“Eddie” to her friends (Miss Forester or Miss Park Ranger to me) was fortyish and wirily muscular, a former Marine and one-time truck driver, who was tough but fair with the park-going public, unless she caught someone with alcohol, at which time she went all Marine Corps on their behind. (I still regretted bringing that the bottle of champagne along on that one picnic.)
Since I didn’t see the ranger’s Range Rover (beginning to see a pattern here?), I thought I’d leave the woman a note on her door, explaining that I was poking around the park (usually fairly unpopulated this time of year) looking for Joe. Hastily, I scribbled my message on a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin with an eyeliner pencil, because I didn’t have a real writing implement.
Sushi—who had jumped out of the car as soon as I’d opened my door and followed me up the stone-lined walk—also left the park ranger a little something on her front stoop: a tiny brown turdlet, which I kicked snow over because I didn’t have another napkin to pick it up with.
Back in the car, I asked, “Did you have to do that?”
Sushi, seated in profile next to me on the passenger side, had her lower jaw set in a pout.
“Just because she wasn’t there to give you a bone,” I gently scolded, “doesn’t mean you have to try to get even.”
The jaw jutted out further giving her a comical, snaggletoothed look, and I had to laugh. She shot me a white-eyed look that let me know in no uncertain terms that her not getting a bone was no laughing matter.
Soon we were driving through the park’s main entrance, its steel gate halfheartedly open, inviting in only the brave and the idiotic on this icy, cold day. At a fork in the road, I slowed the car, contemplating my options: The road to the right led to the top of the park, while the one to the left went to the lower level. Since Joe, I felt sure, would most likely be holed up in one of the limestone caves located in between the two levels, and accessible only on foot, my options were to slip-slide down to him, or climb-claw up. I decided the latter would be easier on both Soosh and me.
The lower level of the park was deserted, the crusted snow showing only a few tire tracks from recent hardy (or foolhardy) visitors. I eased my Buick up to one of the wooden railroad ties that designated a parking spot.
Then, with my knapsack of food slung over one shoulder, and Sushi tucked inside my zipped-up ski jacket (her head protruding like a baby alien that had burst from my chest), I stood for a moment at the base of the high bluff, contemplating my route of ascent.
There were three paths from which to choose: “difficult,” a steep, rocky climb upward; “not as difficult,” a combination of steep and gradual; and “just give up, already,” a meandering trail akin to a wheelchair ramp.
Choosing the mid-level trek, I started up the snowy trail, but it wasn’t long before I was huffing and puffing, my breath coming like train-stack smoke. Upon reaching “Fat Man’s Squeeze,” a narrow fissure in the bluff wall that allowed an upward shortcut for the slender (that I hadn’t been able to use since the seventh grade), I flopped on a wooden bench to give my burning thigh muscles a rest.
After a few minutes, Sushi yapped that she was hot and wanted out of my jacket, and I had to agree, the sun now high in the sky, its rays slanting down like well-aimed arrows through the bare trees, hitting us with a warmth that was surprising considering how my breath still showed.
I put Soosh down on the path, which had only a dusting of snow, and she was immediately familiar with where she was, trotting on ahead on the trail we had so often taken during warmer months. I stood, then quickly caught up to her.
Since we were nearing the flattened-out portion of the bluff where the caves were located—and where I hoped to find Joe—I thought it prudent to announce my presence, because there’s nothing quite so heartwarming as surprising a jumpy ex-serviceman—and an unstable one at that.
To let him know I was a “friendly,” I began to sing a snappy version of “The Caisson Song”:
Over hill, over dale
as we hit the snowy trail
, (I took a liberty with ‘dusty trail’)
those caissons go rolling along!
(What’s a caisson, anyway?)
Then it’s hi! hi! hee!
in the field artillery
(Who knew war could be so much fun?)
shout out your numbers loud and clear!
For where ’ere we go
you will always know that those caissons go rolling along!
