by Dawn Mattox
“Mercy! Track! Track!” he commanded the dog as he released them both from their mechanical restraints onto a narrow sandbar. The beautiful German Shepherd held her nose high as she cast about for scent, and then raced to the end of the bar. Chance grabbed his gear and hurried after her.
Without breaking stride, she leaped into the torrent of churning water and immediately vanished, sucked under by the surging river.
“Mercy! Mercy!” Chance called from shore, his heart pounding, beating in time with the throbbing current.
Resurfacing some twenty feet downriver, the great dog fought to gain a foothold, pawing at floating debris that had piled into the narrow channel and shot from beneath her like slick soap on wet tile.
Undaunted, unerring instincts providing an internal navigation system as Mercy dragged at the rope attached to her harness, gained her footing and scrambled from the icy water. She moved toward the motionless, half-submerged figure trapped in a logjam in the middle of the river. Mercy knew her job. She was a living extension of her master and they worked in a coordinated rhythm achieved through their years together. Through trial and error, with a willing heart and almost worshipful desire to please Chance, Mercy would go anywhere, into any circumstance at his command. Their relationship was similar to that between man and God. For Mercy, it was all about trust. For the rest of us, it is called faith.
Over ten years of search and rescue work, five with the US Army Special OPS recovery, and five doubling as Investigations Sergeant, SEU—Special Enforcement Unit—with Butte County Sheriff's Office as a liaison between the search and rescue volunteers, Chance was the man for this dangerous undertaking. Off a cliff, into a river, down a dark tunnel or under a collapsed building, he and Mercy made headlines going into dangerous places under extreme conditions where others dared not. More than fearless, more than drawn to danger, Chance was a rescuer by nature.
Chance belayed his ropes into a network of pulleys and anchor points, calling to Mercy to “Hold” as he traversed the stream, finally reaching his mark.
Maybe it was the icy water dripping from her muzzle or the rough feel of her tongue. Maybe it was her eager whine of concern—or possibly it was the stranger's warm lips pressing onto mine as he performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Whichever it was it was, it was heaven sent.
“Miss? Ma’am?” Water dripped from his hair as he worked, bent over me. “Look at me,” he directed, pointing to his eyes. “You’re going to be okay. I am with search and rescue and I am going to save you. I need you to trust me.”
And I did.
I didn’t remember falling at first, but the details that had stored in my memory surfaced over the days and nights that followed like bits of flotsam in the wake of a sunken ship. I recall the feeling of drifting through layers of soft white light thinking perhaps an angel had caught and carried me, sheltering me in the river. In those dreams, I rose up to touch heaven. Then came the night-terrors of being sucked into a watery hell of churning, suffocating force that assured me I was nowhere near heaven.
The high-action drama of me falling off a cliff and Chance leaping from the helicopter set the stage for us to fall in love and leap into a relationship. Five short months flew by. We found ourselves together almost every day.
Sprains, cuts, and bruises healed. My fractured leg and torn tendons were finally free from its burdensome cast. The attraction between Chance and me was dynamic, and it wasn't just physical. Each of us was impressed by the other's career choices, and I was drawn to his declaration of Christian faith. Before I knew it, Chance had proposed and we were boarding the Tahoe Queen, bound for all the romance and problems that come with a second marriage.
“What do you think, Sunny?” Chance asked as the ship pulled away from the dock. “We could jump ship and still make it to shore.” Chance’s eyes turned violet in the first colors of the deepening sunset. His gaze reflected a love so powerful that it almost frightened me; his voice had teased, yet rippled with a vague undercurrent of sincerity.
Hair blowing wild and free against the untamed backdrop, I put my lips to his ears and whispered, “Don’t even think about it. I waited my whole life for you!”
Hearts beating recklessly, Chance's arms enveloped me and we held tight to our love and our dreams.
“Forever, Sunny,” he promised. “I will love you forever.”
Rounding the inlet of Emerald Bay, the paddleboat steamed its way through the crystalline waters of Lake Tahoe. Captain Leo Sun, that was his real name, was the official who married us. I became Sunny McLane. All the signs were there: full moon coming up on the left side of the bay, lightning flashing on the right, thunder booming over the distant snow-capped peaks. The ship’s whistle pierced the air following the “I do” moment, and we kissed going into the curve.
