by Rich Foster
The chopper banked hard and turned back toward Beaumont. Down below as the gas station slipped past, Lane thought he saw Darryl making what appeared to be a one finger gesture at the police chopper as it passed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Alan was down on all fours crawling beneath a canopy of dense brush when he heard the Bell Ranger sweep overhead. At first it was a low rumble like thunder in the mountains. Then he heard the pronounced whock-whock-whock of the rotors, followed by the high-pitched whine of the engines as it screamed past. He flailed at the branches above him as he tried to stand up, but it was useless. He lay down again, and scrambled furiously back toward the open. By the time he cleared the brush the sounds of the chopper were completely faded.
Despondently, he sat in the open; praying to a god he was not sure he believed in, praying that they would return. They did not. Alan heard the cry of birds, the nattering of insects, a lizard or chipmunk scrambling in the leaves, but not the helicopter. Once or twice he thought he heard the distant whock of the rotors but he could not be sure, nor which direction it originated from.
The thought, that he had been so close to rescue, to hot food and human comfort, overwhelmed him with sorrow. It reduced him to tears. He cried in sorrow from disappointment and frustration. He cried from confusion and exhaustion. Soon he cried for the things that had eluded him in life and the many things he didn’t understand about his own existence. Finally he cried for himself and the lost hopes he had brought to his work and his marriage.
He sat immobile as the afternoon light failed and night crept upon him. He had not even attempted to start a fire. It was not important. Nothing was important. Alan stared numbly at the night sky. Amongst the vast canopy of stars, which is only a portion of our small galaxy, and only one of billions of galaxies in the universe, he fully sensed what an insignificant speck, on a spinning bit of dust, in a swirling puff of gas, in the infinite blackness of space that he was. And for the first time in years Alan was struck with wonder. For the moment, he recaptured the mouth gaping, eye bulging wonder of childhood. The magic that is life swept over him. The smells of the woods, the twinkle of the stars, the steady beating of his own heart mesmerized him. He wandered lost in the mysteries of being.
The night was warm and Alan’s emotions spent. Becoming used to living outdoors he curled up in a mass of brush and drifted off to sleep. He wasn’t sure what was different, but he had a glimmer of hope. What that hope was he wasn’t certain, but he believed that for a moment, understanding had been within his grasp. The hope remained that he had seen something of himself, something significant, but he was unsure of what that was, so he had backed away like an animal unsure of the scent on an object.
When dawn spread across the sky he felt optimistic. The fact he had seen a helicopter made him feel closer to rescue than the facts might warrant. Somewhere at the far end of the valley or over the next ridge he had seen smoke, he was almost certain of that. He had only to continue working that way and he would find a way out.
The problem was that the trail he had discovered had proved to be an animal track. If it was ever a hiking trail it was long unused. He had seen no cut brush along the trail, no small drainage improvements. Once the trail moved away from the base of the rocky slope it had degenerated into numerous spurs, which quickly faded from lack of use. What he considered the main trail led through the thick brush of the valley floor. Despite the difficulty he was determined to try to follow the animal track as long as it headed in the general direction he was trying to go.
Alan looked for food in his pack. He had a little smoked fish and wad of acorn paste left for his breakfast. However his hunger had never allowed him to build up a surplus of food stores when he was camped by the stream. He tried to ration his meager supplies but hunger was a constant companion. Several small nibbles had proved better than a short-lived binge. If he were an outdoorsman he would have found food in abundance. Much would have been bitter but with some boiling there was ample wild food for those who knew what to eat. But then, much of life is like that, anything is easy once you know how.
