by Randy Singer
He wanted off; he missed his mommy and daddy; he hated this park; he was too young to die; he . . . “Whoaaaa!”
The thing must have come loose ’cause it was hurtling straight for the ground. A total free fall. Little Tiger’s stomach was up in his throat, and his breakfast was right there with it.
“Aieeeee!” the other riders screamed.
Tiger opened his mouth as well and screamed at the top of his lungs, but nothing came out. He was too scared. He couldn’t breathe. He gripped the shoulder restraints in a death grip. The idiots in front of him had their hands in the air. They were surely goners.
Just when they were ready to crash into the pond, everyone together, the tracks lurched upward and headed for the first loop. Yikes! The whole world was upside down . . . and then it wasn’t. Tiger closed his eyes and prayed the ride would end. Then he opened ’em, but it was still dark. Maybe he was dead! No, wait, he was in the cave, lights flashing on and off, the monster lunging out at them.
A bright light—the sun—another loop. He was upside down again and surely slipping out of his seat. He sat tall, hoping against hope that the shoulder restraints would somehow work, somehow keep his short, little, illegal body in the car for a few more seconds. More screams, a sudden stop, and they were back where they started.
Tiger gingerly touched his legs and face. Everything seemed to be in place. He took a deep breath and heard his heart pounding in his ears.
“How’d you like it?” Mr. Charles asked.
“Please exit to your left,” a voice boomed from the roof of the building. “Thanks for riding the Loch Ness Monster and enjoy the rest of your day here at Busch Gardens—the Old Country.”
Tiger grabbed Mr. Charles’s hand and stepped out of the car. His feet hit solid ground. His knees nearly buckled. He had done it. Against all odds, he had survived. He had conquered the Loch Ness Monster.
“Can we go again, please?” Tiger begged.
The Festhaus was a huge building in the back of the park designed to look like an old German beer hall. The outside of the wooden building was lavishly decorated with carvings, balconies, and columns in the German gothic style. The inside consisted of a spacious dance hall with a wooden floor, massive ceiling beams, and hundreds of long wooden picnic tables arranged in rows around the outside of the dance floor.
At the center of the building was a festive little white pavilion decorated with ribbons and flowers to commemorate the Oktoberfest celebration. Every hour, right on schedule, an orchestra paraded out of the back doors of the Festhaus, took their seats inside the pavilion, and then began playing German folk songs. The floor of the pavilion would magically rise and take the orchestra up to the top of the pavilion so the lush melodies could float down to the dance floor and echo throughout the dance hall.
The rising orchestra would be followed by a group of sixteen young blond-haired, blue-eyed performers, the Festhaus dancers, who would entertain the masses with the polka and other classic German dances for the next thirty minutes. The girls were all decked out in frilly light blue and white hoop skirts and puffy white blouses. The guys wore matching outfits: white shirts, blue bow ties, light blue lederhosen, and tall white socks. They were a festive group, smiling all the time and getting the crowd to sing along to songs that nobody knew.
Charles didn’t have to be here. He had debriefed Nikki and the kids hours ago, and it was now dinnertime. He was even missing his Saturday night Bible study at the jail. But somehow he couldn’t leave this motley little bunch to fend for themselves in this massive park. Besides, who would ride the rides with Tiger?
Okay, he would admit it, if only to himself. He was actually having fun. The amazement he saw in the eyes of Tiger and Stinky at every new adventure, the looks their little “family” would draw from strangers—the “blond hair is a recessive gene,” he would tell them—and the way he felt like a hero when he finally put the basketball through that tiny little rim on the fifth try, despite unmerciful heckling by Nikki. It all added up to a marvelous day at Busch Gardens.
And now, having endured eight hours of park madness, he was sitting at one of the front tables in the Festhaus, eating pizza, and watching the kids watch the German dancers.
“You need to eat something, kids. Don’t just watch the show,” Nikki suggested.
