My Aborted Escape

Despite my aching thigh, I manage to make it to a four-lane highway.  I'm free!  Or so I thought . . . .

          I lit out before dawn to get a head start.  Altering my course, ignoring the tenderness in my thigh, I circled around the ridge rather than go over it like they thought I had.  I limped along the old highway and trekked all day, until the road broke off again, ending in a deep crevasse.  I scrambled uphill through sparse undergrowth beneath gigantic Douglas firs.  Near dusk, many miles later, I heard the incessant, loud sussurations of a big river.  Pushing through some dense undergrowth, I found myself at the top of a precipitous bank, looked down and was rewarded not by the sight of a river, but a busy four-lane highway.  I couldn't have been happier if I was seeing the mother I never knew for the first time.  Get to a phone and Docker and his gang are nailed.  Then home!  I butt-surfed all the way down.

I screamed over the traffic noise for someone to stop, jumping up and down on the shoulder, waving my arms like a cheerleader inciting a crowd.  Drivers merely glanced.  A flock of cyclists in electric-blue, nylon-cotton body-suits and

helmets whirred past.  One turned his head, yelled something.  In an instant, they flashed around a curve and disappeared.  I sat on the ashy, rocky shoulder and combed my hair; doused water on my scarf and sponged my face.  I brushed off the seat of my pants and walked along, thumb raised.  Motorists stared straight ahead.  The sun had dropped behind the mountains.  It had grown cold and was almost dark.  I prayed for someone, anyone, to stop.  A beat-up ATV pick-up, tires crunching on the shoulder, slowed and stopped ahead of me.  I ran up to it. 

"Pretty long hike, little lady," Docker taunted in a loud voice, leaning out the passenger- side window.  "Where do you think you're going?  Get in."  Mormo was behind the wheel.

I bolted.

They followed.  The truck growled along the shoulder in second.  Pivoting, I sprinted in the opposite direction.  Mormo threw the heap in reverse, raising clouds of red dust.  Docker, half out the window, laughed.  I thought of running back into the woods; but where would that get me?  A break in traffic allowed me to dash across the road.  Rapidly approaching drivers blared their horns, veering away.  I held my arms stiff in front of me, palms out.  "Fuckin' nut!" someone hollered.  Suddenly, I thought of the boys.  I didn't want to get killed.  My eyes burned; tears flew from my cheeks as I ran to the other side. 

Screeching brakes behind me.  I turned, sure someone had stopped for me at last, but Docker was the cause of the commotion.  He danced around in the middle of the highway, leaping and somersaulting over hoods and trunks, side-stepping vehicles like a bullfighter.  Mormo maneuvered the pick-up across the lanes.  I tore down the shoulder in a sudden burst of speed.  Docker outran me.  He grabbed me, spun me around, and pinned my arms to my sides, then leaned over me, grinning.   I spat in his face.  He didn't even blink.  Mormo slowed to a near stop beside us and opened the door.

 Docker hoisted me up.  Legs stiff, I pushed my feet against the frame.  The giant reached over, knocked them off, gripped my ankles with one hand, and pulled me -- crying and swearing -- inside.  Relentless streams of vehicles roared past in both directions.  Locking me in his arms, Docker climbed in, slammed the door, positioned me on the seat between him and Mormo like I was a doll, and tossed my pack to the floor.

"You look like a lost puppy.  Look at your hair, your face --  Let me --"  He came at me with a black bandanna hanky.  I squeezed my eyes shut, kicked and punched.  Mormo sped along

"Look at yourself, asshole!  The only reason I let you do this is the kids," I cried.  It was all I could do to keep from blabbing about the article.  Docker lowered the bandanna, thrust an arm across my chest, and threw a leg over my thighs.  He angled the rearview mirror, peered into it, and ran his fingers through his dishelved hair.  I caught his eye; he repositioned the mirror.

Bracing my back against Mormo, I kicked free.  Docker grabbed my wrists and tried to get ahold of my legs.  I landed a good one in his crotch.  He groaned, released his grip and doubled over.  Then Mormo did a funny thing.  Without taking his eyes from the road, and before I knew what he was up to, he covered the top of my head with his huge hand.  It felt nice, feather light for its mass.  Its warmth seeped into my skull and seemed to course through my brain.  Distantly aware of Docker's moans, I let out my breath and gazed at that point in the highway where, in the twilight, it diminished into the trees.  My breathing slowed, my heart beat smoothly and my muscles felt warm and soft, like freshly chewed gum.  We drove in silence.  Docker straightened up and, moving quickly, grabbed my wrists with one hand and my chin with the other, forcing my head up.  The giant lifted his hand and placed it on the steering wheel.  So much for his relaxation technique.

