“Okay, now,” Mike said, scanning the horizon. “Where’s Kansas, Toto?”
He had always heard that if a person was lost, he should stay put right where he was. That way he wouldn’t accidentally head off in the wrong direction, giving the would-be rescuers an even larger area to search.
But Mike’s father had taught him to use his head. And in a situation like this, he knew he couldn’t just sit back and wait for a rescue party to show up. No one could possibly have any idea where he was. And although he was sure they were beginning to look for him at home, he also knew that, with God’s help, he would have to pull his own fat out of the fire on this one.
He decided to head due east. Since he didn’t know which way civilization lay, it was as good a direction as any, he guessed. He would use the sun as his compass. He would head toward it in the morning, and it would set behind him at dusk.
He decided that before he left, he’d better leave a marker. Gathering rocks, he made a large letter M and an arrow pointing east. It was a trick he had picked up from his dad. The letter and arrow were large enough to spot from the air and would tell a pilot which direction he had headed.
When he stepped back to examine his work, he noticed the jade statuette still lying where he had tossed it. He walked over and picked it up. “Who knows,” he said, placing it back in his coat pocket. “Maybe we’ll make it.”
Before he and Jake began their journey, Mike knelt on one knee and said another prayer. But this time he didn’t just pray for himself and his own problems. He prayed for his mom, too. He knew that she had been through this once before, and he was sorry to put her through it again.
Back in Ambrosia, Winnie, Spence, and Ben were trying to do what they could to aid in the search.
First, they had ridden their bikes to the Fowler household. Pop had come out, looking like he had been up all night, and told them that there was still no sign of Mike and that Smitty had not come up with any leads. Next, they rode into town and checked in at the sheriff’s office. Arlene told them that Smitty was much too busy to see them, unless they had found some new evidence that might help him out.
And so they decided to do just that—find new evidence. After all, even without Mike, they were still a detective team. Why not see what they could dig up on their own?
They determined that they should start at the bank since that was the last place Mike had been seen. Then they would retrace the path he would have had to take to get home. The only problem was, Mike could have taken several possible routes home. And knowing Mike, he may have thrown in a detour or two.
And so they broke up, each taking a parallel route on separate streets.
After an hour, they met up at the southern edge of town. Spence and Winnie had already met up when Ben came pedaling around the corner, breathing heavily.
“Nothing on Kramer Street,” he panted as he pulled his bike next to theirs. “You guys find anything?”
“No,” Winnie said in a low voice. “And I don’t think he would have come this far.”
“Oh,” said Ben, sensing their low spirits. “Then I guess there’s really nothing else—”
Crash! Winnie let her bike fall to the ground while she walked up a driveway to be by herself. She didn’t want Spence and Ben to see her cry. The two boys stood there in an awkward silence, not sure what to do.
“So,” said Ben to Spence, trying to make some small talk. “Can you believe someone knocked off the bank yesterday? We should investigate that case.”
Spence didn’t say anything. He just handed his canteen to Ben.
“I mean, after we find Mike,” Ben quickly added.
Winnie walked to the side of the driveway and wiped the tears from her eyes. She had never cried in front of the others before, but this time she felt so helpless. If only they had some kind of clue to work on. Something to take their minds off their worries. Something that made them feel that they were somehow getting nearer. Something—
She had been kicking at some weeds at the side of the driveway when she saw it. At first, she thought it was just a reflection of an old discarded soda can, but all of a sudden something looked strangely familiar. As she gently parted the weeds, her eyes opened wide in recognition. Mike’s compass! “Spence! Ben!” cried Winnie.
Dropping their bikes, they raced to her side. With trembling hands, she showed them her find. “He was here!” was all she could manage to say.
Ben’s mouth dropped wide open. Spence immediately began to assess the situation. His eyes focused on the letters on an old sign hanging over their heads.
“‘Howdy Partner!’” Spence said, reading the sign out loud.
