A Boy Called Duct Tape

by Christopher Cloud

  “You’ll have to take our word for it,” I said, my stomach making some sort of weird nervous growl. “When we get to Bear Mountain I’ll show you the map.”

  Monroe snorted. “Pia, do you promise to show me this map when we get to Bear Mountain?” He leaned forward in his rocking chair.

  Pia had been chewing on the knuckle of her thumb. She pulled it away and said, “I promise.”

  After a short pause, Monroe said, “Fair enough.”

  “Then you’ll act as our guide?” Kiki asked, the words flying out of her mouth.

  “For a price.”

  I looked at Kiki, as if to say: What’s a fair price? Kiki shook her head and shrugged.

  “How’s a third of the treasure sound, Monroe?” I asked in a polite tone.

  Monroe considered it for a moment. “Half.”

  “A third,” I said, an anxious lump swelling in my throat.

  Monroe was silent for several seconds, and the words “Okay, half,” were on my tongue when Monroe said, “All right, a third, it is.”

  I gave an anxious nod.

  The rag on Monroe’s hand had become saturated with blood, and he got up, set the cat on the floor, and went to the sink. He removed the bloody dishtowel and ran water over the cut.

  “I’ve heard stories about a Jesse James treasure,” Monroe said. “Those stories have been going around for years. Only one small hitch.” He opened a drawer under the kitchen counter. He found a clean towel and made a second bandage. “Actually, it’s a big hitch.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “There are no caves in Bear Mountain.”

  “How do you know?” Kiki asked, scooting to the edge of the sofa, and hanging on Monroe’s every word.

  “I know because I’m on a first-name basis with every rock, tree, and blade of grass in Ozark County,” Monroe said. “No caves in Bear Mountain.” He came back over and stood by the wood-burning stove, tightening the homemade bandage. “None.”

  “But the map shows a cave,” I said. “On the west side of Bear Mountain about halfway to the summit.”

  “I’ll be real interested in seeing this map of yours,” Monroe said, his eyes pinched together in suspicion.

  “You’ll see it,” Kiki confirmed.

  “Honest, Mr. Huff,” Pia said. “Like Pablo said, we’ll show you the map when we get to Bear Mountain. It’s a really cool map that we bought for—”

  “Pia!” I barked. “Please don’t say another word.”

  Pia cringed. “Oh, sorry.”

  Monroe looked at my nine-year-old sister, a strange smile spreading across his face. “Do you know what I like about caves, sweet pea?”

  “No, sir,” Pia replied faintly.

  “It’s not the silence, although silence is divine,” Monroe began. “Not a word, nor a whisper, only the melody of dripping water, the ghostly gurgle and splash of a rippling stream, the quiet roar of a waterfall, and the distant cry of bats in the dark.”

  A rush of wind blew over the cabin, moaning, and an icy chill arched up my spine.

  “Nor is it the darkness that I cherish, for heaven knows I do worship those places totally absent of light,” Monroe continued. “The complete blackness is my blessing. It renews my world. I am in the belly of Mother Cave waiting once again to be reborn, without light and helpless.”

  Kiki and I traded a fidgety glance. Monroe was one scary dude.

  “Nor is it the coolness that draws me again and again to the bowels of creation,” Monroe said. “For I am a man who loathes heat. The cool air of the cave is my sanctuary.” Eyes closed, he sucked in a mighty breath through his nose. “No, it’s none of these things that bring me back to my caves.” A soft, guttural laugh rolled out of his mouth and his eyes popped open with a frightful suddenness. “It’s the smell.”

  “The smell?” Pia asked in a timid voice.

  “Yes, sweet pea, the smell,” Monroe said, opening his nostrils and sucking in a big breath. “The odor of Mother Cave is magnificent. Wet earth mixed with dry dust. The ammonia smell of bat urine. The stink of guano. The decaying bodies of spiders and beetles and cave rats. Tiny carcasses radiating that wonderful smell of death.”

  I snatched a glimpse of Pia. Her eyes were as big as $20 gold coins.

  “Ah, the smell of Mother Cave,” Monroe said. “To me it has the aroma of perfume—I am seduced by it. The cave is a woman and her smells bring me back for more of her sweet love.”

