Ten hours later, Angie sat in the tub, bubbles to her neck. She took a drink of her martini, then clicked her nails on the sides of the tub. This was taking way too long. She picked up her phone. “Bruce, Angie Lindstrom here. I have a story for you. My kids have been... hold on a second.” She held the phone away from her ear and made a sobbing sound. “They’ve been kidnapped... By my ex... Do you think you could run a story on it or something?... Amber alert? Yes, that would be good. I’ll talk to the police. Okay, whatever you can do... thanks.”
~
The third storm roared, the thunder almost continuous, like demons celebrating another soul in hell. Flashes lit up the sides of the tent. This time the wind shook and rattled the nylon sides, snapping with each gust.
“Dad, I’m scared.” Connor’s eyes shone huge in the flashes.
“Me, too.” Mindy hugged herself.
If Mindy’s afraid, we have a problem. Connor will feed off that and he’ll be terrified.
“Tell you what. We’ll zip two of the sleeping bags together and we’ll bundle up good with Dad, okay?”
They both assented, and the three of them set about assembling the bedding. Mindy clicked off a shot with her iPad. Wish she would stop. Be quiet... nice dad.
He slid in next to Connor, the boy the filling of the sandwich. Connor slid his head under his dad’s chin. The boy shivered.
“Dad?”
“Yes, son.”
“How come you left us?”
“That’s a hard question to answer.”
“Mom threw him out.”
Thanks, Mindy. Leave it to a kid to deliver the hard cold facts. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“I sure miss you.”
“I miss you, too, son.” He wiped his eye.
In a matter of minutes the two kids drifted off to sleep. Steve watched, amazed as they slept through the storm.
The lightning faded, the thunder rumbled away to the East. Peace eased in to the little tent.
The fourth storm featured thunder and lightning again, but this time the roof of the tent cracked and banged with the sound of hailstones pelleting it. Steve could hear the stones clanking off the metal on the motorcycle. At least the kids are sleeping, and the tent didn’t blow over. For the first time in decades, Steve prayed and asked God to keep them safe.
~
Angie wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m just so afraid. Whatever you can do, I ask the public to please watch for my kids and that man. And be careful. He may be dangerous.”
The interviewer spoke to the camera. “If any of you have information about this case, please call the number on the screen.”
The cameras stopped and Bruce approached. “That should work.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Now you owe me.”
~
Steve sat at the picnic table and watched the creek flow by the campsite, the water white over the larger rocks. Fuzzy grey seeds from the cottonwood trees floated in lazy circles on the placid sections of water. Leaves twirled in the current as they slid by. Connor and Mindy ran up wearing swimsuits.
“Can we swim in the river?” Mindy asked.
What do I say? Don’t want to be the bad dad and say no. “I don’t know. You can wade in it.”
She handed her iPad to him. “Take our picture?”
Steve clicked the shot and set the notebook on the picnic table. Connor ran to the creek and as he got to the edge, stumbled and fell face forward into the water. Mindy stooped to help Connor and fell over, too. Connor floated out, face down. Steve splashed into the water and scooped him up, sputtering, blood flowing down his forehead. He carried the boy to the table and sat him down. Stripping off his shirt he daubed the cut on his forehead.
Connor sat quietly until Steve pulled the cloth away and he saw the blood. He let out a wail.
“Easy, son.” He patted the cut with his shirt. No first aid kit, not even a bandage. The cut looked shallow. Not more than an inch across, either. He remembered that heads tended to bleed a lot, and coupled with the water on his skin, it looked much worse than it probably was.
Mindy hovered. “Is he going to be okay?”
Steve daubed again. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Excuse me,” a woman said. Steve recognized her from the next campsite. “I saw your... dilemma and thought you might need a hand.” She held a first aid kit.
Yep, and I’m shirtless, pasty white, and could lose twenty pounds. “That’ll work. Thank you so much.”
~
Angie laid on the bed and punched the remote. Nothing on. Steve’s going to have to pay for this.
The note!
She stood, tossed the remote on the bed, and padded into the kitchen. Smoothed out the note. Punched a number on her phone.
