Wild Within (Wild at Heart #1)

by Christine Hartmann

  Ed held up his fist. “They’re going to find her.”

  “What? That dream woman you said you laid?”

  “She was real.”

  “What’s gonna be real is those guys who go after your pretty ass in prison, man.” Arnie sneered.

  Ed sucked in a deep breath. He lowered his hand. “You’re fired, Arnie. Get out of here before I do something you’ll regret.”

  Arnie stared but didn’t move. “I worked here before you were born, punk.” His mouth curled into a snarl and his tone dropped. “You do this, and you’re going down. I’ll bring you down, man.”

  “I’m not scared of you.”

  Arnie looked him in the eyes. “You should be scared. Real scared.”

  ***

  Over the course of the following week, customer traffic dropped off sharply. By Friday evening it was clear something unusual had happened. Posts about Ed flooded Yelp, Google, and biking blogs. Vitriolic, insinuating comments hinted at his involvement in the now famous hit-and-run that put a little girl into a coma. He read veiled accusations staying slightly to the right of slander that emphasized his police record, past threats of violence, and lack of a concrete alibi. Many posts referenced the confrontation with his head mechanic.

  Ed lay sleepless that night, his mind unable to stop swirling from the injustice of his situation. Toward morning, he only half noticed an off-hours documentary about an annual gathering of twins in Ohio. In the middle of scenes from the Double Take Parade, Ed jerked awake.

  Twins. That’s the answer. “People will think we’re twins.” The guy who bought all the bike gear the day before the accident. Jerry something. He had my bike. My clothes. He must have been the one. Why didn’t I think of him sooner?

  Ed swung out of bed, feeling lighter.

  This will give the police something to investigate.

  He left Officer Turangeo a voice mail and got a call back in the late morning.

  Exasperation flowed through the connection. “You don’t have a credit card receipt. You have a shoddy description of the man. Most importantly, once again, you don’t have a name. Do you know how many Jerry’s there are in greater San Francisco? Hell, I’ll even narrow it down to Oakland for you. Jerry’s short for Jerome, Gerald, and Jeremy, for starters.”

  Ed turned the phone, talking directly to the screen, as if being face to face with the officer’s voice could help convince him. “But I don’t have a bar code reader in the store. We only have handwritten receipts. They’re not specific. And the guy paid in cash.”

  “If you remember more, give me another call.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Right.” Officer Turangeo sighed. “Look, Mr. Galeano, we can’t arrest you, because we’ve got nothing concrete, but we’ll be watching…and waiting. I’d keep my hands clean and stay well under the radar if I were you.”

  “I’ll remember his name.”

  “Good luck with that.” Officer Turangeo hung up.

  In the evening, Ed analyzed the public Facebook pages of Oakland’s Jeremys, Geralds, Jarreds, and Jeromes, looking for a clue. He sent friend requests until Facebook blocked him for phishing.

  Maybe the guy doesn’t have a nickname. Maybe Jerry is Jerry.

  That’s how he found him: Jerry Kriebel. A guy with a green and red snake tattoo crawling across his profile photo.

  The next morning, he shared his news with Officer Turangeo.

  “How do I know you didn’t pick some person off Facebook at random?”

  Ed almost threw the phone across the room in frustration. He sucked in a quick breath. “I told you yesterday his name was Jerry and said he had a tattoo. Now I found Jerry with a tattoo. The same tattoo. Can’t you see it all fits?”

  “We’ll look into it. But don’t start thinking you can accuse anyone you like of a crime.”

  “Are you kidding? What about me? Aren’t I being accused?” Ed’s hand trembled. “If you don’t look into this, I’m going to find Jerry myself and bring him to you. I don’t care how long it takes.”

  “Watch your step, Mr. Galeano.” His voice had the ominous rumble of thunder on a clear blue day. “That girl’s getting better, but she’s not going to walk again. Don’t involve any more innocent victims.”

  “Innocent? Jerry Kriebel’s not innocent. He’s the one who did it.” Ed punched the end call button and hurled the phone onto the sofa.

  Most of Jerry’s information on Facebook was private, but his page displayed his likes. Photos abounded of a large selection of scrubby East Bay punk bands.