            "Dammit.  Look at me!"  Docker stared into my eyes and began to speak in a low, mesmerizing tone.  I couldn't stop crying. "Hey, can the crybaby act, man.  You're making me feel bad.  Come on, I'm sorry.  I'm not going to hurt you.  I'm going to make it up to you.  I promise, baby. Things are going to be different.  In a few more days we're gone.  Out of here.  You and I are splitting, man.  We're heading for the New Hebrides where the air is clear, the water is still blue and you can see clear to the bottom.  Everything's going to be mellow.  You don't want to go home.  Now just relax.  Sorry I have to do this, but let me tie this over your eyes.  Come on.  Here, now, that's it.  Just relax, that's it -- and let me tie this.  Stop crying, please.  I'm not going to hurt you.  There.  Watch it, Mormo, don't jerk around like that, okay?  Okay, here, baby, just let me tie this around your head.  There.  Can you see?  Fine.  Now relax."  He hugged me to him, kissed my forehead tenderly, and surprised me by breaking out with an oldie, as we barreled along:

I never dreamed I'd meet somebody like you;

 I never dreamed I'd know somebody like you.

 No, I wanna fall in love

 No, I wanna fall in love;

 with you,

 with you.

 What a wicked game you play to make me feel this way.

 What a wicked thing you do, to let me dream of you;

 Wicked thing to say, you never felt this way.

       No, I wanna fall in love -- ^[1]

I resolved not to let him soft-soap me with his smooth talk and seranade.  I felt sick with desire for the truth.  The answers had to be in that briefcase.  The bandanna covering my eyes, wet with tears I couldn't control, and his singing made me sleepy.  Yet I could not stop my brain from  not only running the words from the clipping over and over endlessly, but scenes of my aborted escape, and images of what I should've and shouldn't have done.  Behind a kind of reddish blackness, I finally circumvented the film-loops in my head by concentrating on where we were going.  I counted turns, making mental notes of when I leaned into or away from him.  Blindfolded, my hearing became acute.  We were moving, but I couldn't hear the engine, only a low hum.  Once off the highway, Mormo had switched to electricity for silence.  For what seemed like hours, with branches raking the top and sides of the truck, and rocks hitting the bottom, we jounced over the area I remembered as the final leg to the cabin.  At last, the giant braked to a stop; he turned the key and the humming ceased.  Docker removed the bandanna and wiped my face, clucking his tongue.  We climbed out near the vehicle compound.  It must have been close to midnight.

                       "Hey, big man, get the crew out.  Ditch the heap," Docker said.  Mormo shuffled away. "They make it look like nothing but animals up here."  Truer words, I thought.  He took a deep breath and thrust out his chest. "I got me the best in the biz."  He put his arm around my waist and we walked along the narrow trail towards the cabin in pitch blackness.  He seemed to have eyes like a cat.  "It's good to have you back, baby," he said, pulling me tight to his side.

                    "Did I have a choice?"  I said, staring straight ahead, hands in my pockets, fingers playing with a corner of the newsclipping. 

            I was back where I'd started two days ago.

            I blanched at the sound of cheers erupting from his gang camped outside in their plots, their breath forming white mists floating on the icy air, in the light of the gibbous moon.  I couldn't see if No-Face was among them.  Docker and I paused on the porch in front of the cabin door.

                    "This is truly my woman," he announced, squeezing my shoulder.  The crowd roared.  The men looked directly at me, pumping fists in the air; some of the women smiled and nodded; a couple raised their hands in a weak salute.

                    Now that I'd stopped running, I became aware of how tired I was; I couldn't think straight.  Maybe he's right: a desolate place, no communication with the outside, drugs, people I don't know (and don't want to know), make perfect elements for breeding paranoia.  My mind is playing tricks.  Still, the contents of that article kept surfacing (Why was it in the shack?), along with my reasons for splitting in the first place.  From the edge of the muttering crowd rose the high register of the kids' voices.

Papa Joe, Billy Bob and Tadpole in the loft welcoming me back

                  "You came back!  You came back!"  The boys rushed me, screaming, little arms spread.  Papa Jo grabbed me around my knees.  Their glassy eyes reflected starlight; their skin burned under my cold fingers.

                  "Are you guys all right?"  I looked at Docker  and knelt down.  "You should be asleep."

                 "Oh . . .  Okay," Tadpole stammered, "We're okay."  But Papa Jo couldn't stop shivering.              "Linda's been taking care of them," Docker said, "They're fine."

            Mormo's massive form tromped towards us out of the darkness.  "Boys fine, miss," he gurgled.  We followed him as he herded the boys into the cabin and guided them up to the loft.

Once I washed up and changed, Docker fixed me some freeze-dried beef stew with biscuits and coffee and sat across from me at the wooden table watching me eat.  Some of the others had come in with their kids and arranged their sleeping bags on the floor, sliding glances out of the corners of their eyes.

"Shit, you sure are something!"  Docker grinned.  "You have some spunk, woman.  Too wild, I don't know, trying to run away.  You oughtta know better than that.  Hell, we didn't know what happened to you.  The kids, nobody'd seen you all day."

"I heard you guys in the woods looking for me," I said, "You almost kicked me."  He gazed at me, opened his mouth, red lips glowing purple in the bluish light.