“Phil. Angie here. Do you have access to a fingerprint expert?... Yeah, I have the ransom note. You need to check it for Steve’s prints. I want this thing airtight. Can you get one?... Yeah, I know it’s midnight, but my kids have been kidnapped. Right... Tomorrow? Can’t you get him tonight?... Okay, first thing.” She clicked off and smacked the phone on the granite.
I’ll get through this and then he’s fired.
~
“Dad, what are these bumps? They itch.”
Mindy grabbed his arm and peered at them. “Skeeter bites. I got a bunch of them, too.”
“No bug repellant,” he muttered. “Come on. Down to the river. We’ll smear some mud on them.”
Connor stopped. “Will that work?”
Big smile, Dad. “Sure.”
“Can we go for a hike?” Mindy pointed to the trailhead they noticed earlier.
“Uh, sure. There must be a trail nearby.”
“It’s right over there,” Mindy said. “It goes to a hot springs.” She pointed. “It said it was a mile.”
“Perfect.”
“It said to be ‘Bear Aware.’ Do we have any bear spray?”
“Uh, that would be a no.”
Connor took off running, saying over his shoulder, “I bet the lady next door has some.”
~
Steve sat at the picnic table. Somehow, they successfully hiked. No injuries, no bear attack, and the bike couldn’t break down. There may be hope for this weekend yet. A man strode up to him and stopped.
“Are you Steve Lindstrom?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another man grabbed him from behind, stood him up, and slapped handcuffs on as the first man said, “Steve Lindstrom you are under arrest for kidnapping. You have the right...”
Mindy screamed. Connor ran away.
~
Judge Beeson took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Lindstrom again. What this time?”
T. Bartholomew Masterson slid the paperwork in front of the judge. “The ex kidnapped the kids. And he took them to West Yellowstone, Montana, so it’s a federal offense. My client wants him removed from any custody and all visitation rights cancelled.”
Beeson flipped papers over, skipping the garbage and focused on the details. He sighed, put the papers down and muttered, “Let’s get this mess sorted out.”
“Your honor, it’s a kidnapping, federal offense, and we… ”
“Did you not hear me? Get them here.”
~
Fortunately, the powers that be let Steve lose the orange jumpsuit. He sat at the table with the Public Defender, who offered to help, even though it was a domestic case—so far. Probably his big case of the week. Or month.
Angie’s attorney blathered on, telling the court how awful Steve was, the two DUIs, skipping of course the two years of sobriety and his stellar behavior in the ensuing months, then years. Then he went through the kidnapping, Angie’s suffering, and the note.
The judge asked Steve. “Did you write that note?”
Mindy told him that she’d forged it.
Steve stood. He could feel all the eyes on him, the kids behind him. He imagined Mindy wringing her hands. He s
hould take the fall, cover for her.
The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“No, I didn’t write it.”
Angie shouted, “What?” and stood. Her lawyer ran over to her, spoke soothing words, and eased her back into the seat, both of them performing Oscar-winning drama.
“Then who wrote the note?”
“I didn’t.”
You really screwed up this time, Stevie boy. The grandstanding and posturing continued, Angie’s attorney piling on the evidence.
He answered the questions monotone, a dead man. It appeared that Angie’s lawyer enjoyed this game, Steve and Angie just pawns he moved around the board while collecting huge fees. After painting Steve as the Antichrist, the guy got tired and sat down.
The judge looked over his glasses. “We’ve heard all the evidence. Now I’d like to hear the kids.”
Angie stood to protest and her lawyer patted her arm and addressed the judge.
“Your honor, it would traumatize the children too mu—”
“Nonsense. Bring them up.”
Mindy held Connor’s hand and they tottered to the bench.
The judge asked them a dozen questions. Steve stared at the floor. His head shot up when he heard, “Let’s see those pictures.”
No! Mindy’s iPad. It bore the real evidence, the injury to Connor, the junk motorcycle, the disastrous tent building, the documentation of a man who had failed his kids.
Mindy trotted back, retrieved the notebook, and showed the judge how to scroll through the photos.
