The Lumberjack

by Erik Martin Willén

  Christina trotted faster down a hill into a small valley, and then onward into an open, grassy field. The morning dew glistened in the sun as it started to emerge above the mountains. But there were still some thick, dark clouds in the sky, and the sun had to struggle to retain its dominion.

  The fresh scent of the rain, intermingled with the green, resiny scent of the ravaged forest, was wonderful, almost intoxicating, and Christina took several deep breaths.

  She ran following a series of white circles painted on trees, space about fifty yards apart. The training round had been marked by the first owners, and the paint had begun to fade, but it was bright enough for her to see it. Eventually, she would learn the lay of her land. She had promised Frank not to venture out too far for now, not that she couldn’t take care of herself; it was just that some parts of the forest were very dense, he said, and it was easy to get lost. Frank had told her several stories how about people who had lived there for years had gotten lost, as well as tourists, not to mention the latest problem—the gold miners. Game wardens, police, and park rangers had ventured numerous times into the forest, looking for lost people. Almost everyone had been found, but not all, and some had suffered bad luck. Many had hurt themselves and some had even been attacked by animals. A few had died while river rafting or fishing, having gotten caught in the strong, swift current of the local river, which people called Skull Creek—hence the name of the town. Where Christina was from, anything that wide was a river, period.

  For now, she kept inside the fence line and trusted that the electric fence worked as advertised. She increased her speed a bit as the trail started to go uphill; and at the moment, she wasn’t paying much attention to the surroundings as opposed to her running. Christina did, however, notice that the ground wasn’t as dry as she had hoped; here and there, there were mud puddles, and those she would definitely avoid, having had more than enough mud experience in this county. The water from some of the puddles did splash on her face now and then, but she didn’t care; by now, the drizzle had already soaked her hair. She would take a shower when she got back.

  She reached the top of the hill and followed a large turn, going towards the thundering river, which was swollen from the rain. She followed it upstream, now running on a natural stone surface. After a time, Christina stopped and bent over, hands on her knees, catching her breath. When she’d recovered, she stretched back and raised her head towards the sky. Foam and water droplets from the raging stream splashed her face—and she loved it. With her hands on her hips, she looked around the area.

  She saw the white markings on trees up ahead, leading up toward a higher hill and back towards the house. But she wasn’t tired; she wanted to work out some more, so she headed in the direction opposite the one from which she had come, and saw a large tree with several large branches hanging near the ground. She walked over to one branch and jumped up, grabbing hold of it, and slowly did pull-ups until her arms ached. Then she dropped back to the ground and caught her breath again, before leaping up to do more pullups, until the lactic acid burned in her muscles from the strain.

  After resting, she looked around on the ground until she found a large, thick, newly-fractured branch; from here, it looked like oak. She rolled it over, and saw scores of bugs congregated beneath. Christina tested the weight of the old branch, and decided it was durable; it was heavy, even though it had begun to rot. She removed her sweatsuit jacket and brushed off most of the dirt and bugs on the branch. Then lifted it over her shoulders and started doing squats. After forty reps, she rested, then lay down on the damp ground and begun doing crunches till her stomach muscles ached. She jumped up and did another forty squats, and when that was done, she finished off with more crunches. When she finished, she just lay in the grass grasping for air.

  Great, more rain coming, she thought, looking up into the sky at the fat, dark clouds. She’d probably overdone her training, and definitely hadn’t stretched enough before she had begun. A hot bath was looking good about now. Of course, she was too tired to do any more stretching after her workout, though according to some trainer or other, it was equally important to stretch afterward. Oh, well—no instructor around here. She was a big girl, and could do as she wanted.

  She was thirsty, though, and realized suddenly that she hadn’t brought any water with her. The river sounded inviting, increasing her thirst; but she wasn’t that much of a wood elf, though she had played one once in a Peter Jackson film. She’d looked so exotic with pointed ears she almost wished she had kept them. She decided to head back to the house and get something to drink there—and the word “breakfast” also came to mind.

  A rumbling thunder in the distance warned that the storm was returning, and she’d better be indoors by the time it did.

  She got back onto the trail and continued her run, going up a hill and down into a valley and so on for a while. The trees were very dense on this stretch of the trail and kept most of the sunlight away, which made it almost evening-dark. The trail looked a bit morbid and gloomy for a while. The sound of birds singing made Christina smile, though; it wasn’t something she was used to hearing in the morning. More like honking and cursing drivers.

  The more she ran, the more she thought about getting a dog. Maybe she would take Frank up on his offer, but what about him and Claire? They obviously loved their dogs…

  Her thought was interrupted by the buzzing of her security watch. She stopped; a small yellow light blinked and a tiny screen popped up, showing the camera at the gate. The picture was very poor, but she could make out a square box on a truck. Christina’s heart made a sudden leap and the blood started to pump faster, and suddenly the butterflies were back in her sadly empty stomach, which decided to protest with a loud growl right then, reminding her that she was hungry for food…though if she was honest, that wasn’t the only thing her body hungered for. She licked her lips and smiled, mischievous and confident. Her expression faded when she realized that, again, she wasn’t wearing her “face”; instead she was sweaty and probably looked like a scarecrow.