"Man . . ."  He grabbed my hand and squeezed it, shaking his head, color darkening on his throat and cheeks.  Was he recalling what he and Pal had said, his plaintive call?

He turned the bracelet around on my wrist.  "See you're still wearing it."

A blast of chill wind howled through the cabin.  Pal and Linda all but fell through the door, slamming it behind them.  They stumbled to the bar over the grousing, sacked out forms on the floor.  Linda, smiling, poured shots; we smoked some weed.  And they talked.  The gist of their conversation centered on those of the gang who now slept in the cabin at night with their kids because of the drop in temperature.  Exhausted, wasted, and sleep-deprived, I think I nodded off.  For an instant, a hypnogogic image rose up in my mind of me and a distressed looking Linda, naked, up in the loft.  She was trying to tell me something.  At the sound of braying laughter, the image shattered.

Next up: I doubt again that Docker is who the article says he is and begin to suspect Mormo's origins.  I let my guard down during an unusual quiet time with Docker and ask about No Face.  All hell breaks loose. 

---

^[1] © C. Isaak, 1989 ASCAP

I CONTINUE MY ESCAPE ON A RUSTY OLD BIKE, LOSE IT, AND AM HAMPERED BY A TWISTED MUSCLE IN MY THIGH.

The shack in the woods

Except for the eye color, the description and nickname almost fit.  I started pacing again.  But how many guys are there running around who look like that?  And what dude hasn't gone under the knife these days?  A voice inside me said, It's true, you know it is.  Did I have to be hit on the head with a brick?  It's not just about Docker.  What about the "nightmare"?  Billy-Bob's actions smacked of fear.  The kids were scared speechless as though someone had threatened to kill them.  Were they and the other kids abducted?  Why did Billy-Bob make Tadpole and Papa Jo go back when they had the chance to escape with me?  Somehow, I'd find out.  And what about the things No-Face said?  Why did she insist that I try to get away?   Well, that's what I was doing now: getting out, splitting from Docker and his raunchy gang.  I couldn't wait to be home, forget I ever met him, get to a phone-- Damn him!--and call GGIO.  All the evidence had to be in his briefcase.  I felt my heart triple-timing as I folded the article and shoved it into my jacket pocket.  My motive now for escaping had less to do with me.

  I brushed webs and dried weeds from the bike with trembling fingers.  Grasshoppers sprang in all directions.  It had solid rubber tires for the rough terrain, a broken pedal, missing front brake, and a few spokes from each wheel.  Someone had gone heavy on the grease, preventing the chain, sprocket and axles from rusting.  Straddling the seat, I wobbled onto the old highway, which, luckily, continued on the far side of the shack.  Dry thistles poked up through the deep cracks in the asphalt. 

Sweat ran down my face.  I had tied my jacket around my waist, poured water on my scarf and wrapped it around my head.  My backpack felt like it weighed a ton.  Riding on, I strained my ears listening; I looked over my shoulder often, expecting Docker to step out from the trees.  Had he, anyone, missed me yet?  After a couple of miles, I spotted a shady pocket on the side of the mountain where a trickle of a spring ran.  My lungs felt like they were worked over by an overzealous accordian player.  I dismounted, flopped down on a soft mat of burnished needles, and drank straight from the spring.  I refilled my bottle, taking a moment to savor the pristine beauty of the place.  Pedaling on, I mused on the natives who once  lived here, more to take my mind off the article and Docker.  I thought of Mormo who resembled some pictures I'd seen.  Still, from what I'd read, he's much too big, more like a throw-back to the stone age, or a Samoan.  I reached the top of a high ridge by snaking up on switch backs.  I slid off the seat to rest and almost fell over backwards

Mt. Lassen

In the far distance, rising above everything, contrasting with the rich greens and deep blue sky, was the luminous grey cone of an impressive volcano with a small bite taken out.  Lassen!  Now I knew where I was.  I had to travel farther west then south.  I gazed at the barren mountain for some time, forgetting what had impelled me to this spot, until I realized my mouth was hanging open..  The chill of falling dusk seeped through my clothes.  I pulled on my jacket.

            I made up time coasting down to where the old highway broke off again, leaving a jagged edge and a drop of about a foot into dark earth and rocks.  A hairpin turn and the road continued below, in a gorge.  I'd take a short-cut.  I dismounted and walked the bike down the sheer, brushy mountainside.  My foot caught fast in a crack between a lichen-covered rock and the earth into which it was lodged.  Gravity drew the heavy bike down the uneven ground, pulling me along as I foolishly hung on to the handlebars, trying to defeat that elemental force, and twisted my leg.  A sharp pain jabbed my thigh as though a knife had pierced it, making me sick to my stomach.  I let go of the bike and watched it leap and crash through the underbrush, coming to rest at the bottom, leaning on the trunk of an old oak.  I worked my foot free, adjusted my pack, and attempted to hike down to where the highway continued.  Everything spun around.  I saw black and fell, sliding on twigs and dead leaves, to a level place on the dry crumbly earth.  It was getting dark; I had no choice but to stay till morning.  I lay on the pine needle carpet, covered myself with my heavy jacket and shoved my pack under my head.  Now was not the time to be crippled by a pulled muscle.

