn’t appear so drained. Four decades on planet Earth, plus a later child birth had subtly begun catching up. As a last-ditch effort she re-applied blush and her purple lipstick, attempting a charming smile. But it didn’t take. Her hair was windblown. The skin on her exposed shoulders looked reddish from heat rash. She’d not been sleeping well, having stress dreams about dance again.

Lyndy flipped the mirror back into position, then shifted her gaze to the house. There were yellow kitchen lights on, plus the flickering of a color television in a small living room area. The man was home.

She hoped he was kind at least.

She’d had about enough of males and their cocky attitudes for one week—exhausted by the situation. On the other hand, one of her specialties came in knowing how to disarm such a gruff, prickly character. At least, back in the day it was.

Reaching to the back seat, she stuffed sleepy Maribel into the baby Bjorn carrier. Then gently, she fastened the Velcro, tightening buckles as the baby’s head drooped. Fortunately, the baby hadn’t seemed hungry, as her supply of food had been thoroughly depleted.

Lyndy exhaled, looping her purse strap over her head, then nudging the driver’s door shut. Since no sane individual wanted to be outside in this wind, she didn’t bother locking the car. She hurried up the driveway with slumped shoulders, along a narrow sidewalk path to the door. The entry had a cheap doorbell buzzer and Lyndy pressed this with her fourth finger.

Whatever she’d expected the seller from the ad to look like, she was 100 percent wrong. So much that she went mute when the door creaked open. They stood there staring at one another like two neighborhood cats sizing each other up.

He was taller than expected, with a slim build but strong looking chest and arms—the kind with noticeable vascularity. He had gray hair, but an ample amount, parted in the middle and cut short. He had a chin with a tiny cleft like a movie star. These were the things she noticed first. But he was also poorly kept, a fact which he seemed to become self-conscious of, realizing Lyndy was more feminine and attractive than he’d assumed.

His eyes studied her face, then her exposed legs, then the baby sleeping against her midsection.

He ran the fingers of his right hand over his chin, feeling stubble. Glancing down at his off-white shirt, amply stained with grease, he suddenly became aware he carried a quarter full wine bottle in his left hand. He looked down over the wine bottle with an expression like: “where did this come from?” and quickly stuffed it into an out of view buffet table.

Lyndy could hear the TV. It was a pro-wrestling broadcast.

Their stunned silence was lasting a unreasonably long time, both knowing somebody had better speak soon. Lyndy figured she should try.

“Uhhh … uhm … I called you earlier about a five-ton Coleman airplane tug for sale,” remarked Lyndy, with a cheery smile. This was one of those statements which when uttered aloud, sounded absurd. She pushed back her bangs, which had been blown into her eyes by the wind, then pointed to the yard. “I probably sound different on the phone, don’t I?”

This seemed to snap the man loose like oil to his joints, and he answered: “Oh gosh, right. You called me?” He cocked his head like a confused border collie, observing the sleeping baby. “Wait, you’re the one who called about the Coleman tug?”

“Yeah,” Lyndy chuckled. “Is it still available?” she said in a joking way, as if it were such a hot commodity people were knocking down this man’s door to get it.

“Of course,” answered the man. “Yes. Still for sale.” His eyes fell upon her classy Land Rover SUV and lingered there. Then he re-focused, back to studying the shape of her torso. Maribel squirmed without opening her eyes, murmuring something in baby speak.

“Is that a …?” He began to ask an obvious question, but realized how silly he might sound asking if Lyndy possessed a real baby. He shook off the thought. “Uh … what I mean is … why don’t you come in,” he offered, in a good-natured way.

“Awe thanks,” said Lyndy. “Sorry I brought my daughter. Not ideal, I know. Couldn’t find a baby sitter at the last minute,” Lyndy explained. She grinned gleefully, feeling somehow energized. “You’re not like a … serial killer, are you? I have mace in the car, but it’s not on my person. Should I double back for it?” She was joking again, but this wasn’t so far-fetched as to be impossible, given the circumstances.

“Only if you talk to my ex-wife,” answered the man, an attempt at humor which landed poorly and she could see a look of “get it together man” on his face.

He gestured to his living room which had a single Laz-Z-Boy recliner—Archie Bunker style—plus a TV tray, positioned four feet from the rabbit ear equipped television set. The only other seat was stacked three foot tall with car magazines and a year’s worth of Playboys. The man ran to his TV, quickly dialing down the volume knob. In the process, he tipped over a stack of VHS cassettes, which from a distance, appeared to have covers of women in bathing suits.

Lyndy waited in his arched entry to the cramped living room space. She began to brush at her ankles nervously, lifting first one heel and then the other.

The tall man bent over, hastily sweeping all the magazines into a basket on the floor, which was also piled high with periodicals and random guy stuff. There were more playboys, mail and other titles of a bachelor nature. “Dang it! My brother left all his magazines here,” he said, as some kind of explanation for the content. “I wasn’t expecting company today.”

Lyndy suppressed a chuckle. Sure.

As he was rapidly cleaning Lyndy noticed a sleeve of tattoos on his arm. They were military style ones with stars and flags. Among these, an intriguing night hawk bird and a crescent moon stood out.

The whole time Lyndy couldn’t stop grinning, massaging the baby’s scalp in front of her and enjoying this escapade. For the time being, she’d forgotten how upset she was at the tow truck guys. In fact, she couldn’t recall having this much fun in a while.

On the seller’s TV tray was a sad looking chicken frozen meal thing, half eaten and the man carried this to his kitchen to get it out of the way.

“I haven’t had a real visitor in a while,” he remarked, clearing his throat. His voice was fresher than his look, sounding like a thirty-year-old when he spoke. But with the creases on his face and his graying hair, he was probably closer to mid-forties.

On the return trip from the kitchen sink, the man became excited and wasn’t watching his feet. He tripped over a box containing coffee cans full of nuts and bolts, and because all he had on his feet were socks, he stubbed his toe badly.

He winced, bending over and muttering a streak of curse words. The man wiped the back of his fingers over his eyes. “Usually, I’m tidier than this.”

This time Lyndy was unable to contain a laugh, which burst forth as a partial snort and uncontrollable bending at the hips.

While still grimacing in pain, the seller gestured to the now uncovered chair stating, “have a seat miss,” through his gritted teeth.

Maribel squirmed again as Lyndy comforted her.

Lyndy pinched the edges of her dress skirt, shimmying the thing an inch or two lower, taking it as far along the thigh as she could get. Next, she sat down, holding her knees together very daintily and smiling. She set her purse across her lap, covering her mouth to block any other impolite giggles. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening. I was thinking I could give you the money and you could show me where the vehicle is.” Obviously, he was hetero, cause he was so dang nervous. “I don’t need any help.”

“Oh sure.” The man hopped on one foot to his Lay-z-boy recliner, practically falling into it. Through the doorframe she could see into the kitchen, where a mountain of dishes were piled in the sink.

Lyndy unzipped the top of her purse. “My name is Lyndy by the way,” said Lyndy.

He held out his hand. “Oh right. Whitney Stevens.” He cleared his throat again.

“Is your foot okay?” asked Lyndy. “Cause your sock is turning red.”

“Yeah. It’ll be fine,” Whitney answered, dismissing what must be a painfully stubbed pair of toes. “Lot of people round here, they think it’s funny my name is Whitney. Sometimes people call me Major Stevens. But my folks didn’t know if they were having a boy or a girl, so they thought it would be convenient if the name was universal.” He tilted his head. “You can call me Whitney.”

Lyndy nodded.

At last Whitney seemed to regain composure. “Say, I was wonderin. It’s not really my business, but uh, how does someone like yourself come to be interested in 1950s aircraft support vehicles?”

Lyndy leaned back some, clearing her throat. After placing one leg atop the other, she straightened her outfit again for modesty. “Uh, you know …,” Lyndy sniffed, thinking of what to say. “All the moms my age are into heavy duty aircraft towing equipment.”

A smile formed on Whitney’s face, causing him to have dimples in his cheeks.

“Used to be minivans, but that was like … five years ago. Once you hit your late thirties it’s all tugs.”

“Is that so? Guess I’ve been out of the game a while.”

Lyndy couldn’t help but chuckle too, feeling herself blushing again.

“Well then, do you wanna see it?”

Lyndy nodded eagerly.

Five minutes later …

Under the amber glow of a storm lantern where moths circled endlessly, Whitney Stevens uncovered the vehicle for sale by removing a green tarp. He limped his way to the side, pulling more of the dusty tarp, rolling and folding it over to move it out of the way.

Leaning against a workbench, Lyndy noticed a ten-pound sledge. Cupping one hand, she covered Mari’s tender ears. Then lifting up the hammer, she heaved it over her shoulder like Paul Bunyun, giving Whitney a startled look. Next, she swung it mightily against the bumper of the Coleman Tug. She hadn’t even paid him money.

Despite a reverberating gong-like sound rivaling a church bell, and the heft of steel, the mark in the bumper was hardly noticeable. That’s how thick and heavy grade it was.

Mari opened her eyes as though stunned. “It’s okay,” whispered Lyndy, bouncing her knees. “DA-DA!” exclaimed Mari, then her head slumped back down against Lyndy’s chest.

“She says DA-DA a lot,” explained Lyndy whilst blinking her eyes and wedging a pinky in her ear. “Wow, that’s solid!”

“Yeah, they meant business in the fifties.”

“She’s a beauty.” Lyndy folded her arms, setting her chin on her fist. “How much can it pull?”

“I heard like eighty thousand pounds. You’re not pulling any 747s if that’s what you’re picturing. But you could easily shuffle a fleet of F/A 18s around.”

Lyndy affected a deeper, more macho tone. She was imitating the voice of men in a corvette owner’s club. “How fast does she do a quarter mile?”

“Unfortunately, she doesn’t. Not running. In my defense, I didn’t say in the ad,” Whitney answered firmly. “If she did fire up, top speed is only around 40 miles per hour.”

Lyndy stuck out her lower lip in disappointment.

“Upside is, with a day of work, I think it will run,” he added.

Lyndy locked eyes with Whitney, shooting him a fierce look to help with negotiation. “You can get it running?”

“Yes,” he replied confidently, leaning against the workbench.

Lyndy nodded. “Okay-doke. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She wet her index finger. From her wallet she pulled three one-hundred-dollar bills, offering them to Whitney.

He reached out his hand slowly, with a skeptic’s eye and a dose of caution as though she were about to play a trick.

“I’ll give you the rest when that turd is moving under its own power.”

“Sure. Makes sense.”

“One more tiny request,” voiced Lyndy, in a hushed whisper. She bobbed her head side-to-side, “got any ammo for a Beretta 92FS?”

He paused for a beat, with a serious gaze. She figured he might direct her to a legitimate gun shop, where there would be a record of her sale. But instead, he asked: “regular or hollow point?”

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: On a first date, Rochelle Bishop was having a lovely time with a handsome, fit fellow she met at the V-P. They passed a city park with a half-court basketball setup—and conveniently a ball left abandoned by the hoop. She and the man played the game HORSE and the dude lost 5 times in a row. He never called her back.

The baby was sleeping soundly when Lyndy arrived back at the custom lake cabin—car rides will do that. By the hands on her watch, it was past 8 o-clock. In the shade of tall pines, dusk came early. One had to be alert for deer, as the twisting mountain roads leading to the cabins became dark tunnels in the woods.

Lyndy “docked” the massive Range Rover in its normal covered spot, adjacent to the vintage sixties Mustang.

She noticed first, the black rolling suitcase by the stairs to the garage. A floppy label dangled from the handle; the words Dr. K. Ellis printed neatly in the text boxes. Kyle had scribe-like penmanship, especially for someone with a doctorate by their name. From this scene, she knew he was going on a business trip. He might have said before, but frankly, the prior week had been so chaotic she hardly remembered her own name.

Lifting the baby into her arms, Lyndy backed toward the landing. Mari squirmed and shifted, irritated at having been moved. But her eyes remained shut. Flipping the light switch, Lyndy maneuvered carefully in the dim light illuminating a flight of stairs, leading to the first floor. Sometimes there were creatures here, raccoons or the occasional skunk. Thus, she’d learned to never stumble blindly onto the stairs.

The fact Kyle was going away wasn’t such a bad thing. She would have more time for her nightly business of finding Jackie’s daughter, without prompting more of his suspicions. On the other hand, she’d need to find someone to watch the baby. And she didn’t know any of the neighborhood moms well enough yet. Except maybe Helen Mason, but for that matter she didn’t exactly know where Helen lived.

She wondered if Kyle would be in a sour mood? He’d come home from work to an empty house, and no dinner waiting other than what simmered in the Crock Pot. If their roles were reversed, she imagined she’d be annoyed.

Before proceeding to the top floor, she wanted to put Maribel to bed in the nursery. She found the lower floor was darkened.

She thought of their first encounters, in her mid-teens, when she waited tables at The Vanishing Point. They rarely exchanged words. Early on he seemed more interested in Catherine. Years went by until they had anything resembling a date. Though their feelings went unspoken, the pair developed an easy, natural bond. Perhaps it was a mutual love of wilderness, blue skies and curiosity about the wonders of the Mojave Desert. It certainly wasn’t education, as Lyndy couldn’t match him there. But Lyndy held her own in the street smarts department, and she loved to read.

Maybe she was simply his type.

When they were in their twenties, he used to visit her at her desert hideaway, the trailer in foothills near Amboy. In those days, few men were bold enough to approach her residence, but somehow that lonesome field geologist had the confidence.