Neither Tiger nor Stinky moved. They were both slumped on the picnic bench, mouths wide open, eyes half-shut, following every synchronized move of the dance team. The kids were not even facing their plates. Charles noticed that each time Tiger blinked, the little guy’s eyes seemed to open a little more slowly. He was running on empty.
A song finished, and the frisky German dancers started heading out toward the crowd. It was time for some audience involvement, time for the guests of the park to learn a little polka. One of the pairs looked at Tiger and Stinky and headed straight for their table. Tiger’s eyes flew open as the girl grabbed his arm and asked if he wanted to dance. Tiger looked at Charles, pleading for a bailout.
“Go get ’em, Tiger,” Charles urged. “It’ll be fun.”
By now one of the guys had also asked Stinky, and the shy little girl reluctantly followed him out to the dance floor.
Charles turned his attention away from the dancers and over his shoulder to Nikki.
“That’s great,” he chuckled. “They’ll be talking about this for years.”
Nikki just nodded and smiled. Her sunglasses were perched on top of her head, and she seemed to have that same mischievous look in her eyes that Charles noticed that day in his classroom. She also seemed to be looking over his shoulder.
He turned quickly, and there she was. A Festhaus dancer, with her hand gracefully extended, in a curtsy position, inviting Charles to dance.
What’s she thinking?! he wondered. Can’t she tell I’m not exactly from German stock? I don’t know a polka from a fox-trot.
Charles began shaking his head no.
“Go on,” urged the loudmouthed Hispanic woman who had gotten him into this fine mess in the first place. “Like you told Tiger—it’ll be fun.”
Before Charles knew it, all four of them were out there, getting twirled this way and that by the German dancers. It didn’t take him long to figure out the polka. Still, it wasn’t exactly rap, and despite his natural sense of rhythm, he felt silly as he stumbled around the dance floor, especially when he noticed Nikki whirling this way and that, mastering the polka like she was born in a German tavern, and laughing all the time.
It had to be the longest polka in recorded history, and Charles was immensely relieved when the last note finally sounded. He thanked the dancer who had called him out, then located the kids and headed off the dance floor.
Unfortunately, the orchestra was not finished, and before he reached his seat, he heard the mellow notes of a sad folk ballad—“Edelweiss”—and he saw the dancers start going after more prey for a slow dance. He had almost safely reached his seat when he felt a tug at his elbow.
“C’mon, handsome. One more dance?” It was Nikki, and the tug became a persistent pull.
She turned to Tiger and Stinky. “If you guys finish your pizza during this next song, we can get some ice cream.”
The kids let go of Charles’s hands and sprinted toward their seats.
He turned to Nikki, took her hand gently in his, and extended his other hand to place it gently on her shoulder. There was a good twelve inches between them.
“I don’t bite,” she said. She snuggled up closer, placing her arm around his waist, and laying her head against his chest. Her hair nearly touched his face, and even after a full day in the park, it smelled great. She immediately fell into step as they joined the other dancers and patrons, slowly—and gracefully—making their way around the dance floor.
“You’re a good dancer,” she said softly.
“So are you.”
He relaxed just a little and started enjoying himself. It was just one silly dance. Nothing more. He noticed the tired and je
alous faces of the dads at the picnic tables as they all seemed to be looking at him, wondering how he rated a dance with the prettiest girl in the joint. He pulled her closer, and she didn’t seem to mind.
She made a good dance partner and would make an interesting friend. Life was good. And Charles Arnold couldn’t believe, would never have imagined early this morning, that before the sun had set on this marvelous day, he’d be dancing with Nikki Moreno, spinning her gently around on the Festhaus floor in front of hundreds of witnesses.
He had started today by mourning for a family he never had. But somewhere along the way he had discovered the joys of simple pleasures: a theme park through the eyes of a child, a friendship with a woman who made him smile. Tonight, he would say a prayer of thanks.
He couldn’t believe his good fortune. He couldn’t believe he was doing this.
