Paso Por Aqui
Paso Por Aqui
May 01, 2024
I own these streets
It is I that pay for them
It is I that defend them
It is I that keep the people who live here
From moving elsewhere
For my benevolence
I ask for very little
Perhaps and apple when I stroll by
Perhaps a greeting from another passing by
Perhaps something more
As I pass by here
The pavement is as solid as my word
However, today, others see cracks
Cracks mean weakness
And weakness means revolt
My streets do have cracks
As any grandmother has on her own skin
These cracks demand respect
For these cracks display the character
Of the person who earned them
I own these streets
And I’ll be damned
If another challenges me
For their possession
Maybe, I will begin
Taking possession of more than the streets
Maybe, I will want to own the people who walk upon them
Maybe, I will want some more than others
Maybe, I will want all of just one
Just to show what ownership really is
The grating sound of my teeth makes it's treacherous way to my ears as I storm out of the corporate building and onto the bright street.
I wish I could say pathetic fallacy because I feel pretty pathetic right now but I can't because if this was a pathetic fallacy then it would be raining or something.
How could they do this to me! The moronic boss man-- no sorry, IDIOT didn't take my interview into consideration as soon as I delivered it, like a perfect performance at a concert, he was all like, "No, this dumb corporation has a better idea! We're going to hire an idiot because we need to present a united front. Sorry!"
I kick a small Pepsi can as I walk to the bus stop. Then I realize that my reaction wasn't big enough so I take off my coat and trample it because why would I need it now? If they can't recognize my obvious genius then who would?! Now I need to go live in the suburbs and become a cashier at a Walmart! I ruffle up my short brown hair and decide that a proper reaction would be to walk it off like an adult. But I guess only proper people can work at big companies so I scream into my elbow.
Some teenagers across the street are filming me so I give them the finger.
"Hey!" I look up and see a homeless man beckoning to me from the bus stop.
I roll my eyes, "I don't have any money, hipster."
The man grins amusedly, "I wasn't asking for money, bougie." He points to my coat, "Can you pick that up and bring it to me?"
I take a step back with shock, "No! That's my coat!"
The man's smile turns wry, "It didn't look like it."
I pick up my coat, make a show of putting it on and walk over the bus stop and set myself down right next to him, "My coat."
The man shrugs, "You seem pretty down. Tell you what. If I can make you smile, will you give me your coat?"
I turn to him, a huge frown on my face, "You can try.
"I have a knock-knock joke but you have to start it."
I roll my eyes again, "Knock-knock."
"Who's there?" he asks, sounding genuinely confused.
We stare at each other in completely bewilderment for a beat.
When I get on the bus I am without a coat.
The Most Magical Place on Earth
The day before our trip to Disneyland, I woke up with blood in my underwear. I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. I’d known this was coming, sooner or later, the same way it was always looming for prepubescent girls, but I’ll admit, the timing wasn’t stellar. Still, I wasn’t surprised. Life had always had a way of taking good things away from me. Why should I have hoped to be a child at the most magical place on earth, if even only for a day? I shook my mother awake in the darkness of Grandma’s guest bedroom. “I started my period,” I stated bluntly.
“Oh honey,” Mom moved to cup my face, to give sympathy, but I pulled out of her touch and tucked twitching hands behind my back.
“It’s not a big deal. I just need…stuff.”
Mom sighed, resigned, and threw off her blankets. She shouldn’t be surprised this was how I’d chosen to handle the situation. First blood or not, I’d been an adult for years. It didn’t matter that I was only twelve. I’d stopped being a child the first time I’d offered myself up for a beating to spare my little brother. Dad didn’t particularly care who he hit, so long as he hit someone. I’d been six then and already well on my way to understanding some things about the world I really shouldn’t have. With the first smack of Dad’s beating stick on my back, the last dregs of innocence had left my small body. I should probably feel something about that, too, but I didn’t. It’s just the way things were.
My mother shuffled past, beckoning me to follow her into the bathroom across the hall. She held up a bulky panty liner, “Here. This is all Grams has. We’ll stop and get you something better on the way. Let me show you how to use it.”
I nodded, and let her show me, though I already knew. My best friend had gotten her period six months ago. Sara wasn’t one to leave out any detail and had shared the ins and outs of bleeding and tampons and pads with brutal efficiency to anyone who would listen in our little friend group. Yes, I already knew, but I let Mom show me. It was more important for her to feel needed than it was for me to be comfortable. And so, I shuffled out of the bathroom and packed up my bag, adding a fistful of the low-quality incontinence liners to my purse.
We drove for twelve hours that day. I shifted uncomfortably in the back seat of my grandparent’s minivan, but I wouldn’t dare complain. They were footing the bill for this trip to Disney. God knew my mom, who was in the throes of raising six kids solo, couldn’t afford it. Mom bought me tampons at a truck stop. Every hotel we’d be staying at during our week-long trip would have a pool, and I loved to swim. Mom tried to convince me that I wouldn’t even bleed much, but I knew she was wrong. My body had been hovering on the precipice of this thing for too long. I was more developed than any of the other girls I knew, with heavy breasts and curving hips and standing at 5’8” already. Men had been screaming vulgar things out the windows of their trucks at me for two years as I made my trek to school in the mornings. I couldn’t really blame them for mistaking me for a woman or something close to one. I looked like it. I relished the vile words the men spewed out their windows at me. I knew I shouldn’t, but my father had told me I was an ugly thing for so long, it was nice to know that someone, anyone, thought differently. I pondered all of these things during the twelve-hour drive, and arrived at the conclusion that while the whole period thing was miserable, it wasn’t a bad thing. It was just another step toward becoming the adult I so desperately wanted to be. When I was an adult, I could be free. I wanted so badly to be free. I wanted so badly to be wanted.
By the time we arrived at the theme park the next night, I was an old hat at the whole tampons and pads thing. I had fully leaned into the idea that no matter what anyone tried to tell me, I was a woman now. I’d demand the respect of one. And I did. Grams and Mom were the first to notice the shift. They just met my gaze with a knowing glint and subtle nods. I’d not be treated like a child anymore. Mercifully, they didn’t try to. They stopped giving me orders and started deferring to me for opinions and on the fourth evening of the trip, Grandma handed me a tattered copy of her favorite romance novel and informed me, “You’re old enough to read this now.”
During our breaks from the sticky, sweaty excitement of the park, I devoured the book. It confirmed some things that’d been pondered over pillows at many a slumber party. The book gave vital information on how to fully wield the power that’d been bequeathed upon me in the form of generous hips and cat eyes. On the last night of the trip, my bleeding had stopped and I clutched a towel around my breasts and left the hotel room with a mumbled, “I’m going to the pool.”
Surprisingly, no one challenged me. They let me slip from the room, twelve years old, clad in nothing but an orange bikini and a towel.
I smiled with wicked delight as I made my way to the pool yard. I’d been watching, these days past, hoping for an opportunity to test my hypothesis, but in order to do that, I needed to get away from my family… and they’d just… let me leave. My heart pounded as I exited the building. The thick, warm night air of a Los Angeles summer blasted me, and I gulped down lungfuls and told myself to be brave. I stepped into the poolyard and let my towel drop. It pooled around my feet, and when I looked up, six pairs of eyes were running up and down the length of me. I met a pair of glittering blue and grinned. I let a little bit of that heat I’d been kindling flare in my eyes, too, “Can I join you?” I purred in a voice foreign to my ears. The minor league baseball player across from me smiled lazily and trailed his fingers through the steaming water next to him.
“Sure,” he said, taking another sweeping look down to my toes and then slowly back up before he met my eyes again. Something stirred in his gaze and I bit my lip before climbing into the hot tub beside him.
I’d been watching the baseball team for a few days. They had rooms down the hall from ours. I’d overheard them talking about their spur-of-the-moment decision to stay a few nights and explore the theme park before continuing on their way. All of them were young, in their early twenties, and all of them were outrageously good-looking in the way only aspiring male athletes can be. They were all also, mercifully, on good behavior. I took for granted the danger I was putting myself in, not having learned the other truths about the way men might behave when confronted with an almost-naked young woman. And that’s what they thought I was: a young woman. My body, my face, the way I held myself told them. They didn’t ask, and I didn’t bother to correct them. I spent hours in the pool that night, riding on their shoulders, swimming beside them, running my hands all over them, their hands all over me. I reveled in it. I laughed and they echoed, and when the one with striking blue eyes invited me up to his room, I thought for a long minute about going, but this man was a gentleman and he saw the hesitation in my eyes and tipped his head.
“I get it,” he said, “you’ve got other attachments.”
I smirked and nodded, allowing him to believe whatever conclusion he’d come to.
“Either way, this was,” he smiled, “...fun. Thanks.”
I twined my fingers in his and looked up under my lashes, “Sorry.”