  Complete silence.

  “So,” Monroe said, his daydream at an end. “Are we ready for this grand adventure? Are we ready to traipse through fresh bat guano, to wade in icy, waist-deep water, to crawl belly-down through mud in a place where the sun never shines, the moon never rises?”

  “We’re ready,” I said.

  “And the sweet pea,” Monroe asked. “Is she in or out?”

  “You’ve seen her leg. You’ve seen her walk,” I said. “What do you think?” It had not occurred to me until that moment that Pia might be incapable of exploring a cave. Swimming in Harper’s Hole was one thing, but an underground hike—and it might be an overnighter—was something else. I wasn’t sure she could make it.

  “It’s not the leg I’ve judged,” Monroe said. “It’s the heart. She has plenty of that.”

  I looked at Pia, who pleaded with her eyes. I nodded. “She’s in.”

  “Yes!” Pia cried, raising both hands above her head.

  “Good for you,” Kiki said, giving Pia a fist bump.

  “Is anyone claustrophobic?” Monroe asked.

  We shook our heads.

  “How about nyctaphobic?”

  “What’s that?” Kiki asked, looking unsure.

  A smile brightened Monroe’s face. “A fear of the dark.”

  Very funny, I thought, a wormy chill running up between my shoulders.

  Monroe said he would provide the canoes and headlamps. The lamps would serve as our primary light source. The rest of the supplies and gear were our responsibility.

  “If you don’t get those items I recommend,” Monroe said, “it will be you, not me, who will suffer the consequences. Mother Cave shows little tolerance for those people who believe tomorrow will take care of itself.”

  A flashlight was at the top of Monroe’s list. He said it would serve as a backup light source.

  “And if you believe in the Law of Inverse Perversity,” Monroe said with a big monkeylike grin, “then you’d better bring a third light source.”

  “What’s the Law of what-you-said?” Pia asked, crinkling her nose.

  “It’s a law all spelunkers believe in,” he said. “It states that the second light source, your flashlight, will always fail when it is needed most. Buy a can of Sterno.” Monroe said Sterno was a jelly-like substance that would burn for two hours directly from the can.

  Kiki wrote it all down on the NOTES icon of her phone.

  “What is that … contraption?” Monroe asked, eyeing Kiki’s phone.

  “It’s something called a Smart Phone. It takes pictures, gives me access to the Internet, and has a built in GPS system.”

  “Can you make calls on it?”

  “Oh, sure. It’s mainly a phone,” Kiki said. “I can also watch video on YouTube.”

  “You-what?”

  “It’s a site on the Internet where—”

  Monroe interrupted. “Don’t imagine it will be much good inside a cave.”

  “You’re probably right,” Kiki agreed with a tight smile.

  “You would also be wise to buy whistles,” Monroe said. He explained that a whistle would come in handy if someone got separated from the group.

  Each person’s gear would go into a backpack, one made of heavy canvas. “Don’t get a pack with a zipper,” Monroe cautioned. “Zippers get knotted with mud. A waterproof backpack with buckles or drawstrings works best.

  “And because cave water isn’t fit to drink,” he continued, “buy plenty of halazone tablets. They’ll purify our drinking water.”
/>   Kiki’s fingers tapped away on her phone.

  Monroe listed the other items we would need, including clothes. He said we could find what we needed at the Army surplus store, located three doors down from Lyda’s Café on the town square.

  “The experts say a person needs at least a pound-and-a-half of food a day while hiking,” Monroe said. “I have no way of knowing how deep this phantom cave of yours is, but I’d bring enough food for at least three days.”

  “Three days?” I asked.

  “It’s better to have the food and not need it,” Monroe said, “than to need it and not have it.”

  I gave a sigh. Digging a hole in water would have been easier than arguing with Monroe’s logic.

  Monroe was saying something about the chilly temperatures inside a cave and the need to stay warm, but I didn’t hear much of what he said from that point on. My brain had created a wonderful picture of gold and silver coins stacked to the ceiling in some dark and dingy corner of Bear Mountain. The image was clear as day.

  11

  An early-morning fog hung over James Creek like one of Mom’s old gray quilts.

