Bleeding Green

by James, Anne

  “I know,” Brodie gave a throaty purr. “The feeling is mutual, I can assure you.”

  Laurel patted Jackson’s huge head and closed the side door. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten. I can do this. I can leave. Walking to her state-issued truck, she looked forward to the day ahead. Back in the saddle.

  Arriving at her office, she answered or deleted all 62 emails and returned several phone messages.

  As she was playing catch up from her time away, Boyd threw open her door causing her to jump.

  “Good to have you back!” His voice boomed off the ceiling and walls.

  She smiled and motioned for him to come in with her hand. “Good to be back. Come in and sit down.”

  She gave him a brief rundown of her trip, as she hadn’t spoken to him since the cemetery.

  Boyd leaned forward in his chair opposite her desk listening intently. “You have a lot on your shoulders.”

  Laurel shrugged. “Don’t we all? Sometimes we just get more shoveled at us than others.”

  Boyd leaned back and scratched his thick mane of black spiky hair that seemed to have more sparkles of gray than the last time Laurel had seen him. She wondered how he managed to keep his sanity with all the state budget cuts. Tallahassee seemed oblivious to the field staff at times. The park manager’s daily challenge to keep any particular park operating with all the many expenses and no money to do it with was an unending struggle.

  He stood up and rammed his hands in his front pockets. “I don’t take the threat of this good ranger gone bad, Ernie Buckle, lightly. I want you to stay alert and report anything, I stress the word anything, out of the ordinary to me immediately. I had a talk with the Bureau Chief and he has proof that Ernie was seen up in the panhandle last week. The Director, Ronald Riggatoni, has been notified by the chief as well.”

  Laurel leaned back in her swivel chair just as her phone intercom invaded the room with Janice LaPlume’s husky voice. “Laurel, a call from the campground hosts on site 56.”

  Laurel said, “Janice, can you have them leave a message please? I’m talking to Boyd.”

  “You bet.”

  She folded her hands on her desk and peered up at the park manager. “Is it really that serious?”

  “We’re taking it that way. Just be careful.” He gave a brief nod and shut the door with a slam.

  Laurel jumped again. Jeez! As if the conversation didn’t make her jumpy enough! She sat staring at her computer. The last email was a request to have a film shoot on the park property. The company needed specific information.

  She glanced at her watch. Nine-thirty. Jiggling her right leg, she felt the walls of the room closing in on her. Standing she reached for the two-way radio on her desk. All park staff wore a radio in the field. She clipped it on her right pants pocket. The Operations Manual dictated that only two things could be worn on the belt—two black things, of course. As she kept her personal cell and the Nextel work phone attached to her belt that left no place for the radio.

  The red blinking light on her phone caught her eye just as she was locking her office door. Rats! She’d forgotten to listen to the message from the campground hosts. Never mind. She’d just swing through the campground after visiting the Nature Center. She had glanced at the volunteer schedule for the nature center and saw that her good friend, Phillip Potter, who was also the president of the Citizen’s Support Organization (CSO) was working the Nature Center.

  She smiled as she strode to her vehicle. A good repartee with Phil always brightened her day. His dry British wit was delivered in a delightful tongue-in-cheek fashion that always caused Laurel to take the bait and try to outdo him in verbal sparring. She always lost.

  Cabbage palms and longleaf pines mixed with live oak trees lined the road to the Nature Center. She turned on a local rock and roll station. Opening the driver’s window on the truck, she smiled at each visitor and gave a five-finger wave, the traditional park service wave that she was taught while at Ranger Academy. Only half-listening to the news, she heard an announcement about TV Station Channel 7. The unfortunate weather forecaster, Ty Murphy, had been hit while riding his motorcycle to work that morning. He was in critical but stable condition.

  Stunned, Laurel pulled the truck over into some empty parking spaces in the main use parking lot. Ty Murphy! The evening at St. John’s pub spent with Mary Helen began replaying in her head. That’s why that little Irishman had known so much about the weather! She closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the head rest. Dear God! She was an idiot. Just as she thought that, she took the thought back and reasoned that she’d only been acting in a cautious manner for Mary Helen’s sake.