He had a habit of coming unannounced—not so unusual in those days before cell phones. Sometimes she’d be watering her plants, or cooking a spaghetti dinner on her two-burner stove. Other times, it was late into the night and she’d been sleeping when he arrived. She’d feel his touch on her hips, or the small of her back. She’d offer him a beer, a sip of tequila or the occasional ice cream bar from her freezer.

They’d speak of their desert adventures, filling in the gaps of when they’d last seen one another. She’d make him laugh with her silly jokes. And soon they’d undress, making love with the windows open, feeling the night breeze. Sometimes there were multiple rounds depending on how much build up preceded. Even so, he nearly always left before dawn.

Cut to the present. Not much had changed, except now two decades on, she’d just given him a beautiful child. His favorite child. She wondered if he was having an affair even now—except it wasn’t an affair—because heck, they weren’t even married. So, what was it? A breaking of some unspoken promise? Who did she have to blame, sneaking around all the time. Was it worth asking about?

Opening the door a crack, she saw Kyle standing in the kitchen, watching the small TV which hung under the cabinets. Some kind of ESPN SportsCenter broadcast.

Hearing the door creak, he turned around with a smile. “Oh hey, this turned out good,” he commented, pointing to a soup bowl on the counter. She recognized the stew she’d had simmering all day in the slow cooker. “I already ate two bowls. Beats like three-quarters of the recipes Becky knew how to make. Don’t tell her that,” he said with a laugh.

He didn’t even ask where she’d been.

“By the way, I have to fly to Boulder tomorrow. I’ll only be gone two days. Not too bad. Except I think it’s supposed to rain the whole trip.”

Perfect, Lyndy thought.

“What’s a matter?” he asked, spotting the mournful look she must have on her face. “You’re quiet. I’ve learned that’s cause for suspicion.”

“I guess … I thought you’d be mad.”

“Why?” he asked with a shrug. Approaching each other, their bodies came within inches of touching. With one arm, he gently squeezed his hand on her shoulder and pulled her close enough to kiss. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head no.

“That’s perfect,” he answered, resting his other hand on her hip and nudging her back against the island. He brushed her cheek with his fingers, like he used to. She smiled back and felt the tension melting away. Her breathing slowed. She found herself blushing. She pulled her hair from its ponytail, forgetting everything else that was troubling their relationship. He followed as she led him to the bedroom.

Gasoline and Matches Part-7

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Check out those cars parked in front of the market! -ASC

Gasoline And Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-7

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Watching an episode of “I love Lucy”. Supposedly it’s a Saturday morning at their apartment. Ricky Ricardo is wearing a suit and tie, smoking and reading the newspaper. Lucy is wearing a dress and heels, hair done up and not one but two pearl necklaces. She’s also smoking. The doorbell buzzes. A man enters (not Fred Mertz). The visitor is wearing a suit and tie. Ricky offers him a cigarette. Now everyone in the room is smoking and dressed more formally than anyone I know.

It took a few minutes, but gradually Debbie’s heartrate and breathing returned to a resting level. Likewise, she found herself regaining composure, as well as her ability to reason. Sadly, the shocking image of Patty Sue—a bag of dry skin and nothing else—was etched in her memory bank.

She accepted the offer of a warm, expired Yoo-Hoo drink for the sole reason of getting the old guy to move away from the breakfast table slash mausoleum. It was a welcome relief when he, of his own accord, offered Debbie a guided tour of his desert wonderland. Excellent idea. It meant getting out of the stuffy cabin back into the outside environment. The hazy July air wasn’t fresh per se, but compared to whatever particles of biohazard material floated inside the cabin, it must be safer to inhale.

Stepping past the kitchen and down a short hall, Debbie Kowalski realized her pants were all but slipping off her waist. The straight-leg bottoms were bunching around her hiking boots. Perspiration on the hike over caused her to lose so much water weight at the midriff, she needed to adjust her belt buckle. But when she went to bring it in another notch, she noticed it didn’t have any holes left—she was already on the smallest one! In lieu of this, Debbie shimmied her cargo pants up higher on the hips, hoping for the best. With any luck, she might be able to fashion a belt out of a loop of rope, Jethro Bodine style.

Speaking of hillbillies, the old coot reached for yet another shotgun, one positioned by the back door and used this item as a pointer of sorts.

“I use this puppy for shooting at my Jack-rabberts,” he explained. “Keeps them chupacabras far away from my land also.” While the old fella had slaughtered the word Jackrabbit, he’d somehow pronounced the Spanish word for goat sucker using perfect diction.

Debbie rolled her eyes, wondering if this situation could get any more ridiculous.

With one hand holding her pants, the other her drink, she followed the old man out the back screen door to his ramshackle junkyard. This area was modestly shaded by a series of trellises, dying grapevines and a few barely surviving Joshua trees.

Debbie rubbed her eyes with her thumb and wrist.

“Out here’s where I keep all my good stuff,” the old man commented.

Scanning the cluttered scene, Debbie could see at least two potentially road-worthy autos. They had tires on all four rims, so that could be taken as a positive indicator. The first was some model of early Bronco, with the wrong bumpers and no windscreen. The second, a Jeep style truck coming outfitted with four different mis-matched tires, a massively cracked windshield and remnants of at least three prior paint jobs.

Taking a swig from her glass container of warm Yoo-Hoo, Debbie swallowed hard. This powdery chocolate concoction at least soothed her parched throat, though it tasted like sugar flavored mud. Yoo-Hoo was hardly a tolerable beverage cold, imagine it warm. She smacked her tongue, trying to rid herself of the taste. Then she wiped her arm across her face.

“Sir, I can see you have a J10 over there. That’s a fine truck with enough power, it might just pull my Jeep out.”

The old man made a “Baaahhhh” sound, in a scoff. “T’aint workin.”

“Why? What’s a-matter with it?”

“Even if you could get the bastard started, damn tranny will never slide in gear. You can spend all day fiddling on it, but it won’t take.”

The word transmission alone conjured up imagery of sensitive, difficult to adjust components, in a tight tolerance configuration more finicky than a Swiss chronograph. She hated working on transmissions—and when one displayed any hint of misbehaving her first stop was a specialty repair shop. Not going into gear at all was a bad sign, indicating failed parts. If parts inside were indeed broken, there weren’t likely to be replacements in this yard.

Debbie squinted, turning her head back to face the old man. “Okay, what do we know about the Bronco?”

He shook his head immediately. “Son-of-gun won’t turn over. Got a stuck cylinder or two. Motor is totally seized.”

“So bottom line it for me. Does anything here run and drive?”

“Run and drive?” he scratched at the trio of hairs on his mostly bald head. “Nope. Nothing ‘round here works,” proclaimed the old fella, almost seeming proud. “Sorry young lady.”

It was nice to be called young lady for a change.

The old man got a wistful look on his face, though it was difficult to tell where he was staring since his eyes were ghostly white. “Used to be handy with a Snap-On wrench. I mean I could fix anything from a lawn tractor to a front-loading washing machine. Worked over 25 years repairing engines for the Navy.” He sniffed, then took a big gulp of his Yoo-Hoo. “This might come as a surprise—seeing how fit I am—but I suffered a stroke couple summers back.” He grinned, showing his black tooth.

Debbie nodded, trying not to chuckle.

“Darndest thing. Ever since my stroke, I done lost my mechanical faculties. That whole part of my brain musta shriveled up and died. Can’t even hold a wrench now; wouldn’t know which end is which.”

Debbie folded her arms. “Hmmm, this is a conundrum.” She watched desert iguanas and zebra tails doing push-ups, sunning atop piles of rusty radiators, engine blocks, crankshafts and flywheels. Everything in sight seemed beyond repair.

“Over here’s where I show off my minerals,” added the old guy, changing the subject. He pointed to a row of outdoor shelves housing his rock collection, which thankfully was kept under a ramada. The shade helped, but the stagnancy of the air was the real killer. “These ones taste like spoilt milk,” he commented in his wheezy voice.

The “rock collection” consisted mainly of sedimentary and conglomerate rocks, fairly common to the Mojave Desert region. She recognized several ordinary types of limestone, travertine and sandstone, plus a few unpolished agates and opals.

Holding the whitish rock up like a golden egg, he said: “taste it for yourself.”

“Uh, no thanks,” Debbie replied.

“I said taste it,” commanded the man tersely. He lifted his shotgun, not pointing it at her, but clutching it tighter in his grip.

Debbie stuck out her tongue while bringing the rock an inch or two from her lips. Hesitating, she paused for a beat, hoping the fellow would look away. Instead, he watched her like a hawk, waiting for her to actually lick the chalky rock. Faking it wasn’t going to work.

Flicking her tongue against the rock, she caught a taste of it, bitter and salty. “Yeah.” Shaking her head and making a sour frown, Debbie groaned. “I think that might be Dolomite,” she remarked.

“Whenever I feel constipated, I come out here and lick this rock. Cures me right up.”

“Too much info,” muttered Debbie.

Pretending to be interested in rocks one could find by simply stopping your car on the interstate and walking any direction was fine. But the whole time she was wondering about the Jeep J10 truck and Ford Bronco. Perhaps there were enough spares in the yard to MacGyver a fix together. Odds were better, considering she had two vehicular options. A combination of praying and using every IQ point she had might allow her to coax one or the other into running and driving. The loco old guy was a wildcard. Would he try and stop her? Would he be grateful to her for fixing one?

Debbie leaned against a decaying air compressor, where the rounded sides made for a makeshift bench. “Sir, you wouldn’t happen to have a telephone I could use, would ya?”

“Sure, I got me one of them.”

“Oh wonderful …”

“The bugger hasn’t had a dial tone in 26 years.”

Debbie exhaled. “Or a HAM radio set? Wait, wait … let me guess. It doesn’t work.”

“Tube amplifiers blown out.”

“Right of course.” Debbie nodded. She sensed water pooling at the corner of each eye. Her lungs heaved and she felt her legs weakening. Lowering herself to a crouching position, salty tears started dripping to the soil where they quickly evaporated. She was simply too exhausted to fight an onslaught of emotions. Though she hadn’t wept openly in years, Debbie began to sob, as hopelessness swept over her in a great wave.

Redlands CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: An engineer and mathematician stopped by the V-P diner one night for drinks. Somehow the topic of conversation turned to imaginary numbers. Catherine Cookson became convinced they were pulling her leg about the whole idea of “imaginary numbers”. As I passed by to deliver a tray of beers, I overheard her saying: “Stop it you guys, that’s silly! That’s not a thing!” No argument could convince Cathy otherwise. Remember, there were no smart phones or widely available internet in those days.

Lyndy waited until school was out of session, but before the principal departed to make her introductions. Majority of the students—ones who were already driving—peeled away sharply by 2:45. This left behind only faculty and those staying for a practice.

You know when they say being a teacher is a calling? Well, this parking structure sure indicated otherwise, judging by the quantity of German made luxury sedans. Somehow, someway the teachers at Crestwood were making bank.

Placing Maribel gently into her baby buggy, Lyndy wheeled up to the administrative office. When she asked to see the principal, she was informed Mrs. Dalton was busy. No surprise there—she knew this wouldn’t be easy. Lyndy offered to wait.

The receptionist’s desk had a brand-new, fancy Mac computer. Lyndy didn’t feel particularly welcome, but she wasn’t here to make friends either. And of course, arriving unannounced was her fault. But Lyndy had the distinct impression she was secretly being described in an instant messenger box of some sort. The receptionist would periodically look up, glance at Lyndy, then go back to typing furiously on a keyboard.

She was pretending to smile at the same time, but it was obviously fake. In the storage pocket of the buggy, Lyndy had brought Mari’s colorful toy xylophone and the accompanying steel mallet. She offered this to the baby, whose eyes went wide with excitement. Thusly, the next twenty minutes were filled with random notes: BING-BONG-BING-BONG-BOOONG.

The Spitfire remained calm, herself pretending to browse a copy of Reader’s Digest. She slipped her readers over her nose, which Lyndy knew would help her look smarter.

She became so bored she did a word search puzzle.

30 minutes later …

Amongst the notable decorative features in Principal Dalton’s office was a slotted oak paddle, displayed atop two brass supports. This thing measured three feet long. Certain laws regarding corporal punishment discouraged her from using it. At least such rules applied to public schools. How the particulars translated in a private school setting, Lyndy didn’t know.

“This is a school for gifted students,” explained Mrs. Belinda Dalton, making eye contact. She was a fiftyish age woman with a fat swash of white in her formerly blonde wave, a facelift and a banker’s disposition. She offered Lyndy a pamphlet, detailing the many benefits to enrolling one’s brilliant offspring in private school. Lyndy shoved this in her purse. “We prepare our students for entry into elite colleges and universities.”

Lyndy glanced down to 12-month-old Maribel, grinning in her blue onesie. The baby with the same curly, chestnut hair as her mother, had been chewing on her Sophie giraffe while a small bead of drool rolled off one corner of her lips. Hastily, Lyndy wiped it away with the corner of a cloth. A smile formed on Mari’s face.

“Mari’s brilliant,” Lyndy declared. With a pause and a shrug, Lyndy added, “though she’s only a year old.”

“What makes you believe that?” A tight, skeptical frown formed on Mrs. Dalton’s face. Reaching into a drawer on her desk, she yanked out a used Sesame Street baby book. The stiff pages of the book sported colorful drawings of the main characters. Flipping it to a random page, Mrs. Dalton held it up. “Who is this?” The picture had a cartoon drawing of Big Bird.

“Come on Mari, you got this,” thought Lyndy, trying to will her daughter to speak, though she’d only ever said one recognizable word before.

Mari gazed to her mother, knowing Lyndy wanted her to do something. She looked wide eyed at Principal Dalton and then at the book she was holding up. No mistaking, it was obviously a picture of Big Bird. Mari was thinking.