He sat with his back braced against the tree where he had slept. The morning sun found him and he savored its comfort while he nibbled the fish in his fingers. It was a pungent odor that clung to him. As he ate, the brush parted at the far end of the glade. Where he had been crawling the day before a full grown mountain lion padded softly into the light. Alan became a petrified stone. The gentle breeze was toward him and for the moment the animal seemed unaware of his existence. Alan could see the muscle twitch below the cat’s fur, which had a well-groomed sheen. It cast its gaze around lazily, its long tail swaying back and forth. Then the cat’s large yellow eyes settled on Alan. He thought he could actually see a hardness creep into those menacing eyes and the cat’s body tense up. He leapt to his feet with a howl. A flock of birds broke from cover in the brush and took flight. What was left of his food supply he impulsively threw at the lion, which the beast easily snatched the fish from out of the air. Alan let lose another howl, stomped his feet and waved his arms wildly over his head. After a moments pause the animal bounded to the right and quickly disappeared into the brush. Silence fell on the woods. Alan felt his body trembling with fear, his heart racing in his chest.
What to do now? He thought. The idea of crawling in the brush was extremely unattractive. Was the cat yet hungry after an unfruitful night, or was it sated by a deer, which had been more unfortunate than he? Against such thoughts his plans lost all sense of action. For half an hour he chose to remain where he was, his back firmly against the tree. The remnants of his acorn paste ball lay scattered in the dirt forty feet away. Birds and chipmunks quickly found it. Unlike the mountain lion they were not frightened off by his shouts. But Alan’s fear of the big cat kept him from rescuing the last of his food.
“I bet he’d like to eat us,” said Ralphie. “Bet you’re scared!”
“Damn right I am!”
“I’m not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
Alan looked away in disgust. Ralphie was taking on a life of his own. More than once he wondered if he were not going a little mad.
“You never should have left your camp.”
“Will you please, shut up?” Alan yelled.
Ralphie turned and faded away. But Alan had to admit that the temptation was great to back track to his old campsite. The comfort level of the locale made him think of it as a second a home, a sanctuary from the onslaught of nature. However, he would have to find where he had first entered the trail, and though it was probable he could locate the spot, going back would not actually bring him closer to escaping the woods. After due consideration, he chose to move to his right, away from the mountain lion’s path. However, a mountain lion can easily cover fifty miles a night so there was little improved safety from that. If he skirted the valley by staying up slope he hoped to avoid the denser vegetation and still move in the direction of where he had believed he seen smoke.
His progress through the woods was slow. He continued to mark his path with small piles of stones. He might not know where he was going but it was assuring to know he could always “go home.” Water was scarce in this portion of the water shed. The cause of the well, worn trail to the small pool became evident. Small rivulets were lacking. He came across no streams. What water that was here must be below the surface where the dense brush grew so luxurious. If he continued to crawl through the overgrowth he might have encountered small pockets of water, but here under the pines the ground was dry.
He stopped to rest and to quench his thirst, but the thermos was almost empty and he had only a few sips. Small rumblings came from his stomach, the hunger pains stirred to life by the water. Reluctantly, he pushed on.
By late morning he came to a rise at what had seemed the end of the valley. However, the ground dropped away in front of him again and the basin continued. Hoping to see some trace of smoke he scaled a nearby rock outcropping
. Futile as it was, he could not help but wish he had stood here the day before, as the helicopter had swept past. Before his eyes was an unbroken expanse of pine forest. The hills revealed no signs of a road cut or logging path. It astounded him how vast the wilderness could be when afoot. The desire to “get back to nature” and “to commune with it” was laughable. He was in an unrelenting battle to wrest his daily sustenance from the landscape.
For many minutes he scanned the hills around the valley looking for a sign of flowing water. Whereas he had found water in abundance in the past this valley seemed to be sheltered from the rain. Perhaps the rain was pried free from the clouds by the high mountains, which rose beyond it. The nights though had been damp and he felt he could always collect moisture that condensed on the leaves of plants.