  I’ll conduct my own goddamned investigation.

  But months and innumerable punk band concerts later, he knew nothing more about Jerry. And business at Stoke’s had sunk to an all time low. Previous five-star ratings had plummeted to two. Competition in the surrounding area drew away existing customers who had second thoughts.

  The foreclosure sale happened on a sunny afternoon in late March.

  The same day, Ed sold his furniture and moved into a room in a San Leandro Bay motel, a noisy location between US 880 and razor wire protected warehouses. It was the kind of motel where pickups and old sedans crawled into the parking lot after midnight in the semi-darkness of one working floodlight and couples of all descriptions disembarked, eager to find a room for a few hours of passion, lust, or employment. Night after night, he stared out his window at the continual human parade. More than once in the following weeks he startled awake in the early morning, roused by the rhythmic knocking of his neighbor’s headboard.

  As the time between his old and new lives grew, his finances shrunk. He grew a beard to save on shaving supplies. When his contact lens supply ran out, he reverted to squinting and guessing at street signs. He bummed laundry detergent off hookers at the laundromat.

  Pale, haggard, and gaunt, he knew few of his friends would have recognized him. The only reminders of his previous existence were his computer and his bicycle. The room’s rattling window air conditioner propped up his Gary Fisher Superfly, with its dusty handlebars leaning forlornly against drawn curtains. He spent most waking hours using the motel’s spotty Wi-Fi to search for signs of Jerry.

  I’m not leaving Oakland until I’ve settled the score.

  One evening at the Stork Club, a raucous dive on Telegraph Avenue, Ed began a conversation he’d had a hundred times previously.

  He cornered a blue-haired youth in black leather and chains at the bar. “Ever heard of Jerry Kriebel?”

  “Jerry Kriebel? Sure, I know him.” The youth’s voice floated through the thump of the music. “Used to share a house with a buddy of mine. What’s it to you?”

  Ed clutched the counter. “You know him? You’re sure?”

  “Guy with a snake tattoo on his chest, right?” His blue hair caught the strobe lights as he threw back half a beer.

  Ed held his breath. “That’s him.”

  “Yeah. Well, that’s the Jerry I’m talking about. Like I said. What’s it to you?” He swayed unsteadily, his eyes trying to focus on Ed but frequently missing, fixing instead on the crowd or the floor.

  Ed took him by both arms and shook him gently. “The police want to ask him a few questions.”

  The guy jerked away. “Shit, man. You a cop?”

  Ed raised both hands and shook his head violently. “No. I’m interested in finding him before they do.”

  “Oh.” The youth winked, moved closer, and reduced the amplitude of his voice. “That’s broken of you, dude. But, you know, last I heard, Jerry’s safe. He’s in LA. That’s, like, almost across state lines.”

  “LA?” The pounding din hid the surprise in Ed’s voice.

  “Yeah. I hear there’s some slamming rager that starts around Mexico and lasts all summer. The only fucked up part is you gotta walk millions of miles. But Jerry says he’s gonna do it.”

  Ed leaned in until the two were almost touching noses. “What? A party? In Mexico?”

  Hot breath blew against Ed’s face. “Not in Mex
ico. At the border. It’s on some hiking trail called the PCP or LSD or something. Supposed to be a tight blowout. But you gotta hike. Carry a backpack. Now, me? I don’t want to carry anything heavier than a beer.” He bent over the bar. “Gimme another.”

  Ed grabbed the guy’s shoulder and spun him back around. “You’re sure? You’re sure Jerry’s doing this hike? Do you know when he’s starting?”

  “Safe, man.” The youth flipped his blue hair aside and tossed down his new drink. “Buddy of mine got a text from him yesterday. Told me all about it, ’cause he couldn’t fucking believe it. He’s starting next weekend.”

  Ed pumped the man’s free hand.

  “Hey, no need to thank me. Like I said. LA’s practically Nevada. Don’t think the law’ll find him there.”

  Ed pushed his way to the exit. Rain soaked him to the skin as he leaned, breathless, against the iron grills of the dollar store next door. His head spun as he rattled the bars, shouting profanities intended for Jerry. Passersby hardly glanced at him. On Telegraph Avenue at one in the morning, he blended into the crowd.