Lyndy pointed to the book. “Who’s that?”

“DA-DA,” answered Maribel, holding the giraffe in one hand. Then she lifted and shook her bead filled rattle with her other hand, as if to underscore her wrong answer.

Lyndy put a palm over her eyes. “Shit,” she muttered.

Principal Dalton chuckled. “Pretty sure your father isn’t Big Bird.” At least she had a sense of humor. “No that’s Big Bird. See?”

Mari, knowing she’d given the wrong answer, had a sad look. “ELMO?” she supposed, trying again. She lowered her rattle and went back to chewing on the giraffe.

“Do’h,” Lyndy muttered.

“Big Bird,” corrected Principal Dalton. “Can you say Big Bird?”

A tear started rolling down Maribel’s cheek, knowing she’d let her mother down.

“Ya know, I was bad at tests too. I think it runs in our family.” She turned to the baby. “It’s okay sweetie,” said Lyndy lovingly, reaching and pulling the baby into her arms. She held her butt with one elbow and patted Mari’s back with the other.

“I have to say Miss Martinez.” Belinda Dalton seemed surprised at her own words, “Most 12-month-olds can’t speak any words at all. There’s a small possibility this child may actually have an above average IQ.”

“That’s good to know! Cause in addition to a well-rounded education, the arts are particularly important to our family.” Lyndy sniffed. “If possible, I’d like to meet the art teacher? Tigerlily.”

“Sorry, she already left for the day.”

“May I ask which room is hers?”

Mrs. Dalton shot Lyndy an inquisitive look, as though re-evaluating her estimation of The Spitfire.

“By the way, that’s a heck-of-a paddle ya got hanging there,” declared Lyndy.

Belinda Dalton turned in her chair, so she could gaze up at her magnificent paddle. Then she turned back to Lyndy.

“One other thing. I hear there’s a missing student,” Lyndy remarked.

“Tragic case. Seems like a runaway.”

“Sure, about that?”

Mrs. Dalton shrugged. “It’s all we know. Happened on a field trip; nothing officially associated with the school.” She began straightening a stack of papers on the corner of her desk.

Lyndy inhaled, changing both her voice and expression. Using one hand she pinched her cheeks together. “Know what that paddle reminds me of? The warden at PineGate Youth Detention camp. She used to beat us with broom sticks for sport. One night she whacked me a good 25 times with one. Not gently by any means, I’m talking full force—swinging the whole arm. Wouldn’t stop unless you went unconscious or pretended to.”

Mrs. Dalton shifted uncomfortably, clenching her jaw.

Lyndy leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Her legal name was Mabel Dixon. That’s why I believe in demons to this day. Only logical explanation I can think of, Mabel Dixon was possessed by a demon. She used to drag me by my belt loops across the floor boards, and rusty nails were sticking up where the wood slats had worn away, cause the camp was in such poor condition. I still have scars on my ass from that.”

“Sorry, that happened to you. Sounds like you’ve overcome a lot.” Mrs. Dalton looked at her watch. “I should be heading home.” She attempted to dismiss Lyndy, packing away a planner and some pens into a bag.

“I hope you’re not holding back information.”

“Nice meeting you,” said Mrs. Dalton, hastily. She’d have sworn Mrs. Dalton’s hands were quaking.

“I was just heading home myself. I’ve got shredded chicken and potato stew in my slow cooker. You know how it is. We love those crock-pot dinners on weeknights.” In her mind Lyndy was thinking, “I hope you’re not obstructing.”

Jackie’s prediction must be right. These people were instructed not to speak about Sabina’s disappearance. Which was beyond annoying. But mostly what got her blood boiling was spending any time thinking about Mabel Dixon.

Gasoline and Matches Part-6

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

29 Palms, CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: At one of her big Tucson birthday bashes, Rita was depressed about turning 36. Obviously, she was difficult to shop for. Someone must’ve forgotten to purchase a gift—or understandably not thought of anything—and amongst the pile of scarfs, aroma therapy candles, sun hats and champagne bottles she found an index card, with a handwritten note that said: “coupon for one free back rub”. Rita was annoyed, so much so, she contemplated flying to wherever this lady lived and demanding her back rub.

Sergei—owner-operator of Godzilla Towing—was unwilling to budge on the absurd price of eight thousand dollars for a simple tow.

“But I’m a AAA member?” the customer argued. “I have towing coverage.”

“Sergei is not affiliated with AAA,” the owner answered. “Sorry.”

Block and his unnamed driver compadre menaced the timid stranger each time he happened to check his surroundings. The poor father said his kids were hot, exhausted and he needed to get his car back. Sergei shrugged.

Mind you it was well after midnight.

Further, the family-man customer also claimed that his yearly annual salary was only 24 thousand dollars, and most of his savings would be eroded if he had to pay their unfair price. Again, Sergei shrugged it off.

Then to Lyndy’s astonishment, the family man wrote a check for the same amount. He could’ve gone out and purchased a good used car for that. Sergei made a copy of the man’s driver’s license, presumably so he could nail him to a wall in case it bounced.

“We need to chat pronto,” whispered Lyndy, looping her arm through Jackie’s while pushing open the exit door. A part of her wondered if that steel door had a secret button to lock it. Whether or not it did, Sergei allowed the pair to exit, Lyndy pulling Jackie with her.

Outside in the glare of the yellow streetlamps, Lyndy folded her arms while Jackie leaned against the car. Both their hearts were racing, and sweat had begun accumulating on Lyndy’s exposed skin.

She gazed at the barricades protecting the car storage area. Unfortunately, she couldn’t spot the Jetta from here. Next Lyndy studied the front of Godzilla Towing, where the office connected to the one and only gate. The arms of their gate were constructed of the same ten-inch water pipe as the rest of the fence line. They had a guard shack, made entirely of iron, with a tiny peephole window. Behind the gate arm, another barrier, this one seeming to have been a shovel for an enormous CAT bulldozer. It was attached to the hydraulic system, which could raise and lower it. Currently the barrier was in the upright closed position, looking beefy enough to stop a tank. Any hole or gap had been stuffed with razor wire.

Bracing on the trunk of the Ford with both elbows, Jackie heaved a series of labored breaths. Her back arched up and down as she continued panting, letting out the tension. For a brief moment she appeared ready to throw up. Recovering some, Jackie twisted to face Lyndy, pinching her tiny crucifix. Still struggling with words, and now with tears pooling in her eyes, Jackie spoke in a halting speech pattern. “Maybe … maybe I can go to a bank branch tomorrow … start the process of moving funds? They probably have one in Redlands.” Jackie slapped her hands lightly at her cheeks, feeling light headed.

“I disagree. No F-ing way we pay these creeps ransom money,” argued Lyndy. “In any case, let’s not make the decision in front of em. We need to jet; work this out someplace else.”

Moving swiftly to the driver’s door, Lyndy ducked into the bucket seat while Jackie circled to the passenger side.

As Lyndy inserted her key, the office door flung open and the tallest man in the overalls and wife-beater came striding out, showing amusement on his rectangular face. In his right arm Block casually brandished a Kalashnikov, pacing with the muzzle pointed toward the ground. The curved magazine was inserted, but no way to tell if it was loaded. Best to assume yes.

He gestured with his chin. “Classic car!”

Lyndy narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be back,” she shouted, over the roar of the motor.

She couldn’t hear his response, but Block’s chapped lips mouthed something like: “I’ll be waiting.”

Block continued mad-dogging her as Lyndy slammed it in reverse, performed an expert Rockford turn, then kicked up a rooster tail of sand as she accelerated away from the parking area.

A half mile later, they veered off pavement at a McDonald’s franchise with an outdoor patio. Due to the early hour the restaurant was closed, doors inside locked and the play place looking rather austere. The parking lot was devoid of customers.

Lyndy hopped a smallish brick wall to enter the patio and reluctantly, Jackie followed. Crickets were chirping loudly in the night—seemed like a plague of them.

“What if they follow us?” she whispered in a worrisome tone.

“They won’t,” stated Lyndy confidently.

Jackie shivered, not from the cold but the surge of adrenaline.

Positioned along the cement walkway to the restaurant entry, were a series of newspaper dispensers. Two of these were for real newspapers. The third in line, contained a free copy of Truck-Trader.

“Oh perfect!” remarked Lyndy, dashing to the display unit. Lifting the lid made the hinges creak—piercing the calm—but she yanked out a fresh copy. This three-quarter inch printed volume came chock full with advertisements for trucks available in the inland empire and high desert area. Best of all, most ads were private party.

Lyndy took a seat backwards in one of the plastic chairs, flopping the book on the table. She opened it straight to the last twenty or so-pages, containing the oddball vehicles.

Meantime a hot wind started blowing, lifting her permed hair and causing Lyndy to press the edge of the pages with a firm hand to keep it steady.

“What’re you planning?” Jackie questioned, beginning to puff on a sheltered Newport and bouncing her weight from ankle to ankle.

“I don’t know yet,” muttered Lyndy as she studied the pages, each comprising a dozen or so ads. After a few seconds she flipped the page to the next, holding her hair in one hand, keeping it from blowing around too much.

Prior to this, she’d never had much interest in the weird stuff. The back consisted mainly of rare makes, a category of kit cars, some homebrew Frankenstein shit and vehicles with unusual purposes. For example, circus trucks with big iron cages for moving gorillas and elephants. And trucks with ramps for motorcycle stunt shows.

“It’s never a good idea to fight people,” scolded Jackie. “I didn’t hire you to do that.”

Lyndy sniffed, ignoring the remarks.

“Why do we care about these rude men? We just need the Jetta,” Jackie pleaded.

“I fully agree with you. I don’t care about them,” The Spitfire replied. “But no effing way they’re getting what they want. We’re not paying them a penny.”

Jackie shrugged. “Where do we go from here? We need the car. We should pay them.” She commenced sucking on her cigarette, reminding Lyndy of someone trying to suck in a thick milkshake through a straw.

Lyndy exhaled, flipping to the next page in the book. “How many other private eyes have you worked with?”

“Two, not counting police detectives.”

“Did they get any results?” Lyndy knew the true answer before asking, but Jackie’s silence only served to confirm. “Look Jackie, you are welcome to hang back and stay safe. But it doesn’t matter what you want. I’m going to destroy that place.”

“You have a death wish. You’re insane!” shouted Jackie, and she stormed off.

Lyndy breathed a sigh of momentary relief. She continued to study the pages. Two ads caught her attention. The first was a White Manufacturing cabover diesel semi-truck, which was not outfitted for long-haul freighting. Rather, the White diesel was for rugged use in ports, for moving heavy containers over short distance. How it ended up in the desert was anyone’s guess. The second, another unusual make, was a Coleman aircraft tug.

Given the two were equally enticing, Lyndy favored the Coleman Tug, because that vehicle was advertised as being located in Joshua Tree.

Jackie had marched to the highway by herself. She didn’t get very far. She’d looped back and then sat down on a table, facing the road. “Jesus would say turn the other cheek,” she muttered.

Lyndy popped the cap on a bottle of Tab she’d saved in the trunk, taking a series of long gulps. “Maybe so. But remember, Jesus also flipped over a bunch of tables at the temple cause he was pissed at the money changers. So in that sense … ” Lyndy trailed off.

A small tremble of a smile formed on Jackie’s face.

“By the way, I haven’t been to confession in like 8 years.”

Jackie’s arms were open wide, her fingers dangling in air on both sides of the table. A detectable tremor also lingered in her extremities, and her feet continued bouncing heel to toe. The effect of the excitement had long worn off on Lyndy.

“Are you okay?”

Leaning her head all the way back, til her eyes were pointed at the stars in the Milky Way, Jackie let out a slow breath. “Yes. It’s just, I don’t think I’ve felt anything in a while. I’ve been numb to it all … other than grief. I honestly forgot what the sensation of living was like.”

5:50 AM, Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

She awoke to a frightening, chaotic scene, and a sound she hoped to never endure again. It was terrifying, the room in shadow, hearing the man she loved moaning in pain. Men were more sensitive to pain, yet his cries were genuine.

For a brief instant, Lyndy didn’t know where she was. Darkness still covered the cabin, and dawn’s first light illuminated only the tips of the pines. Meaning an early hour.

Thrashing side to side, she felt the sheets of their bed all bunching and crinkled up. Using her fists, Lyndy grasped onto anything she could. In the cold darkness, her vision was blurry. She could hear Kyle writhing on the floor in the fetal position. From the next room, the baby began to whine and cry, hearing the commotion.

Lyndy jumped out of bed into a fighting stance, ready to do battle with any lurking creature she could find. Funny part was, there didn’t seem to be any invaders in the room. Her head swiveled about, but the only other person was Kyle, in typical sleeping attire: boxers and a white under shirt. Her first thought was, “how did he fall out of bed?”

Through gritted teeth, he began to speak: “God damn you. You kicked me and threw me out of bed.”

Lyndy began feeling guilty.

“You kicked me right in the stomach.”

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” she exclaimed, rushing to the side of her boyfriend. Crouching down, Lyndy grabbed onto his shoulder in a panic. “Are you okay?”

He took a breath, letting it out slowly. “Somehow you pulled me sideways, flipped me and then thrust me against the wall.” Looking over to the wall, she could see he’d bounced off the decorative birch bark wainscotting. That stuff was not easily damaged.

“Is … is anything broken?” Reflexively she began checking him, feeling along his arms and legs for broken bones.

“What the hell got into you?” Kyle demanded. “You were having a bad dream. I simply reached over to comfort you.” He groaned, rolling onto his back out of the fetal position. Still, his eyes remained squinted shut.