All our friends were there: Ashley and Shane, Gayle and Rex, even our bosses, District Attorney Jack Savage and Captain Mark Anderson of Search and Rescue with his new girlfriend, Paige. All those people, yet somehow, Jesus—the One who had made it all possible—did not make the guest list.
I guess ours wasn’t exactly a marriage made in heaven in spite of its fairy-tale beginning. We probably should have extended our engagement and spent more time getting to know each other. Chance seemed the 'perfect' Christian. He didn't cuss, seldom drank, and he loved going to church. He was honorable. Somehow... we managed to wait to tie the knot before doing the deed. God knows it was a close call, but I was confident that I earned extra celestial brownie points for my restraint. After all, this wasn’t a first marriage for either of us, and our hormones were raging. Lord knows we had a great time making up for “lost time” on our honeymoon.
It all seemed picture perfect. Too good to be true.
Our baby died in my eighth month of pregnancy. It would be years before I understood that while my daughter was lost to me, she had not been lost to God. We would travel by different roads, my unborn child and I, but our destination was the same. Our lives—the baby's and mine—are eternally bound.
I looked at Logan through bruised and swollen eyes as he sat near my bed holding a single yellow rose. There was something different about him. It took a minute to register through the brain-fog of medication; a deep red gash extended from the bottom of a gauze covered eye to his newly bruised jawbone.
“Three freakin’ dollars. What a rip-off! I can’t believe they wanted three dollars for one stupid flower,” Logan said as he stared out the window at the landscaped hospital grounds. “Crap! I could have picked one outside for free.”
Okay, I knew this part. This was Logan’s idea of an apology. Been there, done that.
“I rode the hog. You’ll have to see if the neighbors can give you a lift home. Local calls are probably free,” he carried on as I rolled over, turning my back on him.
The sound of boots and chair legs scooted across the tile as Logan moved closer to my bed. Lowering his voice, he whispered, “I tried to catch you, Sunny! It's not my fault you tripped. I got tore up pretty bad trying to hold on to you, but you were too heavy with the kid and all. I know it doesn't feel like it, but this is probably for the best. I love you, Sunny. You got to know that.”
Cold tears tracked their way across hot, swollen skin, getting lost in my chopped-off hair as I wondered which of his buddies had punched him in the face so he'd look like a hero instead of a suspect.
“Excuse me.” A nurse popped in, breaking the tension. She was crisp, smiling, and young. “I'm sorry. I need some private time with Sunny,” she apologized.
“Nothin’ I haven’t seen before.” Logan shined as he took an appreciative sniff of the fragrant rose. He always shined for other women. He was a good-looking man in a dangerous sort of way; tall, muscular, dark eyes, dark hair, dark spirit. His mustache was black, his leathers were black, and his Harley was black. He wore a “Hells Angels” tattoo inked under their red and gold winged death head logo on his right forearm. A tattooed pair of two-headed snakes wrapped around his huge bicep
s where most of his friends had tattooed strands of twisted barbed wire, and HELLBOUND was emblazoned across the back of his neck. He fairly radiated “I’m BAD” pheromones with the opposite sex and a testosterone-driven “What’re you lookin’ at?” attitude with men. Bad girls flirted openly with him and good girls peeked at him with lively curiosity.
It was hard to believe that I once wanted this man. Now I just wanted him dead. As dead as our baby that he had killed.
Logan seemed like a lifetime ago. Life was everything I had ever hoped for after becoming Sunny McLane. We were living in God’s county and I liked to imagine that my marriage and our beautiful home were tangible proof of His love.
Butte County is a land of astonishing beauty, but not without occasional perils. Over 1,600 square miles that include the western slopes of the rugged Sierra Nevada Mountains with national forests and rural-remote towns around 3,000-foot elevation with colorful names like Feather Falls, Toad Town, Ragdump, Nimshew, and Inskip. During the winter residents enjoy the solitude of being snowbound for weeks at a time. But recreationists have been known to lose their way and freeze to death in the wilderness.