  We planned to meet Monroe at the James Creek Bridge, located a short distance from the city park, at six that morning. At precisely that hour he drove up and parked his old Jeep beside the river. Two aluminum canoes were lashed to the top. He climbed out of the Jeep and began untying the ropes that held the canoes. He wore a pair of dingy khaki coveralls, a white T-shirt, and a blue, wide-brimmed cap. The sun was still not up, but Monroe already had his side-shield sunglasses in place.

  We had arrived minutes earlier in Mom’s broken-down Buick.

  “That’s your guide?” Mom asked, peering through a crack in the windshield. “He looks mean.”

  Seated next to Mom, I said, “He’s not mean. He’s as gentle as a lamb.” I wished I believed that. Something told me not to trust Monroe Huff. I wasn’t sure what that something was.

  “Does he provide lifejackets?”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  “He still looks mean.” She continued to examine our odd-looking cave guide in the khaki coveralls as he went about the business of unloading the canoes.

  “He’s very even-tempered,” Kiki said from the backseat. “And professional.”

  Kiki had purchased all of our cave exploration gear with her summer vacation money. It was close—she only had $200—but the total came to $197.25. Confident that we would discover the lost treasure of Jesse James, I was certain I could pay her back.

  Seated next to Kiki in the backseat, Pia said, “I like him, Mom. He’s nice. He calls me sweet pea.”

  “I think I should meet him,” Mom declared. “Everyone stay in the car.”

  Mom crawled out from behind the wheel of the Buick and marched over to where Monroe stood unloading the canoes. Monroe removed his hat and pushed his sunglasses up onto his head as Mom approached.

  “That’s a good start,” Kiki said, leaning over the front seat and gazing through the pitted windshield. “Removing his hat as a sign of respect. That should earn him points with your mother.”

  “He’s a real gentleman,” Pia observed.

  I hope you’re right, Pia.

  The conversation between Mom and Monroe continued for several minutes, and it seemed to me that Mom was doing most of the talking. Occasionally, Monroe would nod and say a few words, and Mom would continue.

  “Wonder what they’re talking about?” Pia said.

  “Mom wants to know that he’s a legitimate guide,” I speculated, “and not some weirdo.”

  Maybe he is a weirdo, Pablo, did you ever think of that? Some weirdo who likes to eat live frogs and—

  “Aunt Anna is doing the right thing,” Kiki said. “She wants to know we’ll be safe.”

  “How long will we be gone, Pablo?” Pia asked.

  “I told Mom it was an overnighter, but we might be back sooner than that.”

  “And you believe this because …?” Kiki said.

  I turned in the seat to face Kiki. “Because the map might be totally worthless, and once Monroe sees it he’s going to have a serious breakdown.” That single thought continued to ricochet through my head.

  “Think positive, primo,” Kiki encouraged, giving me a playful punch in the shoulder.

  Mom’s conversation with Monroe ended with a handshake. She returned to the car and poked her head in the open window.

  “You’re in good hands, kids,” Mom reported. “He’s nice. He called me ma’am. I can’t remember the last time I was addressed as ma’am.”

  Mom helped us unload the backpacks from the trunk of the car. She wished us good luck, climbed back into the old Buick, and drove off toward another long day of trimming dead chickens.

  “I can use some help!” Monroe called out to us.

  We hurried over, and five minutes later the canoes were loaded and in the water.

  Before shoving off, Monroe announced that he had checked the weather report and clear skies were forecast for the next 48 hours. There was a line of squalls in central Oklahoma, but it was expected to fall apart before moving into southwest Missouri. Monroe said he didn’t mind a lethal fall from a subterranean cliff or dying of starvation after becoming hopelessly lost, but he didn’t relish the thought of drowning in a cave. “I have an unnatural fear of that,” he confessed. “You see, I am not a swimmer.”

  We strapped on orange lifejackets and set out, Kiki and Monroe in the lead canoe. Pia and I followed. The sun had begun to melt away the fog, and the prospects for a sunny day looked good.

  We had gone only a short distance and were floating under the James Creek Bridge when a red Ford pickup crossed above us. I glanced up at the truck through the lingering haze and recognized the two men inside—the Blood brothers. One of them was leaning out the driver’s window and peering down at us.

