Adirondack Audacity

by L. R. Smolarek

  His shadow looms in the fading light. “What town is it near?” He demands “Think you, stupid bitch, think.”

  A plan comes to me; the odds of being found are slim to none; no one knows where I am. I buried the brooch on a seldom used path leading off the main trail up Blue Mountain. As the children were growing up, the trail to the top of Blue Mountain was a favorite family hike. One day we decided to try a new route by diverting off the main trail, it turned out to be a dangerous decision. The trail narrowed to a thin ledge along the mountain pass, I wanted to turn back, but Jack and the kids were caught up in the adrenalin rush of adventure. At a narrow point on the trail Lani’s foot slipped on a loose rock, fortunately a tree growing out of the rocky ledge saved her from a serious fall down the precipitous. The adventure lost its luster; and we never took that trail again. Until the day I brought the brooch back to the mountains, some sense of calamity or doom must have called me back to that rocky ledge. I scrambled up the steep summit, and once assured that no one was around; I buried the brooch, hoping to never see it again. But maybe, just maybe, if I took him up the mountain; he would have to free my legs, opening the possibly for escape or God forbid, give me the opportunity to push him off the ledge. An icy chill runs up my back. Would I have the courage to shove him over the edge? The question remains…could I kill someone….do I have a choice?

  Chapter 45

  Nightmare Night passes in bouts of fitful sleep; exhaustion fueled by terror pushes my body to survival mode. Easier to succumb to sleep then the horror of reality, so unbelievably, I slept.

  Dinner, a bottle of water and two stale granola bars. Not having eaten all day, I devoured them like a starving animal. Trying to sleep with my legs and arms bound by strips of duct tape is agony. Movement brings on spasms of muscle pain, lying still, a torment of numbness and shooting pain. Screaming or crying, a waste of effort, another strip of tape stretches across my mouth, preventing any sound from escaping. Awake, I lay with ears straining for any sound of rescue, hearing only the silent forest. There’s nothing to do but wait and hope. I lost count of how many times I recited the rosary in my head, using pressure on my fingertips as counting beads. The fingers of my one hand throb with pain, I think I broke them falling against the hearth. Praying the mindless manta of Hail Marys helps sooth my frayed nerves and offers a glimmer of hope.

  He sleeps in a tattered recliner next to the fireplace, pieces of stuffing fall out of holes in the worn corduroy. His snores echo in the still of the cabin, he sleeps secure in the knowledge I have no chance of escape. In addition to the duct tape bonds, I’m tied to the bed frame. The threadbare quilt covering me provides little warmth. I’m freezing. The night passes in a misery of dreams, and the dreams distort into nightmares.

  “Get up, you lazy bitch.” The quilt snatched away, as a rough hand jerks my body upright. The stench of evil called Jolib Freeport wakes me, bringing harsh reality, a wash of pain, hunger and cold. Consciousness comes in a welter of confusion. Angry cramped muscles screamed for relief and I needed to use the bathroom…now!

  A slight graying in the east separates the trees from an overcast sky as feeble morning light filters through the windows. The morning chorus of songbirds announces a new day, a new chance at life. Will I survive this day? Fear engulfs me.

  Twenty minutes later he rudely thrusts me out the cabin door, the cold morning air snaps my senses awake. Parked next to the dilapidated cabin sits a new white panel van; tires sunk in muddy tracks. The van stands in sharp contrast to the squalor of the yard strewn with rusted lawn furniture, old appliances and bags of trash piled against a woodshed.

  “Stand still.” He orders pushing me against the side of the van. My arms cruelly yanked behind my back and tied again. A red handkerchief is tied across my eyes, followed by the ripping sound of another piece of duct tape to silence me.

  Through the night, my clamoring mind pieced together a plan, shaky at best, but having few other options, there is little I can do. On a map, I pointed out the trailhead for Blue Mountain, refusing to give him more information until we reached this destination. Claiming not to remember all the details of the trail, I assured him once there it would all come back to me. Realizing by holding back information, giving only bits and pieces at a time, I increase my chances of survival. My hope is someone will see us at the trailhead, I can scream for help or escape. If I go up the trail with him, locate the brooch and in his eagerness to have it in his possession, the distraction may give me an opportunity to shove him over the edge and escape. Maybe….God… I don’t want to die.