  After a glance in her side mirror to check the traffic, she drove on to the Nature Center. The visit with Phil was refreshing as always. He had a knack for solving the world’s problems and renewing her sense of humor.

  A slow drive through the park brought her to the campground. Approaching site 56, she saw that the hosts EZ Go were gone, which meant they were off raking campsites or cleaning the bathhouse. They could stay for sixteen consecutive weeks on a volunteer host campsite in exchange for twenty hours of work per week. Most all of the volunteer hosts went way over the twenty hours per week in their effort to keep the campground clean.

  Pulling the truck into an empty campsite, she decided to do a quick check on the bathhouse to see how clean the hosts were keeping it, another one of her duties. Most campsites were empty, which was unusual. November usually had the snowbirds arriving and the campgrounds would fill to capacity. She wondered if the current economy was responsible for this or if she could lay blame at the new governor’s feet.

  She locked the truck doors and pocketed the lump of park keys. Scowling, she kicked a pine cone out of her way just as a flock of wild turkeys meandered across the sandy path.

  As she pushed open the men’s door of the bath house she gave a loud knock using her whole forearm. Announcing in a loud voice, “Park Service!” This would warn any males who would hopefully call out. Less fortunate would be for them to keep quiet and get a thrill from a woman marching in on them. That had happened to her twice in her career. She wasn’t pleased.

  As the door shut with a stealthy swishing sound, she began her inspection. The sinks were clean as a whistle. The urinals sparkled. Even the floor was clean. Just as she approached the toilet stalls, a door was flung open.

  Eyes bloodshot, whiskers sprouting all over his face and neck, was the oily face of Ernie Buckle.

  Laurel’s whole midsection dropped about three stories.

  Worse was the evil grin that was lined up behind a long, grimy knife pointed straight at her nose.

  Chapter 9

  “Howdy, Ranger! Laurel Grey. Think yer somethin’ doncha?” Spittle collected in the corners of Ernie Buckle’s mouth as he spoke, his eyes wild and dilated.

  Laurel took a cautious step back and held up her left hand in a stop gesture. Her heart was pounding, threatening to break through her chest.

  Ernie thrust the knife at her face with a stiff arm as he jumped forward knees bent in a fencing position. “You put that hand right back down and toss me that lump of keys in your pants pocket!”

  She did as she was told. Slipping her hand in the pocket, she grasped the keys and held them out to him.

  “Toss ‘em here.”

  With a twist of her wrist she threw the keys right at his face. The moment his eyes flickered toward the keys, she turned to run. The next thing she knew the slick concrete of the floor was rushing up to meet her face. He had tackled her at the knees.

  As she crashed on the hard floor, she tried to turn her face sideways. The right side of her face hit with a jaw-smashing blow. He moved until the full weight of his body pinned her down.

  He licked her left ear as he ground his body into her. In a whisper he said, “If you do
n’t hold still and behave, more than this knife is a gonna go deep in you.”

  His hot stale breath reeked of rotten eggs as it washed over her face.

  Pain shot through her body. Her jaw felt on fire. A sharp stabbing pressure under her chin made all other agonies pale in comparison.

  “Feel that?”

  He wound his hand in her hair and twisted it, sliding her head on the cold floor. The point of the knife broke her skin.

  Between the weight of Ernie’s body and his hand forcing her head onto the knife, Laurel couldn’t move or talk.

  She felt his body slide off her.

  Twisting her hair tighter, he pressed the knife tip toward her throat.

  Laurel felt every centimeter of the knife as it slit her skin.

  He knelt over her, pinning her head to the floor. An evil chuckle croaked from his fetid throat.

  He said, “How I have dreamed of this moment. Night and day …” He began humming.

  She recognized the tune from Cole Porter. Night and Day. A tremor shook her body.