He ran a tentative hand down my cheek. “There’s nothing to apologize for. Let me know if you change your mind. You can find me in room 402.”
I nodded again and gave him the sultry smile I’d spent an hour cultivating in the mirror earlier. He grinned and turned away, exiting the pool yard with his friends elbowing and gently ribbing along the way.
When they were gone, I sank back into the hot tub and laughed. Though they didn’t know it, those men had just given me the keys to the kingdom. My hypothesis was confirmed. There was power in this woman’s body. I’d just had no less than ten men dancing for me like puppets on strings. I palmed my round breast and grinned at the sky. Yes, there was power in this body, power in the truth I now beheld. And I would use it from that moment forward to get everything I ever wanted.
When we left the most magical place on Earth the next day, my metamorphosis was complete. I was a woman, and the world wasn’t ready for the terrors I was poised to unleash upon it.
how to be your own roman emperor.
So, I've been learning about stoicism and a fellow named Marcus Aurelius.
Why is it that most Roman philosophers and emperors had names ending in -us?
Was it a decree of some sort? Who knows. There must be a linguistic explanation.
Or, another reason, is that humans sometimes are stupid
and look for meaning in places where there simply isn't any.
Anyhow, back to the original point. Stoicism.
It is not the concept of not feeling anything, but rather about choosing the best box
in the attic of your mind in which
your emotions belong.
Instead of acting on impulse, one focuses on the facts,
on reacting to an event with courage, temperance, justice, and wisdom.
In being the most genuine version of yourself instead of fixating on what was,
on what could be.
There are several aspects based on the concept of memento mori.
Remember you will die.
Yet, despite these philosophies and Roman emperors and tips
and meditations and breathing exercises to take four seconds breathing it,
holding it in, and another four seconds breathing it out,
the reality is
I desperately want for so much, precisely because I know I will die soon.
Soon can be tomorrow, twenty, forty, fifty, one hundred and twelve years from now.
What I want is tangible, burning, nonsensical, a borderline teenage dream--
I want to throw this desk into the window, create a bridge of iridescent glass
I get to step on in my sudden escape,
and no matter how many bleeding scrapes will cut my feet,
I would grin and laugh knowing I am finally, at long last, free;
free to explore a place where I get to climb trees to the very top branches,
where I get to make my words matter to vastly honest, honestly vast audiences,
where I do not think about my lifetime of the past as if it was my present,
where we all want for naught, where we choose kindness above all,
where we are all doing what we love, to the point where we forget to eat
or drink
or sleep.
I want to skip along insomniac streets with the sound of yellow-white
lamppost light and music in my ears,
to stare at the sunrise from a beach with tears in my eyes as I just
allow myself to simply
Be.
Chapter 1: Blood in the Water
Wayverly---
The warm, Ozark summer air had never tasted sweeter than when it was whipping through the open passenger side window. With my arm dangling outside, we raced down a crumbling two-lane highway, cutting corners without regard for the speed limit. The searing rays of sunlight warming my pale skin, and with the scent of the nearby river flowing on the breeze, I'm reminded of how much I missed this place. It's good to be back home.
"Whaddaya think, babes? Should we go to the boat ramp?"
Marena, my best friend of more than 8 years, turns to me with anticipation twinkling in her hazel eyes. It was her idea to go swimming, even though it's barely 80°F. The humidity already turned her ash-blonde curls into frizzy corkscrews which fall erratically out of their bun to billow around her tan face.
I'm so busy scrolling through her phone to pick the next song that her question takes a moment to register.
"I dunno, dude, it's hot out and everyone goes to the boat ramp to swim."
She hums thoughtfully, glancing around at our surroundings while her ringed fingers tap the steering wheel to the beat. I set her phone in the cupholder and look up just in time to see her rip the steering wheel to the left. Bracing myself, I laugh softly as she drifts her little 4-door car onto the county road, leaving a cloud of dust in our wake. She doesn't even have to glance my way to know I'm alright, considering our history, she could've run us in the ditch and I'd have been unbothered.
"Let's just go, it won't be too busy, it's a Tuesday afternoon," Marena suggests, never losing her drive for that ultimate goal: to get in the water and escape the sun's heat. She's relentlessly restless as always. But, that's hypocritical of me to judge her for though. After all, we've both been crashing through life, learning everything the hard way, since the day we were born.
"Fuck it, let's do it."
Marena gives me her signature mischievous grin and turns the volume on the radio to the max. We scream country music out of the open windows while we race down the gravel, and skid to a stop in the dirt lot above the boat ramp.
Old oaks dangle on the disintegrating earth that frames the small river, leaning towards the water as if peering at their reflection. Lush green moss grows on the stones in the shallows, where Minos swarm to obscure the crawfish skittering along the riverbed. Even the boat ramp is covered in a thin layer of algae, which makes trying to get in the water quite a nerve-wracking task.
"Careful," I practically shout when Marena suddenly slips. I lunge, narrowly managing to stabilize her without losing balance myself. We are only up to our ankles, both of us pondering opposite solutions to this slippery problem.
"I got it," she assures me with a confident thumbs up. All I can do is shake my head in disbelief and chuckle as I release her. Then, before I can even blink, she's leaping into the deeper water with reckless abandon.
I have to fight the urge to scream as the cold water splashes over me, shocking my senses. Marena's head surfaces so she can let out a blissful sigh, her curls clinging to her chestnut skin as she waves me closer.
"If you just jump in, and get it over with, it feels nice!"
I eye her wearily as I take cautious steps, inching my way down the boat ramp. I've always been more careful than she is, but that leaves room for her to provoke me to be brave.
So, against my better judgment, I leap as far forward as I can and crash into the depths. The cool water shocks my body for a second time as I sink, but as soon as i surface to breathe in a gulp of the hot air, I'm grateful. Marena was right, this feels amazing.
The summer sun has begun to set behind the swaying leaves, painting the clear sky in warm hues, by the time we get out of the water. We sit atop the massive rocks at the top of the boat ramp to watch the shadows of the oaks dance along the water. Incoherent voices mix with the sound of distant music echoing through the riverbed, just another sign that summer is here. Usually, that fact alone would put a smile on my freckled face, but not tonight.
I have this unshakable weight in the pit of my stomach as if danger is lying in wait for us. I'm not one to ignore my intuition, but Marena looks so content sitting beside me on this boulder. I can't bring myself to mention the anxiety I feel with every fiber of my being, so I pull out a cigarette instead.
"Can we share that," Marena requests as I light my stogie, already extending her hand. She knows the answer. So, I take a few drags before I pass it her way while the last light fades below the horizon.
"Everything here is the same and yet, it feels so different," I murmur under my breath, resting my elbows on my knees to prop my head up on my hands. Marena nods, exhaling a cloud of smoke in a deep sigh as she passes the cigarette back.
"We're different," she says plainly, as I have a hundred times before.
"I guess we are. Older and wiser, I'd like to think."
Marena lets out an easy laugh before she agrees, "For sure."
Just when I was beginning to forget about the knot in my gut, the sharp sound of a twig snapping nearby has Marena and I leaping to our feet. Heart pounding feverishly against my ribs, I carefully scan the shadows in the tree line beyond the dirt parking lot. The only car left is the one we came in, and the only thing I can see beyond the tall grass is the trees.
Marena suddenly snatches my left wrist in a death grip, making me flinch before I whip my head around. She's pointing at the sandbank, across the river, where a small tree is still swaying as if someone brushed by. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, my muscles so tense they threaten to snap, and that pit in my stomach feels like a bottomless abyss.
Something is very wrong.
"Let's go," I demand urgently. With Marena's hand still locked around my wrist, I hastily drag her to the car where we jump in and lock the doors immediately. My skin crawls as I snap my head to and fro, trying to watch everything around us. Marena starts the car, and the loud music over the stereo is sudden enough to make both of us flinch.
"Shit," Marena barks in annoyance, lowering the volume with a shaky hand. Seconds later, we are tearing out of that dirt lot and back onto the gravel road. Marena keeps her hand on the gearshift, eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror. I can't help wondering if she felt as uneasy as I did as if my bare human instincts were screaming at me in a warning.
"Did you see whatever it was," I ask her, once I'm sure we are far enough away that I can stop looking behind us.
"No... but-"
She swallows hard, working her jaw like she's chewing gum as she checks the rearview once more. Marena has a rough past, she's not easily shaken, and seeing her so on edge only strengthens my conviction. Something was very wrong.
"But, what?"
She takes the corner just like before, sliding across the gravel and onto the pavement so quickly that the tires chirp before they gain traction. I can feel the engine roar as she plants the gas pedal to the floor. I'm getting more scared the longer she struggles to find the words, I've known Marena for almost a decade and I don't think I've ever seen her speechless.