Becky would never let this happen.

Lyndy sat up on her knees. She was in her sleeping shirt and panties. “Sorry.” She kissed him on the cheek though he was still writhing.

The baby’s cries became louder. Lyndy sniffed and instinctively changed her voice to a tone of tenderness and caring. “Want me to bring you ice?”

“No.”

“I feel awful. Are you gonna be okay?”

He nodded his head.

She pointed to the next room. “I’d better go comfort Maribel.”

“Getting my ass kicked by my girlfriend is one way to wake up,” Kyle lamented. “Not my favorite though.”

Lyndy frowned in shame.

By breakfast time, tensions at Fall River had cooled some. Mari was content watching baby cartoons. Kyle still seemed upset, and just a tad suspicious. He glared at her while spooning corn flakes into his mouth. “What were you dreaming about?” he kept asking. But she couldn’t remember, except fighting was involved.

She wanted to ask him about the mystery glitter substance. Didn’t seem like the right time though.

Lyndy Life Observation: At one of the contracting companies where Col Rickman worked, someone left behind one of those gimmicky LED retirement clocks on their desk. If you’ve never seen one, it basically has an always-on display which counts down the days—stupid I know. Rickman punched in the year and month he anticipated retiring, and the thing reset to a number in excess of 5000 days! He said it was a real punch to his gut, ruining the rest of his week.

She felt a little uncomfortable whenever she backed Kyle’s Land Rover out of the garage and down the hill. Growing up in an East LA barrio, it never felt right driving a yuppie automobile—like she stole it. Aunt Rose had a silly saying. Whenever someone would offer them a ride in a fancy vehicle, she’d decline, explaining: “that’s much too nice for us.” And Lyndy remembered hating Aunt Rose for saying this. What kind of fool turns down a ride? However, now that she’d grown close to the same age when Aunt Rose had uttered those words, Lyndy began to understand. What she meant was, she didn’t want to get too used to riding in a fancy car, because it made you desire the same for yourself. One could easily catch a bad case of new car fever. And pretty soon you’d be in debt, paying through the nose for a car you really couldn’t afford.

But another part of Lyndy loved this road boat. The stately British auto had plenty of power, and you sat high in the seat like riding a war horse. It wasn’t even bad in mountain curves. It had some kind of suspension dampeners which adjusted to the twisting road.

Better yet, the steering wheel was wrapped in exquisite leather.

She had an excuse for driving it. It held more groceries, especially for those mid-week Costco runs. But more importantly, it had attachments for car seats. The 67 Mustang had no such. In the sixties you just kind of set the baby on its back, hoping for the best I suppose. All in all, the Mustang was a bit of a death trap. And while Lyndy didn’t mind death wish cars, she certainly wasn’t about to subject Mari to the same.

She could see Maribel snoozing in the back of the SUV whenever she adjusted the rear-view mirror. It had one of those spiffy CD players in the dash. (That’s a plastic-coated metallic disk containing tunes for you younger folks). But the only CDs in the SUV were Kyle’s, and she didn’t care for his taste in music.

She’d dressed in an outfit suitable for a mountain housewife. Something Helen Mason would approve of. This was key to her mission. Mom jeans, earrings and a Pendleton shirt with her hair neatly done up. But not too proper.

In Lyndy’s pocket, she had a color photo of Sabina.

First order of business: Crestwood Academy. She needed to appear like the type of mother who would send her kid to a private school. Which probably meant looking like someone who watched Martha Steward and cared. Driving the right kind of car helped, one box checked. The missing element would be the voice. It would be tough to hide her roots in East LA. For while Lyndy’s appearance was pure north Mexican beauty, her voice gave her away. She had the SoCal accent, largely influenced by surfer culture.

The school had been positioned on a slanting plot of land, terraced into three big levels in the rolling hills of Redlands.

Gasoline and Matches Part-4

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Note the original Skyway Fantasyland station in the back near those pine trees. If you’ve been to Disneyland in the last 30 years or so, the change in this view is remarkable. Fun Fact: As a toddler I rode Dumbo and cried because the ride went so high in the air. -ASC

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: The absolute dumbest, bottom-of-the-barrel episode of The Brady Bunch had to be when Mike Brady installed that payphone next to the kitchen. Then later, there was some sort of afterhours business deal requiring Mr. Brady’s input, and of course he didn’t have enough change for the call. Couldn’t see that plot twist coming.

Arriving at the screen door, Debbie hesitated. She removed her hat, raking her curly hair away from her face, breathing a deep sigh. Half her water was used up and her hiking shirt was drenched in sweat. She knew she smelled awful.

Despite the fact the miner’s cabin appeared to be occupied, she still hadn’t detected any signs of motion from inside. No footsteps on the floor boards. No rustling of curtains.

The cabin included a shaded cement porch. This area had been swept clean of sand with a broom resting against a two-by-four, supporting the eve of the roof. Whomever lived here cared about this place. Course there weren’t any chairs to sit upon, but one of those plastic crates had been inverted. Presumably this was the exact spot where the cabin’s owner relaxed to take in the view.

Glancing to the water tank, mounted on stilts, she could see clear water dripping from a leaky spigot. This scant trickle had nourished hollyhock plants growing around it. Bees were buzzing near the large blooms or drinking from the puddle in this otherwise desiccated scene. Every once in a while, she heard the unmistakable hum of a hummingbird’s wings. How they survived out here she couldn’t guess.

She reached for the handle on the screen door, pulling it toward her. Like any screen door, it screeched in a most ear-buggering fashion, pivoting on rusty hinges and an overused spring mechanism. Behind the screen was a regular door, with most of its lead paint flaking away to bare woodgrain.

“Uh, hello?” Debbie called out, as she pounded a fist on the door.

Something similar to this happened in many a cheesy drive-in movie, and even in the famous Rocky Horror Picture Show, cept in the latter case that was a rainy night. Which sure would be nice.

When no one answered, Debbie cupped her fingers onto the latch handle and tested it. It turned. Pressing it about 45 degrees down, she felt the catch releasing from the frame. She assumed next she would just push it open. But then the face appeared.

This dude could’ve given the HBO “Crypt Keeper” a jump scare. His hair was ghostly white and so were his eye balls from untreated cataracts. He had wrinkles all over his face and huge liver spots on his arms.

Acting on pure instinct, Debbie reeled back off the porch. Then she noticed the 16-gauge shot gun in his hand. He gripped it in his left like one would carry a pipe wrench. Even the spot where his hand rested was noticeably shiner because the finish had worn off. When he gazed at her, his eyes were pointed roughly 30 degrees from center. Probably this was to “see around” his horrendous cataracts.

“H-H-H Howdy,” Debbie stammered. Was this a nightmare or reality she wondered?

“Nance, is that you?” asked the elderly man.

“Nance?” Debbie looked over her shoulder. Obviously, no one was standing behind her.

“Uh. My name is Debbie.”

You know that smell old people have? And the unexplained wheezing of someone in the normal course of breathing. Grandma Kowalski, when meeting a man in this condition would’ve made one of her snide remarks. Something like: “this gentleman has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

Debbie pointed a finger far off in the distance. A tiny glint represented the windshield of her stuck Jeep, reflecting into the haze. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. I’ve had a breakdown a couple miles down the road.”

Again, it was difficult to tell whether he was looking at her, something in the horizon or a phantom of someone named Nance who wasn’t there.

Debbie forced her lips to curl into a smile. “You wouldn’t happen to have a phone, would you?”

“Why don’t you come in?” offered the man with a nod. Then he did an about face.

Something smelled off. But she figured everything smelled off. The situation was off.

“Pardon the clutter,” muttered the fellow, as he shuffled toward the kitchen. Indeed, rusty cans, old newspapers, mail and just about anything else littered the floor so that one could only pass in a narrow trench across the room. Even his jeans were coated in dust, looking as if they were last washed when Eisenhower was still president.

Letting the screen door slam behind, Debbie stepped across the threshold into what must be the entry and a one-time sitting room. She watched as the man set his gun against the wall, stock resting on the floor, in a position where it could easily fall over.

Passing through an archway and rounding the corner into the kitchen, her gaze fell upon the fifties style round kitchen table. In the nook, next to the window, her eyes caught sight of something which registered as a Halloween decoration. You know those life-size witches sold at big-box hardware stores? Families who were way too into Halloween put those in a chair on their porch, next to the bowl of candy. Sometimes they’d take it one step further, putting this witch’s fake rubbery hand into the bowl.

That’s what her brain told her she was seeing. Textbook movie scare. She almost began to laugh, and her rational person’s response would’ve been: “Nice decorations dude. Very amusing.”

Then she felt her internal organs spasm. Her heart ceased pumping, and her lungs involuntarily seized, making her gasp. “What the F is that?” Grabbing a fistful of her flannel shirt, Debbie pulled it over her mouth and nose, squinting her eyes. She began to gag, and if she’d had any food in her stomach she would’ve vomited right up.

“Oh sorry,” commented the man. “Ought to have warned you about that.” He stopped in his tracks, making that wheezing sound as he breathed. He stood perfectly still, almost in reverence.

You know how skin begins to dry and turn brown in the weeks and months after death. It becomes brittle, the texture of rawhide. Well probably you don’t. And why would you? But that’s what happens.

“That there is my late wife, Patty Sue. She passed about a year ago now,” he said, with a touch of sadness in his calm voice. “Haven’t had the heart to bury the old gal.”

Debbie’s legs felt weak and she lowered into a crouch. With both hands over her eyes, wishing she would wake up she began to whisper. “How … long … were … you … married,” she managed through gritted teeth. Then her coughing continued.

“Forty-three years,” said the old man proudly.

With her sense of balance restored, Debbie began gaining control of her gag reflex. She studied the partially mummified body before her. The dry air must’ve stemmed the decay. Course, the ladies’ eyes were totally gone, just black holes in the skin.

“You must be thirsty,” said the fellow. “How bout a Yoo-Hoo?”

“Is it cold?”

“No,” he answered bluntly. With a shaky hand he opened one of the lower cabinets. Inside was indeed a shelf full of Yoo-Hoo bottles with the yellow cap. “Lot’s of people think Yoo-Hoo is chocolate milk, but it’s not. It’s a chocolate drink—never goes bad.”

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life observation: Cathy Cookson’s mother once claimed to have cut back to just 2 cigarettes per day during her pregnancy with Cathy—for the sake of the baby.

Funny thing about stress dreams, they could take a wide variety of forms: from rabid dogs chasing you through misty woods, to accidentally driving your car off a series of cliffs, to having to perform a complex speaking part in a play at a crowded theater. But somehow you never even agreed to be in a play. Like how the hell did you get here? Was this Carnegie Hall? When did you sign up for this?

In this case it was learning a tricky dance number, a type of synchronized performance which could be surprisingly stressful. She was training for a show with Rochelle Bishop, a woman whom she always felt she needed to impress. In spite of how hard Lyndy tried, she couldn’t master the moves. Rochelle was becoming frustrated. And it pained Lyndy not being able to duplicate something Rochelle considered a basic step. This lesson was taking place in a darkened room backstage at a dance hall, lit by kerosene lamps in a non-descript frontier town. She had one of those big ruffled dresses with the corset—whole nine yards. And Rochelle was in her thirties, not having aged appropriately, or at all. For that matter, Lyndy was young too, maybe 28. Which made zero sense.

Why were her feet not listening to her brain? With each repetition, she only managed to find new ways of stumbling and messing up. She could hardly control her body and even intelligible speech became a struggle.

She could hear little kids giggling inappropriately. Why would children be laughing with the mirth of a kid on the swings reaching unsafe heights.? How come toddlers were even allowed in the dance hall or in any way witnessing this? Then she thought she detected Maribel’s giggling voice, with a kind of spittle sound and her chubby little fingers clapping.

Her brain circuits started firing. Wait, the dance lesson was a dream! Rochelle criticizing her ability was all imagined, but the laughter was not. It was mid-afternoon and she’d dozed off in a public place. The children were real.

Squeezing both hands to cover her face, Lyndy sat up. Her rapid rise frightened off the pigeons and most ducks, but as one of them took flight, it carried away the remaining portion of her fast-food chicken strips. The birds had encroached on her picnic, scattering her fries, dipping sauce and even poking at her chocolate cake from the desert counter.

“Shit!” Lyndy cursed, brushing off some feathers and loose French fries. She’d fallen asleep in a quaint little park adjacent to the lake. It was one-thirty on a sunny afternoon.

As her eyes adjusted, she could see children on the swings. They’d been laughing at the birds, who managed to peck and swipe most of her lunch. Lyndy frowned at them. Then she glanced at Mari, who was smiling ear to ear.

“Excuse me, it’s not funny. Why didn’t you scare off the ducks?” Lyndy demanded.

Mari’s expression changed to one of concentration. Her intense brown eyes focused on her mother, listening and reading her mood.

“And how long was I out?”

Lyndy felt a gooey substance oozing off her forehead, threatening to leak into her eye. Reaching up with her palm, she wiped away barbecue flavor dipping sauce.

Of course, the lakeshore was lovely, the mountain air warm and dry. No wonder she’d nodded off.

“Lyndy, is that you?” A female with a youthful voice called her name.

Lyndy passed one elbow across her perm, then smoothed it back over each of her ears. Scooting closer to Mari, she folded her legs under Indian style.

“Lyndy Martinez?” repeated the woman.

Peering over her shoulder, Lyndy spotted an attractive housewife pushing a stroller on the path. One had to have a key to get into this park. It was no public beach. Only home owners technically were allowed to access the lake. Of course, Lyndy’s key came by way of Dr. Ellis.