  Later that night, he searched the Internet and found the trail.

  The Pacific Crest Trail. PCT. Jerry’s there. I’m going.

  The next day, he sold his bike and laptop. An Army-Navy surplus store supplied him with a large backpack that he filled with things he thought he would need: boots, a cold weather sleeping bag, water bottles, and a ten-pound tent the guy in the store called “ultralight.”

  Three days after the visit to the Stork Club, Ed boarded the CA Shuttle Bus bound for Los Angeles.

  He sat near the front and gazed absently at the boarding passengers. A hunched, white-haired man held onto the backrest of each seat as he swayed toward empty spots at the rear.

  Looks like Dell.

  Ed brushed the thought from his mind like an annoying fly. The bus jerked away from the station. He patted the pocket of his jacket and caressed the reassuring bulk of his new Navy pilot survival knife with its five-inch blade.

  Who cares what he would think of me now.

  Chapter 13

  Breeze and Grace hiked together after her unplanned slide down the mountain. But after a few hours, he sped on ahead.

  “Short legs. Who knew they’d make me so antisocial?” She watched his figure retreat into the growing dusk.

  She ran across him again two days later at the top of a ridge. He sat on a rock, boots removed, staring anxiously at his toes. When he saw Grace, he limped toward her. They greeted with a warm embrace.

  “Funny meeting you again so soon.” Breeze squeezed her shoulder.

  “Yeah. At the rate you were going, I thought you’d be at Hiker Heaven by now.”

  “I did too. But I’ve been having some trouble with my toes.” He lifted a foot and wiggled five digits. “They don’t seem to like my boots anymore. So I’m slowing down. I think I’m going to need to get new footwear in Agua Dulce.”

  “Maybe your toe problem will even out our speeds. Hiker Heaven’s still about sixty miles. Do you want some company?”

  Breeze glanced at her and then shot a look down the trail. He shook his head. “No. I’m going to do it real slow. I don’t want to permanently mess up my feet. You keep going, Grace. I’ll catch up with you again one of these days, once I get myself a new pair of shoes.” He hobbled back to his rock.

  A gust blew tiny sand eddies across the path. The wind died and the dust settled.

  Go with the flow.

  “Take care of your feet.” She shrugged her pack higher on her shoulders. “I’m going to spend a few days at Hiker Heaven, so maybe we’ll overlap there. If not, catch up with me later, okay?”

  “Will do. For sure.”

  Later, at Hiker Heaven, Grace leafed through the register. The hiker paradise comprised a collection of RVs and tents set up with deluxe cots, washing machines, loaner clothes, a kitchen, a barbecue, a TV, Internet access, and showers. Almost all PCT thru-hikers stopped there.

  Except Lone Star, wouldn’t you know it? How could he have skipped this place?

  Grace closed the register and sighed.

  Not even his signature. And nobody’s heard about him recently.

  A chill of loneliness crept from the pit of her stomach through her limbs.

  Stop it. The man who wrote that last stanza isn’t going to forget me.

  The water brought you strength to try.

  Your smile shone bright and true.

  The pulsing joy I shared with you

  Still lifts me to the sky.

  She asked around for Breeze. No one had seen him either.

  That night, Grace shared a tent with ten other thrus.

  Why are trail guys always rescuing me from disaster? Men never rushed out of nowhere in San Francisco. Like that time I almost stepped in front of a bus. Plenty of guys on the sidewalk. Nobody grabbed me. All I got was hearing loss from the stupid bus horn.

  I sure hope there aren’t too many law firms in El Paso. I might have to call them all and ask if they have a thru-hiking attorney on staff. One who knows poetry.

  She fished out her phone and read another note.

  …Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves a shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

  Her lips pursed. Something in the nether regions of her torso pulsed a rhythmic beat. She pulled the sleeping bag down to her waist and cradled the phone.

  Now slides the silent meteor on…

  With Lone Star filling her mind and an uncharacteristically soft cushion for her back, Grace tossed and turned until an hour later, she finally drifted to sleep.