  Lying on the floor of the van, I feel every bump and jar of the rough road. The drive takes about 40 minutes, twenty minutes on a dirt road and another twenty on the highway, then a left turn. A left turn onto Route 28? Where in God’s name were we?

  The van tires crunch to a stop on a gravel drive of some sort, the engine idles then stills, the only sound is his labored breathing. He must have some kind of respiratory ailment; I’ve seen him use a medication inhaler of some sort. This could work to my advantage, I’m in good shape, a strenuous uphill hike over rough terrain, and maybe I can out run him.

  I hear the click of his seat belt release; he stumbles back to where I lie on the floor of the van. I feel something hard, metallic and cold press into my back. It……can’t….be….but I know it is…….a gun. How can I out run a gun?

  “Listen, and listen good ,” he grabs my hair and pulls me into a sitting position. “We’re at the trail head for Blue Mountain. It’s early I don’t see anyone around. The only other cars here are probably hikers in the back country.”

  I whimper. My heart sinks at the news the parking lot is deserted. I had hopes of making contact with someone before heading into the woods with this madman. “I’m going to take this gag off so you can tell me where we have to go.” He shoves the gun into my ribs, I groan with pain as a new bruise joins the kaleidoscope of red, green and purple on my body. “Don’t think of screaming, there is no one here, you scream or try to escape, you’ll be sorry.”

  Was it only yesterday I had a family who loved me, a home? I was safe and secure, decisions no larger than what to wear or cook for dinner. With his free hand, the tape covering my mouth is ripped away.

  The nausea from the bumpy ride comes flooding over me, the gag reflex repressed for so long will not be denied. My stomach heaves, I retch as I have never retched before, rolling to my side in gut wrenching spasms.

  “Stop, what are you doing?” He screams in alarm. “Not in my van, for Christ sake!” Without thinking, he flings open the door, and shoves my body onto the gravel parking lot. Stones scrape my tender bruised skin and vomit pools from the side of my mouth. There can be no greater misery. When finished, he hauls me to my feet and uses the pistol as a pivot, shoving me back into the van. Removing the blindfold, he hisses, “What the hell kind of stunt was that!”

  “I couldn’t help it,” I rasp out , trying to wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my jacket. “Water, please!” He cuts the duct tape away and using both hands, trembling, I lift the water bottle to purge the taste from my mouth.

  He looks out the front window, “I don’t see anyone, you’re lucky.”

  “Let’s go before someone comes,” he cuts the ties binding my feet. “I’ll get out first. You don’t come until I tell you.” He shoves the gun into my rib cage. “Got it? No funny business.” I nod miserably.

  The trees filter out the sunlight overhead as we head up the trail made of hard packed-dirt and rock.

  Barely able to walk, I push my bruised and beaten body. Cramped muscles cry out in pain, and I feel faint from lack of food and water. Yet, the haunting beauty of the mountain morning touches my soul. If this is my last morning, I’m glad it’s in the mountains. Stumbling on an exposed tree root, I fall to my knees, only to have the butt of the pistol thrust into my back as he hauls me to my feet.

  “Get up, thieving bitch.” He grunts. I hear his labored breathing behind me. I feel a s
ense of satisfaction, as much as I’m hurting, he’s struggling to keep up. I hear him stop periodically to use his inhaler. In hopes of exhausting him, I’ve taken the steeper longer path, circling around to the top of the ledge instead of heading directly there. He stops often to rest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “How much farther?” He wheezes. “I’m starting to think you’re bluffing me.”

  “It’s at the top of the ridge;; see those boulders to the right.” I gesture frantically, bracing myself against the bark of an old hemlock tree. I can feel the sticky pine sap ooze onto my hands. Wait….is that my imagination, or did I hear the crack of a tree branch?

  “Get moving;; I’m losing patience.” He threatens, pointing to the path with his gun.

  Reaching the tree line, climbing over waist high boulders, we scramble to the top. I hear his heavy breathing and the sound of his boots slipping, as they fail to find hold on the algae covered rock. I survey the rise of the rocky contours, searching for the crevice I had dug out a few years ago. I pause and listen, pretending I’m searching for the hiding spot, and I think I hear another muffled sound in the woods. Is it my imagination or is someone out there? Stealthy creeping, following, waiting for the opportunity to strike when Jolib’s not watching. Can I dare hope? Over his labored breathing, he’ll never hear the background noise. If I’m right, maybe I can help by creating a diversion. The brooch; I have to find it. His obsession will be his undoing.