Squinting for a better look this new arrival was a knockout, probably thirty-one or so. Though dressed as a housewife, her snazzy outfit passed for peak fashion in this town: stonewashed jeans (baggy of course), a chunky knit sweater tied in front and what could only be described as “Martha Stewart hair”. This chick could go from walking her kid around the block, to raising the sails on a vintage boat, to hosting a party for the PTA with just a change of shoes. Speaking of PTA, her mind probably contained sacred knowledge regarding school districts, and it would be a good guess to assume she were on a “board”.

The cheerful face seemed vaguely familiar. Sadly, Lyndy’s brain was so fried, she couldn’t place her. There were dozens of lake moms resembling her within a two-mile radius of this beach. After waking from this kind of nap Lyndy hardly knew her own name, let alone a woman she’d crossed paths with a time or two in five years.

Still, the stranger was hell bent on making conversation.

Hurriedly, Lyndy gathered her frizzy perm over one shoulder, then stuffed the chestnut-colored mess through an outsize scrunchie.

“It’s me,” said the woman. “Helen Mason”

Bracing with one arm, Lyndy pushed herself to a standing position. “Helen Mason?” Now that they were toe-to-toe, Lyndy reached out to shake the dainty hand of Helen. Lyndy wished she weren’t so disheveled, wearing mom overalls and a white blouse from K-mart. Internally she chastised herself, knowing she needed to be more careful these days. She wanted to peek into her makeup case mirror, but doing so would be impossible to disguise.

“So, this is your daughter?” questioned Helen.

“Yep, that’s the little devil baby,” Lyndy replied, still not entirely sure to whom she was speaking. Bending down, Lyndy scooped Maribel into her arms. “When that doctor told me it wasn’t bloating, I was actually pregnant, I about slapped him right off of his stool.” Maribel grinned as the young woman reached down to pinch her nose.

“Oh my gosh, she’s so precious,” declared Helen. “I think she has your hair.” Helen cleared her throat. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Clicking her tongue and inhaling deeply, Lyndy shrugged.

“My husband works for the same engineering firm as your boyfriend.”

Of course. Now it made sense.

“Tim and I are having a few friends over on Saturday. We’ll be grilling on our deck. We’d love for you and Kyle to join us.”

“That sounds lovely,” Lyndy replied.

“Say, three o-clock?”

Just a hunch, but Helen seemed like a good source of info on preppy academies.

“Oh hey, I had a question. We are looking into private schools.”

“You mean preschool?”

“No. High School.

“Already?” Helen pretended to bump a fist into Lyndy’s shoulder. “Well, aren’t you one heck of a planner!”

“Ya know how it is—college getting harder and harder to get into. With the giant brain on Kyle, little Maribel might end up being an engineer too.”

Helen grinned, her whole face shining with kindness. In this day and age, the world so cynical, Lyndy found herself doubting the authenticity of unexpected kindness. But not everyone hated her. It took a certain kind of narcissist to think so.

“Do you know anyone at Crestwood?” asked Lyndy

“Great school. Expensive. But nice. It’s down in Redlands.”

That was a valuable fact. Not as far a drive as she anticipated.

Bending down, Helen adjusted the little sailor’s cap on her own child, a precocious two-year-old boy with red hair. “Ya know what I think. Most all of us just have destinies. No sense in putting too much pressure on yourself to make Maribel into something she isn’t.”

“Good advice,” thought Lyndy.

Gasoline and Matches Part-1

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

Anaheim, CA, 1990s

People always say when you become a new mother, your tolerance for life’s gross outs skyrockets upward. Blood, urine, throw-up, whatever is in a blackhead—you name it! And in The Spitfire’s experience, this was all true. From the happy day she found out she was pregnant with Maribel, at the age of 40, to the time of Maribel’s birth, a notable transformation occurred—not only of body, but in spirit. These same changes didn’t affect the male brain equivalently, or at least not in the case of Dr. Kyle Ellis. Kyle already had three other children, the youngest of which was eight when Lyndy gave birth. For some reason Kyle was still grossed out by poopy diapers. Nowadays, Lyndy could watch the Kintner boy get devoured by Jaws, while eating spaghetti.

These special life events never came at a convenient time and place. So, it was inevitable that baby Mari had one of her worst diaper blow-outs of all time, in the midst of a ride at Disneyland and Lyndy had to sit there with a diarrhea covered baby for what seemed like an interminable stretch until the ride came to a halt. Ironically, the ride was Winnie the Pooh, proof that God has a sense of humor.

Something had upset Maribel’s stomach terribly, though she’d eaten mostly oatmeal and half a banana. The diarrhea not only squirted up her back, along her spine, but also down the insides of her thighs. People in the beehive shaped cars behind were pinching their noses and groaning. Kyle was mortified with palms over both eyes—though he really ought to anticipate these moments. Rebecca Ellis, his first wife, was in the car in front. She was snickering.

The one silver lining was Lyndy had a diaper bag. As soon as the ride came to a stop, she jumped off carrying Maribel like a watermelon, basically a mini-stink bomb, and waddled to the nearest restroom. The Goofy character happened to be walking through at the time and he said: “Golly!” Then he did the laugh which is impossible to spell out but everyone can hear in their head.

There was a line for the women’s, because of course there was; it was the ladies room at the world’s most popular theme park after all. But as soon as the other moms witnessed the gravity of the situation, they let Lyndy cut the line. Another mom had the koala care station down and had just been finishing up a diaper change on her toddler. When she saw Lyndy coming, she whisked her kid out of the way so Lyndy could get Maribel onto the table.

Mari’s diaper bag had a pack of those disposable baby wipes, but it wasn’t near enough. Lyndy had to rush to the sinks. Mari was crying like always. This time for good reason, as she had poop all over her and probably had an upset tummy. But Lyndy was used to it, because Maribel cried a lot.

Lyndy sighed.

Rushing to the towel dispenser, she yanked the arm up and down about thirty times to obtain a good fistful. She took this wad and wet it under a sink faucet, using this in place of a washcloth to cleanse Mari’s skin.

Moments later Rebecca Ellis entered the restroom, but instead of being helpful, she’d come to watch Lyndy. Thankfully the Costco wipes helped a ton, as Lyndy tried to comfort Maribel and get her to stop crying. She hummed a lullaby, even though it was a crowded place, and she looked into the beautiful eyes of her baby, laying there on that plastic shelf. Her heart swelled with love.

Eventually, mercifully, Mari began to cry less and Lyndy affixed a fresh, clean diaper.

That same afternoon ….

Lyndy Life Observation: On a sweltering day chasing speeders up and down the San Bernardino County interstates, 15 and 40, Deputy Keynes used to frequently get an argument along these lines: “Hey buddy, I pay your salary.” Sometimes this was accompanied by a poke at his chest and the obligatory, “ … are you just out here filling your daily quota?” In the right mood, Dale Keynes would reply with: “Hey man, if you’re not happy why don’t you fire me? You pay my salary, correct?”

The classic song Pickup Man was playing softly on the speakers. The dry SoCal heat felt amazing, and her belly had been filled by an excellent prime rib meal at The Blue Bayou, paid for by Dr. Ellis. And with their troubles mostly behind them, he had his arm around Lyndy while he smiled and played with their baby. That was during the meal. Now he’d run off somewhere to take a business call.

Lyndy was on her second margarita—wearing her favorite one-piece bathing suit—when Becky Ellis entered the scene again. She plopped down on an empty chair next to Lyndy’s pool lounger. She had one of those pina-coladas with the little pink umbrella and she was crunching the blended ice by poking the straw up and down.

On the lounger next to her, seated on a towel, was one-year-old Maribel in her tiny sun hat. Mari was smiling now, having recovered and seeming to enjoy watching the activity at the pool. Later Lyndy planned to take her daughter to the baby pool, where the water was roughly eight inches in depth and Mari could have fun splashing in the sun.

Lyndy could tell when Becky Ellis wanted to talk. She got this look on her face like she was ready to burst. She should have been watching her kids, but she’d entrusted this duty to the teenage lifeguards at the Disneyland Hotel Pool.

Becky Ellis inhaled deeply, then let the air out slowly.

Lyndy lowered her pink sunglasses.

“Whelp, I see you lost the baby weight quickly,” Becky remarked. Instead of a tone of congratulations, or as a complement, it sounded more like an insult. Like Lyndy must be on drugs. “What’s your secret?”

By the way, Becky Ellis and Lyndy were the same age, but in Becky’s eyes, Lyndy was a younger B-word who’d swooped in and stolen her husband away. This explanation couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Lyndy cleared her throat. She’d taken to imitating the great Rita Lovelace in situations like this. Rita always kept an air of dignity, even when someone was obviously there to intimidate her.

“I said what’s yer secret?” Becky repeated with a grin.

“I bought a Thigh-Master off an infomercial,” said Lyndy, matter of factly. In reality, one of the benefits of this bathing suit was its flattering nature and built-in slimming capabilities.

Becky exhaled a chuckle, knowing Lyndy was being facetious.

“Do you take anything seriously?” Becky accused.

Lyndy gazed at Maribel, brushing the gorgeous strands of hair from her forehead. It was the same shade of walnut as her mother’s and Lyndy took pride in that.

Only Becky could find reason to be in a vindictive mood during a luxury family vacation to Disneyland—literally the happiest place on Earth.

“Becky for Pete’s sake, can’t we just enjoy a family vacation?” pleaded Lyndy. Lifting one of those 4-sided emery boards from her purse, Lyndy began polishing her fingernails.

With one casual glance, Becky checked on her kids. The oldest stood atop the waterslide and was about to go down in reverse. “I need to ask you some important questions,” said Becky.

“Oh no you don’t,” argued Lyndy.

“Be honest with me Lyndy Martinez,” whispered Becky. “At any point during our marriage, was there … infidelity?” Becky whispered the word infidelity, though no one was within earshot. “And I don’t mean the physical kind. I mean emotional. Or any form of shared contact that … could lead a man to temptation.”

“Huh?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Lyndy looked Becky in the eyes. “We hardly said hello to each other the whole time you and Kyle were married. I promise you.”

“And when did this start?” Becky pointed to baby Maribel, as though she were evidence of some illicit affair.

Lyndy squinted her eyes. “You’re giving me a headache.”

Maribel was 12 months old. Counting back from there, another 10 months and Kyle was already divorced.

“Deep down, there had to be a part of you wishing to get pregnant? In a way, didn’t you know it would bring Kyle back to you?”

Lyndy exhaled, thinking back to that drizzly night.

Kyle Ellis had driven past the motel where he knew Lyndy lived her lonely life in an upstairs room. He’d made a case, the two of them were basically star-crossed lovers. Now they had a chance to flip that narrative around. Living in a motel, in your late thirties, working at an oil change place called Rapid-Lube did make one feel like a bit of a loser. So, seeing a familiar face—a successful one at that—she’d been in a moment of weakness. They’d had a passion filled night or two, rekindling a lifelong romance.

She’d practically given up on her dream of being a mother. She’d tossed her chance away like a couple of spades in a game of poker. Yet Lyndy didn’t know what she was missing. It was that summer season which brought Maribel Ellis into the world. Nothing could’ve prepared her for how joyful this would make Lyndy, and Kyle Ellis in turn. Mari was a symbol of the love he’d always had for Lyndy.

Lyndy gazed up at the Matterhorn, like a snow-capped beacon in the haze of a southern California afternoon. She answered Becky this way: “Why don’t you hop on your broom and fly off with your monkeys to pester somebody else.”

Becky’s back stiffened. Her face contorted in a grimace—like someone who’d had a drink thrown in their face—and she must’ve been so insulted she huffed off without any sort of goodbye.

Lyndy smacked her forehead, knowing word of this would make its way back to Dr. Ellis, and he would not be pleased.

Later that night …

The local TV news was on silent, pictures of wildfires in the mountains and a panicked scroll on the bottom fifth announcing many evacuations. One didn’t need the volume to know all heck was breaking loose in the mountains. Sometimes it felt like that’s all southern California did in the summer—burn.

Lyndy couldn’t sleep again, her mind swirling with countless worries, irrational or not. For example, what if their new cabin in Arrowhead burned down? But the fires were far away from the lake. Beside her Kyle snored, as did Maribel on her back between them. They both had a big day. Anyone on a trip to Disneyland had every right to be exhausted. She checked her watch, then sat up.

Grabbing her key card, she pulled on a dress, stuffed her feet in heels, then headed out—shutting the room door gently so as not to wake anyone. She didn’t have a rational explanation, and Kyle would obviously want to know where she was going. He also would want to know what was wrong, but as usual, Lyndy didn’t know what was wrong. She could never put in words what it meant to be restless all the time.

Downstairs Lyndy paced across the lobby. The only people up were moms like her, who were fatigued by life. But the bar had a few empty seats. Now that was a fortunate turn of events.

Kyle could be trusted with Mari, especially since she was sleeping. Right?

With piano music filling her ears, Lyndy cozied up to the hotel bar and sighed. The bartender smiled and Lyndy said: “Heineken”. Then she slid Kyle’s gold credit card across the smooth top.

Glancing to her left and right, she counted the other patrons. Pair of dudes at the other end of the bar. One couple, and a woman, seated by herself at a table by the windows. She seemed a little older.

Lyndy took a sip of beer, then studied the stranger.

By her looks she’d guessed this mature woman was middle forties in age, but slender, with a dirty blonde bob haircut and curtain bangs. It was a pricey hairdo, done only at salons. That style didn’t work for Lyndy’s curls, requiring far too much straightener, but she envied it. Or maybe it was a wig? Lyndy kept glancing her way.