Fatigue was overtaking him. Alan resolved to stay put for the night. The process of gathering wood and starting a fire all took time. If he stopped moving he could spend a little time seeking food and a water supply. He quickly selected a spot to build his fire. The sun was still high and he found he was able to get a small flame more quickly than when the sun was low to the horizon. The flames quickly ignited his kindling and he began feeding the flames. He planned to build a good size fire on which he could throw green grass. If there were a helicopter still flying in the vicinity he was hopeful the dense smoke would attract their interest. However, it was well before fire season began, most people would ignore smoke.
Once his fire was going, he set out looking for food. The area was too dry for miner’s lettuce and the valley had no oaks. And like most people, Alan was uncertain what was edible. In this portion of the valley the trees were mature. The under storey was less dense. Scorched trunks bore witness to a fire, which had burned, through the area. He worked his way down the slope. When he was in the belly of the valley he found a damp area. Ferns grew in the cool shade. The earth was soft and muddy under his feet. Twenty minutes of exploring brought him to a hot spring. Several small pools steamed in the air. The water welled up into the largest and then dissipated out to several smaller pools. These trickled out and formed a small stream. Limestone deposits rimmed the pools of water. He tried the lowest pool and found the water hot but cool enough to drink. The water bore a sulfurous odor, but his thirst made him willing to overlook that and drink deeply from it. Hot water seemed a decadent luxury.
He filled his thermos bottle. No need to boil water tonight, Alan thought. It was odd how life could be reduced to such simple pleasures, warmth, food, and sated thirst. The steaming water felt soothing on his arm, so he quickly stripped off his grimy clothes to bathe in the pool. The basin was only twice the size of a metal washtub but the water was hot enough that he had to ease himself in gently. Gradually he reclined in the water. By bending his knees he was able to cover most of his body with little discomfort. The hot water was soothing and rejuvenated his sore feet. Alan inspected his arms; most of the scabs had fallen off from the cuts he sustained that last night at home. His sense of smell became acclimated to the sulfur odor and it ceased to be unpleasant. He watched the clouds of vapor rise and wondered if he had seen vapor clouds from these hot springs, not smoke. But it seemed unlikely the steam would be thick enough to rise clearly above the trees.
He lounged until he felt weak. At last, he rose up. Sitting on the rim of the pool, he picked up his clothes and scrubbed them. As he wrung each piece dry he noticed how rapidly they were becoming tattered from hard use. Small tears in the fabric marked where he had caught on brambles or branches.
Alan slipped his sneakers on. He carried his wet clothes to a sunny spot and spread them out to dry. Meanwhile he roved around once again looking for food. Not far off he found a small shrub with red berries on it. It looked like a type of pine and having eaten pine nuts he thought they might be edible. He was doubtful about eating anything he was unsure of, but his stomach won the argument. Exercising prudence he nibbled half of one. It didn’t seem bitter, but he dropped the other half and decided to wait and see if he felt any ill effects. Meanwhile he plucked as many berries as he could find. He also gathered pine cones; however most of the cones he found had already been picked clean by rodents and birds.
When he dressed, his clothes were still damp and clung to his skin. On his way back to his fire, he passed a clump of plants that looked like onions. He dug out the root and found they had a strong onion odor. These he gathered and brought back to the fire where he made onion soup.
He scanned the valley for signs of smoke. But the wind had picked up and was dissipating his smoke very rapidly so if there was someone out there he might not see their fire. It was also possible that he had seen smoke from a cabin. They might not have a fire every night, or perhaps it was a backpacker who had a fire and passed on. In either case Alan was hopeful he might soon encounter a trail or road.
“I know I saw smoke.” Alan said to Ralphie, as he let himself slide into the imaginary company of his childhood friend.
“I think you just imagined it.”
Despite the fact he was from his own imagination, Alan found he could be quite argumentative.
Alan looked at Ralphie and asked, “Why are you always so negative?”
Ralphie shrugged. “I worry about things. Life is dangerous. Look what happened to your brother, Eric!”
“But that was along time ago.”
“But it could happen to us you know!”
Alan considered this for a few moments. “We’re all going to die.”