Closing my eyes, breathing deeply, I felt as though I were floating and tried to focus on a healing visualization.  I saw the pain rise from my thigh as a ball of concentric circles whose center was white-hot, then orange, red -- the whole spectrum -- with the outer circle a cool electric blue.  The visionary ball sailed upwards and disappeared into the indigo sky.  Warmed now, curled beneath my jacket, I fell asleep to the mesmerizing drone of crickets and the mournful howl of wolves.

            In the dead of night, rustling leaves woke me instantly.  Long before I heard voices, I saw flashlight beams, two of them, crisscrossing, lighting up tree trunks, pine branches, and undergrowth.  I shut my eyes, not daring to breathe, skin slick under my clothes.  Something brushed my wool cap.  A cold, hard object touched my cheek.  Another second and my heart would burst through my ribs.  I was going to die.  Strangely calm, I turned to confront my killer.  A raccoon backed off, facing me in the starlight.  A quick movement of my head and it scuttled off.  It was its nose I'd felt. 

            Then I heard them.

            "Man, she couldn't last this long, even if she followed the old highway.  Let's go back.  This hill's steep.  We have to climb back up it," a voice sounding like Pal's complained.
            "You don't know her.  She's a pretty ballsy chick."  Docker's voice.  "I told you to bring the night goggles, asshole.  More proof if you want something done right, do it yourself.  Fuck."

            "I'm beat.  Let's siddown and have us a pull for headin' back."

"No, dickhead!  If we do that, we might never get up.  Shit, man, we'll freeze."

"Then let's split.  It's gotta be gettin' close to mornin'."  The beams crossed over me and shone down the embankment. "Hey, look, isn't that Darlene's ol' bike from the shack?  See.  At the bottom of the gorge below that piece of the highway?"

"Yeah, I forgot all about it."  Docker's voice, low and scratchy.  "She loved riding it on the trails --  See her little butt in tight jeans on the seat, blonde hair in a braid down her back."

"Never did figure out why she didn't go for a mountian bike, man.  She wouldn't've had to stick to the trails.  That dumb ol' sissy bike.  Shit."

"Shut up.  I'm thinking."  Silence, rustling leaves, throat clearing, then: "So Sally found the old place.  She should be way fucking up on that next ridge by now.  Clunker too heavy to haul up it, I guess.  Why didn't she stick to the old highway?"  Their boots sounded loud  scraping the earth, crunching leaves inches from my head.  "Hey, Doc, I'm for goin' back.  Some cougar or bear'll get her or she'll freeze to death."

"Shut the fuck up!  Don't be polluting the air with your negative vibes, man.  If something bad happens to her, it's on you.  And don't you forget it."

"Yeah, but she can't make it too much further and neither can I," Pal wheezed, "Blame that big ape for fuckin' up on the job.  Let 'er go -- She don't know nothin'.  Shit.  C'mon, I'm fuckin' outta shape, man.  Linda'll rake me over if I don't get back before dawn."

"Fuck Linda, man.  You forgetting who gives orders around here?  We go back when I say.  Now get up off your ass and get moving."  I heard a thud.  "Mormo's no ape, asshole.  I'll fix him."

"Oh, shit, Docker. You kick me any harder, I won't be able to use that leg.  Won't be good fer nothin'."

            "Let's get down there.  Check out what's what near that bike."

            I felt myself shaking and wondered if I was making any noise.  I pulled my jacket over my head and listened.  Docker and Pal slid, crashing through dry scrub, to the bottom of the gully, dislodging rocks, sending them hurtling down the incline.  I couldn't make out what they were saying, but their raised voices drifted up.  Soon, grunting and puffing, they worked their way back.

"Shit, man," Docker panted, "she's way hell over that ridge by now."  He snuffled and blew his nose.  "I want her back."  His voice cracked.  "I want her back.  Why'd she run out on me, man?  Wasn't I good to her?"

"Well.  Well, yeah, Doc.  Hell, yeah.  C'mon.  We'll get 'er."  Between each word, Pal labored to catch his breath .

"Yeah, I s'pose so.  Hope she's okay," Docker said, "Tough li'l' broad."  They were quiet a moment.  One cleared his throat.

"Sa - a - a - lleee!  Sa - a - a - lleee!"  Docker hollered.  A cry sprang from my lips at the sound of my name shouted into the night, echoing from the hills.  I drew in my breath and ducked deeper into my jacket.

"Hey, Doc!  Shut up, man.  D'yah want the whole fuckin' world to know where we're at?  Shit!  What's got into you?"  A rock skidded past me and bounded down the hillside.

"Yeah, yeah.  You're right.  But man, I want that fucking chick back."  A fit of coughing racked one of them.  Pal, I thought.  Whoever it was raked up a clot of mucus from deep in his lungs and spat.  I heard it plop into the dry leaves. 