"Babes, just tell me," I plea for an answer, reaching across the center console to give her arm a reassuring squeeze.
"I don't know! I don't know, dude, I just thought someone was over there but all I saw was the tree moving. It felt like someone was watching us, though, right?"
With absolutely zero enthusiasm, I sink deeper into my seat and reply, "Yeah, it did."
Marena is doing the speed limit now that we're nearing the main highway, the cooler night air that flows through the window should be refreshing. But, there's a tension in the silence between us, even as the music plays softly from the radio.
The headlights make the white and yellow lines on the faded pavement glow, the only sign that there are any other people nearby is the occasional farmhouse rotting into the overgrown foliage. The world feels vacant as if Marena and I went to that boat ramp only to find ourselves in a different realm altogether.
My attention is ripped from the depths of thought when bright, L.E.D. headlights from the oncoming car round the corner. I feel my heart still, missing a beat, as the red and blue lights atop three cop cars illuminate the entire road. Marena and I reach out at the same time, taking hold of each others' hands, as she pulls the car over. The cops speed by, sirens screaming so loudly that my ears are ringing long after their lights disappear between the trees.
That awful feeling comes back tenfold, anxiety turns my veins to ice and my stomach transforms into an endless abyss. For a while, all I can hear is the pounding of my heart between each shaky breath.
"There was nobody else down there, was there," Marena inquires in a whisper, barely audible over the all too cheery song on the radio. She pulls off the shoulder slowly, stealing glances behind us through every mirror, and drives carefully towards town.
"No.. the parking lot was empty... just those campers across the river who were partying."
We exchange a weary glance and spend the rest of the journey back home respectfully stewing on what transpired.
The next day, I'm awoken by the sunlight streaming through the sheer curtain. I sit up with a drowsy groan, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with the butt of my palm. I lived with Marena's grandma a few years ago, for like 6 months, after an entire mess of domestic drama occurred. Marena went back to our old apartment, and her now-husband, while I stayed with Clementine: her grandmother.
Today is the first day in a long time that I wake up to sunlight, beneath the weight of a hand-stitched quilt, with the scent of coffee greeting me. I slide out of bed and shuffle down the hallway to the kitchen, stretching my arms over my head with a big yawn. Marena is sitting at the smallest of two dining tables with her ringed fingers coiled firmly around a pen. My vision is still fuzzy with sleep, the way she's hunched over the table, drawing almost feverishly, tells me she's freaking out.
"What happened," I croak, wandering to the coffee maker to make myself a cup.
"Dude... Grandma turned the news on this morning, right? Those cops we saw found a body in the river. Some campers downstream from the boat ramp called them after a body washed up on their little beach."
I freeze in place as those words sink into every crevice of my mind. Suddenly, I'm wide awake and far too nauseous for coffee. When I regain a shred of composure, I sit down in the chair across from Marena and stare at my trembling hands.
"Jesus fucking Christ..."
"I know, I can't stop thinking about it."
"Guessing they didn't mention who it was."
"Grandma said they don't know, and the few articles I found online said the body was... in bad shape, unidentifiable."
My stomach churns as I try not to think about the fact that we swam so close to someone's corpse, rotting in the same water. Any rational person in the right mind would assume they probably drowned, but I think Marena and I aren't in our right minds after last night. So, on a whim, I speak my mind.
"Whatever you almost saw... you think it might have something to do with that body they found?"
Her hazel eyes are sharp with focus when they meet mine, she doesn't have to speak for me to know the answer is yes. I press my lips into a thin, uncomfortable line and shift my weight in my chair. I wish I didn't agree because knowing she does too makes this all too real. I rest my face in my hands and sigh deeply, unsure what to do, feeling utterly helpless.
The second my eyes drift closed, the darkness behind my eyelids is subsumed by the memory of the river. It's as if I'm back there, only I'm standing at the water's edge instead of above the boat ramp. The low drone of distant music, as well as my own voice mixing with Marena's behind me, drifts on the cool evening wind. I can't hold the vision long enough to turn my head and catch sight of what moves on the sandbank. But, even as it fades and I open my eyes to reality once more, I can hear the song echoing through the riverbed, resonating through my mind like a warning.
"All our times have come, here but now they're gone."
Coincidences are something I quit believing in a long time ago, there's no way it's happenstance that we were in our hometown for a swim the same night a body turned up in the river. It feels like some sick joke, a warning, something with the purpose to get our attention. Or, more likely, I'm reaching anxiety levels that are triggering delusional paranoia.
"I had a weird dream too," Marena's voice cuts through my spiraling internal monologue, and raises my gaze to meet hers. The sense of dread in me shouldn't be able to multiply, given that it feels like a black hole has replaced my stomach, but there's a glimmer of curiosity that begs to know what she's talking about.
"Oh yeah?"
She nods solemnly, pushing the sketch she's been working on across the dining table. Her tan fingers are stained from her pen, but the side of her hand that rests on the page is the worst, inky black from caressing wet ink. The fanaticism it took for her to wind up so messy is almost more striking than the artwork itself. Almost.
The paper is stained with coffee, which her shaking hands likely spilled while trying to document her nightmare. I expected a scene, a landscape, but instead, I'm greeted with an unholy amalgam of shadow and spikes that looks almost like a person. It's leaning to the left, tilting its tentacled head with one eye wide and alert, watching. Strange, barbed, paddle-like limbs seem to slither through the air around it, waving or perhaps dancing, it's impossible to tell without more context.
"What the fuck is that," I utter in disbelief, snatching the paper up to stare more closely at the figure.
"It was just standing there in my dream, dude, outside my bedroom window... watching me."
I don't believe in coincidences. But, it's just a dream, isn't it? I lay the sketch back on the table and toss a weary glance over my shoulder. Clementine is smoking in the living room, the distinct scent of her cigarettes wafts through the kitchen as if to remind me we aren't alone. I wish that realization provided me with any sense of solace, but somehow it only makes me more concerned.
I spend a pensive moment of silence trying to recall the hazy images of my dreams, searching for any significance, but it's all an incoherent blur. Clementine's recliner creaks in protest as she rises from it, wandering into the kitchen.
"Oh, Wayverly, you're finally awake. You missed breakfast," Clementine comments, or rather lightly scolds me, as she heads for the coffee pot to refill her cup.
"Yeah, I was more tired than I thought."
"She drove all morning yesterday just to get here so," Marena interjects, calmly but it's clear she's defending me. Clementine eyes us both and chuckles under her breath, sensing the tension. She wanders back to the living room without another word.
"You wanna go for a drive," I ask Marena softly, pleading with my grey eyes. I need to get out of this house, get some fresh air, and clear my head before i go utterly mad. Marena is on her feet, grabbing her keys in an instant. As we make a beeline for the garage, she turns her head to say goodbye.
"We're going to town, Grandma!"
"Okay! Be safe!"
With that, we jump into Marena's car and roll down all of the windows before we begin our journey down the gravel road. My mind is still spinning, but the late morning air is hot today, and the summer sun kissing my skin makes it all a little more bearable.
I try to push last night into the back of my mind as i drape a hand out the passenger window, feeling the wind caress my fingers as i watch the trees whiz by. Marena is speeding again, but I don't even notice.
Not until, without warning, she gasps and slams on the brakes. As the tires lose traction and we slide across the loose gravel, I have enough time to turn my head before slamming into something. The impact is so violent that my face slams against the dash, smashing my lips against my teeth and filling my mouth with the taste of blood. Dazed, I sit back in my seat and attempt to see through the steam, wondering what exactly we hit.
Marena is still next to me, draped over the steering wheel with her nose and knuckles dripping blood.
The sight before me makes me wish I was unconscious, or better yet dead. A pair of grey feather wings, at least eight feet in span, flutter to blow away the steam and reveal a faceless being in glistening metal armor. The words carved into his chest plate appear to be Latin, "Deus lux mea est, Deus spes nostra, deus vult."
The creature yanks his engraved glaive free from the hood of the car and wraps his metallic fingers tightly around the handle, raising it with one hand to extend his other forward and aim right at us.
I guess I'm going to get my wish.
The Retirement Party
The conference room into which Ron peered, had been cleared with the exception of one table, and chairs lining three of the walls. Men sprawled in one position or another while the women sat in a more dignified manner, and the overflow congregated around the two doorways.
Three suited men ranging from Supervisor to Department Director stood behind the table that served as their podium, all smiles. Between them was a beaming Justin who shifted from foot to foot and fiddled with his fingers in self-conscious acceptance of their accolades.
Justin hoisted his swag with proud embarrassment and thanked his superiors and co-workers for all their support over the years, how fulfilling his career had been, and that he sincerely wished everyone the best of luck. The Director then instructed each person to stand and give their memories of working with him.