  “God damn it, where the fuck are you taking me? You said it was here.” He demands, chest heaving.

  “Give me a second to catch my breath and look around.” I inhale and exhale loudly, mimicking his labored breathing. Using the noise of our combined breathing to cover the faint sounds I hear approaching, moving behind the cover of the tree line. I have to act quickly while he is winded. I hear the hiss of his inhaler.

  Choosing a rock crevice where the brooch may have been buried I reach up, closing my hand over a large branch. My fingers pluck and poke though the soft place on the rock ledge, creating a pile of loose dirt, grit and stone. Finding a sizeable stone, I place it on top of the pile. Digging deeper; reveals…nothing. My plan involved finding the brooch and throwing at his face to distract him. Damn it…….where is it? A glance over the side of the ledge shows nothing. The faint noise I heard earlier must have been the longings of my desperate imagination. I have to act now, it’s my only chance.

  “Here, I think I have it.” I position the branch near the crevice opening, cradling the rock in one hand, while taking a scoop of loose dirt in the other.

  “Damn, about fucking time.” He leans over toward me, excitement causing his voice to quaver. “Show me, show me!”

  Soon….a few seconds more, I tell myself. Having him so fiendishly close makes the back of my neck tighten, my whole body quivers in fear.

  “Here it is.” I yell, tossing the large stone into the air.

  He cries out and lunges, trying to grab the flying object.

  Quick as a snake I strike. Using the branch I swat at the hand holding the gun and it goes off. My other hand flings dirt and rock into his eyes. Jolib screams, clawing at his eyes.

  The sound of a gunshot deafens me. The shot from Jolib’s gun went wild, but the bullet fired by the State Trooper S.W.A.T. team hit its target. Jolib staggers, shrieking obscenities, arms flailing as the force of the bullet pushes him over the edge.

  I crumble. Whatever courage and bravado I possessed earlier, now spent, as I collapse in a shivering, sobbing heap on the ground

  Chapter 46 The Proposal Jolib’s death scream echoes across the ridge as his body plunges over the cliff. My body folds in on itself and I lay huddled like a limp rag doll, crying with heart wrenching sobs. The sound of heavy boots comes crashing through the underbrush. The vague impression of men in khaki uniforms, their words drifting through heavy layers of exhausted relief. The pain in my fingers aches with a pulsing need for attention. I’m afraid to move. Fear paralyzes me as I cling to the ledge where I’m so precariously balanced.

  From above, voices call, sounding so strained, so sharp. A man kneels down beside me, his voice softening, “Ellen, it’s over. I’m Officer McNeil.” He touches my shoulder. “Mrs. O’Connor, we’re here to help you. You’re going to be fine.”

  “Are you hurt?” he asks. Through the dull roar in my head his voice comes again, but the words don’t make sense. Unable to respond, my barely conscious mind wants to answer, but I can’t find lucid words in the whirling haze of my dazed brain.

  He leans in, pulling my body away from the ledge to rest against him. His hands are swift and efficient as he reaches for a blanket to swaddle my quaking limbs. Muscles shudder uncontrollably beneath his touch as he swings me up in his arms, striding to a flat area of the exposed mountaintop. With my head bobbing against his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of camouflage men peering over the edge into the abyss below.

  Laying me gently on the g round, “Ellen, does this hurt?” he asks, competently running his hands over my body assessing for injuries. I wince as he taps on my rib cage. “Does this hurt? His hand slips under my shirt for more careful examination. “I’m not sure about this rib.” The probing causes me to moan. He’s saying something important, something I should comprehend…if only I could think straight. I feel the world whirl around me in slow revolutions that leaves me nauseous. My good hand clutches fistfuls of wool, searching for something solid, an anchor. I lay atop the blanket, shivering in the morning cold. The harsh fabric against my battered face makes me cringe.

  A voice I don ’t recognize as my own rasps, “Vic, my children?” My throat parched, I can barely speak, but I need to know where they are.

  He hesitates a moment, then chuckles. “Eh…that would be Rambo II. I suspect he and your children are crashing up the mountainside right now, heedless of a trail or not when they saw the all clear flair go up.”