  “Oh crap! Should I hide?” she asked herself, then continued with her conversation. “Don’t be silly, it’s only a man…and like all men, he’ll crave a hot Hollywood star…yeah, I’m gonna stop talking to myself now and just hurry on home and make that boy do as he’s told… And soon I’ll have him smiling like there’s no tomorrow. Yeah, definitely going to shut up now.”

  Christina licked her lips and increased her speed. The more she thought of Robert, the more interesting images flashed in front of her, and the faster she ran. She no longer cared about her make-up; after all, she had been working out. She slowed down and thought about another approach; she didn’t want him to think that she was desperate. Then again, she kind of was. The more arrogant pretending-not-to-see-him approach would probably be the best. Christina decided that was what she was going to do: just jog to the house and act surprised when she saw him. Yeah, that would definitely do it.

  She rounded a corner at the top of a bluff and could see the house. The rain had intensified, and the distant thunder was coming closer. Between the trees she spied something white: Robert’s truck, she imagined. She ran down the hill into the small dip below, and now she had only one more bluff before she came to the edge of her front yard. Something caught her eye as she ran up the bluff, and then came the sound of howling.

  “Oh hi there, you horny little Peeping Tom, you,” she muttered out loud.

  She lost her concentration and realized she wasn’t paying enough attention to her footing; if she wasn’t careful, a branch on the path would soon ruin her day. She kept running, ignoring Robert, who waved to her from where he was standing near the main entrance. She put on her most arrogant look, but remained too ignorant of her footing, running faster—until suddenly she face-planted right into a mud puddle.

  Her mouth full of muck, she just laid where she had fallen—not helpless, mind you, but completely humiliated. She heard Robert’s footsteps as he
ran towards her, not saying anything or calling her name or asking if she was okay—what a heartless bastard! Christina decided to pout, and buried her head even deeper into the mud. What else can go wrong? she asked herself.

  Never, ever ask yourself that, or the universe will answer.

  Robert’s strong hands grabbed her shoulders, gently but firmly; however, Christina wasn’t going to let him think he was Prince Charming saving her in his wet, shining armor, oh no. She scrambled to all fours and raised her head very quickly…a bit too quickly. She hit something rock-hard with the back of her head and it made her see stars. She squinted her eyes, trying not to shout any unladylike curse words. “Ouch!” would do and it did, more than once.

  Her head hurt like hell now, and she was starting to feel woozy—like when you hit your head on a cupboard—but that didn’t make her as woozy as the scenario facing her. Robert now lay on his back on the muddy ground, eyes blissfully closed. Christina stared in disbelief at the hunk on the ground. She must have knocked him out when she got up!

  “And that’s what can go wrong… Oh, crap, now what have I done?” she asked herself, confused.

  She kneeled next to Robert’s head, and touched it gently. Good; at least he was breathing. She softly called his name, but currently there was no one home. She looked at this perfect male specimen, and again touched his face gently with her dirty but soft fingers. She realized she had just smeared mud on his face, and that made her giggle. Again she looked him over, as her imagination undressed him.

  Christina got serious, and shook her head in an attempt to think a bit more rationally, and let her hand gently massage his forehead, his nose, cheeks, and chin. His few days’ worth of bristles tickled her hand. She normally liked her guys clean-shaven, but on this specimen the stubble only enhanced the rugged image. She lay his head in her lap, not sure what to do, and kept touching his face and short, thick, messy hair.

  She surveyed the situation, and suddenly a mischievous smile covered her face. “The things I could do to you now, cowboy…ride ‘em, cowgirl…yeah, I’m gonna shut up now.”

  She was leaning over to Robert, trying to assess the damage she had inflicted, when he suddenly started to move. That caught her off guard. “You’ll be riding what?” he muttered.

  Crap, he heard me, she thought as her eyes widened, and then everything turned black as Robert suddenly sat up very fast, holding his head with his left hand—and this time it was his turn to knock out Christina.

  Carlos da Silva—whose name was often confused with a famous Brazilian soccer player, Roberto Carlos da Silva—leaned back in his office chair. He placed his leather Ropers on the morning paper on his desk, enjoying his third cup of strong black coffee this morning. He yawned and looked tiredly towards the window on the second store. The storm was coming back, and with it, he sensed problems. He liked to be in early—before the circus started, so to speak—not that there was ever complete silence in his building. It was a small precinct, with only seven deputies, and more than once this last year, ever since the Gold Rush started, he’d had to borrow help from either the highway patrol or the police departments in other, larger cities miles away.

  Before, when there were pretty much only lumberjacks and the folks who supported them living in Skull Creek, they could be dealt with; but ever since this ridiculous new Gold Rush had started, he knew he’d have to make some serious changes. He would need twice the number of deputies, that was one thing for sure. How he would handle the county commissioners and the mayor he hadn’t the faintest idea right now. They had, somewhat reluctantly, agreed that he could hire one more person this year as his chief deputy: Malik. Then again, that one person was as good as three, given his fearsome reputation.