Leslie, a short, blond office roommate, sidled up to Ron and peered in. Five years his junior, she was on an unending quest to stem the appearance of aging.
“Talk about hypocritical,” Ron whispered and eased back a step. After taking a look inside, Leslie stepped back as well, not wanting to be invited into this adult version of show-and-tell.
“He wanted a big retirement party, I’m glad he got it,” she said.
“I wouldn’t call this a party, but Justin did want a big sendoff. Ironic, though. Management is gushing over how much he meant to the company, what a valued employee he was, and how he’s leaving a lasting legacy. He’s all smiles over how much their support meant to him, but everyone knows he’s retiring is because they turned him down for that supervisor job. Over thirty years experience and they give it to someone with only four years experience. But now it’s all hugs and kisses.”
“So, is this is how the company’s doing retirements now?” Leslie said. “It’s so... procedural, if that’s the right word. Structured. Impersonal.”
“Yeah, and that’s why he threw his own retirement party last week. Had to buy his own cake and ice cream, and nobody from management even attended.”
“I was too busy serving to notice.”
“I didn’t stay long. I tried talking to him but he just looked past me, like he was taking a head count or searching for his inner circle of friends. Anyway, I’m done with attending retirement parties. Everyone wants a big attendance but they only visit with their buddies. Now we have formal ceremonies like this.” Ron said with a gesture.
He was answered with scattered laughter as a co-worker relayed some humorous event and added a friendly insult.
“You went to Gerald’s retirement party last summer, didn’t you?” Leslie said, resuming their conversation. “I thought about going but didn’t.”
“Yeah, and that was strange. It was more like a funeral than a party. I mean, Gerald was only middle management but, as we know all too well, he had a lot of influence. Bigwigs attended and they all sung his praises, then sat there smiling stupidly while he gave them a peepee-whacking for forcing him into retirement the way they did.”
“I know a lot of people didn’t care for him, but I got along with him just fine.”
“I asked him what his plans were and he blew me off with, ‘I always got plans.’ so I gave him a big hug in front of everyone.”
“You didn’t!” Leslie gasped and broke out laughing, attracting the attention of several people seated just inside the doorway.
“Absolutely. I mean, I’ve known him since the day I was hired. We worked well together and accomplished a lot, and then to blow me off like that? Before he began climbing the corporate ladder, we used to play basketball during lunchtime, go to lunch together, and actually had a lot to talk about back in the day.”
“That’s too bad. So, are you going to have a retirement party?”
“It’s pretty much expected, but I’m just inviting our organization and several others who’ve told me they wanted to attend. I won’t do what Bill or Fiona did, that’s for sure. Just haul their shit out the last day without so much as a ‘goodbye’.”
“Neither left on good terms.”
“Whose fault is that? I mean, refusing to attend your own retirement party is insulting. It’s the last time you’ll see most of the people that you spent years working with.”
“Not necessarily. Look at Sean. He retired for eighteen months, the company re-hired him for eighteen months, retired for six months, now he’s back working again. Or John. After they threw him a retirement party, he tells management that he’ll stay if they move him to the training department, so guess where he’s working now?”
“Well, that’s not happening to me. I’m an old-school dinosaur and no longer compatible with today’s younger work force or corporate ideologies. I already told management that when I walk out that door, I’m not looking back.”
“I guess you’re right,” Leslie said. “Retirement parties are going to be a thing of the past, anyway. Half the company is either a hybrid or working from home, and those who actually come to work don’t stay very long. You don’t build relationships with your co-workers anymore, so nobody really cares when the old shuffle out and the new shuffle in.”
“The company has already put me out to pasture. I was told that the reason I didn’t get the last two jobs I applied for, was because they were looking for someone with ‘more longevity’. The same with Justin, here.”
“That’s age discrimination.”
“Yeah, and so what? The way I see it, I’m not forcing my way into a job where I’m not wanted. No, I’ve bucked management enough times that they’ll be relieved to see me go.”
“So,” Leslie said, “you just want a small party? You’ve worked here what, thirty, thirty-two years, and a lot of people will want to say goodbye. You’ve had a big impact and the non-management types appreciate working with you. People say it all the time.”
“I’m not having an open invite like this. No, I’ll go around and say my goodbyes in person.”
The conference room was slowly emptying with attendees and carried the hot stuffy air out with them.
“Anyway,” she said stepping aside to make room for those filing out. “ It looks like the party’s breaking up. Are you going back to the office?”
“No. I’ll wander the halls for another half an hour and then leave.”
“I think I’ll wait for everyone to clear out and wish Justin a final farewell. After that, I’ll have to start working on your retirement party, and it’s going to be everything you hate,” she said with a mischievous smile.
“Knock yourself out.”
Through Thickets Miles Deep
Where briars pierce the brain of God
Through thickets corpse rich deep,
The rider of a million miles
Turns dagger eyes to me.
Rumbles the marbled bolt of hooves
Of grief’s blaze blackened horse,
Stirred on by fury’s beastly fume
He musters towards death’s course.
Lost pearls of youth through lyre and reed
Play songs to ghosts and sleep,
Their dreamless dreams gone blank and bleak
Where seraphs haunt womb deep.
Where astral belts are coy to hide
Marauding Orphic sage,
The cadent pulse of dross fed flies
Has crushed chalk bones to waste.
This cyclic stir of moonlit ride
Sparks wild the flame red leaves,
And cherry stars hung taut in sky
Do mollify dark’s reach.
Hushed whispers breathe secrets through trees
Its elegies lipped grey,
The rider falls on tombstone knees
His devil’s debt to pay.
Karen
We locked eyes in a Subway
although I wish we hadn’t
She was gorgeous
She ordered the Meatball Marinara special,
proving her disdain and lack of experience in deli meat consumption
Meatball Marinara!
In a fine establishment like this!
The outrage
It would have been unforgivable if she had not been so astoundingly attractive
Her clothes, a top the color of blood, a warning of the chaos she causes
her shoes, stilettos completely unpractical for the winter in anywhere but LA
Her nose, the perfect slope of y= x squared
Her eyes, the same eclectic blue of laundry detergent, although she clearly wouldn’t know
The same glint of frustration and determination of a weed whacker in an impossibly large front yard
She snaps her fingers at an employee
soft hands, un calloused neither by manual labor nor the works of life
She rolls her eyes, snarling
Like when you step in a puddle wearing socks
The employee does not catch on, or does not care, about her annoyance
He simply cuts her chosen bread and carries on
He puts peppers on her sandwich
Oh the mistake he hath made
He shalt unleash the fury that resides within
She screams, a bellow of pain, of personal attack
Why, she acts as if he has personally slew her firstborn child
She demands to be brought the manager as tribute immediately
When he reveals that he hath been the manager all along it enrages her
Her hair, the color of american cheese slices, appears in an updo resting over her head
Hastily tied up, to prepare for her battle with authority
How dare her waive her autonomy, assuming she would like peppers? She demands
She will not receive any answer
She angrily pops her bubblegum, snapping it in the face of the manager
He rolls his eyes and sighs
It is the pristine image of an old cowboy duel
The Connecticut Subway may as well be Texas in 1870s
It iss practically playing the old Western music
It is human nature to be glued to viewing this event
Unable to look or look away
Like watching a car accident on the side of the highway,
knowing someone is going to perish
The manager should not have been so foolish as to engage
When going against a Karen, the battle has already been lost
The Bear Valley Affair
Bear with me while I figure things out - here is the reformatted story which should be easier to read.
Mountaintop pines caught the first rays of the morning sun. Shadows clung stubbornly to the forest floor, and meadows lay under a mist with grass and flowers heavily beaded with dew. Soon, the damp, crisp freshness of night would turn sultry under the mid-August sun.
Light breezes spread the sharp aroma of campfires, a perfume that set Mark’s stomach grumbling with the anticipation of breakfast. A shade under six feet, Mark was trim and solid. His features leaned to the round side of oval, nose defined but not sharp, and a mocha complexion from his heritage and the summer sun. Shining raven hair was pulled into a short braid that nestled between his shoulders.
Birds heralded a new day, and the fast-moving Elk Creek gurgled at his feet, splashing over and around rocks. A small, dark, water ouzle disappeared into the fast water only to pop up onto a rock a few feet away.
“We’re not here to birdwatch,” Larry called from the rock on which he perched. “If we don’t catch three more, we’re going to be fishing for lunch, not breakfast.”
Larry, or Lawrence, was always “Lt. Stokes” to Mark. African-American, as was his wife Alyssa, Larry was a quietly powerful man. Having been a collegiate wrestler and a damn good one at that, he was bulkier, taller, and kept himself in top physical condition. He had worn his hair in a Short Afro with Temple Fade since the time they met, over fifteen years ago as rookie police officers. On the job, they were colleagues but outside of work, the best of friends.