            "I never seen you like this, Doc.  Fuck!  Cunts can mess you up.  You always said that.  Look at Darlene."

            "Shut up about her."  Sounds of a scuffle.  I started at the crack of gunfire.

            "Okay, okay.  Shit.  You could've killed me and, man, if anyone's out there, they'll sure the fuck know where to find us now."

            "Can the whining.  I can't tolerate whiners.  Shut up.  C'mon, let's head back to the cabin.  In the morning, we'll head her off by the . . ."  Their muffled footsteps and voices faded.  Moments later, some distance away, I heard the slam of a truck door, then the low hum of the engine, which soon vanished.  Despite the close call, I harbored a secret glee over Docker's pathetic lament.  So the fucker really cares.  Too bad.  But Pal's wrong about what I know; the clipping opened my eyes.

Next up: Despite my aching thigh, I manage to make it to a four-lane highway.  I'm free!  I can report Docker and get help for the boys!  I put out my thumb, heard a vehicle stop, turned . . . 

CONTINUED

ESCAPE! My first steps to freedom.

     I'm almost out the door.  The kids hear me, try to follow me.  Now what?

      Minutes passed.  The cabin was still.  I crept to the door to remove the long two-by-four Docker put across it each night.  I had to get up under it to lift it out of the brackets.  Sweat ran into my eyes and down my sides.  The strut slid out; now I had to ease it down.  My legs and arms quivered as I upended it.  It slipped through my fingers and clunked to the floor.  Shit!  I listened beyond the racket in my ears before tilting and lowering the two-by-four to the planks.  Shaking with a sudden chill, I turned the knob and pulled the door toward me.  It wouldn't budge.  I cursed, then remembered the dead bolt, took a breath and drew it back.  The door swung open; I stepped out, closing it softly behind me.  The frosty, pale dawn echoed with intermittent cries of birds.  A pinkish-grey sky crowned the looming mountaintops.  Sitting on the porch steps, feeling the cold stone seep through my jeans, I pulled on my jacket and boots.  Then I stood up and hoisted my pack.  I skirted wide, avoiding the others huddled together in their plots, and took my first steps to freedom.

I edged close to the surrounding rimed brush towards where I figured the trail to the vehicle compound might be, hoping to find a way out.  All I could see were trees and more trees.  

Everything looked the same.  I stopped a moment to get my bearings, then started off again.  Finally, I found the deer track that traced the creek and followed it, praying it would lead me to a river and, eventually, a village.  I hadn't gone but a quarter of a mile, climbing around boulders, sliding down culverts, when I heard what sounded like kids shouting.  Maybe I wasn't so far from help after all.  I thought I was going towards the voices, but now they sounded as though they were coming from behind me.  I turned around.  I couldn't see anything because of the thick forest of pine and hemlock.  Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of early sunlight flashing off shiny tow-heads.  Ducking beneath branches, I made my way towards them.

            "Where ya going?  We wanna come with you!"

            "Shhhhh!"  I grabbed the boys, knelt down, pressed them to me for a moment.  I put my finger to my lips.  "Listen," I said, "Now.  Be quiet, really quiet and listen."  Their eyes widened.  "It's really important that you guys go back.  I'd take you, but you can't leave your parents."  Papa Jo had gashed a knee, ripping his pants.  I poured some water on my scarf and cleaned the wound.  He opened his mouth to speak.  Billy-Bob raised his fist in the toddler's face.  "What is it, Papa Jo?"  The older boy gripped his shoulder.  He winced.

            "Nothin', ma'am."  He looked up at Billy-Bob.

            "We just don't want you to leave, do we, PJ?" Billy-Bob said.  Papa Jo shook his head and started to cry.  The older boy held him close, patting his back.  "Come on, we gotta go back," he said.

            Tadpole said, "Please don't go."  I brushed his rust-colored hair from his eyes.

            "Promise you guys won't tell your Dad you saw me leave or that you followed me.  He'll get mad at you if you do.  You have to go back now, quick as a wink, before you're missed.  Understand?  Promise you won't tell?  I love you all very much.  I have to go home now."  I kissed their hot, damp faces.  "I know you're scared, but being scared makes you brave.  So, be three brave guys, three musketeers, okay?  Go back, now, really quiet, like when we play Robin Hood sneaking up on the Sheriff of Nottingham.  Go back.  Mormo will take care of you."  They nodded, wiping their noses on their hands, and started walking slowly back to the cabin.  "Hurry!" I whispered hoarsely and they ran.  Heartsick, I watched them lose themselves in the trees.  I picked up the trail to go on and realized I'd forgotten about Docker's briefcase.

            The creek I'd been following gradually deepened and continued beneath an impassable dank thicket of slippery, moss-hung, scrub-willow branches.  I grabbed them and hauled myself up the bank.  I wasn't afraid of animals.  My pot-farmer and I had confronted bears, so I knew what to do if I came upon one; but cougars were something else.  I felt safer here than at the cabin.  This was my call.  Whatever happened, I could only blame myself.  After a few miles of trudging up and down, and hiking diagonally, on a mountainside, then dropping down again, I came to a wide, meandering creek, shallow enough to wade in when the bank became an impenetrable tangle of heavy brush.  The sun had risen higher; it had grown hot.  I refilled my bottle.