She seemed like a fellow mom, but a wealthy one. Her classy outfit consisted of a green blouse, pedal pusher pants, showing her ankles and a fine pair of high-heel strap sandals. It bested Lyndy’s department store sun-dress.

“Oops.” Abruptly the stranger looked up from a dirty martini they were nursing. Lyndy was caught in the act of spying, which was embarrassing. But the stranger grinned while Lyndy sipped from her beer.

“Welcome to the party,” the woman called out.

Lyndy nodded, with a sheepish look.

Leaning back in her lounge chair, the elegant woman crossed one leg over the other. “Care to join me?” she asked, pushing her hair over one ear.

Lyndy hadn’t known she was lonely and it was abnormal for her to talk to strangers. But in this case, she welcomed the chance for an adult conversation that wasn’t with Becky or Kyle Ellis. Or the kids.

Lyndy took a seat across from the stranger, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “Sorry for … ya know …”

The woman shook her head, meaning no explanation needed.

“Name’s Jackie,” the lady added. Jackie pointed her toe, exercising it by doing circles, while gazing at Lyndy with attentive eyes. On her third finger, a diamond ring flashed as it caught the light. “My maiden name is Bell, but these days I go by Cordray.” Then she sipped from her glass of gin.

“Lyndy E. Martinez,” replied Lyndy with a nod. “Jackie’s a cool name.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” questioned Jackie. She had a green foil pack of Newport’s peeking out from the top of her purse, causing Lyndy to have a craving.

Lyndy shook her head in confirmation.

“What brings you to the Tragic Kingdom?”

“Oh well you know, I always wanted to meet Donald Duck in person. And my anti-depressants aren’t working anymore.”

Jackie Cordray chuckled. “You got any kids?”

“One,” Lyndy answered, trying to maintain a non-slouching pose. “She’s not going to remember this trip, but years from now when she has 30 tattoos and a bone through her nose, I can point to Dumbo and tell my daughter I held her in my lap on that ride.” Lyndy gestured to the tower elevators. “My boyfriend is currently upstairs, snoring like a moose.”

Lyndy shook her head at the circuitous path leading here; while knowing the series of nervous jokes she typically used as a smokescreen to avoid talking to people weren’t going to work on this lady. Cause Jackie was too damn cool.

“I’m not a …” Lyndy twirled her fingers to indicate whatever was running through Jackie’s mind. “We’re basically a family now. The American dream. I have self-respect.” Lyndy covered her mouth with her fist, trying unsuccessfully to disguise a burp. She wasn’t sure what she meant to justify by her declaration, maybe a latent response to Becky’s digs.

Jackie squeezed her nose at the corners of her eyes, then gazed out the windows at the glittering city lights at night stretching on forever. “I got two of em. They’re too old for this place now, or at least they act like they are.” Her words were bitter, as if many painful things were being left unsaid. Her fingers displayed two diamond rings, but no wedding band. Jackie swirled her drink, then downed the rest.

Ordinarily Lyndy wouldn’t have been so bold, but something about this mystery woman made her wonder. Jackie came from money; probably lived in Hollywood or Beverly Hills. There was practically no rationale for a person like Jackie to come here, if they didn’t have a family in tow.

“You’re looking for someone,” Lyndy surmised, taking one more sip of beer.

Jackie turned back rapidly, facing Lyndy and meeting her with a haunting gaze—the kind of look someone who’d woken up from a nightmare. “They call you The Spitfire. Is that correct?”

Lyndy nodded slowly, wondering how a person she’d just met would know that name.

“I have a confession. A friend of mine—Rita Lovelace—told me I might find you here. I didn’t know you would be up at this hour or what room you were staying in. Bumping into you was purely coincidence. But I’m glad we’re meeting this way.” Jackie leaned forward. “I have an extraordinary story to tell you.”

Valley Girl Part-22

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-22

[Important Lyndy News: Hi everyone, this chapter will be the final entry published online for the “Valley Girl” story arc. Our conclusion (chapter 23) will appear in the print version of this narrative titled: “Stonewater: A Lyndy Martinez Story”. I am having an awesome new cover prepared now and will post an update as the plans materialize. In the meantime, we are pivoting efforts to focus on the romance story: “Sunriver Heart” with hopes to build on the successes of last year and market the novel to a more mainstream type of publisher or an agent who can assist us. To that end, I’ve been polishing up some of the scenes and the story elements within the novel. I’ll plan on posting a synopsis for Sunriver Heart, but in short it focuses on the romantic entanglement between young Lyndy Martinez and Nash Spotted-Wolf during the 1980s in a small mountain town. If you’re curious you can find the opening chapter for the novel in the Southwest Writers 2024 Mosaic Voices volume. As usual, thanks for reading and being patient with the process on this one. And just to let you know, I have a couple of new Lyndy story arcs planned for our blog, and news of that will come later in the year. Please feel free to reach out to me if you have any suggestions or comments. -ASC, Jan 2025]

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: At a family gathering somebody asked the kiddos what they wanted to be when they grew up (classic!). Maribel’s half siblings had well-reasoned, noble answers. When it gets to Mari’s turn, I start to get worried; she shrugs and says: “I’m looking into various clown colleges.” To my chagrin, that is the moment I learned Mari had inherited my sense of humor and with the tables turned, I could truly be embarrassed in public by my own daughter.

By the way Brandt was violating his own park speed limits, Lyndy knew he wanted to save the historic hotel as much as her. Perhaps more so.

Neil hadn’t been much help, his remarks cryptic and misleading.

They tracked in and out of radio reception with each bend in the highway, but he knew the Ahwahnee had been evacuated. That much was reassuring. Lyndy tried feeding Maribel, except holding her steady as they drifted into the corners going 75 to 80 miles per hour proved impossible. The little baby wasn’t going to keep anything down this way.

In between attempts to radio, Brandt explained how sturdily The Ahwahnee had been constructed—out of sculpted concrete and rebar no less. Would’ve taken a great deal of explosives to bring it down, yet the size of the model was immense and heavy. The scheme was making sense from that perspective. Their goal had been to get something massive inside the building—something no one would be suspicious of—and they’d succeeded.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Lyndy became awestruck upon re-entering the deep valley. Mere photographs couldn’t do this place justice. El Capitan, a tower of pure granite soared over their heads, merging with a streak of cirrus and blue sky in the clearing of the storm. The waterfalls roared, creating graceful curtains of white. The meadows were green, plants rejuvenated by the gift of a springtime rain. Nature seemed unaffected by the goings on of humans, if only a transitory illusion.

They arrived at the access road and parking for the hotel, breathless and leaving Lyndy more than a touch carsick. The place had lost its peaceful appeal. They were met with a set of improvised barricades. Also, a mass of confused guests huddled in circles, wondering what the heck was going on. A news van was setting up. The scene was frenzied; some cross looking hotel patrons were milling about in pajamas and bathrobes. Of course they were, as the price per night was outrageous and now this disruption! Piloting an official green vehicle Brandt was able to carry on, inching by using the shoulder of the road.

Not quite an eighth mile from the entry gates they were forced to stop again due to a jam. There wasn’t any space to skirt by now. Killing the engine, Brandt went to work immediately; he marched off and set to work herding folks who seemed lost, recommending everyone be moved further back. Some guests were sneakily trying to reenter the property—and worse, the main hotel lobby. Brandt’s mere presence and look of authority shamed them into complying—something about that ranger’s hat.

Stepping out, Lyndy used the rail of the SUV to gain a height advantage, assessing the scene, searching unfamiliar faces for that of Dr. Kyle Ellis.

At first, she found no one she recognized and disappointment took hold. Lyndy began feeling colder and more exhausted. Ducking back inside, she gathered what remained of her meager things and got ready to carry the precious baby in her arms. Then she heard a whistle and shout. Her heart began to soar. She’d not anticipated what a sweet relief it would be to lay eyes upon her boyfriend.

“Lyn” he shouted. Kicking the door wide, she smiled and felt him grip her at the hips. Kyle lifted her and Lyndy fell into his embrace, shutting her eyes and wanting to stay like this for hours. He squeezed tightly though she must’ve been a little gross, badly needing a shower. Kyle rotated her body and brought her gently to the ground.

With feet planted firmly, Lyndy passed Maribel to Kyle as they kissed again. She watched the delight grow on his face while cradling his daughter. Mari wasn’t in a pleasant mood, her face grimacing. Lyndy tried to soothe her by caressing her cheek and saying “daddy is here”. He held his baby up proudly, bouncing her gently in his arms. Behind him, Lyndy noticed the one physical possession she once saw as a vanity. She realized now, in a new light, how much she missed it. “Dang, I really missed this thing!” she exclaimed, running to it with glee. Kyle and some bystanders laughed. Clicking off the brake, Lyndy twirled it through a full 360 turn, exercising the wheels.

Lyndy longed for a hot shower and real food. She wanted a whole pizza, to eat by herself. She glanced behind, as the containment line was being expanded. Rangers began pushing the crowd to disperse. “Step away! Step back everyone,” barked the park employees.

“I have the Range Rover loaded at the village. We had to leave quickly but I got your purse and …,” stammered Kyle. He tried to describe some of her possessions miming hand gestures to indicate sizes, “… the thing like a tackle box and has all the cosmetics.”

Lyndy snorted. “My makeup case?”

“Yeah, that thing,” he replied.

Lyndy felt self-conscious. “I could use a change of clothes. I think this dress is officially kaput.” But that got her pondering. The last words of a faint, scratchy phone call: Kristen’s favorite verse in Luke. The glow of a snowcap atop Half Dome.

How could she leave like this?

Without warning, something stirred inside. Lyndy scanned the crowd wondering how to find Ranger Brandt. She pivoted to face the buildings. She bit her lower lip. An irresistible urge to act gripped her, drawing her in.

“What are you scheming?” Kyle questioned.

Lyndy didn’t know how to answer. She offered him a look of apology as she turned to leave.

Kyle shook his head, but a knowing guise of resignation came upon him as he took one bated breath. Gently he snugged Mari into her baby buggy. Reaching out he latched onto Lyndy’s wrist. He pulled her back—only an instant—planting a kiss on her cheek. It lasted until Lyndy squirmed away, flashing a final charming grin. She then darted off, pushing her way into the clamor.

She located Brandt conversing in hushed tones with a group of other rangers and park personnel. Knowing there was no time to waste—not wanting to think through the possibilities—Lyndy cleared her throat to get his attention. He turned, tipping back his hat.

“Miss Martinez?”

“I have the code. I’m going in,” Lyndy declared, covering her mouth as she spoke to conceal her words. He turned and, in his eyes, she knew he shared her sentiments.

“You’re a mother?” Brandt argued half-heartedly, leaving the question open ended.

By his tone, she knew he wasn’t about to stop her. His companions gaped at him with astonishment. They were fearful at what he seemed prepared to do.

“How much time do we have?” questioned Lyndy.

“Not sure. Minutes if we’re lucky.”

“Not to brag, but I have a knack for situations such as these.”

Brandt sniffed. “That I can believe.”

Minutes later …

Taking a circuitous route, out of view of anyone including park officials, Brandt snuck Lyndy into the restricted zone. They came in through a side exit, passing the kitchen and a series of offices behind check-in.

The abnormally quiet lobby with dimmed lights felt unsettling. Each footstep echoed on smooth walls and bare concrete floors. On the other hand, a fire alarm chirped incessantly. In a tense situation she would’ve preferred a bell, as the electronic beeping could be grating on the nerves. Moreso, because Lyndy felt tired mentally.

Through the mosaic windows she spotted employees rolling out yellow tape, wrapping trees on the farthest extent of the meadows. It gave her pause, thinking of how deep the blast zone might extend—they were preparing for the worst. The building smelled of dinner foods: prime rib, fish, hot rolls and such left to waste in the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled.

Weirdly a herd of deer were grazing in the field, looking serene, probably wondering why the humans were acting so skittish. Lyndy set aside her feelings of doom as much as possible. Of course she wanted to see Mari grow up; it was something to live for. Plus, she needed to experience all those firsts her own mother had never been around for.

All the same, she hadn’t been born to sit idly by while a disaster unfolded.

With a flashlight Brandt guided her up the main stairs, wide and grand for a ball style entrance, but now empty. She rushed up them two at a time, even with her level of fatigue, feeling something of a second wind brewing.

At the dam model, Lyndy and Brandt paused for a beat. The thing was far too large to move, nor had anyone wanted to touch it. Facing the wall, Lyndy crouched, hugging her knees to her chest. She leaned back until her spine rested flat on the cold floor. Next she squeezed her way under the model, a crawl space with 18 inches of vertical spacing to the floor. Brandt struggled to get on his hands and knees, and couldn’t have easily scooted under. There simply wasn’t room for a grown man.

Lyndy extended her palm, wiggling her fingers to get Brandts attention. She heard the sound of peeling Velcro, then he set his smaller black mag light into her hand. Shining the light along the edges, it revealed a series of thumb screws attaching a particle board backing. Using her lips Lyndy blew back her bangs, which clouded her vision. She began a laborious task of undoing the screws quick as possible, knowing this was just a protective cover masking the true purpose.

For some reason Lyndy had the original Love Boat theme song stuck in her brain on repeat. It wasn’t something she’d have chosen for such a grim moment. Probably caused by too much time spent watching reruns, feeding Mari in the middle of the night.