  He broke off humming to chuckle. Face inches from hers, he said, “Little scared are we, Ranger?” With a note of excitement causing his voice to become higher he said, “Oh, wait, wait. There’s more.”

  The words croaked from his voice in a low vibrato as he sang. He kept time by bumping her head up and down. “Like the beat, beat, beat, of the tom-tom, when the jungle shadows fall, so a voice in me keeps repeating, you, you, you, night and day, you are the one.”

  A sound made him freeze in place.

  Laurel recognized water running from the faucet in the ladies restroom. If only she could scream.

  The same thought must have entered Ernie’s head. “You make so much as a squeak and you’re dead.”

  Laurel prayed for a man to walk into the restroom.

  He whispered in her ear. “Where’s your radio?”

  She tried to answer but the knife was pressing too hard.

  He lessened the pressure a fraction and raised her head off the floor by pulling on her hair.

  “Truck.” The word came through her lips with a raspy effort.

  He kneed her in the stomach. “Put your hands behind your back and tuck your wrists under your belt.” He placed the eight-inch hunting knife on the floor near Laurel’s face.

  The sound of the women’s restroom door closing filled Laurel with defeat. With effort she managed to get her arms behind her and tuck her wrists under the belt. She eyed the knife as the blood from the soft tissue under her chin trickled onto the concrete. How could she get the knife?

  Ernie pressed his knees into her midsection with vicious force. “Roll onto your stomach.”

  He yanked a roll of duct tape from his filthy baggy dress-pants pocket. Keeping her pinned on the floor by kneeling on her back with both knees, he unrolled a section of tape and tore it with his mouth. He yanked her wrists lower through her belt, which drew her shoulders backward in a contorted position. With quick motions he wrapped the tape around her wrists.

  Grabbing a handful of hair he jerked her head back and slapped duct tape over her mouth.

  Panic hit Laurel like a freight train. Being able to breathe only through her nose was a terrifying sensation. Her nostrils flared with the effort to suck in enough oxygen. She knew she was losing control to fear. Just as she tried to concentrate on calming down, the roots of her hair screamed in pain as he yanked a handful of hair up.

  His lips close to her ear, he continued the thread of humming with a word interspersed here and there—specifically, the word, “You.” He growled his next words, “Stand up, lovely Laurel!”

  Scuttling forward on her belly like a crab, she tried to obey. The momentum of her hair being lifted off her scalp helped place her on her knees as she stood.

  “Now, Ranger, we are going to walk in a proper fashion through that door and around back to the chase. You know where I mean, doncha, doll?” He yanked her head back and forth in a YES nod. “Feel that?” He pushed the point of the knife into the middle of her back.

  She felt the sharp sting and then the trickling sensation of blood running down her back.

  Her thoughts ran wild as a demented greyhound on a racetrack. He knew all the terms. He knew all the places in a state park. Chase was the term used for closet in park vernacular. Ernie intended to lock her in the closet of the bath house. Coaching herself, she tried to focus. What to do?

  Ernie pushed the door open with his shoulder, keeping a tight hold on her hair and the knife in her back.

  Laurel glanced at the bathroom floor. Blood was smeared on the surface. Somebody would connect that with her vehicle parked outside in a campsite. Calm down, Laurel. Focus.

  Ernie peered down the walkway.

  Laurel looked in desperation for any movement. Come on! There had to be a camper somewhere that would see them walk around the outside of the building.

  “March!” The knife pushed her forward.

  Arriving at the back of the bathhouse, he jammed her against the building with his body freeing his hands. He slipped the knife into his pocket, grabbing the keys to unlock the door.

  Laurel knew this was her chance. Ramming her head and knees against the building she thrust backwards arching her back. This movement threw Ernie backward and the keys hit the concrete sidewalk.

  Lurching sideways, Laurel took off in a dead run. Bent backwards like an inverted bow, she was still fast. A thick carpet of pine needles caused her to slip just as she was smashed from behind and thrown to the ground. Both of the phones fell off her waist.