“I thought about crossing over and fishing the other side,” Mark called back as Stokes deftly landed his dry fly across a nice deep pool.
“If you can’t cast to the other side, you’re not much of a fisherman.”
“Then my fishing skills match your cribbage skills. You’d think that at your age, you’d be able to count to fifteen.”
Larry ignored the dig.
Day three of their four-day camping trip, and the previous night, Mark and Rachael, Larry and Alyssa, had played four-handed cribbage long into the night. Paired into teams with husbands versus wives, the stakes had been a fish-fry breakfast. Adding insult to injury, the women set the alarm clocks for five a.m. and requested coffee and a blazing campfire before sending the men out to catch the entrée.
Two tents pitched between the Winterhawk’s 32-foot camp trailer and Stokes’ 28-footer, housed the teenagers. Dakota Winterhawk and Tucker Stokes occupied the green tent. Anna Winterhawk and her good friend Brenda had the yellow tent.
“Shut up and fish, okay?” Larry called back. “If we don’t catch at least three more, somebody’s going hungry and it won’t be the wives and kids.”
“Here,” Mark said. Pulling a protein bar from the pocket of his jacket he threw it to Larry.
Mark wore his signature jacket, brown leather with a white breastplate loosely patterned after the Red-Tailed Hawk. He had made several versions, ranging from heavy fleece-lined to the thin leather he now wore.
“Hey, take a look.” Stokes said, nodding towards the nearby dirt road.
A Ford Bronco with bold SHERIFF lettering came to a stop. Moments later, a uniformed man exited the vehicle and strode across the meadow towards them. Older than Mark and Larry, he may have once been fit but now a heavy paunch folded over his belt. Graying at the temples, his face was patterned with sun-damaged wrinkles and his forehead lined with concern.
“Don’t think he wants to look at our fishing licenses,” Mark said.
“Don’t think he’s here to wish us good luck either.”
Reeling in their lines and collecting their creel of fish, Mark and Larry met him halfway.
“We’re looking for a young girl, thirteen years old,” the sheriff said.
“We haven’t seen anything,” Larry answered. Exchanging handshakes, he continued, “I’m Lt. Stokes, Salt Lake City police and this is Detective Mark Winterhawk.”
“Yeah. I talked to your wives a few minutes ago. They said you were up early and might have seen or heard something.”
“Maybe the kid went out for a morning stroll?” Mark said.
He shook his head. “Several people heard an ATV come and go sometime in the middle of the night. The parents are a basket case. She’s hysterical and he’s threatening to buy a rifle and shoot the ex-husband. They’re convinced the woman’s ex has kidnapped the kid. Claims to have a restraining order against him.”
“They don’t think she just took the ATV for a joy ride?” Larry asked.
“They don’t have an ATV and everybody else’s off-road vehicles are accounted for.”
“Our kids were up all night, so they’d have heard or seen anything,” Mark said.
“I didn’t speak to any kids.”
“We’ll go back and ask. You’re thinking she was abducted, then.”
“At this point, anything’s possible. The family went into town for ice cream the other day and girl posted pictures all over social media, so literally hundreds of people know they’re camping here. It could be anyone.”
“Have you started a search?” Larry asked.
“We’re setting up a command center at the Elk Creek Ranger Station. Search and Rescue is on their way but with a few hours head start, it don’t look promising. There’s a helluva lot of country to cover.”
“We’ll help any way we can,” Mark said. “We can be at the ranger station within half an hour.”
“Thanks, but I’m not taking civilian volunteers.”
“We’re a little more than civilian,” Larry said.
Rachael and ’Lyss had a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage and sourdough flapjacks sizzling in butter and grease upon their return. That, with the sharp smell of percolating coffee along with the sound of snapping flames sent Mark’s stomach grumbling. Sally, the Winterhawk’s chocolate lab, counter surfed the folding table laden with food yet to be cooked.
Tall and lithe, Rachael Winterhawk wore her long black hair straight accentuating her bronze complexion. Mark met her at a festival when she held a dual career of stock car racing and modeling. Careers that she carried into their marriage until seven years ago, when she left them for engineering. Athletically enough for one and nubile for the other, Rachael maintained those qualities well. Alyssa, or ’Lyss, was roughly the same height as Rachael and had a curvaceous figure that turned heads. Her Shaggy Bob accentuated her figure in an elegant manner.
“Larry,” ’Lyss said, giving him a welcoming kiss. “The sheriff was just here and told us what happened.”
Rachael turned from the griddle of eggs and sausage, saying, “We knew you’d volunteer, but you still owe us.”
“We caught five,” Mark said, eyebrows raised seeking approval. “Consider it a down-payment on tomorrow’s breakfast?”
He set the creel aside and Sally trotted over to inspect.
Larry climbed into the tent that housed the boys. Consensus was that about three-thirty that morning, an ATV came into the campground from the east, idled for about a minute during which time they heard people moving about, then left the same way it came.
Pouring himself a much-needed cup of coffee, Mark said, “they’re setting up a command center at the ranger station. We’re going down there to see what we can do.”
Rachael rotated the grill off the fire. “The poor girl, I hope she’s all right. I could hear her mom and dad calling. Paisley. I can’t imagine what they’re going through.”
“Any premonitions?” Mark asked.
She shook her head. Rachael had the dubious gift of premonitions, one that she considered more of a curse than blessing. But at the moment, nothing, which could be a good thing.
“I’m going to get a backpack ready,” Mark said as he folded pancakes over eggs and sausage, taco style. Larry loaded his onto a plate, covered everything with maple syrup, and carried it into their camper.
Quickly loading his solid frame backpack with snacks, bottles of water, rope, and a first-aid kit, Mark stepped out to find Larry with his similarly loaded backpack and his service weapon, a Glock 22 .40 caliber strapped to his hip. Mark strapped on his own service weapon, an STI .45 Lawman ACP. Not that they intended to shoot anyone, but there was no telling if whoever Paisley went with was armed. Besides, this was bear and wolf country.
“Larry thought you should use the walkie talkies since there’s no cell phone service,” Rachael said.
“We’ll see what they want us to do first.”
With that, they tossed their backpacks into the bed of Stokes’ Jimmy, a big Sierra 2500, and roared away. Much to the chagrin of Sally who expected to be invited on every trip.
Three men and two women were inside the ranger station when Mark and Larry arrived, representing Forest Service, Fish and Game, sheriff and deputies. The group was engrossed in a topo map taped to the wall, and introductions were professionally succinct.
“The kids heard the ATV about three-thirty,” Larry announced. “It pulled into camp, stopped for a moment, then left heading east on the Landmark Road.”
“Good info, thanks,”
“As I was saying,” the sheriff – Caden Caprio – briefed Mark and Lawrence. “State police are covering the main roads. Search and Rescue has a bird in the sky and six people on the ground covering Bear Valley Creek, and Wyoming Creek over to Lola Creek,” he said, drawing a circle on the map. “That’s areas 1, 2, and 3. We’ve got more people on the way to cover Collie Lake and Marsh Creek. For now, we’re going out in teams of twos. Robin and Dave, you’re area 4, from NF-568 over to Dagger Creek. Leaman and Ramadi are going to take the North Fork Elk Creek trail, then follow Camptender over to the Silver Moon trail, area 5. ”
“You two,” Caprio told Mark and Larry. “I want you to start at the switchback on Bear Valley Mountain and follow the Mountain Meadows trail to where it intersects with Camptender, then back to Dagger Falls Road. That’s area 6. Most of these trails are wide enough for an ATV, and they crisscross everywhere, so just because they headed east don’t mean they didn’t change course. If they get into the wilderness area, we’re probably looking for bodies.”
“What are their names?” Larry asked.
“The girl is Paisley Macon and she’s wearing Harry Potter pajamas and pink slippers. We have reason to believe the mom’s ex, Arleigh Macon, took her. Mom and dad are Harlow and Bruce Wilder. If there’s nothing else, let’s get moving. Check in when you can. Be careful because we don’t know if he’s armed.”
Within the hour, although it seemed much longer, Mark was leading the way along Bear Valley Mountain in his F-250, with the Stokes following in Larry’s Jimmy. Barren, rolling hills stripped clean from the last forest fire, rolled across the horizon below. Dead fall spread across the landscape like spilled toothpicks, but here and there were groves of pines that miraculously escaped the flames. Distant, forested mountains were a hazy blue-black from the light smog pushing out of the Boise area.
The plan was for Rachael and ’Lyss to remain at the lookout tower on top of Bear Valley Mountain where they could get cell phone service. Mark and Larry would relay information via walkie talkie.
Keeping his eyes on the narrow road that cut along the steep hillside, Mark said to Rachael, “We should have good reception since we’re only going about four or five miles. We’ll let you know when we turn back to Dagger Falls Road. You’ll be okay?”