Setting the heavy cover piece aside, Lyndy again shone the light into the void under the model. This time, as The Spitfire moved the beam it revealed a grid of bluish, polymer clay looking bricks. A knot formed in her empty stomach. Shining the light in cervices, she could see dozens more bricks taped to the plywood underside of the model. Each of these were wired, not with blue and red wires, but all black leads. Lyndy put the light into her mouth, gripping with her teeth, directing the light onto a small panel in the middle. It looked like guts of a radio transceiver, but with a small digital display. Scooting further under until her legs were engulfed, she shone the light into every nook until she confirmed the place where all the wires converged was indeed a transceiver circuit.

Lyndy exhaled. She assumed all that blue stuff was highly sensitive. Too bad. She could’ve used a relaxing smoke. In the movies they had wire clippers and screwdrivers. That would be nice. Would be nice to have a bomb squad too—but that rescue was hours away. She pushed the only button she could see, a small black switch. The digital display came to life, flashing 30:16. It was counting down.

“It says 30 minutes,” whispered Lyndy, to Brandt. “I hope this thing is honest. I had a kitchen timer once that didn’t keep good time.”

Less time than she hoped for.

“Takes like a couple minutes to get out too,” added Brandt.

“Agreed,” said Lyndy. Can’t panic yet, she thought, as she envisioned sliding down the stair rail and bursting out the front doors followed by a fireball explosion.

Below the display was a 10-digit number panel, like an old-fashioned TV remote. Lyndy poked the numbers in the order of the verse she remembered from talking to Kristen. 2-1-1-1. Ironically, a laughably simple code. The display continued its merciless downward descent. On instinct Lyndy tried again, this time hitting the star button she presumed to be like hitting enter. She cursed herself for not being better with computers and electronics. “Dang. Dios bendiga,” whispered Lyndy, doing the sign of the cross.

“What’s a matter?”

“I thought I had the code, it’s not working.”

She tried reversing the numbers. “Was hoping you diffused these in the army or something?”

“Sorry, no,” replied Brandt. “I was a tank commander.”

“What did Luke work out to in numbers?” asked Lyndy. “On a touch tone phone.”

“Oh right.” That’ll be 5-8-5-3.

Lyndy tried various combinations of the verse, the word Luke—swapping them—and other buttons. Alas nothing affected the relentless countdown. By then, she knew she wasted five precious minutes. Her heart sank. She let out a deep sigh. “Crap! I don’t want to give up but the only thing I can think of now is to start pulling wires. Wish I was smarter.”

Brandt chuckled. “I don’t think that’s the problem.”

“Did you know if there was another of these models?”

“No.”

“I heard there were two.” Lyndy shimmied out, coming face to face with Ranger Brandt.

“Where?”

A ghostly look came over Brandt. He removed his hat. “Two! The same folks made that one?” He put his fists upon the model, as though he wished to smash it.

She pressed her palms into her eye sockets. “I think …” she paused. “I think this one is a distraction.” Lyndy pointed a shaky finger North. “The … the dam. The big reservoir! They must’ve put one there to display.”

Brandt raced to the door, hesitating only cause the stairs were dim and he’d need to shine his light. It gave her just enough pause to jump up, scrambling to keep Brandt from leaving. “Wait, wait. Tell me something before you go. The voice on the phone mentioned something else.” Lyndy gripped both palms around her head. If Chan were here, he’d be very upset, particularly at her forgetting an important detail. But obviously with the 48 hours she’d had things were blurring together. “B channel. Does B channel mean anything?”

Brandt stopped in his tracks, pushing his other worry aside. The quiet was eerie. Brandt yanked his radio from the holster. He stared at the knobs which altered the comm channel or controlled the volume. “Yeah, I remember.” He set it down on the railing, using his thumbs to pry apart the back cover. “There’s a little instruction panel here. It has something to do with how the signal is transmitted.” Lyndy shone the light on the tiny schematic and mice type print, taped to the cover.

“Scratch that. I have a better idea,” pleaded Lyndy, gripping his wrist. “How quickly can we get to Camp-4? Can we make it in 20 minutes?”

Brandt took a labored breath. “Ordinarily, yes. With the traffic, I’m not sure.”

Yavapai County, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rita went to a doctor’s appointment complaining of digestive issues. The doctor went through a series of printed questions from a clipboard, including about alcohol use, as in, “are you a light drinker, moderate drinker or heavy drinker?” Rita waited a long time before responding, then finally answered with: “Sorry, can you please define those categories? Be as specific as you can.”

Delicate wisps of fog hovered over the boggy wallows in the meadow, like veils of lace. These were highlighted in amber by rays of sun, filtering through pines. It seemed just as one began to single out any of these forms, each morphed, dissolving into an illusion.

Mari Ellis listened close, thinking she’d heard a loon call, distant and faint like the howl of a wolf. While taking in such a sublime Arizona sunrise, she wrapped her scarf several more passes about her neck, puffing it so it protected her chin. Hearing a rustling, she turned back toward the farm stand. She smiled, watching white Thor paw and nibble on dried remains of wild daisies, a passel of which had grown up along the posts of a rail fence. He was in his element. Thor heard the loon too; he paused to gaze off at the meadow, still chewing.

She’d been busy arranging fresh green peppers, alongside bushels of ripe tomatoes and yellow zucchini, nesting them on beds of hay. She’d taped little white labels onto kabob sticks, with prices drawn creatively in her neatest cursive. Mari sighed, feeling satisfied with how tidy everything looked. She even had a spot on the table for clover honey. The stand looked good and her mother would be proud.

Tromping through high weeds along the roadside in her favorite boots, Mari paced to the Honda, where she retrieved the folding sign. She carried this closer to the highway, setting out the legs and making sure it was visible from a good distance, so people had time to slow.

From the camp chair at the stand, Mari gathered her hair in a ponytail across one shoulder, then snugged her favorite cowgirl hat on her head. She observed a V-shaped flock of geese in the clear blue sky, honking and flapping their way south. She watched Thor snacking his way further along the fence. Then she pulled out her kindle to read, waiting for tourists speeding to the Grand Canyon entry gates.

Not long after sunrise, Mari heard a low slapping thunder of Harley motors approaching around the bend. Early riders were sometimes part of clubs, retired guys mostly, but as they came into view through the woods, the pair began to slow. She could tell by their unflinching, somber expressions and the purposeful way they kicked out their stands these two weren’t here to incorporate more healthy fruits and vegetables in their diet.

They hung their helmets on their handlebars.

Mari sat up in her chair.

The shorter one, a Hispanic fellow with a mustache, stomped over to the folding table. She hoped he wasn’t going to kick anything, as she’d taken great care in setting this up. Thor stood on his back legs, propping both his front hooves on the table, sniffing in the direction of the two bikers.

“Howdy,” said Mari cheerily.

The man grinned. As he folded and stuffed away his sunglasses, he revealed his eyes. To her they seemed hateful. Looking to the other man, he was stocky and taller, kind of bear like. He had the same smug grin and an equally hateful demeanor.

Mari Ellis cleared her throat. “Lookin for something? Honey is on sale,” she commented. She stood up, dusting off the butt of her jeans and stepping up behind the stand, next to the cash box.

“Hello miss,” said the more outgoing one. “How old are you?”

“Uh twenty, but I don’t see how that’s relevant,” answered Mari.

He nodded.

Mari looked at Thor and he looked back at her. She pushed him down, back to all fours. The tall biker pointed to Thor. “Is that a goat?” he asked.

His partner chuckled. “Yes. Dumbass.” He turned back to Mari. “We were hoping to meet the Mexican lady who normally operates this stand. We’re old friends of hers. She’d be happy to see us. Do you know where she is?”

Mari tipped her hat, loosening her scarf. “Who would that be?”

“Goes by the name Lyndy Martinez, some would say a legendary figure in these parts. Your last name doesn’t happen to be Martinez, does it?”

Mari shook her head emphatically.

“Some people call her The Spitfire. It’s a nickname from when she was younger.”

While they spoke, the taller biker wandered to where the Honda Civic was parked, peering through the tinted windows. Mari assumed he was checking to see if anyone was inside, sleeping.

“Lyndy was seen about a month ago, in Santa Barbara,” explained the shorter biker. He held out his hands. “See, it’s been a long time since anyone sighted her. Some are concerned. That’s why we’re hoping to catch up with her.”

Mari squeezed her chin, glancing down at Thor. “You two are in luck. I know where she is.”

“Oh, fantastic,” said the biker, rather insincerely.

“I’ll show you.”

The men turned to face each other. “Hear that? She can take us to Lyndy.”

“Follow me,” said Mari.

Unhooking Thor’s leash, she led the pair through the fence rails, having to duck, into the countryside beyond. The bikers seemed confused, but as Mari ventured deeper into the pine woods, they resolved to follow. She hiked over a hundred yards to a small hill.

Valley Girl Part-21

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*If you’re enjoying this story, and it’s not too much trouble, hit the “Like” so Lyndy knows you’re there.* TIA! -ASC

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-21

Yosemite National Park, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: If Aunt Rose had a superpower, it was the ability to be in a sour mood nonstop for days on end. Rose Martinez hardly ever smiled, rarely spoke an encouraging word and possessed few other likable qualities. On the other hand, her tortillas were extraordinary. I could eat ten of those in one sitting as a teenager. And I can’t say I ever ate a homemade or restaurant style tortilla which could match hers for fluffiness, texture or overall taste.

No part of Lyndy’s body wanted to do a hike—not even her hair. Her skin was itchy. Her stomach grumbled for real food. Her shoulders ached, and every now and then pinched so that her whole neck contorted into a painful clench. She just wanted to crawl into bed. Given a choice of going on a strenuous hike or balancing her checkbook, she’d choose the latter.

Unfortunately, Neil had taken Mari hostage.

“You are the toughest woman I’ve ever met,” he encouraged, but Lyndy continued to grumble without responding. She folded her arms, dragging her feet as she moved.

The trail climbed a steep ridge beyond the sawmill, into a forest of new growth conifers. Ponderosa and Jeffrey pines, hardy incense cedar and some red firs populated the landscape. The understory was a mix of shrubs, huckleberry and heather. Bluebirds flitted from the lower branches, leading them away from their spring nesting sites.

In time, the clouds lifted and sunlight began to poke through, a vibrant yellow in the late afternoon. Beads of water glistened where they adhered to pine boughs and cones, reflecting the natural world into twisted spheres, making the trees sparkle as if they had tiny crystal ornaments attached. And though she wasn’t exactly thrilled, Lyndy began dwelling less on her misery, seeing things she’d not anticipated. Even the blades of grass and petals of a daisy held fresh dew.

The trees began to sway as a breeze picked up. She felt the chill of high altitude and it gave the skin on her arms goosebumps. It must have been a mile and a half in, judging by the passing of time, when they paused for a break.

There, Neil offered up baby Maribel.

At the time Lyndy was busy catching her breath, her palms flat upon her thighs.

“I’ll give you her, if you promise to keep walking behind me,” Neil warned.

Lyndy looked up to meet his piercing gaze. In reality, it wasn’t much of a choice. If she tried to flee, he could easily outrun her. He had longer legs, was better rested and knew the terrain. She’d never be able to outpace him back to the staging area. Exhaling, Lyndy reached out her arms, taking back her baby. Mari squirmed and Lyndy tucked her into the baby Bjorn, like a kangaroo pouch. The baby felt restless, not liking the motion and probably wanting to be fed.

Neil didn’t pause much longer. He turned to scramble higher.

After a few more minutes of trekking the slope began leveling off, and they reached a mesa-like flat zone. Here there was an opening in the canopy, fewer trees overall. She’d been watching her feet, concentrating on not stumbling, but when Lyndy next lifted her gaze, she was overcome by a child-like wonder. A rush of pure delight made her forget her troubles. Across a small stream stood a tree-trunk as big around as a grain silo.

The orangish bark with massive ridges and roots like elephant trunks, helped it seem even more fairy tale like. The settlers would’ve had a heck of a time describing this to their cousins back home. Sure, sure, just one tree branch as big around as a piano!

Lyndy leaned back to take in the scale, straining to spot the crown of the colossal tree. As she twisted her body, she noticed there were more giants towering in the distance. By a quick counting they numbered in the dozens. All she could do was marvel at the sight.

“That’s a sequoia!” she exclaimed, stating the obvious.

Mari’s eyes were doing that googly-eyed baby thing, trying to make sense of her surroundings. But Lyndy would’ve sworn the girl had a smile. In all her days, she’d not seen anything as wondrous. Lyndy looked to Neil. “How old are these trees?”

“This one? Easily, over 3000 years.”

Lyndy remembered the sawmill. “Wait, why would they leave these?”

“Two reasons. Firstly, the wood tends to be brittle for this species, and isn’t as good for building as you might think. But the other reason, is they recognized how special these trees are. They’ve been growing here since the last ice age. The men knew if they felled all the giant sequoias there would be none left for future generations to be in awe of, like us. They wisely set these aside, while logging the lesser trees.”

Neil beckoned Lyndy to hop the creek and make their way into the grove.

Twenty yards deep into the clearing he dropped to a seated position, like someone enjoying a picnic. Patting the soft grasses and pine needles, he pointed out the small wild daisies.

Hesitating, Lyndy paced a circle, afraid to sit down. But after a while, seeing how comfy he looked and that he wasn’t sinking into mud, she settled on a spot to take a rest. She folded her legs in a meditative pose. She glanced to Neil Conner, not deviating from her pouting seriousness. He gazed back making apologetic eyes. She wasn’t falling for that. She couldn’t shake her apprehensive thoughts, what might be happening in the valley.

After the exchange of looks, lacking words to express themselves they leaned back, resting their heads flat on a bed of pine needles. They gazed skyward together—baby and all—to the blueness and the unknown. Listening to the creaking of the upper canopy in the wind, watching the sky with its hints of high cirrus, breathing the cool air, Lyndy lost herself. She felt Maribel gazing up too.