The forest spills down over lower foothill communities like Yankee Hill, Concow, Cherokee, Black Bart, Helltown, and Paradise, thick with wildflowers and wild turkeys every spring, and wildfires that consume thousands of acres short months later. These hills, in turn, flow down into the valley, fragrant with orchards, rice, hay—and medicinal marijuana. The valley is mostly populated with cowboys and farm workers, college students and bikers. Fishermen and jet skiers, campers and picnickers dot the 167 miles of shore containing the inviting blue waters of Lake Oroville, where people sometimes drown and dead bodies have been known to surface unexpectedly.
Oroville is the county seat, Chico is the university town, Gridley is home to lots of farm workers, and then there is Paradise, a charming community with a quaint town hall. Paradise is mostly home to retired folks who live on streets with congenial names like Bambi Lane and Sesame Street. Billboards on the Skyway read “Eat right, Exercise and Have Fun,” followed by another that offers “Memorial Crematorium Plans” in case you ignored the first one.
It isn’t hard to distinguish mountain folks from other “Buttants.” In winter, they are the ones with the snow on their cars. The more snow on the car, the “cooler” the driver. In the summer, mountain people are the ones with an inch of dust on their cars.
Some people live in the mountains because they like the view. A few find personal satisfaction in looking down on everyone else. Some prefer the anonymity of illegal lifestyles, like outlaws and drug manufacturers. Others, like me, were born in these mountains and enjoy the peaceful solitude, away from the stresses and activities of city life.
Many foreigners, those not born in California, tend to confuse Northern California with Oregon, and Southern California with Bay Watch. They envision NorCal, as we call Northern California, as cool redwoods with ocean breezes. I admit that’s an accurate description providing you live along the north coast in the redwoods. But anyone harboring those profiles for the entire state has probably never visited California's vast interior that bakes throughout summer in the ninety-degree-plus range and then heats up to a broiling 100-115 degrees for several weeks. I tell people, only half-joking, that the real reason we are called the Golden State is that everything green dies in the last week in May, leaving the landscape in various shades of gold until the rainy season returns around October or November.
Having worked in Criminal Division for nearly three years, my co-workers and I tend to see the world filtered through the lenses of our experiences. Criminal Division sees a different Butte County than the happy tourist does.
We see meth labs and marijuana plantations hidden deep within our beautiful mountains. If someone stumbles onto a cash crop while fishing the creeks and streams, they might not come out. Travis, my work partner, says “The foothills aren’t good for anything but marijuana and jackrabbits.” To which I replied, “They are also good for outlaws and keeping battered women hostage until their cuts and bruises heal.”
Bored high school students call in annual bomb threats, a teacher hit-list was confiscated by police, gang activity has spread like a bad case of nail fungus from the towns near the migrant farm worker housing, and emerging Asian gangs are filtering in from Sacramento. Chico State University, once touted by Playboy magazine as “The Number One Party School” in the nation, requires additional law enforcement from nearby towns to haul out-of-control students to jail by the busload every Halloween. Those are typical events in any big city. We were little country towns getting big-city backwash.
In spite of the contrasting elements—or perhaps because of them—throw together the Chico State wanna-be-hippie-liberals, plenty of red-neck rodeo cowboys and cowgirls, and some good ol’ white long-haired and Native American steel-toe-booted loggers on a Saturday night dance floor, and we call it... home! It's a place where the logging trucks, hybrid cars, and Harleys share the road, and their drivers mostly live in peace next door to each other. I love Butte County and can’t imagine wanting to live anywhere else.
CHAPTER 2
The rumble of the Harley grew louder as the rider drew near, pulling into the parking lot wearing his usual church attire. Wrapped in black; helmet, leather coat, chaps, and boots, Pastor Mac Masters had recently arrived in notorious Concow—a small, remote mountain community that blends seamlessly into my home in Yankee Hill, bringing with him both the gospel and his testimony.