“But then what?” Ralphie wailed with a cry.
Alan wished he could comfort him. He seemed so alone and frightened by the world. And with a sudden clarity Alan saw himself in Ralphie and he gave out a small gasp as he felt the pain of Eric’s death. Tears welled up in his eyes as he relived the lonely ache and the longing to be held by his mother or father. He had yearned for them to tell him everything would be all right. But that did not happen and things had never been right again.
Alan suddenly connected emotionally with the knowledge that he had been frightened most of his life. Since Eric died he had lived every day in fear. He realized that it was not just what was after life that gnawed at him, but anxiety about the here and now that eroded his spirit too.
Darkness filled the valley. The same stars as the night before filled the sky, but he did not have the same sense of awe. Tonight Alan felt the aloneness and isolation of self. He was tremendously aware of being trapped in his own skin. He sensed that it was impossible to ever know another. For that matter, he didn’t even understand Ralphie and Ralphie was a figment of his own imagination. Alan listened to the night sounds of the woods. The mournful hoot of an owl floated across the night.
His soup bubbled on the coals. The aroma of onions filled the area. He grasped the can with his handkerchief and lifted it away from the fire. Below the can a small hiss rose from the coals. He saw a drip form on the side of the thermos and fall away. Repeated use on the fire was eating through the metal. Alan mixed a little liquid with the dirt and pushed a mud plug onto the thermos.
An hour after he tried the first berry he tried a second half. Another hour later he still felt fine. He sipped the broth off the soup until he could pluck the cooked onions out and popped them in his mouth. The flavor was pungent and aromatic, but not un-pleasing.
He ate a few whole berries, saving the pine nuts and the remaining berries for breakfast.
Within half an hour of eating the onions he became nauseous. It was difficult to breathe as though a weight was on his chest. His hands began trembling and his heart beat so erratically that he feared he was having a heart attack. Twice he tried to rise but was stricken with weakness and collapsed aback to the ground. When at last he struggled upright he was swept by rolling waves of vertigo. Fear ensnared him as he realized he was being poisoned. He jammed his finger down his throat. It took little effort to start vomiting. But despite the violence that wracked his body he felt his heart beat ever more slowly.
Trying to fight
back panic, he racked his brain for anything he knew about poisoning. Charcoal was used in the treatment he recalled. He pulled a burnt log free from the fire. It took tremendous focus to cause his trembling fingers to break off bits of the remaining charcoal. Choking, he pushed the charcoal past his lips. He washed it down with a bit of broth and promptly vomited again. He repeated the process again and again.
His heart was beating so slowly that he imagined it pulsing in slow motion. Alan lit a cigarette at the fire, but his judgment was affected and he drew so close to the coals that he singed his eyelashes and brows from being too close. He drew deeply on it. Hopefully, the nicotine stimulant would help but mostly it was to allay his panic. He struggled to his feet, fighting the dizziness and weakness, which held his body. Confused thoughts floated through his head. He needed to stimulate his body. But why can’t I hear my heart? It needs to beat faster. Oops! I forgot to breathe. Why can’t I breathe? I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die here... A wave of vertigo swept over him. His knees buckled and he collapsed near the fire. Then consciousness slipped away to absolute darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Charles Blain enjoyed life. He enjoyed his money. He enjoyed work if he chose to do it. And he enjoyed his friends. He even enjoyed knowing someone suspected of murder. It was a new experience and most of all he enjoyed collecting those. Thus it was with impish delight that he observed Sergeant Maddox behind the wheel of the dark sedan pulling into his motor court. Charles called his houseman and quickly instructed him. By the time Maddox rang the doorbell, Charles was feigning to read his newspaper as his houseman’s footsteps receded down the black and white marble hallway, toward the front door.
When he reached the door Maddox and Lane were waiting on the steps.
“I’m Sergeant Maddox. We would like to see Mr. Blain.”
Maddox observed a passing trace of discomfort on the valet’s face.