“You know what I was thinking about,” said Lyndy. “On the hike up.”

“What?”

“I was thinkin bout my mom. How I wasted so much time and energy being angry at her for abandoning me and my brother, leaving us with Aunt Rose and disappearing.” Lyndy sniffed. “Lately it occurs to me, she was what, 23 or 24 years old when she did that? What the heck did she know about life or parenting, or commitment? I didn’t have a kid til I was 40, and look at me. I don’t really know what I’m doing do I?”

Neil chuckled.

“You were right about something,” Lyndy managed.

“Bout what?”

“This is a nice spot,” Lyndy agreed. She sighed, contemplating for a good minute or two the sounds of nature—letting her heart soar.

She wasn’t sure whether she dozed off or not, but she’d been lost in a daydream when the sounds of twigs snapping, and the approach of heavy footsteps jostled them both to alertness. She sat up in a blink.

“DON’T MOVE AN INCH!” someone commanded. Gazing to the direction of the noise, she saw the profile of Ranger Brandt. He had his revolver trained on Neil.

Gradually, Neil raised both his hands, showing he wasn’t clutching a weapon.

Brandt’s eyes darted, seemingly aware of a partner nearby, covering him. It was Ruby, emerging from behind one of the enormous tree trunks. He’d been tracking too.

“Lyndy!” Neil complained, like a little kid who’d been caught stealing candy. He eyed her angrily. “How could you?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she argued.

“You didn’t lead them here?” Neil accused.

“No, I didn’t, I swear.” Should have thought of that though, she reasoned. Not like this little walk in the park was going to turn her onto his cause anyway.

“She didn’t lead us here,” Brandt confirmed. “We had a tracker on Kristen’s sedan.” Sheriff Ruby removed a set of handcuffs from his belt. “Get down on your stomach Mr. Conner,” he commanded to Neil.

Lyndy stood up, brushing off her ruined dress. “Watch out, he’s got a cattle prod. If he tries anything I can help take him.” Lyndy pushed back her hair. “What about the hotel? Is it still standing?” she wondered aloud.

“Of course,” answered Ranger Brandt.

Lyndy looked over at Neil, who had a guilty expression as he tilted his body forward. “Not for much longer,” he mouthed.

Next Lyndy locked eyes with Ranger Brandt. “We gotta move if want to save it.”

Coconino County, AZ 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: One afternoon at CBB I walk in to find Mr. Chan laughing like a hyena at the TV, almost falling out of his chair. It was unusual for him to genuinely laugh, especially during business hours. Upon investigating, a looney tunes cartoon was playing, the one where Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny are arguing whether it’s “duck season” or “rabbit season”. That is a classic.

It started innocently. Fred Simmons met Lyndy in the waiting area of the Flagstaff airport. Outside with the sun going down, lights in the parking lot were just blinking on. Lyndy had a big smile on her face and so did he. He had one overnight bag, his dapper suit jacket on and under his arm a box of genuine Mustang parts.

Holding the weathered box out—with its original faded label on the side—he presented it proudly as he rushed to meet her. “This is it!”

“My Ford is in my friend’s hangar. I brought it with me so we can work on it here.”

He’d not thought to question how Lyndy managed to drive onto the airport grounds, whether with a permit or some supposed friend working there. With the kind of woman she was, she presumably had connections. Of course, other cars like the fastback were parked on airport grounds, alongside the private hangars. Most of them were rich people who owned Cessnas.

Lyndy pushed through a beefy gate, which said authorized personnel only. He followed her into the closed area with the private hangars. Once there, she beckoned him into a side door for one of many steel buildings. The lights were out. Peering into the darkened room for any signs of the Ford, he felt two strangers—strong men—grabbing his arms and lifting his feet off the ground. A bag slipped over his head, and before he could yell or manage much of a resistance, he felt himself being rolled into something stiff like carpet.

The next thing Fred Simmons knew, he awoke in a wooden chair with his head face down on a tabletop. Restraints were tightly wrapped around his wrists and ankles, securing him to the chair. Straining to separate them was no use, as he discovered they’d been bound with zip ties.

The room was dim and quiet but he sensed he was not alone. An odor of ancient dust and juniper smoke permeated, tickling his nostrils. His eyes strained to focus in the darkness and he could see five outlines, statue-like figures seated across the room, opposite him on the floor. Their backs were resting against the stone wall, meditative style. He wished for it to be a dream, but it most certainly was not.

The floors were composed of something like packed clay.

Fred soon deduced he was sitting in an underground kiva, the coals at the center still smoldering and glowing orange. The other occupants were dressed in robes, but the curious thing is that each wore an elaborately constructed mask—ceremonial masks. The mask enclosed their heads, blocking their faces completely. As his eyes adjusted to the light of the coals, he could see they were canines: Two of the masks were larger, wolves with lighter whitish fur tones, whiskers and fuzzy ears. A pair of the figures were coyotes. The figure all the way to the right belonged to a smaller person, and the head was a fox with orangish fur.

“This is highly illegal,” declared Fred, lacking a cleverer response. “You all can’t do this. You can’t hold someone against their will. You’re in big trouble.”

No one responded. The fox-masked person on the far right stood up slowly, as if their joints were old and achy. The fox approached him, walking like a woman. Something like fresh creosote had been smeared across the coals, and this mixture began to crackle and pop, emitting a new powerful new aroma. At the same time a soothing, spacey Enya type music began to play from an unseen speaker.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the fox. The voice he recognized, had to be Lyndy Martinez. “We are gathered here today for an unusual but important reason. We are here to honor the legacy of an extraordinary woman, one great admirer of indigenous peoples and culture. In so doing, you will be taking a short quiz.”

“If this is about Gillian’s inheritance …”

The fox put up a hand. “Excuse me I’m talking,” she scolded.

“You guys can’t go around kidnapping people. I will report this.” But Fred’s mind began reeling with a vision of how exactly to report this unusual incident to law enforcement. The description alone would be hard to prove. On top of this, it was Lyndy whom he needed to strongarm into signing the affidavit—not the other way around. He could hardly accuse her of blackmail. “Where am I?” Fred demanded.

The fox turned its head gradually to the left and right. “A kiva,” she answered. The other canines hardly moved an inch, but he knew they were living. They watched him motionless, and it was unsettling not being able to read the reactions of a human face. Their wolf and coyote masks were unchanging. Every once in a while, he swore he could see their eyelids blinking above their snouts, in tiny holes cutout for the eyes.

“Well, what do you want? I already offered you a third share of the fortune. Do you want more? You’ll never be able to spend it all. That’s about 300 million.”

“We are gathered here to honor the spirit of Rita Lovelace. A woman, who I promise never did anything for the money if it meant being dishonest.”

“How is this an honor?” Fred strained against the plastic bindings. He squirmed in the chair, but it made him feel weak knowing he was trapped. He felt himself sweating.

“We are taking a quiz,” answered the fox.

“Okay. Fine. What kind of test?”

The fox cleared her throat, having paused halfway across the room. “Today’s quiz will be titled: How well do I know Rita Lovelace?” Sweetness infused her tone; in ways he’d not remembered. Lyndy Martinez, in spite of her reputation and some years of smoking, still had a youthfulness in her voice. “Don’t worry, it’s multiple choice. You won’t have to conjure anything from scratch.”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll take the quiz. What does it prove though?”

“It proves whether you were wedded to Rita Lovelace. Like you say. If that’s true, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Fred exhaled, hating himself for having been tricked. He hadn’t thought she’d do this, as Lyndy seemed so earnest when she met him at the airport. “I suppose if I get the answers wrong, you won’t be signing the affidavit.”

The fox didn’t directly answer, instead offering, “Everyone on our panel has a copy of the quiz, with correct responses marked. That way there’s no funny business.” She unfolded a sheet of stationary, something a wedding invitation might come printed on. The fox cleared her throat. “As we know Rita was born in Phoenix, her father a businessman and her mother a model. What famous woman was Rita named after? A. Rita Moreno. B. Rita Coolidge. C. Rita Rudner. D. Rita Hayworth.”

Fred sniffed, trying not to sneeze at the dust and drifting creosote smoke. “Some of those are too young,” he muttered. “Gotta be Rita Hayworth.”

“That’s right,” answered the fox excitedly. “Cha-Ching.”

“This is stupid,” Fred complained, straining again to adjust his stance, as his frame was bent sharply against the table. He felt his eyes tearing up from stress. “Let’s hurry up.”

The Enya music was maddening in this environment.

“Chompin at the bit, I see. We’ll move on.” The fox cleared her throat again, circling around the fire pit and pacing to the left side of the kiva. She stared down at her slip of paper, though she must’ve known what was coming in advance. “Rita had a lifelong passion for horsemanship, along with western culture. She was a talented rider and raised foals on her ranch in Tucson. What was the name of Rita’s all-time favorite horse. I’ll make it easy, cause Rita loved mares. A. Akrivia. B. Shimmer. C. Nightfall. D. Sunset.

Fred exhaled sharply. He shook his head, then let it droop on the table.

“I’ll give you another hint. There’s a grave marker with this mare’s name chiseled upon it, where she spread her ashes.”

“Fine. It’s B. She liked weird names.”

The fox shook her head plainly. “That’s wrong.”

“I don’t care. Give me another one. We never talked about horses. It would’ve been too painful.”

“For the record it was Nightfall. Okay. Moving on. Rita had a good head for business, owning several art galleries among her other ventures. She valued one quality in an employee above any other. A. Loyalty. B. Results. C. Ability to generate profit. D. Intelligence.”

“I dunno, loyalty.”

“That’s an important one, the root of many future problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“I promise you; in no way did Rita value loyalty.” The fox paced to the opposite side of the firepit, moving away from the drifting smoke. “Moving on. What annoying habit did Rita have after drinking to excess? A. Removing her clothes. B. Throwing up. C. Fighting. D. Dancing with strangers.”

“This is stupid.”

“What’s your answer?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She didn’t drink with me; she’d given it up. I guess B. Throwing up.”

Without words, the fox shook her head. “It’s A.”

“This is so stupid,” Fred repeated, impatience boiling over. “You’re missing out on the big picture. There’s nearly a billion dollars at stake and you would rather play games?”

“This last question is so important it’s worth two points, like a lightning round. You’re still in the game and can tie it up, if you get this right. At a fancy outdoor wedding in Malibu, Lyndy Martinez and Rita Lovelace had their last and final falling out. Lyndy was expelled from the wedding, fired from her job at Lovelace Corp. and Rita cruelly cutoff all communication. They never exchanged one single word again. What embarrassing incident at the wedding precipitated this last straw event: A. Lyndy made out with a stranger in a catering tent. B. Lyndy was drunk and ranting about politics. C. Lyndy pants’ed the groom. D. All of the above.”

A sound of girlish laugher filled the kiva, one of the coyotes breaking character. The high voice meant the coyote was another female, but younger. Perhaps both the coyotes were female, Fred reasoned.

The wolves looked at her and she quickly regained composure.

“What’s yer answer?” demanded the fox.

Fred inhaled nervously.

“D. All of the above,” said Fred.

“Oh my god,” lamented the fox, dropping her arms to her sides and shaking her snout. “How poor is your opinion? Admittedly, Miss Martinez had been drinking that day. And this led to teasing, as she and the groom knew one another. For some reason, not having any foresight, Lyndy immaturely decided to prank the groom. Rita witnessed it—leading to the most awkward wedding moment ever. If she could go back in time, it’s the one thing Lyndy would change.”

The same coyote began to cover a laugh, but still did not remove its mask.

“So, what. I got it wrong? You didn’t do all those things?”

“Very wrong. In fact, you only got one question correct overall.”

“So, what now? You’re not signing? You’re crazy!” Fred seethed in anger. “For Pete sake, all this cause I didn’t know you pants’ed a dude at a wedding? Big deal. Rita over-reacted.”

Both coyotes stood up, moving toward the fox. They linked arms, standing on either side of the fox. “There isn’t anyone in the Lovelace firm who didn’t later know that happened. It was absolutely legendary, obviously a bad decision. We were getting wine at the reception, surrounded by a dozen people. Lyndy tried to apologize over and over. But Rita wouldn’t have it … Rita shouldn’t have cut all ties and never spoken to her for the rest of their lives. After all the times Lyndy saved her and all the experiences they shared as best friends. Rita was wrong too. Rita did not value loyalty. Everyone knew that.”

“I’m sorry Rita did that to you,” grumbled Fred.

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, what now?” Fred scanned the room. A chill ran through him. “What now? What about the money? We need to lock up that deal.” He tried to kick the table with his knees, but they were bound too tightly. He struggled to free himself, letting out a groan when this final act of defiance failed.

The fox touched fingers upon the fur along her snout, then patted them in a circle below her ears. Fred wondered whether Lyndy were about to remove the mask. But she did not.

“I’ve been told, I’m getting a facial,” answered the fox.

Fred came to later that day on a bench, in front of the airport.

Valley Girl Part-20

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-20

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

Coconino County, AZ, 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” answered Lyndy.

“But if not?”

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

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

Rhonda leaned forward with a grin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyndy’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus, directions brought her to this secluded hideout.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maribel murmured, expressing concern.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

“They’re predictable.”

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

Maribel whimpered again.

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

“No thanks to you,” Lyndy snapped back.

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

“What do you want?”

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

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

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

Mari started wailing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I armed it,” Neil said in a whisper.

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

Neil nodded. “Rubble,” he answered.

Aiden S Clarke, author

Home of Lyndy Martinez

Tag Archives: historical-fiction

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