“Howdy,” replied Ben, still in shock.
“No. This place. It’s called the Howdy Partner! Motor Lodge,” said Spence. “But what would Mike be doing here?”
“C’mon.” Winnie motioned for the others to follow her as she made her way through a hole in the fence.
Once in the courtyard, they spread out, their eyes scanning for any signs of life.
“Mike?” called Winnie.
“Hey, Mike!” yelled Ben.
They listened quietly, but no response came.
“Maybe he was just passing by,” Ben whispered.
“Hey, guys!” Spence yelled. He was crouched near the back of the courtyard, waving for them to come over. “Look at this!”
As they neared him, they could see that he was holding a small red ball in his hands.
“Jake’s ball!” Spence exclaimed victoriously.
“He was here!” said Ben in awe.
The clues were coming together quickly now. They could feel that they were getting closer with each new find. With renewed vigor they continued their search, scouring the ground and peeking in all the abandoned rooms.
A dirty old tarp covering a large object caught Winnie’s attention. As she pulled the canvas back, her face went white. She recognized the Cadillac immediately as the car they had seen in front of the bank.
“Illinois!” she mumbled as she stared at the license plate.
She knew it could only mean one thing: Mike was with the bank robbers!
Chapter 6
WITHIN AN HOUR, the Howdy Partner! Motor Lodge was a beehive of activity. State and local police cars were parked at odd angles around the property, their red lights strobing against the adobe walls. Yellow police-barrier tape had already been stretched around the perimeter in an attempt to keep local reporters and curious bystanders from disturbing the evidence.
Inside the courtyard, a handful of officers were busy photographing and measuring a fresh set of tire tracks they had found in the dust. At the same time, other officers were going through the motel room by room, searching for anything the robbers might have left behind. The abandoned Cadillac was now the center of attention for two FBI agents. They carefully dusted it for fingerprints and took hair and fiber samples that would later be sent to their lab.
Sheriff Smitty paced back and forth, directing the whole operation. Lack of sleep didn’t seem to matter to him anymore. He now had a trail to follow. And like a bloodhound on the hunt, he felt more alert than ever. He walked through the yard barking orders, a look of stubborn determination etched across his face.
“Tom, I want a match on these tire tracks ASAP,” he called to a trooper.
Another officer walked up and handed him a hot cup of coffee and a dispatch that had just come in over the wire. Smitty didn’t even break his stride but grabbed them both and continued on his way through the yard.
“Bev, call Search and Rescue. I want someone in the air immediately!” he said after a scalding gulp of coffee.
His eyes scanned the dispatch. It confirmed his suspicions. Ducking under the yellow barrier tape, he walked to the vehicle where Pop, Gail, Grandma, and the kids were anxiously waiting.
“Well, we’ve got a positive ID on the car. It is the one used yesterday in the bank robbery,” he said. He folded the dispatch and placed it into his back pocket. His face was
somber. “I’m afraid it looks like Mike stumbled across the two suspects when they were switching vehicles.”
Hearing the news, Gail took a deep, painful breath and closed her eyes. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but at least they knew something.
“What do you know about these men, Smitty?” Pop asked.
“We think we know who they are. Two other banks in small towns have been robbed by men matching their descriptions and MO,” Smitty explained. “The good news is that they have never once hurt anyone. It’s not their style. We’re going to get them.”
“Smitty,” an officer called from behind the barricade.
“Sorry, I’ve got to go,” Smitty said. “I’ll let you know when we have more information.”
As Smitty eased himself under the yellow tape and walked back into the courtyard of the motel, Pop followed him until they were out of earshot of the others.
“Smitty,” Pop called in a somber voice.
Smitty stopped and turned, slightly taken aback.
“Look,” Pop said, stepping close to him. “I know you, you know me. Let’s put the polite talk aside. Tell me the truth about my grandson.”