I realized that Joe had been in the National Guard, but since I didn’t know their official song—or even if there was one (I was in no position to Google it)—I segued into “The Marine Hymn,” which I basically knew from old Bugs Bunny cartoons:
From the halls of Montezuma
to the shores of Tripoli,
We will fight our nation’s battles
in the air, on land, and sea.
Here, I lost my way with the words (“Da da da da da da dah da da!”) and finally trailed off, which was just as well because 1) we had reached the string of caves, and 2) Sushi had begun to sing along in a high-pitched howl that hurt my eardrums.
To get her to stop, I said, “Find Joe, girl! Find Joe, and we can have our lunch!”
Well, blind eyes were no obstacle for a twenty-twenty canine stomach, and she took off like a heat-seeking missile, sniffing at the mouth of this cave and that one, finally halting at an opening in the limestone cliff that I had never noticed before because it was partially hidden behind some large rocks that had fallen from the bluff above.
I joined Soosh and whispered, “Is he in there, girl?”
She yapped once. If I could play Nancy Drew, Soosh could damn well play Lassie.
Setting my food bag aside, I went over and dropped down on my knees in front of the hole, which was just large enough for a person to crawl through.
“Joe!” I called. “Are you in there? It’s me—Brandy.”
I thought I heard a rustling from within, and Sushi confirmed it with a growl that became a yap.
“Joe…please come out…. I have some provisions….?”
No sound at all now.
I didn’t relish the idea of exploring this or any cave, especially if “Joe” turned out to be a hibernating bear, unhappy to get an early wake-up call.
But Joe could be inside, and possibly sick or hurt.
“Okay,” I said, “If you’re not coming out, I’m coming in….”
Cautiously, I crawled into the darkness of the cave like Alice in Wonderland going down the rabbit hole (and we all know how well that played out—off with her head!).
And almost off with mine: I heard a swish and perceived a hard blow to the back of my head, and then I was in my own personal dark cave.
When I came to, I was propped against the wall of rock, my legs splayed out, my aching head turned toward a flickering light.
A candle in a glass jar came gradually into focus, and my eyes worked well enough to read “Home for the Holidays,” written across a picture of a cheery, fireside hearth.
Slowly, painfully, I straightened my neck, and took in my surroundings as best I could. The cave was small, as caves go, about half the size of my bedroom, its low jagged ceiling preventing me from standing (the cave, not my bedroom). By the shimmer of candlelight, I could make out army gear stashed everywhere: canteens and ration kits, goggles and binoculars, ropes and netting, along with a good deal of camping supplies. Clearly, Joe was dug in here for the long winter haul.
But what made the hairs stand up on the back of my really sore (and now tingling) neck were the military weapons piled in one corner: assault rifles, bayonets, guns, and knives…plus something on a tripod that looked really nasty.
Joe said, “M-249 SAW, Squad Automatic Weapon.”
Clad military-style, he was on his haunches, animal-like, munching at my bag of stale potato chips, his long hair greasy and tangled, features obliterated by camouflage paint, except for his eyes.
His wild, unstable eyes.
Doing my best to mask my fear, I snapped crossly, “What didja hit me for? I’m a friendly.”
Joe put down the chips and crawled over like a spider, and settled down before a very frightened Little Miss Tuffet.
“Who sent you?” he asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously, the candlelight throwing eerie shadows on his face.
Joe—unmedicated Joe—had never frightened me before. I’d sometimes found him unsettlingly odd, sure, but then I had never before seen him this bad. And I had not taken at all seriously the notion that Joe might have killed Mr. Yaeger over that Tarzan book. My assumption had always been that there was an innocent reason for his presence at Happy Trails Trailer Park. Now I wasn’t so sure.
I chose my words carefully.
“No one sent me, Joe,” I said evenly. “I came here on my own scouting mission.”
He nodded, accepting that.
“Where’s Sushi?” I asked.
“The little dog?” He jerked his head toward the entrance of the cave. “Out there—with Charlie. But she’ll never make it back through enemy lines.”