Chance and I stood on the porch of the charming little whitewashed, historical, one-room schoolhouse. The good people in the area—and they are abundant—banded together to rescue the aging building from its original location in Melissa Valley, some twenty miles away. They restored it right down to the white picket fence and cast iron school bell, adding flowerbeds that explode each year with the vibrant colors of spring. The building serves as a community center during the week and Calvary Chapel Concow on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings.
“Mac is a Godsend. There is no other explanation for it. It’s like he’s a divine appointment or something,” said Chance with honest admiration. I knew he meant it because the odds of Mac preaching barely a mile from our home fell somewhere between slim and none, especially if you factored in the close relationship they had shared through the years. They had first met when Chance was seventeen.
Chance has participated in the opening day of hunting season since he was in diapers. He claims his first toy was a plastic gun and that his Dad spiked his bedtime bottle with “just a drop” of Jack Daniel's to help him sleep at night.
If that was true, then I guess Chance's father probably finished the rest of the bottle. Michael McLane literally drank himself into an early grave trying to raise Chance and his younger sister, Crystal, by himself. Possibly he’d done so because Casey McLane, Chance's mother, had hated country life and left him to return to the excitement and sophistication of the big city. But more likely, it was the death of Tennessee Dave; Michael's best friend, that tipped the scales. Anyhow, Chance's dad and the boys were doing what they always did on opening day—getting hammered on whiskey, telling each other outrageous lies—and shooting their guns. Michael had drilled into his son a million times to “Make every shot count” and was repeating this admonishment while grabbing for Chance's rifle, causing it to accidentally discharge and wounding Dave who died later of complications.
Pastor Mac had been the volunteer police chaplain on duty at the hospital the night Dave died, ministering to another person. On his way out he spotted a young man sitting alone, crying. That is how they met, Chance and Mac, and Mac continued to take a personal interest in Chance through the years, remaining his friend as Chance partied his way through high school. Mac finally led him to the Lord on the same day Chance boarded an airplane for Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri, where he would begin his basic training in the U.S. Army.
“Morning, Mac,” I called out, “great day for a r
ide.”
“Thank the Lord! It’s a great day to be alive,” Mac shouted back over the roar of the four motorcycles that pulled in behind him. More would follow.
I am sure there were days when Mac Masters second-guessed his calling to preach to this once very dark community. Concow had a long-standing reputation with the child abuse investigators for its unusually high rate of cases. No doubt, the violence linked to the even higher rate of meth production and consumption.
But every Sunday, Mac brought the word of God and the testimony of his own life as an outlaw biker, alcoholic, and womanizer, to Concow’s flock. Through his many trials he had done a 360 and given his life over to serving God. Concow welcomed his honesty, his humility, and his integrity. Chance greeted his 'savior,' friend, and mentor.
“Hey, buddy.” Mac dismounted and bumped fists with Chance. “Glad you two are here. I want to talk to you about something.”
Mac opened the door for the others and then led us around the corner to a quiet space. “Hope you two have a minute because I'd like to run something past you.” Mac tugged at the corner of his mustache and rocked back on his heels. “I'm kind of in a jam, between my work here at the church and the chaplaincy ministry with the police department. I am over-extended, trying to staff the other P.D.s and keep up with the church, so I’ve been thinking about the Wednesday Night Bible studies, and I think I need a man of integrity, like you,” he said, gesturing to Chance, “to lead it. Now, you don’t need to make a commitment right this minute or anything. It's just something I’d like you two to talk over and pray about.”
I was so excited that I missed hearing most of the pastor's sermon. It was hard to take my eyes off my husband long enough to follow Mac's reference's in the Bible. I am one those people who take just one Bible for us to share so I can cuddle under the arm of the sexiest man in church while hearing the word of God. I knew people watched Chance and me as we looked long and deep into each other's eyes, exchanging volumes of wordless thoughts. I knew they envied our hugs and stolen kisses as we sat in church—and I was positive we were pleasing to God. I was proud to be a role model, believing we were the perfect example of a perfect marriage, and it was my constant joy to remind Chance that I thought so. I wanted my husband to realize he was my American Idol and that there was no competition. I adored him.