  “Give us back our coin, you swindlers!” I roared, raising a fist.

  “Yeah, give me back my coin!” Pia trumpeted, standing up in the canoe, her face drawn into an ugly snarl. The canoe rocked from side to side.

  The brother leaning out the window laughed like a hyena and waved. It was the kind of silly wave you’d expect from a four-year-old. The Ford pickup continued on across the bridge and out of sight.

  “That was them!” I called out to Monroe. “The Blood brothers!”

  From the lead canoe, Monroe nodded. He seemed unconcerned.

  “Monroe, what are they doing here?” Kiki asked, swatting a bug on her forearm.

  “I’d say they’re going to follow us, sugar plum,” Monroe said, his long paddle strokes propelling the canoe forward.

  The morning passed without incident. We followed the ribbon of water as it meandered in and out of the Ozark woodlands, falling at a gentle rate of only four feet per mile. At a point in the river known as Devil’s Bend, the landscape changed. Towering limestone walls crowded the river, squeezing it, quickening it. Falling now at eight feet per mile, we passed through several slices of whitewater. But there was never any danger, and it was soon behind us.

  When Kiki wasn’t paddling she passed the time reading The Life and Times of Jesse James, the book she had purchased at the Outlaw Days Festival. Seated in the bow of the lead canoe, she would occasionally glance over her shoulder and slip me a smile, as if to confirm my presence.

  At a little before eleven that morning Monroe motioned to a thin finger of water that angled away from the river and extended back into a dense stand of overhanging river birch. Pia and I guided our canoe into the narrow lagoon, paddling over to where Monroe and Kiki sat in their canoe.

  “Let’s see if the Blood brothers have picked up our scent,” Monroe said craftily, snatching a glimpse up river.

  We back-paddled deeper into the river birch until only a slender patch of James Creek could be seen through the tangle of limbs and leaves. The knot of trees overhead cut the light to a murky gray.

  In a few minutes, Earl and Burl Blood came floating past. I couldn’
t make out what the two brothers were saying—they were too far away for that—but it sounded like one brother was doing most of the talking. I guessed it was Earl, whose face seemed contorted with anger. The sun gleamed off what appeared to be a rifle strapped to his back.

  “Idiots,” Monroe observed. “Not one good brain between them.”

  “You know them?” I asked.

  “Everyone in Ozark County knows them,” Monroe said. “Bad luck has a way of sticking to their backs.”

  “They’re mean,” Pia said.

  “When they realize they’ve lost our scent,” Monroe said, “they’ll paddle even faster and put that much more distance between us.” Monroe grinned darkly. “They’ll be all the way to Ginger Blue Resort before they figure out they’ve been had.”

  “They’re not real smart are they, Mr. Huff?” Pia asked from her place in the bow of our canoe.

  “Smart enough to steal your gold coin, sweet pea.”

  “That’s okay,” Pia said. “I’ll find another one. In fact, I bet we find hundreds of gold coins.”

  I caught Monroe’s eye. “By the way, what’s Moon Milk?”

  “Huh?”

  “You asked me what Moon Milk was that day at your cabin.”

  “Oh, that. It’s the calcite coating on some cave formations,” Monroe said. “It looks like milk. Cave walls resemble the moon’s surface—moon milk.”

  “How about a Bachman Knot?” Kiki asked.

  “It’s a knot used when you’re ascending a cave wall or pit, sugar plum. A special climbing knot.”

  “How does water run uphill, Mr. Huff?” Pia asked.

  “It can happen, sweet pea,” Monroe snickered. “When a tremendous gush of water is pushed through a small opening, the force of the water can be stronger than gravity—it can run uphill. Seen it a dozen times.”

  While we waited for the Blood twins to lose themselves, Kiki made a few observations on her phone.

  “What’s that you’re writing?” Monroe asked from his place in the rear of their canoe.

  Kiki looked up. “I’m making notes.”

  “Why would you be making notes?”

  “I’m going to submit a story about our Jesse James treasure hunt to the newspaper in St. Louis. It’s a writing contest. If we find the treasure, it will make one awesome story.”