  “Rambo II?” What is he talking about? There is such a pounding in my head, a steady roaring, drowning out his words so that I only hear a few at a time.

  “Your husband, boyfriend, whatever, has been over the top frantic to find you. He insisted on joining us in the apprehension of your kidnapper.” I nod wordlessly imagining the scene Vic would have made in his panic to find me.

  “He claims he played a S.W.A.T. team member in one of his movies. In fact, he spent actual time with the team to prepare for his role, so therefore, that qualified him to come along with us.” Officer McNeil chuckles as he wipes fine beads of sweat from his brow, sitting back on his heels to visually assess me. “I think one of your ribs might be cracked. Does it hurt to breathe?”

  I nod, aware of the sharp pain on my left side. I lift my crumbled hand for his inspection. I inhale sharply as he gently examines each digit. To take my mind off the pain, I picture Vic charging up the mountain followed by Lani, Jason, Trey and Hanna in tow. I take great comfort and a little humor in the thought. That’s my man-all brash and bravado.

  “Yeah, this hand needs attention.” He reaches into a medical bag at his side pulling out a splint device.

  Officer McNeil rambles on as my feeble brain spins to keep up with him. “We told Mr. Diago that spending a day or two with a S.W.A.T. team does not qualify him to join in the apprehension, especially when the

  apprehension concerns a loved one. We don’t allow our own officers to participle if a family member is involved. Your judgment’s clouded and you’re not thinking rationally. It’s just not done.” He nods matter of factly. He looks up from his ministering, his right hand holding the splint securely in place. “Even in light of the seriousness of the situation, we couldn’t help calling him Rambo II.”

  “He still insisted, didn’t he?” Somehow it was reassuring to know the depth of his fear and concern.

  “Insist is putting it mildly; if his daughter hadn’t calmed him down, physical restraint would have been necessary. Hey, Tom, pass me over a bottle of water.” He deftly catches a plastic bottle tossed in his direction, a quick twi
st of his wrist, and he’s holding precious relief in his hand. “Now, you look kind of parched. So we are going to take it slow, too much will make you sick.”

  I nod feebly as he eases me into a sitting position. Only the pressure of his strong hand prevents me from gulping the entire bottle. Leaning back into his muscular arms, I start to feel better. Hey, he’s actually kind of cute….okay….now I know I’m feeling better.

  “So you didn’t have to tie him down?” I ask, my stiff muscles starting to relax as the warmth of his chest seeps into the cocoon of the wool blanket.

  “No, you have good kids. Anxious as they were, they understood the logic behind our decision. And they reasoned with him. Your future son-in-law managed to keep everyone organized and cooperate with us.” Jason. Officer McNeil continues, “I would expect Rambo any second. This mountain isn’t going to slow him down. He looks to be in pretty good shape.” He gives a rueful laugh, adjusting the blanket, pulling it closer. “I don’t think I’ll be carrying you down.”

  Another man clad in khaki kneels down beside us and asks, “How’s our lady doing?”

  “I think she’s going to be just fine, a little rest and some readjustment of bones, she’ll be fit as a fiddle.” He eases his head back to peer into my face. “You doing okay?” I nod weakly.

  “This is Officer Tom Pulanski, Ellen.” Officer McNeil gestures toward a freckled face police officer who doesn’t look old enough to drive. His uniform baseball cap perched backwards on his head, a thatch of red hair sticking out the front. With an impish grin, he looks like one of Trey’s friends waiting for pizza in my family room. “Tom’s the head of our tracking operation.” McNeil adds.

  Really….God, I feel old. I smile in his direction and whisper, “How did you find me?”

  “A lady was walking her dog at the trailhead this morning, and saw you lying on the ground with your hands tied behind your back. Freeport was holding you at gun point. And because your kidnapper wasn’t very smart and left evidence at the point of abduction, we were able to release an A.P.B. last night and the woman recognized the situation. Lucky for you, she was able to use her cell phone. A helicopter response team coupled with search and rescue dogs, and we were tracking you in no time.” Officer Pulanski grins with unabashed pride over his part in the rescue. “Rambo remembered your suspicions about the man from the museum so we were able to track down some information about the suspect. The local search and rescue team knew the area which allowed us to zero in on a target zone. Oh, by the way, one of the guys on the S & R team seems to know you.”