34
UNABLE TO GET the disappointed face of Buster out of his mind, Thomas knelt to pray on the cinder block floor of his jail cell. Earlier that evening Thomas, Buster, and the ES had gathered in the same windowless room where they held last week’s Bible study. This time there was not as much grumbling about coming, though the men still ragged on Thomas about his King James Bible. Thomas didn’t care. At least they were showing up.
They waited fifteen minutes for Charles. After ten minutes the complaining started in earnest. Thomas kept making excuses—“Maybe his car broke down”—pleading with the men to stay, but he could tell Buster was getting frustrated. The man was not used to being stood up. After fifteen minutes Buster thrust out his jaw. “Some preacher,” he said. The men murmured their agreement. “Let’s blow this rathole,” Buster said, and they called for a guard to open the door.
Now, three hours later, Thomas knelt for his nightly prayer. He always came back to the cell early while the other men were still lounging in the common area, playing cards, or watching television. This was the only way to get some solitude. As he did every night, he started by asking for forgiveness for what he had done to Joshie. Then he prayed for his own family and asked God to forgive Charles for not showing up tonight. Next he turned his thoughts toward his cellmate.
“Show Buster how much You love him, God. Somehow, help him figure out what it means to be saved and all. You know I ain’t real good at talkin’ ’bout this stuff, so if there’s any way that Charles can hook back up with Buster, I’d be eternally grateful. . . .” Thomas paused, sensing he was not alone. He realized that he had been mumbling his prayers out loud, just like he did at home, and he felt a little embarrassed. This wasn’t exactly the Lord’s prayer—“Thy Kingdom come” and all that great-sounding stuff. If somebody was listening, he probably wouldn’t be too impressed. Better wrap it up quick and with a bit of a flourish.
“Forgive my trespasses, God, as I forgive those who trespass against me. Amen.”
He rose from his knees and turned in time to see the back of Buster as the man disappeared around the corner.
The Blue Ridge Parkway winds for miles through the scenic Blue Ridge Mountains in the western part of Virginia. It takes nearly three hours from Virginia Beach just to get there. But anybody who has traveled the parkway can tell you that the breathtaking scenery is worth every minute of the drive.
It was for this reason, and because of his love for mountains and all they symbolize, that Dr. Sean Armistead proposed to a young lady named Erica Wilson at one of the most beautiful lookout spots on the entire parkway more than twelve years ago. He was a third-year med student then; she was a gifted high school teacher. Their future together was limitless.
Sean took her to Lookout Peak, one of the highest spots on the parkway, where on a clear day you could see almost forever. The rolling mountains and yawning valleys all merged on the horizon, endless miles of green in the summer or blazing colors in the fall.
The lookout itself was just a small rest area along the side of the road with a few coin-operated telescopes on metal stands and some sturdy wire guardrails to keep cars from plunging more than a hundred feet from the road into the wooded valley. It was nothing special as far as rest stops go; it didn’t even have a bathroom facility. But for Sean and Erica, it was the spot where he had popped the question and the spot where she said yes, and so it was the single most important spot on the face of the earth. During the first few years of their marriage, they would make annual pilgrimages here to renew their vows and contemplate how lucky they were to have each other.
A few hours after Busch Gardens had shut down for the night and the Virginia Beach inmates were all locked down, just a few minutes before midnight, a white Lexus crashed through the guardrails at Lookout Peak, bounced off the rocky overhang, and plunged the hundred or so feet to the woods below. The car flipped and bounced several times on the way down, and eventually landed deep in the woods, nearly buried by the foliage and trees. There was a brief burst of fire, a literal explosion of flames, but the woods themselves never caught, and the flames eventually burned themselves out.
There were no tourists driving the parkway at this time of night. And had it not been for the broken guardrail and the suicide note printed on the victim’s home printer and left on her dresser, the body and the Lexus might not have been discovered for weeks.
Erica Armistead had come full circle. Her life and her marriage had now ended in tragedy at the same spot where, just a dozen years before, she had become engaged to the only man she had ever loved.
