and away, but temporarily in full view of the Point. Knowing that a cursory inspection could be fatal, Larry gave himself twenty precious seconds of appraisal time and stopped the patrol car just shy of the dogleg.
Slamming the gearshift into park, he was out and at the rear in two seconds. He had grabbed his nightstick off the passenger seat and within five seconds cleared the ruined rear window, punching the remains into the back seat. In his mind, it took forever to place his hands on the ground and go down to inspect the fuel tank. Fighting the feeling of being so vulnerable that all his mind wanted to do was constantly glance back at the curve that had provided him with temporary salvation, he forced himself to remain calm and do a quick but confidence boosting inspection. Satisfied there were no leaks, Larry next looked at the tires. Little wisps of smoke still lifted off ugly bald patches and the smell of burnt rubber was overwhelming. But, at least as far as he could tell, they still held air; one more mental lockdown like his previous one though, and Larry knew he would be driving on rims.
He had scant moments, on this the last day of his life, to reflect on how much extra time that his intuition had bought him. His conscious mind's batting average safeguarding his survival up till now was pretty paltry. Now, with his internal clock flashing triple zeros, he started back toward the wheel when an inner voice spoke to him clearly above the cacophony of fear and action demanding adrenalin. It said only three words. But they were words that although in the end would not save his life, would nevertheless serve to prolong it until the final mission of Patrolman Lawrence Harper was completed.
"Check the trunk!"
An anguished cry broke out as these words collided with his hyper keyed survival impulses like ocean waves pounding a rocky shore. He had left the car running, both to save time, and in terror that once turned off it would never start up again. Now some insane stream-of- consciousness demon was trying to kill him. Telling him turn of the ignition and use the keys to open the trunk. Then, as if the world had put blinders on his vision he noticed the manual trunk release latch on the floor of the left hand side of the driver's seat. Praying that the damage to the rear of the car hadn't jammed the mechanism Larry pulled the release.
A muffled click and the trunk arched open.
Immediately Larry's instinct kicked in. His police motorcycle helmet, kept in the trunk so Larry would not keep forgetting it at home, caught the morning sunlight and beamed at him with the intensity of an uncovered holy relic. "Yes! Thank you Lord," he hissed in quiet thanks to what he now attributed as heavenly intervention rather than an agent of Satan. Then he saw the oversize first aid kit and, knowing that before the day was over it was likely to come in handy, grabbed that. Behind that laid a pair of goggles, mandatory equipment for investigating the occasional chemical spills. Thinking of the shattered rear window, Larry removed his helmet long enough to don them. When he tried to close the trunk it would not catch. Enough was enough he decided, and left it up. A look down the sloping road that he would have to run confirmed what he already knew. The road facing the point smoothly snaked in and out of the side of the opposite hill. Rows of budding trees would provide some, but not near enough protection. Back behind the wheel he mentally calculated the maximum safe speed and distances involved. The news was not encouraging. Twelve maybe fifteen seconds to make the circuit and be in the clear. Damn! Why had he stopped in the first place? Too late for that now. Now the question was where to go? Where could he do the most good?
And for the final time the inner voice spoke.
Now, armed with little more than a newfound destination, he slammed the patrol car in drive and ran what he now suspected would be a fiery gauntlet.
Payback
There was in Lloyd estimation only one thing missing. A quick huddle with Lauren was followed by her agreement and then they both approached Jim Moss.
"A word in private if you don't mind Mr. Moss," Lloyd asked, remembering that night in Helena.
Surprised, Jim agreed and the three of them disappeared into what used to be the office of Headmaster Morgan.
Once inside Lloyd began.
"Jim, you've been a great friend to this project, to both of us, but to me in particular. Truth be told, you've probably saved my life."
Jim Moss opened his mouth but closed it again when Lloyd waved him off.
"Now, unless I miss my guess, you're about to try and say something very noble knowing it will probably come off sounding as … well shall we say something considerably less than that," Lloyd said solemnly but with a hint of a smile.