“For the third time, yes, we’ll be okay. I’ve got my CZ and ’Lyss has her Sig, and we a cooler of snacks and drinks. Besides, if we need anything, it’s not that far back to camp. We’re good, so stop worrying.”
“Sorry. I’ve worked too many years with obsessive compulsive behavior being a job requirement.”
The road made a switchback and ended at the lookout tower. Larry pulled next to him and climbed out.
“You got everything you need?” Larry asked ’Lyss.
“Yes. Again.”
“Okay then, don’t forget to call the kids.”
“I know. Please. Just worry about yourselves.”
“When you call the office, remember to ask for Lt. DellaRoma.”
“I will, I will.”
“Call the office for what?” Mark said.
“I requested a background check on the dad and family since the sheriff obviously isn’t going to share any information with us.”
Hoisting their backpacks, Mark and Larry kissed their wives good luck then walked down the road to the trailhead.
“If nothing else, the hike will do us good,” Mark commented.
“I’d rather be fishing.” Larry said. “Since you’re the tracker, I’ll follow,”
Mark checked in with the sheriff, offered a silent prayer to the spirits and angels, then led the way into Bear Valley.
“Even I can track this,” Larry said, pointing to a clear set of ATV tracks.
“If this is them, there’s one thing I don’t understand. Why are they on the west side of Bear Valley Campground, when they left heading east? Did they double back?”
“And if they did,” Larry continued Mark’s train of thought, “where are they going?”
“It makes no sense.”
“Unless these aren’t their tracks. But then, these trails off limits to motor vehicles.”
Two hours at a slow steady pace, with frequent stops to look and listen, brought them to the East Fork of Elk Creek where the trail dropped into a long, lush meadow. Here, they stopped for Mark to reconnoiter and Larry to check in with ’Lyss and Rachael.
“Hey, babe,” he said after a burst of static. “Did DellaRoma have any info on the girl and dad?”
“Plenty. Little over a year ago, mom and dad went through a nasty divorce. Court records show that mom threatened the dad both financially and socially. She got the house and moved her boyfriend in. He’s now her husband. Arleigh the dad, on the other hand, threatened to load the girl into a car and drive off a cliff. He was found guilty of vandalism, but he got off easy when the judge ruled that she had provoked him into doing it.”
“What a wonderful example of parenting. Mom makes threats and dad takes action.”
“It looks that way. Interestingly enough, Arleigh Macon reserved a camping spot at the Fir Creek Campground not far from here.”
“That’s east of us on Landmark Road, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Interesting. Thanks. Love you.”
Lt. Stokes was seated on a log snacking on cheese and crackers, and washing it down with a bottle of water when Mark returned. He quickly updated Mark on the latest information.
“Do you think this is the same ATV that took Paisley?”
“Pretty certain. There’s fresh dust on the grass, powdery where the dew didn’t form, so it had to be this morning.”
Taking snacks and water from his backpack, along with his binoculars, Mark walked up a partially uprooted stump angling towards the sky. With the splintered end rising a good seven feet off the ground, he had a clear view of the surrounding landscape.
“We should be pushing on,” Larry said.
“Patience. Give things time to fall into place.”
“Patience my ass, it’s getting hot.”
A flash caught Mark’s attention. Zooming in, he saw a handlebar and rear-view mirror reflecting the morning sun.
“I got something,” he called back to Lt. Stokes. “Could be an ATV.”
Stokes rose and hefted his backpack.
“It’s on the other side of Elk Creek,” Mark said, “maybe half a mile away, near the upper end of the meadow.”
“He could be watching the trail, and we don’t know if he’s armed.”
“I think they’re in flight mode, not waiting and watching.”
“So, what do you suggest?”
“What say we split up? You follow the meadow and I’ll take the hillside, just inside the timber. If he is sitting and watching, we’ll flank him.”
“Are your betting your life on this?”
“I’m betting both our live,” Mark said and walked back down from the towering stump. “But that’s assuming he’s armed, which I doubt.”
Pointing to a distant, low rise at the upper end of the meadow, Mark said, “the ATV is on the other side of that rise. The trail angles through the meadow lengthwise then loops around the upper end.”
“You’re sure it’s an ATV.”
“The tracks we’re following lead that way.”
In keeping to his word, Mark followed the low domed hilltop to the edge of the burn and entered the spotty pine forest. He didn’t hurry, given that Larry had the longer route. From his elevated position, Mark acted as Larry’s eyes, pausing frequently and for long periods of time scanning with his binoculars.
With a stealth that had been ingrained into him since his earliest memories, Mark moved silently, fluidly, between the trees, through grass and wild shrubbery. Reaching out with his senses, becoming one with the nature around him, listening for disturbances. The angry chatter of a scolding pine squirrel, the raucous teasing of a jay or raven.
Mark found the ATV just beyond a growth of four pines, and after waiting to make sure it was abandoned, began investigating.
“It looks like they hit a rock a couple hundred yards back and bent the oil plug, draining the oil pan,” Mark said as Larry met up with him.
“Then this is where the engine seized.”
“Yup. And look here, I’d say he’s size 11 and she’s still wearing slippers. She was helping him push it.”
“Voluntarily?”
Mark shrugged. “Who knows? Whatever plans they had, this screwed them up big time.”
“The trail splits up ahead. West takes them to the North Fork of Elk Creek. North takes them to Silver Moon. East takes them back to Dagger Falls Road. Anyway you look at it, it’s a long hike, especially for a kid in slippers.”
“I would think that if they were going back to the road, they’d simply cut across country instead of following the trail.”
“Maybe they’re lost.”
“Let’s call in the ATV and location. It’s time for me to really start tracking,” Mark said.
Skirting the meadow, they came to a patch of groundwater that turned the trail soft and dark. Water still seeped into the man’s footprints, and Mark commented on the fact that they were closing in. Hopefully, dad wouldn’t panic and do anything stupid. Or, more stupid than what he’d already done, Mark thought.
The trail turned north and became hard and rocky and Mark wondered how much farther the girl could go in slippers, uncomfortable with how the situation was playing out. Stopping for lunch at the intersection of Mountain Meadows and Camptender trails, Mark took a seat on a fallen log while Larry selected a shaded rock. The day was heating up under the full sun and sapping their strength. The girl and her dad must be suffering even more.
“This is as far as the sheriff said to go,” Mark commented. “From here, we’re to take Camptender back to Dagger Falls Road.”
“The tracks don’t go that way. I don’t think we should, either.”
“I agree. I say we check in with the sheriff and keep going.”
“He won’t be happy about it.”
“Probably not. We can follow Camptender over Silver Moon Creek and maybe meet up with the other search team, the deputies. They can take over the search and cover a lot more ground on horseback.”
Continuing, Mark kept his eyes on a trail that was becoming more difficult to follow. An upturned pebble here, loose dust there, a minute scuff on the hardpan was indication enough. The girl was becoming footsore and Arleigh more agitated, as evident where he turned around, walked back, or impatiently waited. Whether she fell or he was becoming rough with her slow progress, Mark saw where she had gone to her knees and struggled to get back up.
A wider, better developed trail paralleled Silver Moon Creek in zigzag fashion, and the open land gave way to forest. Continuing until they reached a copious amount of shade where soft, cool breezes wafted down the canyon, they rested. Judging from the sun, it was close to two in the afternoon and the heat was beyond oppressive. The scent of pines became dull and heavy, birds that had been chattering throughout the morning went silent.
Larry pulled out the map given them by the sheriff, and after a moment of looking, said, “we’re off the search map. It ended where we were supposed to take Camptender back to Dagger Falls Road.”
“We didn’t bring the atlas or Forest Service map, did we?”
“Nope.”
The search plane passed overhead south of them, at less than a thousand feet.
“The sheriff must have got our message about the ATV. I’ll call in this time,” Mark said, holding his hand out for the walkie-talkie. Larry tossed it to him.
Mark was forced to walk back to Camptender Trail for better reception. It was Rachael on the other end.
“Hi Rache, it’s Mark,” he said through heavy static.
“Hey, hon, where are you? Is everything okay?”
“Fine. You got a map?”
“’Lyss is getting it with a few other things.”
Several minutes later, Rachael called back with map in hand. Mark described their location.
“Okay, so you’ve left Camptender and are starting up the Silver Moon trail. It continues on for several miles to Prospect Creek. There’s a ranch and landing strip there. Any sign of the girl and her dad?”
“I’m still tracking them. Can you let the sheriff know?”
“He’s very, shall we say, unhappy, with what you’re doing. Tell Larry that ’Lyss is also very unhappy, since the sheriff gave her an ass-chewing over you two not following orders.”
“Ouch. You’re not coming in clear, so we’re probably going to lose contact after this.”
“You take care.”