“What kind of motorcycle is that?”
People looked at each other like someone would know, then turned to Steve.
“Uh, it’s a ’42 Harley.”
“And you took the kids to Yellowstone Park with it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It broke down, too,” Angie said, “but my dad fixed it.”
She narrated as she flipped the screen to each new photo. “This is where the bike broke down on the freeway... this is Dad trying to build the tent... this is the river we played in... here’s Connor... his bandage... this is the bear warning sign...”
Finally she finished, the nails driven into his coffin.
The judge asked Connor a few questions and he assented, confirming Mindy’s testimony.
Then Connor said, “It was the best weekend of my life.”
Angie cried out like she was in real agony, like she broke a nail or something. Her lawyer shut her up again.
“Seriously, son?” The judge asked.
“Oh, yeah. We never do anything fun at our house. Everything has to be perfect.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. And we got to play in the river, cook spaghetti-o’s on the fire, and sleep in the tent and when it stormed we zipped the sleeping bags together and all got in it togeth… ”
Angie’s lawyer stood. “This is despicable. Now he’s sleeping with—”
“That’s enough.” The judge held up his hand. “Go on, son.”
“Anyway, we had more fun than ever. We were a family. I mean we didn’t have Mom, but she would have been all mad all weekend anyway, especially when it rained, but we had so much fun. And we wouldn’t have gotten to go if Mindy didn’t write that permiss... oops.”
The lawyer reeled back like he’d been slapped. Angie rubbed her temples with her fingers, and the judge laughed.
Connor turned to his sister. “I wasn’t supposed to say that. Sorry, Mindy.”
“I’m going to review this case, and see if we can grant some custody to Mr. Lindstrom here, and I’m going to send a recommendation to the federal judge that all charges be dropped. Mr. Lindstrom, could you please approach the bench after we adjourn?”
The courtroom emptied, and Angie dragged the kids away. Steve stood before the judge.
“Tell me about that Harley.”
Washington
Somewhere on our tour of San Juan Island, we learned that bears did not inhabit the area. The story of Scar Bear came to mind. Nothing more fun than scaring the liver out of little kids. What a beautiful backdrop to a story, San Juan Island. If you ever get a chance, take a tour. Be sure to head to the south side of the island and learn about the Pig War.
SCAR BEAR
He opened the door as he knocked. “You hoo! Grandpa and Grandma are here!”
Lindsay and Ryan ran to the door and hugged their legs.
“You kids ready to go camping?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Lindsay.
Wearing a cowboy hat, Ryan ran in circles around them, then ran to his dad. “Can we go now, can we go, can we go?”
Lindsay flitted from one to another saying, “I’ll go get our stuff.”
“Hello, son… Tracy.” Grandma hugged everyone.
Jeff reminded them about removing their shoes (for the white carpet) and ushered them inside to the living room, with black leather couches in front of glass coffee tables. Tracy took drink orders (beer for Grandpa and Jeff, iced tea for Grandma, bottled water for Tracy) and everyone sat on the couches. Tracy passed around drinks and coasters while Jeff sent the kids upstairs. Their shoulders drooped and they trudged up the steps. Jeff took a sip and sat forward. “Mom, Dad, we thought we should talk a bit about the trip before you go.”
“Oh?” Grandma looked at the two of them and then to her husband.
Tracy cleared her throat, produced four lists, and handed them out. “We’ve compiled a list of things that are quite important. This is the first outing you’ve done with them, so… ”
“And it’s about time, too.” Grandpa said as he looked at the paper. White, printed with numbered lines. Subheadings under those.
“First is nutrition. The children need lots of vegetables. Too much red meat, fried food, or snacks and they get off kilter.”
Grandpa frowned at the paper. “Wouldn’t want that. I see number 9-C. It says one piece of candy a day.”
“Small one.” Tracy held her fingers an inch apart, looking to Jeff for confirmation, who nodded. “Wash it down with plenty of water.”
“Bottled water only,” Jeff interjected. That campground stuff… who knows what’s in it?”