            Continuing on, I picked some ripe berries and New Zealand spinach, and gathered pine-nuts, stowing them in my pack.  Leaving the creek, I came around a hill and found myself on an old, broken up, two-lane highway which ended at a narrow trail snaking along the edge of a precipice.  I followed the sharply turning trail cut into an outcropping of lofty granite cliffs, for a mile or so.  Hanging on to the rocky face, I inched around a curve, ending up in a small clearing, where I chanced upon a rickety, wooden shack set back among thistles and scrub oak.  Dill weeds and saplings grew through the roof's weathered boards.  Against its side, under the eaves, leaned an old woman's style bicycle.

            I approached slowly, crying out at the sudden flight of a covey of mourning doves which wheeled into the air on squeaky wings and settled on branches of nearby trees.  The door of the shack was missing so I sidled in and waited in the musty heat in darkness till my eyes adjusted.  A figure loomed in a corner.  I held my breath and waited.  After a moment, I called out, "Hello?  Who are you?"  I crept towards the figure and saw it was only a black wool coat hanging on the wall on rusty nail.  I braced myself against a beat-up wooden table, varnish flaking with age.  The table was cluttered with  insect flecked papers, discolored and stiff as autumn leaves.  I shuffled through the papers, trying to read the faded, illegible script.  A stained mattress sagged in a corner; white ashes drifted from the rusty iron stove when I opened its door.  I turned to leave, kicking smashed beer cans and stepping over empty whiskey bottles littering the bare boards.  I should take this coat, I told myself, it might come in handy later when it gets cold; may not make it to a village by nightfall.  Who had it belonged to?  I lifted it off the nail, coughing and sneezing as the dust and grime sifted down.  I reached into and inside pocket and pulled out a yellowed newspaper clipping dated July 25, 2001, three years ago.  I took the clipping outside and sat on the stoop in the sun.  Smoothing the fragile parchment out on my lap, I read:

ILLEGAL ORGAN-BROKER RING STING FAILS

Global Government Intelligence Operations (GGIO) sting fails when suspected child-abductors disappear.  Its leader, James Kenneth Peterson, uses several aliases: John Allen Petty, James John Petrie.

            Peterson is about six-feet-four, fair, blue eyes, usually clean shaven, black hair cut very short or shaved off.  As a youth, it is alleged he may have undergone extensive gang scarification.  He sometimes goes by the nickname Rocker (he once played guitar with an esoteric ritualistic group known as Plutonium Ice).

            His cohort, known only as Petey, or Bud, Whiddick; his girl-friend, Lauren; the leader's brother, Winston, and his girl, Jeanne, are also missing and wanted for questioning.  No last names are known for the women.

            Peterson is known to have served memorably in various world-wide Peace-Keeping missions in Central Africa, South Central America, Bosnia, and RusoChina.

            These abductors sell children to an illegal organ-brokers ring dealing in children's body-parts.  The ring's sophisticated operation uses forged documentation and employs helicopters, and private jets for world-wide transport of organs.

            The operation is headed by a man known by the alias Heshano Ben Amed, aka: Heshie, rumored to have once been an internationally respected, top-flight pediatric organ transplant surgeon.  Ongoing investigations on the location of his headquarters are also in place.

            It is suspected that the abductors may be hiding out in an inaccessible area of the Shasta-Cascade range in Northern California, where increasing yet unconfirmed Big Foot sightings have been reported over the years by hunters and environmentalists.  Anyone having any knowledge of these child abductors may call the GGIO hot-line or reach it on the Net @ www.ggio.gov/hot-line.

            I jumped up.  The paper slid to the ground.  I ran, fleeing into the trees, leaned against one to catch my breath.  I picked up the clipping, sat down and read it again.  My heart tripped.  I stood up and looked around.  Birds flew about from tree to tree.  A noisy woodpecker beat a tattoo high on the trunk of a pine.  Bees buzzed about from thistle to thistle, and butterflies lazed in the sun, their wings opening and closing like slow pulses.  I paced, stirring up the dry soil in front of the shack.  I hadn't seen any helicopters.  Docker and his gang were simply a bunch of losers, I reasoned, whose unfortunate children had to live with them until they were old enough to decide what they wanted to do.  I stopped.  The electric buzz of cicadas droned on.

Next up:  Mist rationalizes what she read in the news clipping.  But what does her inner voice tell her?  And what transpired between her and the kids give her all the more reason to escape.  It's not just about  her.

MIST'S NEXT MOVE: Still suffering from a perceived inability to separate reality from fantasy, yet Mist attempts to escape.

"You're all sick," I cried, "Monsters!" No! We are not a "happy family."