Mark updated Larry and added, “We’re getting close, so I’ll go first. Follow me about twenty-five yards back. We won’t be together if I get jumped, but you’ll be close enough to respond.”
“I don’t like you taking the lead all the time. Don’t forget, I outrank you.”
“Since this isn’t in our jurisdiction, rank don’t matter. Like you said, I’m the tracker.”
They started off with guns in hand.
Paisley’s feet were now scuffed the ground with every step as someone trying to keep their shoes, or slippers in this case, on. Or perhaps she was leaving a clear trail, Mark couldn't tell. A quarter mile farther he came across a pink slipper patterned with yellow daisies. Dirty, muddy, it’s stitching was coming apart.
Once again the search plane passed overhead to the north, and higher. Arleigh would be growing desperate, not only because the search was closing in on him, but his escape was being slowed by his daughter. If Mark was attuned to the narrowing of the search, how much keener did Arleigh feel it? How would he react? Abandon her? Kill her?
Not far from the slipper, he found the first speck of blood. Barefoot and bleeding, Paisley would slow them down considerably. So close, Mark thought, fighting desperation. With her rescue within their grasp, time was running out faster than they could travel and the thought of arriving a split second too late hounded him. He felt the world around them stop to watch with anticipation. Over and over the image of arriving just in time to witness Paisley’s murder hounded him, spurred him on.
The trail turned rocky and the blood specks became more difficult to find, but Mark tracked with the skill of his forefathers. Not that this was the most difficult tracking he had done but it had the highest stakes for sure. Then the second slipper. Several hundred yards farther, rocks gave way to hard packed dirt and the girl’s footprints no longer appeared, not even a hint of blood. Was he carrying her? Or had he killed Paisley and tossed her body off the trail?
Crouching nose to the ground, Mark found the hint of a heel print and marked it with a small rock. Crawling forward, he found another and marked it. Placing his own heels on the marks he made, it was obvious that the stride was not that of a man carrying a teenage girl and the chill of realization momentarily chased away the heat.
Behind him came a soft scrape of rocks. Whirling, he and Larry stared at one another. Mark gestured “all clear”.
“The girl’s not with him,” Mark said softly.
“Damn. She has to be somewhere between here and that last slipper. Unless he left her farther back and carried it this far to throw anyone off.”
“He’s in a hurry and not thinking. The last speck of blood I found was about three hundred yards back. Dead or alive, she’s close by.”
Throwing caution aside, they hurried back. It took Mark a few minutes to find the blood he was looking for.
“You take the uphill side of the trail. I’ll take the downhill side,”Mark said.
With the uphill side of the trail being softer dirt sprinkled with pine needles, Larry had the easier search than Mark, who had to negotiate knee-high grass. Pausing to listen, he heard the faint gurgle of water below.
He hadn’t gone far before finding several blades of bent and bruised grass. Ahead was a small, natural opening between brush and where found a few more blades of damaged grass. The sound of the stream became louder as he approached. By the sound of it, Silver Moon Creek was no more than a trickle of water perhaps six inches wide and three or four deep. Then came another sound. A small, plaintive wail.
With his every sense alert, Mark crept through the sparse brush and trees. Twenty feet away sat a small hunched figure, hair disheveled, sobbing. Wearing only Harry Potter pajamas, Paisley sat crying, soaking her feet in the trickle of water.
Mark swayed with relief. He crouched, watching for a few moments to make sure she was alone, then he re-holstered his gun.
“Paisley,” Mark said softly.
Screaming, lurching to her feet, she stumbled and fell.
“Hey, it’s okay, I’m a police officer,” Mark said.
“Go away!” She screamed. “Leave me alone!”
“You know I can’t do that. Can we sit and talk for a little while?”
Shaking, she stared at him with indecision, weighing her options.
“There’s no place to go and you won’t get far barefoot. I’ve got food and water.”
She stared back indecisivel,y then dropped back to the ground. “I don’t care no more.”
“I’m going to call my friend, he’s also a police officer. Is that okay?”
“I don’t care,” she said, nestling her head in her hands.
“Lieutenant! Down here!” Mark called. Then to Paisley, “are you hurt?”
“My feet.”
“Where is your dad?”
“Why? I haven’t seen him for, like, months.”
Larry came storming through the brush, gun in hand.
“We found her,” Mark said, then turning back to Paisley, “if your dad didn’t take you, who’s the man you were with?”
“I don’t know. Stupid. I’m a damned stupid idiot. I’m in a whole shitload of trouble, aren’t I?”
“Not really. Who is he?”
“All he told me his player name, MupoLupo666. We met playing online video games and he said he was fifteen. When I said we were camping here, he said we’d hang out. My parents suck, so I snuck out this morning but he wasn’t no fifteen years old.”
“Predator,” Larry whispered to Mark.
“Go on,” Mark prompted.
“When I saw that he was old, like in his twenties or thirties. It was too late. I told him I was going to jump off the ATV and he said to go ahead, I’d just get boogered up and it’d be easier for him. He told me that if I didn’t go with him, he’d shoot me.”
“He’s armed then?” Larry said.
“Yeah. Big gun.”
“Where did you last see him?” Mark said.
“Up there,” Paisley said and threw her arm in the general direction of the trail “I couldn’t walk no more so he left me. Said he wasn’t screwing his life over someone like me. He was going to shoot me but I told him someone would hear, then the plane scared him. So he just left me and said I wouldn’t make it out alive anyway.”
“You are going to make it alive. Can I take a look at your feet?” Larry said, crouching next to her. “Would you like some water? Something to eat?”
“Guess so,” she said and pivoted to present her feet to him. Both soles were raw, cut, and blistered.
“You went east this morning. How did you get over here?” Larry said.
Paisley smirked, chuckled, then answered. “He ditched the ATV in the brush next to the river. He had a camper van at the Fir Creek Campground and taped my hands and feet together. I was really scared, but it was funny, too. It was dark and he was going too fast and crashed into one of those rocks they line the campground with. I told him my dad was camping there and he’d kill him, so MupoLupo gets the ATV out of the brush and we come back this way. The sun was coming up and he was scared someone would see us, so we took this road but it stopped on top of a mountain that had a tower, so we turned around and found this trail.”
Mark handed her some jerky, cheese and crackers, and a bottle of water. Larry pulled out his first aid kit, but a distant gunshot rippled down the canyon stopping him.
“Damn it all,” Mark grumbled. “Tell you what, take care of her and get her back the Camptender Trail.”
Two more shots in rapid succession echoed down the canyon.
“Two different guns. One’s a rifle.”
“Don’t you dare!” Stokes demanded.
Another shot.
“Gotta respond to this.”
“Then here,” Larry said handing Mark his sidearm. “Take mine, too.”
Mark stuck Larry’s Glock in his waist band, grabbed his backpack, and headed up trail at a jog he could maintain for long periods of time. Two more shots echoed down the canyon. The search plane crossed the canyon about a mile ahead and three more shots rang out.
Mark had reached a point where the canyon opened and the forest thickened when the rapid clip-clop of hooves stopped him cold. Pulling Larry’s Glock from his waist band, he eased off the trail. Moments later, a brown piebald horse trotted over a rise in the trail. Saddled and carrying a pack and empty scabbard, it’s reins trailed between its legs.
“Whoa, whoa,” Mark said gently and stepped out. It shied, eyes wide with fear. Mark feared it would bolt. However, the horse remained, snorting, side-stepping, but not running off. Mark approached calmly, soothing it with soft “whoas”. It’s head jerked as he gently took up the reins.
Gently sliding his hand down its neck, he slowly, carefully, lifting his foot to the stirrup. The horse flinched and sidled away. Mark regrouped, took gentle control, and this time mounted as the horse circled him warily.
T Turning back up the trail, he coaxed it into a canter that would have been a nice ride under any other circumstance. As they approached the area where Mark believed the fighting had occurred, he slowed to a trot and then a walk. Keeping a close eye on the horse’s behavior, he was certain it would tell him where.
And it did.
The horse shied, reared, and swung it’s head, showing the whites of it’s eyes. It took several minutes to settle the horse enough to dismount and hitch it to a tree. Pulling out Larry’s Glock, Mark cautiously proceeded on foot. Three brass casings lay on the side of the trail.
A stifled groan came from a patch of White Mules Ears. Dropping and ready to fire, Mark called out.
“This is Detective Mark Winterhawk. Identify yourself.”
Everything went tense and silent. Mark called out again. Eventually came a strained, “Deputy Ramadi.”
“I’m going to approach, is that okay?”
“Yeah.”
Mark approached in a low crouch, slowly, cautiously, scanning the surroundings. He came to a light-haired man of about thirty lying in a bed of tall flowers. The right shoulder and left ankle of his uniform were wet with blood. Relief swept over his face when Mark slipped the gun back into his waist band.