Lauren stood by his side listening. Her appreciation for Lloyd had always been high. Over the past several weeks her appreciation for James Moss (she couldn't get used to calling him Jim no matter the number of times he had asked. The age difference was just too great, she guessed.) had risen in no small part to Lloyd's telling her about all the man had done for him personally. He certainly had become (next to Mrs. Morgan) the driving force behind this project. He had always approached both them and the project with the utmost respect. That said, Lloyd's suggestion to her was as oblivious as it was practical. She only hoped that Big Jim would see it that way.
"We need you to listen to us as we tell our story." Lloyd said. "In fact, you would honor us if you just stood there and let us tell our story to you. You need not say a word. In fact, it's probably best you didn't. Just an appropriate nod or smile in the right place would make all the difference in the world, he paused. "How about it my friend? You up to hearing a tragedy from start to finish straight from the horse's mouths?" Lloyd turned to Lauren,
"No offense, he quickly added.
"None taken," she replied with a hint of a smile. Honor had been both Lloyd and Braden's hallmarks. Some might say in this age it was overstated, a throwback to another time. To Lauren it simply defined the character of the people, from her parents to her friends, she knew and loved.
"I know it's not the Alamo," he went on. "But it is the ground floor of a new chapter of American mythology. And it is truly an offer never to be repeated again."
Jim Moss stared at both kids, blinked spilling silent tears. If he lived long enough to make it to his lawyers, these kids would never have to worry about money the rest of their lives. That thought, as well meant as it was, appeared in the light of day so meaningless. He knew that money would never be a primary driving force in their lives. Still, it was all he had. Something about his Sunday school teaching when he was a young boy kept trying to surface in his thoughts. Lloyd, looking distressed started to say something, but Jim waved him off. He removed his Stetson and placed it on the former headmaster's desk.
"I would be honored," Jim finally managed to say.
After about twenty minutes of microphone placement and sound checks, Lauren Hartman-Ortiz and Lloyd Foster began their tale.
Lauren – The Yips
Lauren's class work had wrapped up last Friday. Now she was putting in the last of her required administrative time until noon when she was free, not only for the day, but until graduation. That was in two days, and she was fighting with the growing sense of impending loss that entailed. It hadn't helped what Clara Boarth had said after showing Braden, Lloyd Rhoda and her the bright blue and gold embossed passport and gushing about her up coming South American trip. Clara was proud to finally be going somewhere since appendicitis had side line her senior trip to Spain.
"Well guys, tell me. Anybody got the yips yet?" she asked.
"The what?" Braden asked; his boyish grin spread wide.
"The yips," Clara went on grinning herself. "You know, that five pound weight in the pit of your stomach, that feeling of dread knowing all this," she waved her arms in a semi circle, "is coming to an end. The class of '20 called it the yips. I know I got it this time last year myself."
"Clara," Lloyd said, "I thought you had appendicitis."
Everyone, including Clara, laughed.
"I know what your talking about Clara," Rhoda interjected as the laughter died down.
> "Babe, you?" Lloyd said surprised at his fiancée's sudden confession.
"Don't you go acting like you all the sudden don't know what I'm talking about Lloyd Foster," she replied, giving him a good- natured shove. He rebounded toward her sliding his arm casually around her waist.
Rhoda snuggled slightly in his embrace and address the group. "Mister Macho here was saying just this past Saturday how much he's going to miss this place and he can't believe this is all coming to an end. Tell the truth. You did didn't you?"
"Yeah I did, I guess you might say I had a sudden case of the yip-yip hoorays," Lloyd said, grunting from the elbow Rhoda jabbed into his ribs.
This brought on another round of laughter. Lloyd recovered quickly from Rhoda's playful pummeling and added.
"But I'll tell you one thing I absolutely won't miss, and that's this uniform." He lifted the material from his chest with both hands all the while looking down and shaking his head. His dull gray drill uniform sported the silver oak leaves epaulettes of his recent promotion. "We must be the ugliest looking ROTC unit in history."
Braden ignored Lloyd's carping. After all, Friday's drill had been the last for the school year, and for Braden and Lloyd, their last drill as Cadet Major and Cadet Captain for Harrison Traditional School. This morning both boys had received the
Their Bit Page 12