Linda shoved me against the wall and barked, "Stop being such a big baby."  She smeared away my tears with her thumbs pressed hard against my cheekbones.  Pal slammed shut the door on the bug-eyed crowd jammed at the threshold.  He shoved his gun into his pants at the small of his back, swaggered to the bar, and hoisted himself on to a stool.  Mormo had backed away into a corner, surveying the scene with big calm eyes like he'd seen it all before.  Linda dragged a wooden chair across the floor next to Pal and plopped into it.

"Hey, sweetface."  Docker cocked his chin at me.  "Please get up off your sweet ass and fix us all espressos, man.  And watch out for that valve, baby.  Give you something to do.  You'll feel better."  Steadying myself against the wall, I yanked the bracelet from my wrist, threw it at him, and climbed up to the loft, expecting to hear the crack of Pal's gun and feel a bullet slam between my shoulder blades.  Instead, I was hit by explosions of laughter.  Kneeling on the mattress, I started throwing clothes in my pack.  Docker was right behind me.

"Don't go.  Come on.  Please."  He tossed things out as fast as I stuffed them in.  "I'm sorry.  Please.  I need you.  The kids.  I don't know what we'd do.  We're leaving in a couple of days, anyway.  Please.  I'm sorry."  The loft was hot.  I lifted sticky hair from the nape of my neck and felt his soft lips brush against it.  A shiver ran through me.  He put his arms around me and hugged me.

"Don't ever hit me again, Docker.  Ever.  I mean it!  What's wrong with you, anyway?"    

"Or what?"

"I'll split."

 He kissed my ear.  "I won't," he whispered, his voice low, "Cross my heart, hope to die.  I promise.  It'll never happen again.  Scout's honor, swear on my mother's grave."

"Knock it off.  You're not taking me seriously." I said, trying to work free, "This place is too crazy.  I can't stay here anymore."

"I know, I know.  I don't blame you.  I shouldn't've done that.  You're fragile."

"What do you mean?  So you can knock me around again when I'm stronger?"

"No, no.  Course not."  He laughed softly.  "You haven't eaten in a couple of days.  Where you're at mentally right now.  Never should've.  Look, I'm sorry.  I promise.  Give me a couple more days.  Please.  I blew it, I know.  Give me a chance to make it up to you, okay?"

I shuddered as he crossed his arms over my breast and kissed my neck, nuzzled my ear, tightening his hold with each move I made.  He turned me towards him.  Mouth covering my lips, tongue reaching deeply, he stripped off my clothes as he lowered me to the mattress, worked down his pants and lay his long body on mine.  He caressed my breasts, moved his hands down to my hips, his penis hard between my thighs.  I buried my fingers in his hair.  With one hand on his back beneath his damp shirt, I pressed him to me.   Abandoned by reason, only a desperate hunger for sensation remained.

      

Near dusk, I leaned against a limb in the tree-house, watching random dark brown ragged-edged leaves drift to the ground.   I knew I could not stay.  The kids, on thick branches above me, clambered down and sat beside me.

"What's wrong, Sally?  Were you sick?  Mormo took care of us," Tadpole said.  I smiled at the sight of his little white face smudged with moss stains.

"I'm okay now.  All better."

"Will you tell us Treasure Island again?"

"Sure."  I lifted Papa Jo on to my lap, put my arms around the other two, and launched into the story.  Just as I got to a part where Jim outwits Long John Silver, Docker called to me from the base of the tree.  I looked down at him through branches whose shadows made crisscross patterns on his up-turned, sallow face and deepened the hollows of his cheeks and eyes.

"Sally, come on down," he pleaded.  "I need to talk to you.  Come on, or I'll climb up there and get you.  Please come down, pretty please?  You forgot your bracelet, love."  He grabbed a low hanging branch, shaking some remaining leaves free, and braced his foot against the trunk.

"Don't let him come up.  Please."  Billy-Bob's thin, feathery eyebrows came together in a frown. 

"I won't.  I'll finish the story later.  Or, honey, why don't you start where I left off?  You know it.  I'll come back later."  I sat Papa Jo next to him and worked my way down.  Docker swung me from the lowest branch.

"Put me down.  I can walk."

"No.  Watching you got me all horny again.  I want to hold you."

He slipped the bracelet on my wrist and carried me to a copse of towering firs where, at their tips, lacy branches appeared to touch.  Cathedral-like, the low, hazy sun streaked through.  Random bird calls echoed; and, off in the distance, Docker's raucous gang carried on.   He lay me on the soft ground, kissed my eyelids, cheeks and throat.

"You know, when you hit me," I said, turning away, "it was like, it was like an admission of guilt.  Like I was right about what I heard--You're not listening  to me.  I'm going home."

He raised his head and gazed off into the trees.  "I don't know what comes over me, baby," he crooned, stroking the inside of my leg.  "I don't know what I'm doing till it's over.  But, man, I get pissed when I hear my people've been spreading lies about me.  Promise you won't listen to anybody or believe anything you hear.  It's all a bunch of lies.  A couple of guys are trying to undermine my authority."

"So why hit me?  Get back at them!"  I turned on my side.  "What are you going to do?"  He lay on his back, arms crossed behind his head.