35
BRANDON WAS a young buck no more than twenty-six or -seven with long blond hair, a broad Roman nose, and straight white teeth. He was six-two, 195 pounds, with washboard abs and not an ounce of flab on his entire body. He was always smiling and exhorting, egging people on with intense steel blue eyes and those straight white teeth. Right now, he was exhorting the Barracuda. And right now, the Barracuda hated his guts.
It was Sunday morning at the gym, and Brandon, the trainer for the who’s who crowd at Virginia Beach, was working her over. They had been doing ab work for an eternity. Or rather she had been doing ab work while he prodded her on. Her stomach had caught fire about ten reps ago and begged for mercy. But Brandon, smiling all the while, seemed to be just getting started. And loving it.
“Come on,” the young hunk said, “four more this set.” Brandon was towering over Crawford as she lay on her back. She would lift her legs straight up to a ninety-degree angle from the floor; then he would push on her ankles and throw her legs back down. She would squeeze and tighten her stomach muscles so her legs didn’t bounce off the floor, then use those same tired muscles to bring the legs back up in the air, where a grinning Brandon would push them back down again.
“Twenty-seven . . . twenty-eight . . . twenty-nine . . . thirty. . . . You’re looking great. Let’s squeeze out ten more,” the smiling sadist said.
Are you kidding?! I’m dying down here, you jerk. What’s with you today? I can’t believe I’m paying you for this.
“Thirty-five . . . thirty-six . . . thirty-seven—” Crawford grunted and groaned, sweating like a pig, swinging her legs back up as Brandon clicked off the numbers—“thirty-eight . . . thirty-nine . . . forty.”
“Aaaaah,” she moaned as she let her legs flop on the floor, then curled them to her chest in a fetal position, rolling side to side. “Are you trying to kill me today?”
“If it doesn’t kill us, it only makes us stronger,” Brandon said, stealing a sideways glance at himself in the wall of mirrors.
Crawford slowly rose to her feet, sucked in her gut, and checked out her own image. She wore spandex shorts and a sports bra that exposed her midriff. The muscles in her back, arms, and legs were coming along nicely. But despite the last half hour of complete torture, there was still a tiny roll of cellulite peeking out over the top of her spandex shorts, mocking her plans to wear a bikini this summer. She glanced in envy at the woman on the leg curl machine, all arms and legs, skin and bones. Who made the decision that anorexic is in? Why do you have to able to count your ribs—look
like a skinny little boy—to make it as a model? And where are the women’s libbers when these idiots on Madison Avenue dictate these impossible body prototypes?
The Barracuda was convinced that the Greeks and Romans had it right. They preferred their women and their goddesses, whom they immortalized in sculpture, with a little extra meat on their bones.
But Brandon apparently felt differently. He had been staring at his stopwatch. “One more set of abs—this time we’ll use the ball,” he announced with a broad smile. “Got to feel the burn.”
Crawford took a swig from her water bottle and looked at him defiantly. But she obediently grabbed one of the large red rubber balls and sat on it. Her iron will could always get her through one more set.
She started a new round of torture. Keeping her feet on the floor, she arched her back over the ball, then did a sit-up while balancing herself—isolating her tired ab muscles: One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . The fire was back in her stomach, Brandon was grinning, and she hated him with a renewed and burning passion.
And then . . . relief! She heard the blessed first ring of her cell phone when she was on her fourteenth rep. It was too good to be true! She stopped immediately and grabbed the phone lying next to her, as if someone’s life might be in danger if she didn’t answer before the second ring. She punched a button and answered breathlessly, in a manner that feigned frustration at this interruption of her workout routine.
“What?” she huffed.
“Becca, you’ve got to come over right away,” the stressed voice of Sean Armistead said. “The police are already here.”
Crawford caught her breath and looked at a frowning Brandon. “Is it an emergency?” she asked for the sake of the eavesdropping slab of beef standing next to her.
The Barracuda already knew the answer.