  For now, his mind was on a warm beach in the Caribbean with his wife and kids. Their annual trip would take place in December and would last a full month. He always looked forward traveling to his wife’s home on the island of Saint Thomas. Malik Washington would take over the office when he was gone. Malik was an experienced police officer he’d worked with on numerous cases, a former sheriff in a neighboring county who had some differences with the local politicians and had gladly accepted a position on Carlos’s force as his SIC. They more or less held the same rank, but Carlos was the older and therefore the senior of the two.

  Malik’s nickname was The Enforcer, and he was respected and borderline-feared by anyone who knew him—an untouchable straight-shooter who had grown up in the worse slum in L.A. and worked himself up from there. He would be the first black deputy on this force. Carlos himself was half-Mexican and half-Irish, but the latter not many knew; they simply judged him for being a border runner from Mexico, just another privileged Latino.

  There were two more Latinos working with him; Diego and Adrianna. Diego was a former Miami SWAT man who had also worked in L.A. as an instructor. Carlos had brought Diego with him when he became the local Sheriff three years back. In this town, the Sheriff was appointed, not elected. Adrianna had been with the force for less than a month, having replaced a deputy who’d retired and moved to Florida. She had an impressive résumé and was a retired Marine, having been injured three times on two tours of duty.

  It wasn’t Carlos’s intention to bring in more ethnic people, as he had been accused of a few times. His want-list when hiring was very simple. He wanted the very best he could get, and he didn’t care about gender or skin color. Though perhaps he might have been a bit hasty with Adrianna. She was a bit short and petite, and definitely too good-looking for her own good. He had more than once heard wolf-whistles when she walked by—something he frowned upon. Thus far she had done an outstanding job, but he hadn’t seen her in any physical action to this day. He was a bit concerned, because what the average joe didn’t know was that people who work in the forest industry, especially lumberjacks —who normally created more than half the trouble in these parts—have one thing in common: they are all exceptionally strong.

  But he wasn’t going to get rid of her for now, anyway, being shorthanded as it was. The other officers were all good, old-fashioned white boys, which was normal in a typical redneck county like this one. Lucy was the second female officer, and she liked women as much as any man. Then there was Dex, a young know-it-all bodybuilder. Bard, the old-fashioned giant cop, was also a lumberjack who sometimes helped his younger brother’s crew. Whitney from New York Police and also a K-9 officer. One of his best but least-liked officers in town was Takoda. He was a Lakota Sioux, and the irony with that was that his name meant friend to anyone. The reason he was less liked was because he would never, ever bend any rules whatsoever for anyone, adult or child. He knew the book inside out and he never made mistakes. He also held a master’s degree in criminal justice and a Ph.D. in psychology. Why someone with his background wanted to work as a police officer remained a mystery to everyone, and it wasn’t a popular subject. Last there was Montana, named after the state—a former park ranger who had decided to re-saddle and become a police officer. Montana had been a cowboy in his youth, and he loved going hunting, fishing, and camping. He wasn’t from this region but had lived here for well over fifteen years, and he knew the lay of the land best.

  Overall, Carlos’s force was small, but tight and loyal. Then again, the crimes in this county were mostly domestic violence and fights, especially on payday Fridays. Overall, it was a pretty quiet place, and Carlos intended to keep it that way.

  He heard the sound of a cane striking the floor outside his office, followed by someone banging on his door with that very same cane. Carlos knew instantly who it was: his secretary, the one he had inherited from the previous sheriff, who had probably inherited her from the one before, and maybe the one before that. The morning routine had begun. Woman must have lived during the Civil War era, he thought. Aloud, he called, “It’s open. Come on in, Ruth.”

  Nothing happened, but the knocking on the door intensified, a bit angrier this time. He knew the drill; rolling his eyes, he got on his feet. He
put his coffee cup on the desk, and went and opened the door. A very old, slightly bent woman entered the room, ignoring him and going straight to his desk, where she placed a folder; then she stumped over to the windows and opened the blinds, followed by opening one of the windows. Without a word, she walked out; and as she passed his desk, she took the coffee cup.

  “Hey, now, I hadn’t finished that…”

  Carlos could only shake his head and smile as he watched the old woman moving through the room, towards her desk and its ancient typewriter. She sank down in an ancient chair, patched with enough duct tape to keep a Navy cruiser afloat. When he had insisted on replacing it with a new and better one, she had refused and given him The Stare, which everyone in the department knew to avoid as often as possible. The chair was probably as old as she was.

  She started to type very slowly, and once in a while she scratched her chin. Her white hair she kept in a prim bun on the top of her head. Carlos shrugged and went back into his office. He’d look at the folder, containing reports from last night’s events, but not until he got another cup of coffee. He walked by her desk and opened the main office door; the top half glass, with his name on it in gold paint.