Smitty took a long, deep breath and then pulled the police dispatch out of his back pocket. Unfolding the paper, he handed it to Pop. Pop quickly glanced over it and then looked to Smitty to explain its meaning.
“I think he’s with them, Pop,” Smitty explained, shaking his head. “But it doesn’t make any sense. These guys aren’t the hostage type. They’re fast in, fast out. Mike would just slow them down. The truth is, Mike is in a bad situation. There are lots of prettier words, but they don’t hide the meaning.”
Pop handed the dispatch back to Smitty. There was a slight tremble to his voice. “Smitty, we can’t lose him.”
Smitty just looked back at him. There was really nothing else he could say.
“Smitty!”
The voice surprised both of them. They turned around to discover that Gail had been listening in on their conversation.
“Smitty, I . . .” Gail’s words faded away as she tried to regain her composure.
Smitty saw the tears welling up in her eyes and realized that she was about to break down. He had to say something. He had to give her some kind of hope.
“Gail, I will bring him home!” Smitty said in a determined voice that left little room for doubt. He turned on his heel and walked purposefully back to the command post. He had two men and a boy to find.
Mike knew that the journey across the desert wastelands was going to be tough. He knew that the near future promised incredible hardships that would test the limits of his endurance. But the utter impossibility of the challenge that lay ahead was just beginning to fully dawn on him.
The sun burned mercilessly upon his shoulders and head as he plodded across the searing sand. He stopped for a moment and squinted at the distant hills. He had hoped to make them by noon. But the sun was at its apex, and the hills didn’t seem to be getting any closer.
Josh had dropped him off in this area for a reason: He didn’t think Mike would be able to make it out alive. Even with the water bottle, Mike knew his chances of making it were slim to none.
Persistence! Mike thought to himself. That’s what I need, persistence! Even a snail will eventually make it across the entire distance of a driveway . . . that is, if the sun doesn’t fry him first.
Mike knew he had to put the doubt and fear out of his mind. He knew he had to just concentrate on the job at hand. It was his only chance. Tired, Mike knelt on one knee and put his hand on Jake’s back. The poor dog’s coat was almost too hot to touch. “You okay there, buddy?” he asked Jake.
Jake let out a small whimper and tried to crawl into Mike’s shadow.
Mike carefully unscrewed the lid on the water bottle and took a small swig. The water was warm, but it still felt great as it slowly trickled down his throat.
“We have to get out of the sun,” Mike groaned, scanning the barren expanse around them.
Jake licked his chops and stared eagerly at the water bottle.
“Don’t worry, boy. I didn’t forget about you,” Mike said.
He slowly poured a small pool of water into his cupped hand. Jake didn’t waste any time but quickly lapped it up until Mike’s hand was dry.
“I wish I could give you some more,” Mike apologized. “But we’ve got to ration this for later.”
Mike shaded his eyes and took one last look around. Except for a few football-sized volcanic rocks and some low-lying desert brush, there was no shade to be found anywhere.
Mike stood to his feet and started forward. “C’mon, Jake. There’s gotta be an umbrella out there somewhere.”
The Last Chance Gas and Diner had been open every Monday through Saturday as far back as most people in Ambrosia could remember. But not today. A signboard that swung lazily in the warm breeze read, Sorry, We’re Closed.
Inside, Pop, Grandma, Gail, and the three kids sat together in one of the larger booths. They had locked the entrance and closed the blinds to ensure their privacy.
“There must be something we can do,” Winnie lamented, looking vacantly into an empty water glass.
“Yeah, but I’m afraid it’s pretty tough without a trail, Winnie,” Pop said. “We may have to wait for them to be spotted somewhere or to spend some of those large bills they stole from the bank.”
“Yeah,” Ben added. “Then we could track ’em down before they hurt Mike.”
Gail winced at the thought of Mike being harmed by the kidnappers. Ben was a master at sticking his foot in his mouth, and Winnie shot him a dirty look for making such an insensitive remark in front of Mike’s mom.