“I got a first aid kit,” Mark said, unslinging his backpack. “It doesn’t look like you lost a whole lot of blood.”
“Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.”
Mark rifled through his backpack for a bottle of water and his kit.
“Bastard ambushed me from the rocks,” Ramadi said and struggled to a sitting position. He took the bottle of warm water Mark offered. “Bleeding’s pretty much stopped but not completely.”
Ramadi chugged half the bottle in one go. Mark unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his shoulder. Ramadi endured the pain silently through gritted teeth.
“Where’s the other deputy?” Mark said.
“Leaman? Her horse threw a shoe several miles over and she headed back. Since nobody was assigned to this area, I decided to swing around and head back myself.”
“We have the girl. The man who took her isn’t her dad,” Mark said. Then, “this’ll hurt a little.” Ramadi groaned and his face contorted as Mark doused the shoulder with alcohol.
“That didn’t hurt too bad,” Ramadi wheezed. “Bastard popped me in the shoulder. Knocked me off my horse. He was really after my horse.”
“It’s hitched to a tree just down the trail,” Mark said. Wrapping gauze around the wound, he secured it with sports tape before re-buttoning the shirt.
“Which way did he go?”
Ramadi waved to the other sidehill. “North. We exchanged fire. It sounded like he had a .357 Mag. He got me in the leg and I dropped the rifle, of all things. Right there in the damn trail. No way of getting it without getting shot again, so I crawled up here. He took my rifle, then the plane flew over and he took several shots at it. Last I saw, he was heading to Prospect Creek. Did I tell you that he really wanted was my horse, but it bolted?”
By the time he ended his explanation, Mark had his leg bandaged.
“You say you found the girl. Is she alive? Hurt?”
“She’s fine. Lt. Stokes took her back to Camptender Trail where he could get receiption and call in a rescue.”
“You two have been a big help in spite of what Sheriff Caprio thinks. He doesn’t like working with people he don’t know.”
“Totally understandable. As for you, I hate to say this, but you’ve got a ruptured Achilles. Or maybe that’s good news since he missed the bone.”
“Well shit, I’m due for some time off. Help me up,” he said extending his good arm.
“So he’s got your rifle and a handgun and about a half hour head start,” Mark said, helping the deputy to his feet.
“You ain’t going after him.”
“Can you ride?”
“Yeah. I’m not so bad that I can’t. But you can’t be going after him by yourself.”
Mark, bearing Ramadi’s full weight, walked him down to the trail.
“I’ll get you on your horse and you go back to Camptender. I’m going after the perp. He only identifies himself by his player name MupoLupo666.”
“Well, MupoLupo is wearing a green shirt. That’s all I can tell. I heard that they found his van at the campground.”
“He crashed into a rock.”
“Coincidence, huh? That’s where her dad, Arleigh, is camping. Apparently Arleigh follows Paisley on social media and was camping there just to harass the mom. Close enough to worry her but far enough away to not get charged with stalking. The sheriff ran him off, anyway.”
“Helluva life for a kid.”
“Think this over very carefully, detective. He’s armed and dangerous.”
“So am I.”
Deputy Ramadi supported himself on a pine bow while Mark gathered his horse. It was an excruciating task of mounting him into the saddle, and Mark feared his wounds would open up. If they did, it wasn’t enough to be noticeable. Ramadi called the situation in on his satphone before handing it to Mark.
“Take my satellite phone if you’re going after him. Search and Rescue are coming up the trail now, so I’ll probably meet them about halfway.”
Mark took the phone, wished him good luck, and waited until he disappeared down the trail. He seemed to be riding well enough.
Tired, thirsty, and worn down by sun and thin air, Mark nonetheless pushed up the trail at a strong pace. His quarry didn’t appear to be in as good a physical condition and now the rifle was weighing him down. The extra eight or nine pounds wasn’t much, but Mark noticed he was shuffling more, his gait shorter and not as steady. And he was resting more often.
The pines thinned out into rolling hills that sloped down to Prospect Creek, a wide, shallow stream of water that Mark instinctively evaluated for fishing. Opposite the creek ran a wide meadow thick with willows that carried all the way to the ranch a quarter mile away. Mark turned to watch a helicopter land on the distant flats of Camptender Trail. After a few minutes it rose and disappeared.
Selecting a nice flat rock on which to rest, he scanned the area with his binoculars. A few hundred yards away and not far below him, he caught a brief glimpse of the man. As described by the deputy, he was wearing a dark green long-sleeve shirt. His brown hair shoulder length, a scruff of a beard on his square face, and he was shouldering the deputy’s rifle.
He’s not walking with confidence, that’s for sure, Mark thought as he watched the man stumble over the rough terrain, hunched in the way tired people walk.
If the perp made it across Prospect Creek, rooting him out of the heavy willows would be extremely difficult and dangerous. If he made it across the meadow and to the ranch, the sheriff would be looking at a hostage situation.
Mark placed a call on the deputy’s satphone.
“Sherrif Caprio. Is this Detective Winterhawk?”
“It’s me. How’s Deputy Ramadi?”
“On his way to Boise. Now why don’t you just tell me where the hell you are so we can get you out of there?”
“I’ve got the perp in my sights if you want him. Your deputy thought he was armed with a .357 and he now has a rifle.”
A lengthy pause made Mark smile briefly with self-satisfaction.
“Where are you? And don’t try anything.”
“I’m where Silver Moon runs into Prospect Creek. The perp is making his way through the trees and if he gets across Prospect Creek, you’re going to have a helluva time finding him in all those willows. Not top mention a hostage situation if he makes it to the ranch.”
Mark could feel how much Caprio hated asking him, but said, “can you keep eyes on him?”
“I can do that.”
“Whatever you don’t scare him off. I’m sending one of our choppers. I’ll let them know your position.”
“Appreciate it.”
The man crawled into the shade of a tree. Whether he was waiting for night, catching his breath, or weighing his options, Mark waited him out. Eventually came the distant “whumping” of a helicopter. The man heard it too. With his attention fixed on the approaching helicopter, Mark scurried closer, stopping behind a pine tree a hundred yards back. While he wanted to get close enough to provide support, he didn’t want to get close enough to catch any friendly fire.
The chopper approached and Mark watched the man ready the rifle. He phoned in a warning and moments later, the chopper veered away. It hovered off in the distance before beginning a new approach. Through his binoculars, Mark saw a shooter strapped to his seat inside the open door. Then a loudspeaker blared a warning to the man.
Mark watched him shoulder the rifle and take aim through the pine boughs. The helicopter came in high and the man let go with a shot. The chopper swung, then tried for a better run.
Mark yelled to the man, identifying himself and ordering him to disarm. He was answered by bullets ripping through the trees around him. Taking aim, Mark fired back, shattering a limb several feet above his head. Scurrying around the tree, he exposed himself to the helicopter. Caught in the open, he fired two shots. Then came a lone shot came from the helicopter. It hovered for several minutes before peeling off towards the ranch.
The satphone came to life.
“We got him and are sending in a recovery team,” came the sheriff’s voice. “If you want to cross over to the ranch, the chopper will take you back.”
“I appreciate it,” Mark said with relief. “Let them know I’m on my way.”
He stood, took in the rugged countryside, smelled the distant willows, listened to nature’s silence, and thought of fishing Prospect Creek. In a moment of poignancy he reflected on the man lying below, then began his hike towards the lowering sun and the awaiting helicopter.
This Time
It is time again - The air grows cold
Time to separate the marks from their prize possessions
They say they understand - No need to read the fine print
It is not their first rodeo
These were my pigeons of yesterday - They are guided by ego alone
I need not even try with them; this effort is not worth my time
This time - I set my sights on larger game
In a sport where predator may become prey
This Time - The wages of sin are now my ante
I have pawned my morals for table stakes
I will show no mercy when I see your tells - I will double down if you call
And collect a pound a flesh and a single drop of blood
You have played my game and held your own - They have wilted from your pressure
The pretenders have folded from my refresher
This time - You dance to the song of my choosing
Quickly clearing the table for our belated rematch
One card - One bet
Winner takes all
Prized possessions to the table - I offer all of my memories
The ones of us you tried to desiccate
You counter with my near dead heart - Recently excavated, still beating, from my chest
Clutched by your matching crimson painted nails
I shuffle, you deal - This time
I will savor the sweet taste of victory
My eight beats your six - My heart returns to me
I can feel love once more
But I won’t - I lay waste to this organ
An act as vile as your own
I am the only man who has ever loved you - The loss of my heart denies a 2nd chance
The definition of Scorched Earth
I am the only man you have ever loved - The loss of my heart denies you reciprocity
Something you can no longer steal from me or anyone else
This time - Your consistent character is your fatal flaw
It is only now you understand
This time - I walk away deadened, immune to your charms
You can only walk away dead