“Oh, yes,” Grandpa frowned, “cooties or maggots or something. And 11-B, ‘They shall brush their teeth with bottled water.’”
Grandma swatted his leg. “Easy, tiger.”
“Let’s start at the top, shall we?” Tracy looked to the others.
Grandpa shrugged. “Why not?”
So they did.
~
When they finished the list, Grandpa stood and folded it.
“Oh, no no no,” Tracy said. “I have manila folders. One for each of you. And we have something for you, too. Jeff.” He got up and returned with two cases of bottled water. “Save you some shopping.”
Jeff called the kids down and they descended the stairs like a thundering herd, backpacks and roller luggage at hand, then ran up for another set of luggage.
“Whoa, whoa,” Grandpa held up a hand. “We’re going for four days; we’re not moving. What have you brought?”
Tracy stepped up. “I helped them pack. Didn’t want to miss anything.”
Grandpa grabbed Lindsay’s suitcase. “You mind?” Lindsay shook her head. He unzipped it and produced a pair of red high heels, his eyebrows asking the question.
Tracy crossed her arms. “You may go to town for dinner.”
“It’s okay,” Grandma put her hand on his arm. “We’ll just bring it all. It’s no problem.”
Lindsay tapped at her phone.
“Whoa, hold it,” Grandpa held up his hand. “No electronics this trip.”
“What?” Lindsay stopped, her finger in the air. “For four whole days?”
“That’s right. You probably won’t get a signal anyway out in the woods.”
Ryan laughed. “No phone for you, sis.”
“No game player for you either, Ryan.”
His face fell. “No way. I ca
n’t…”
“Sure you can,” Tracy dug in the pocket of his backpack and removed it. “It’ll do you good.”
“No fair.”
~
Grandpa drove with Grandma beside him in the front, the kids sulking in the back.
“This trip is going to suck,” Ryan crossed his arms.
“Nonsense,” said Grandma. “Do either of you know any songs?” They shook their heads. “We’ll teach you some. Right, Grandpa?”
“We don’t wanna sing no songs. Right, Lindsay?”
She stared out the window at the world flashing by. “Nope.”
“Oh boy,” Grandpa muttered. I hope we can pull this off. The first time the kids let us take the grandkids. Ten years. We just need to return them in one piece. A bonus would be if they enjoyed themselves.
They drove from Lynnwood to Anacortes and the ferry dock, the kids in sullen silence, except for the occasional question.
“There won’t be any spiders, will there?” Lindsay asked.
“Last time a dozen carried off a little kid,” Grandpa said. Grandma swatted his arm.
Silence.
Ryan: “What if there’s bears?”
Grandpa smiled. “We’ll see about that.”
Silence.
Grandpa slid the little Ranger pickup and pop top tent trailer into its spot, no trouble.
~
They say you can’t beat the Pacific Northwest if you visit it during the long hot summer… and hopefully it occurred on a weekend. The water looked steel gray against the clear blue sky. Grandpa inhaled the salty cool air. Lindsay stood at the rail of the ferry, her hair blowing straight behind her. Grandma patted her on the back as Ryan ran from the bow to the stern.
Grandpa shook his head at Ryan. “Whew, that kid can run.”
“Grandpa?” Lindsay turned and her hair blew over her face. “Do these ferries sink often?”
“Sink? No. I’ve never heard of one sinking.” He couldn’t recall a Washington ferry mishap, but thought he remembered one sinking in Turkey or England, perhaps another in Canada. Best to leave it alone. “They’re made of steel.”
“Steel? Then how can they float? Preston Keeler rode his bike into Lake Stickney and it sank right to the bottom.”
“Well… the steel is in a hull shape that displaces the water… it keeps it afloat.”
“But the bike had tires with air in them. The ship doesn’t.”
Grandpa looked to Grandma for help. She smiled. “You’re doing great.”
The city of San Juan grew larger on the shoreline and the captain announced drivers needed to return to their cars. Grandma and Lindsay stepped away from the rail, but Grandpa stayed, watching the dock loom from shore. Ryan dithered.
50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 5, The West Page 3