  Ernie grabbed her belt, yanking her upright. “You stupid bitch! I’m bigger than you. Stronger than you and a hell’uv’a lot smarter than a stupid woman that thinks she can be a ranger! Only, men, real men, get to wear green.” He snarled the words like a rabid tiger. He spat a wad in her face and placed a grimy hand on her left breast fingering her badge. “This? This here, badge on your tittie? You have no business desecrating the badge with your female scent. This belongs on a man’s chest, kitten. Not, some hot, sexy little tease that plays at being a ranger!” His voice rose to a shout as he tore the badge off her shirt and shoved it in his back pocket. The rip exposed some black lace from her bra. His eyes glued to the rip.

  Laurel, watched him hyper-focus on the tear. Although, enough adrenaline was coursing through her veins to fuel a football team, she realized that maybe the fact that she was a female ranger was part of the man’s problem. Where in God’s name were the people? Somebody should either hear or see them!

  Balancing on one foot, she leveled a kick at his left kneecap knocking him to the ground. She thought she heard a snap.

  Ernie let out a howl that sounded like a cross between a wounded hyena and a coyote.

  Laurel turned and ran.

  She felt herself falling as a horrible pain high on her left shoulder caused the world to go black. Hitting the ground face first, her mind struggled against the screaming pain.

  The first sound to register was the scraping sound of the pine needles. Opening her eyes, she tried to focus. The hunchback of Notre Dame dragging a leg. Ernie. She couldn’t move.

  Ernie leaned against a pine panting, as his lips drew back in a snarl.

  His blue and black plaid cotton shirt came into focus. Laurel watched his hand stretch toward her. She couldn’t breathe. Air. How she needed air. Sand and pine needles pasted with snot blocked her nose.

  As cold as ice, Ernie yanked the knife out of her shoulder. Complimenting himself on his accuracy. He was the man! All man. But the bitch? She had hurt him. Hurt him bad. Rangers didn’t behave this way. Rangers weren’t women. Women were cunning and cruel. Men were good.

  Blood spread in a dark stain on Laurel’s shirt. The world went dark.

  Chapter 10

  Ernie drove Laurel’s truck at the required 25 mp
h down the main park drive. As he drove by the ranger station, he slowed to 5 mph. Discovering her broad-brimmed green sun hat on the passenger seat, he composed it on his head. Grinning like a fool, he slumped in the seat. If anybody saw him, specifically a ranger, they would think he was Laurel.

  He scowled as he noticed the leather clad steering wheel was sticky. Looking at his hands he saw dried blood all over them. This wouldn’t do. He hated anything sticky. That damn woman had bothered him for years. Now he was done with her. He could place her in a checked-off box of tidying up the clutter in his life.

  His fingers drummed a beat on the steering wheel. Why wouldn’t that damn song leave his head? Night and Day, you are the one. He didn’t realize he was humming the tune. His torso rocked slightly. Better. He felt better already.

  As he drove down Timucuan Springs Road, his right foot itched to put the pedal to the metal. The gas gauge read three quarters of a tank. A white notebook was wedged between the seat and the middle console—the vehicle log. He smiled, then frowned. His right hand plucked the notebook from between the seats and he hurled it to the passenger floor. Double-dang-dammit it all! He didn’t know the password for Laurel’s gas card. As clever as he was, he had forgotten that minuscule detail. He had scooped up the fallen keys by the chase door. Yup! He was one smart feller.

  He rocked more vigorously. Not a problem. He had sixty dollars in his wallet. That ought to get him across the Georgia border.

  Sounds came and went. Pain with a thousand razors raked her body. Struggling to connect a sequence of thought through the fog, her head was swirling as if she had gulped a whole bottle of single malt. The piercing pain in her back overrode all the other stabbing aches. Laurel fought to open her eyes. As she concentrated on a red blinking light, she realized her eyes were open. Why couldn’t she move?