So Sushi had gotten away, and would probably return to the car and take shelter beneath it, her coat-of-five-legs to keep her warm until someone came.
I said, “Maybe she’ll bring back help,” and immediately regretted it, because Joe turned agitated.
“We don’t need backup!” he barked. “Got everything right here!”
This “we” business at least meant I had moved from the enemy column over to fellow combatant. Now I all I needed was to get the hell out of here, on the double….
I said with urgency, “Joe, I have to get to a medic. I think I have a concussion.”
But my friend had lost interest in me, crawling back to the bag of chips.
I had lapsed into silence, wondering what to do, when a shout came from outside the cave.
“Joe!”
Someone was using a bullhorn. I couldn’t tell who, but we had been found! Only, what if Joe blamed me for leading these unfriendlies to his hidey-hole?
“Joe!” the bullhorn called again.
I looked anxiously at my cave mate for his response, which was to scrounge in a duffel bag, then scurry over to my side, where he pressed something into my hand.
“What’s this?” I frowned at the capsule in my palm.
“Cyanide. If we get stormed, bite down on it.”
“What?”
“If you don’t, Brandy, I’ll have to shoot you in the head. Can’t let Charlie take you alive.” Joe was saying this as calmly as if reading me the current weather report. Then he got glinty-eyed. “Do you have any idea what they’d do to you? Makes Gitmo look like a tea party.”
Alice in Wonderland again, only she got the Mad Hatter and I got Off His Rocker Rambo.
Well, I least I was still a valued friendly, valued so much that he would kill me to save me.
I watched in horror as he scrambled back across the cave’s floor to the weapons stash, where he snatched up one of the military guns.
“Corporal Lange!” the bullhorn blared. “This is Marine Sergeant Forester!”
The Marines had landed! Or, anyway, the park ranger lady….
“I order you to come out of that cave, soldier, or you’ll be reported AWOL!”
Joe froze in a half-crouch, the gun pointed at the cave’s entrance.
Terrified that Joe might fire at the park ranger—or my head—I said, “She does outrank you, Joe. Do you really want to risk a court-martial?”
Seconds dragged by like minutes; then Joe released his tight grip on the gun and set it down.
“There’s a civilian in here!” he yelled. “Brandy Borne.”
“Is she hurt?”
Joe looked my way, and for the first time had concern in his eyes. “Brandy…?”
I hollered, “I’m okay!”
The bullhorn crackled, “Send her out.”
Joe gave me a crisp nod, his eyes nominally more normal now in that green-and-brown-and-black face.
I crawled toward the cave’s mouth, wondering if the last sound I’d ever hear would be a gunshot reverberating in that tiny cave as Joe shot me from behind.
But moments later, I was outside the cave’s modest entrance, and rising slowly to my feet, which were as wobbly as a newborn calf’s. I squinted, protecting my face with a hand, my eyes adjusting to the light. The sun was setting on Joe Lange’s mission.
Edwina Forester, wearing an olive-green Marine service coat instead of her brown park ranger jacket, gestured with the bullhorn for me get out of harm’s way, or anyway hers, and I stumbled down the path toward a waiting Sheriff Rudder, who was holding Sushi.
Soosh, who soon smelled me, squirmed out of the sheriff’s grasp and into mine, licking happy tears from my face.
Edwina, now dispensing with the bullhorn, called, “Joe! Fall in! On the double!”
After a few more long seconds, Joe’s head protruded from the cave like a turtle from its shell; then the rest of him emerged. Finally, he got to his feet, straightened his back, and gave his superior officer a smart salute.
“At ease,” Edwina barked.
Joe’s body relaxed.
“I’m relieving you of duty, Corporal, as of now. You’ve done an A-number-one job of patrolling this park, and deserve ninety-six for a little R ’n’ R.”
“Yes, sir!”
“You will go with Sheriff Rudder for debriefing. And you will have to pass a complete physical before returning to duty. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
“All right, soldier. Dismissed!”