“What?” he asked, not realizing what he had said.
Winnie tried to discreetly point in Gail’s direction. Ben suddenly got the message and regretfully hung his head.
“It’s okay, Ben,” Gail said. “If I just didn’t feel so . . . helpless.”
“Sometimes that’s when the good Lord does His best work,” Grandma reminded them.
“Well, I’ll sure welcome any help the good Lord sends our way,” sighed Gail.
Tap, tap, tap. There was a knock at the front door.
“We’re closed!” hollered Grandma to the door.
Tap, tap, tap. The knocking persisted.
“I’ll get it,” Winnie said, rising and walking to the door. Winnie peeked through the blinds and recognized a scarecrow of a man called Harley Fisher.
Everyone in Ambrosia knew of the eccentric old desert rat. His skinny frame was a common sight along the roads around town. He daily made his rounds up and down the highway, searching for lost hubcaps and aluminum cans. He had a face that reminded people of an old cracked leather saddle. And he smelled like he hadn’t taken a bath since last Christmas.
Winnie turned the key in the lock and opened the door just wide enough to be heard but not enough to let the smell in. “Hi, um, the diner’s closed,” Winnie apologized through the crack in the door.
“Are you kiddin’?” boomed Harley. “On a day of miracles like this? ‘For the Lord said unto Moses, Behold, I will rain bread from heaven for you.’”
“Huh?” said Winnie, not catching his drift.
Harley held up a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill and snapped it open for her to see.
“One hundred dollars!” he exclaimed, beaming from ear to ear. “Found it out on the highway.”
The old man was so happy, it seemed like he might begin dancing a jig at any moment. “Certainly you can find something in the kitchen to—”
Before he could finish what he was saying, several pairs of hands reached out and yanked him into the diner.
This was the break they had all been waiting for, and they weren’t about to let it get away.
It had taken the better part of a day, but Mike and Jake had finally made it to the hills they had seen in the distance—only they weren’t typical hills. They were sand dunes.
The creation of a
sand dune is a strange phenomenon. The high winds that blow across the desert pick up the very smallest particles of sand and carry them aloft. Once the winds hit an area where they are forced to die down, the particles drop out of the sky and are deposited on the desert floor. Day after day, month after month, year after year, this goes on until large white piles of sand, or dunes, are created. They never stop growing; they are always expanding in height and width.
Mike knew that if he was going to continue on his present course, he would have to go over the dunes. To detour around them would take much too long. And the way he was using up his water meant he didn’t have time not to take any shortcut he could. So he set about climbing the shifting hills.
After he had been at it for over an hour, he began to wonder if it had been such a good idea. The sand cruelly reflected the sun into his face like it was bouncing off a mirror. With each step his foot sank into the fine sand up to his ankle. He felt like he was walking through wet concrete with sandbags tied to each foot. His breathing was labored, and his shirt was drenched with sweat.
He decided to stop for a moment. He could not keep up this pace without a rest. He pulled out his water bottle once again to share it with Jake. When it was his turn, he had to resist the temptation to just guzzle it all down.
He looked up at the crest of the dune. He had already climbed almost halfway there. He estimated that the top was another four hundred feet. The problem was that he had no idea what was on the other side. He hoped that once he reached the top he would be able to descend back to the desert floor, but he feared that he might just find more mountains of sand.
A low growl caught his attention. At first he thought it was Jake, but then he realized that it was his own stomach making the noise. It had been over twenty-four hours since he had last eaten. Yesterday morning, he had shared a sandwich with Spence at the baseball game. He wondered how long someone could go without food. He guessed that it didn’t really matter. If he ran out of water, he wouldn’t last a full day.
He checked his water bottle. It was already half empty. “C’mon, Jake,” Mike said, standing up on his shaky legs. “We’ve had all the rest we can afford for now.”
Escape from Fire Lake Page 4