  She stayed two nights at Hiker Heaven, calling Celine to discuss plans and future drop boxes, rearranging gear, buying supplies. But the camp had a two-night limit.

  I can’t waste time waiting for something that might never happen. Maybe Lone Star’s up ahead waiting for me after all.

  She awoke her final morning to the smell of coffee. She blinked.

  Fresh brewed? Out here?

  She dressed and followed the scent. It led to a propane camp stove like the one she’d carried before her Idyllwild makeover. A two-person tent perched on the lawn behind it. A short, slender man with round tortoiseshell glasses and a bald spot evident through thinning brown hair crouched next to the flame. He looked up.

  “My nose had to see if it was right.” Grace’s expression softened into a smile of reminiscence. “I haven’t smelled fresh coffee since Lake Morena.”

  “Have a seat.” The man indicated the lawn. “I’ll give you a cup.” He turned to an approaching thick-set woman with a microfiber towel slung around her neck. “Folger, can this woman borrow your pot?”

  “By all means.”

  Folger seated herself next to Grace on the grass. Hefty thighs stretched her light green hiking shorts as she crossed her legs.

  “The smell usually brings someone over to our tent most mornings.” Straight grey hair pulled back in a short ponytail emphasized Folger’s oval face. Boiling water coursed over coffee grounds in a small golden filter. “We’ve got to have fresh brewed, right, Max?” She handed Grace the pot. “Milk?”

  “You’ve got milk too?”

  “Only today.” The fine lines around Folger’s eyes crinkled with a secret smile. “We’re leaving this morning. We got a small carton at the grocery store yesterday for a treat. Tell me when.”

  Grace let her pour enough to turn the coffee a creamy brown and took a sip.

  “Wow.” She held the pot away from her and admired it. “This is fantastic. I forgot what it tasted like. I used to drink four cups a day.” She took another sip. “I went cold turkey before starting this hike.”

  “Most people do. That’s how we got our trail names. Max is short for Maxwell House.”

  “Do you want to stay for breakfast?” Max offered Grace a peach. “We did too much shopping yesterday. We’ll never be able to eat it all without help.”

  The early morning sun warmed Grace’s back as peach juice drib
bled onto her hands and legs. After six peaches, Max served her a pot of oatmeal with blueberries and raisins. Then she ate two bananas and a chocolate muffin.

  “I didn’t think I’d be much help in reducing your supply. But I guess I was wrong.” Grace patted her distended stomach. “I’ll never get over how much I eat out here.” She lay back and looked at the silky white clouds streaking the sky. “A full belly at the start of another day of hiking. My idea of heaven.”

  Folger and Grace carried the assortment of pots and utensils to the communal sink. Folger scrubbed her pot with a Brillo pad. Errant suds flew to her nose, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. “You’re leaving this morning too?”

  “Yes.” Grace concentrated on the coffee filter. “I was waiting for someone. This guy, actually. Lone Star. I hiked with him for a bit. I hoped he might show up here. But I’m beginning to see that’s silly. Always wanting things to be different.”

  “Ah, so that’s how it is.”

  “I know we’ll get back together. He’s the one for me and I’m not letting go. I just have to learn to be more patient.”

  Grace left camp at ten, struggling with a pack heavy with new supplies. She followed Agua Dulce Canyon Road through town. At the junction where the PCT began a slow ascent into the surrounding hills, she noticed two figures on the trail ahead of her and was close upon them before she realized who they were. Folger and Max parted to let her pass.

  “Thought you might catch up with us if we took it easy.” Max’s glasses sparkled in the bright light. “We’re always glad of a little company on the trail.”

  Grace looked at Folger.

  Did she tell him I’m lonely?

  But when the PCT branched off from the dirt road and became a narrow path again, Max encouraged Grace to go first. “We don’t want to hold you up.”

  “Thanks. Maybe you’ll catch up later.”

  She strode up the gentle ascent, swinging her hiking poles in time to “The Happy Wanderer,” always buzzing in her brain since her Choir Master encounter. In the next hour, every time she looked over her shoulder at the bizarre rocky vistas and the mountains she’d passed days earlier, there were Max and Folger, not far behind. She waved to them. They waved back.