Letting his breath out slowly, he spoke softly as though he were thinking out loud.  "They want this spread for themselves.  Try to bring down the boss.  It's human, animal-nature.  All us guys never bought into the bourgeoisie.  Make a little scratch here and there and get together with our old ladies and kids and come up here.  Built it all myself."  His arm described an arc through the air.  "Water piped from the creek, everything.  Can't even be detected from the air, day or night.  It's enough staying ahead of the Members.  They got eyes."  He shifted to his side and looked at me.  "Forgive me?"

"You'd mentioned them on our first night.  Are they your rivals?"

"You don't need to know, nothing to do with you.  Just don't listen to anyone, baby."  I propped myself up on my elbow, cupped my chin in my hand, and looked through the trees toward the cabin.

            "It must have cost a fortune to build.  How did you do it with odd jobs?  Veteran loans?  Or did you win the lottery?"  He rolled over on his back and stared up into the trees.  "I know, too many questions."  I heard my voice coming back to me in a whisper.  Minutes passed.  Neither of us spoke.  The wind brushed the tips of the trees far above us.  After a while I said,

"I think I know why you're different around them than when you're with me."

            He stood up and brushed himself off.  "Don't start with that psych crap.  You don't know shit," he said, walking away.

            Elbows on my knees, I covered my head with my hands and stayed beneath the trees until it started getting cold.  Trying to figure him out was useless.  I wanted no part of him, his intrigues, or his life.  I wanted to go home.

            After I'd bedded down the kids that night, Docker asked, from his chair, "Now will you fix us espressos?" Pal and Linda flanked him.

            "Fix them yourself," I said.  He laughed.  Linda shot me a glance, lips twisted, and started grinding the beans.  She passed out the porcelain cups of steaming brew, handing me one, too.  I sat apart, sipping mine, inhaling its restorative aroma, nursing my inner wounds, ignoring the physical.  And whenever I opened my mouth to speak, they stared.

            Late that night, bruised and aching, pinned beneath Docker on our mattress, I decided not to waste any more time.  I didn't want to stick around to see what he would do next.  I didn't believe I'd had a nightmare. I had never passed out or hallucinated, ever, no matter what I'd smoked or ingested.  He must have drugged me.  Why?  I came too close to the truth so he smacked me.  No-Face was right: I didn't belong here, not with these low-lifes, anyway.  Yeah, I love men who live on the edge, but Docker, I was beginning to discover, was over, far over, in ways no sane person would want to be connected.  I laughed inside.  Imagine telling him I wanted to catch a bus back to the City.

            Snoring like a Harley at a three way stop-light, he slept the sleep that suddenly whacks the burnt-out who have barraged their brains with countless uppers and downers and numberless swigs of alcohol to wash them down they can't do anything but crash hard.  He had pulled me towards him in the night and had me locked in a bear hug.  I tried waking him.  He didn't break his rhythm.  I hoped he'd gone without sleep for a couple of days and would be out at least twelve hours.  I guessed Pal and Linda were on the same schedule.  I didn't know about Mormo; I'd have to chance it.

            At the sound of the dawn breeze soughing through the pines, I worked myself free from the dead-weight of Docker's limbs, pausing each time his breath gurgled in his throat or when he snorted and sighed through flaccid, drooling lips.  With a corner of the blanket, I wiped his saliva from my breast.  My feet hit the icy floor; I drew in my breath and clapped a hand over my mouth.  I felt my heart racing.  He didn't move.  I unclenched my teeth to keep them from chattering.  It was too dark to see whether Mormo was squatting in his corner.  Across the floor, the kids breathed shallowly.  Shaking, I pulled on a wool shirt, socks, and jeans, conscious not only of the sounds of breathing, but the whisper of clothing as I dressed.  Jacket over my arm and boots in one hand, I felt my way around the couple's lumpy, inert forms.  I heard the swish of their down-bags.  Linda sighed, more rustling.  I stiffened for a second, then stole down the ladder.

            Silence roared in my ears.  I reached the hardwood floor and tip-toed across, avoiding the boards I knew were loose, missed one and cringed at its squeak.  My shirt stuck to my back.  I ran a finger around the collar, pulled a scarf from my pocket and wiped my face.  Each breath grated and strained.  I opened the cupboard and stuffed bottled water, a tin of beef jerky, and dried fruit into my pack.  I made for the front door, heard a movement from the loft so ducked behind the bar.  Holding my breath and praying, I peered around it.  One of the kids climbed down the ladder, then headed right for me.  It was Tadpole.  He stopped, turned, and walked slowly across the room toward the bathroom.  He appeared to be sleepwalking, mumbling something about Dad and Disneyland.  Then he about-faced and moved toward the ladder, climbing part way up.  When I saw Mormo's huge arm reach down and pull him up into the loft, I heard a whimper and realized it came from me.  If I was going to make it, I had to get myself together.

STAY TUNED: Does she succeed?  We're rooting for her.   A new entry will be posted soon.