I watched in amazement as the sheriff—with a simple, “Come on, son”—led a seemingly docile Joe down the path.
Edwina stood beside me and settled a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right, Ms. Borne?”
“My head really hurts. He slugged me from behind and knocked me out.”
She lifted my hair for a look. “That’s a nasty bump. Can you make it to the bottom, or should I call for paramedics and a gurney?”
“No, I think I could make it…but could you carry Sushi? I still feel kinda dizzy….”
I handed the pooch over, then took one step, and collapsed in the snow.
I woke up in the ER with an IV in my arm. Brian, in uniform, was seated next to me on the stainless-steel stool reserved for the doctor, who was nowhere in sight.
I mumbled, “What…what happened….?”
Brian leaned in and smiled reassuringly. “You just fainted. They’ll be giving you a CT scan in a minute….”
I took a deep breath, which hurt my head. “Mother…?”
“Your sister is trying to find her.”
Good luck to her.
“What am I going to do with you?” Brian asked, quietly exasperated. “Why didn’t you have me go with you to find Joe? You could’ve been killed.”
I closed my eyes. “Listen, there’s more I should have told you. Joe was at that trailer park the night—”
“Mr. Yeager was killed,” he finished. “We know. That’s why I alerted Ranger Forester and Sheriff Rudder to keep an eye on Wild Cat Den. Everybody knows it’s Joe’s favorite haunt.”
“So Chaz isn’t your only suspect?”
Brian sighed. “I suppose you should know that Yeager’s missing Tarzan book turned up in that cave.”
“Joe did have it? Where?”
“In his duffel bag.”
Along with that cyanide capsule.
So had Joe poisoned Mr. Yeager for the purloined loincloth saga, after which he went off the deep end? If so, I had set the whole thing in motion! I was worse than Mother….
A white-coated female doctor appeared and announced, “Time for your X-ray, Ms. Borne,” and two male attendants in green scrubs took either end of my gurney and began rolling it out into the hallway.
Brian tagged along beside me.
I looked up at him. “Joe tried to make me take a pill….”
Brian frowned down. “What
was it?”
“I don’t know. He told me it was cyanide.”
Then I was going through the double doors of the X-ray room, leaving a stunned Brian behind.
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
Bring only cash to flea markets. While many antiques stores and malls will accept checks and charge cards, flea market vendors are a wary bunch, and some don’t take kindly to large-denomination bills. Or to the IRS, for that matter.
Chapter Eight
Sentimental Jury
Mother has always insisted on having her very own chapter, but lately she’s been hounding me for another. Honestly, I didn’t think you could take it…so for now, one chapter is all she gets. (The usual disclaimers apply.)
Brandy has been pushing my chapter later and later in these books, which I hardly think is fair. After all, it’s very poor construction to keep the heroine off center stage until Act Three! Additionally, how am I expected to share everything that’s on my mind in a few paltry pages? (Brandy has given me a strict seven-thousand-word limit.) Furthermore, I am privy to information to which my daughter has no access, so I think it’s only reasonable for me to write one chapter early on, and then another one later. (If you agree with my thinking, gentle reader, please contact the publisher and request more of Vivian Borne. And I do apologize for dragging you into this.)
Of late I have been extremely concerned about Brandy; the poor child seems to be careening out of control. I had hoped that her recent detente with Roger, her ex-husband, and her improved relationship with Jake, her son, would rescue Brandy from her doldrums, but in fact the girl seems more depressed than ever.
Consequently, I have been checking her plastic pill box on the kitchen counter, making sure she has been taking her antidepressant medication—surprisingly, she has been—so I can only assume the dosage should be increased, as mine has been on rare occasions. (Once, when our pill boxes were the same color, we got them mixed up, and that Prozac of hers put me to sleep for twelve hours; when I awoke I found Brandy in the backyard in her bathing suit, chasing a squirrel that I’m not convinced was really there.) But I digress.
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