A Boy Called Duct Tape (6 page)

“Watch those rocks, Pablo!” Pia cried, digging her fingers in my shoulders.

Pia stood on the six-inch metal pegs I’d installed on the rear axle of my Mongoose dirt bike. She was standing and straddling the rear tire. It had been a smooth ride on pavement, but now we were on a rocky pasture road. We hadn’t seen a single car since leaving County Road HH 20 minutes earlier.

“Sorry, Pia,” I said, maneuvering my bike around another gnarly patch of rocks. I glanced back at my cousin, who was following on Pia’s bike.

“I’m right behind you!” Kiki called out, her hair flying.

“Not far now!” I shouted.

The morning heat was suffocating—the weatherman predicted the mercury would hit 90 before the day was over and the same for the humidity—and I shook my mop of hair, trying to free myself from the stinging rivulets of sweat that were trekking down my forehead and into my eyes.

A cottontail rabbit darted from the underbrush and across the road in front of my bike, and I swerved to avoid hitting it.

“Wow, that was close!” Pia cried.

We’d said our goodbyes to Mom at the trailer an hour earlier when she left for work, eaten a quick breakfast of cold cereal, and then headed down Highway 7 toward the rugged backwoods south of Jamesville. Highway 7 intersected with County Road HH, which bisected the nameless dirt road we were on. A faded, broken-down sign warned us that the road was a DEAD END.

“Pablo, are you sure this is the right way?” Kiki asked, pedaling to catch up.

“Pretty sure,” I said with a turn of my head. “But it’s been awhile since I was out here.”

The country road was so steep at one spot that we had to push our bikes to the top. Once there, we laid our bikes in the middle of the road.

“Kiki, see if you can find this road on Google’s Earth Map,” I said, catching my breath. “Let’s see … let’s see if it’s really a dead-end.”

“Good thinking,” Kiki said, removing her Smart Phone from the pocket of her shorts.

“Are we on the right road if it’s a dead-end, Pablo?” Pia asked.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“That’s stupid,” Pia said. “How can a dead-end road take us to where we want to go?”

“Chill, Pia! You’ll see when we get there,” I said.

Kiki pulled up a satellite picture of the Jamesville area on her phone.

“Move south of town,” I said, peering at the tiny screen.

Pia leaned in for a closer look as Kiki adjusted the map with her finger.

“I see the road.” I touched the road on the screen. “Enlarge it.”

Kiki enlarged the map.

“This is the road we’re on,” I noted, tracing the outline on the screen with my fingertip. The road ended at what appeared to be a rocky outcropping. “Yeah, it’s a dead-end.”

“So, we
are
on the right road?” Kiki said.

“Yeah, and we’re getting close,” I said.

Ten minutes later the road led us to the same limestone cliffs we’d seen on the Google map. I rolled to a stop in the tall grass and Pia hopped off. Kiki pulled in next to us.

“This is it,” I said uneasily.

Off to our right, tucked away in the shadow of the rocky overhang, was a small log cabin. A rusty, yellow Jeep was parked in front of the cabin—its license plate read: CAVEMAN.

Kiki and I laid our bikes in the thick grass, our eyes never leaving the shadowy cabin.

Off to our left, perched on the bottom branch of a towering oak tree, was a big black crow. It seemed to be watching us.

“You’re sure this is the place, Pablo?” Kiki asked, a nervous shudder in her voice. “It’s totally creepsville.”

“Uh-huh, this is it,” I said, grabbing a short breath.

“It looks sort of spooky,” Pia said in a quiet voice.

“I’ll second that,” Kiki said.

It
does
look spooky
, I thought.

I didn’t remember the cabin looking so mysterious when my dirt-bike buddy Tim Mitchell and I had stumbled on the place the summer before.

A NO TRESPASSING sign was nailed to the cabin door. The door was framed by a stack of firewood on one side, and an all-terrain vehicle—all four tires flat—on the other. Two aluminum canoes, anchored to the ground by cobwebs, stretched out along the north side of the cabin. I noticed the shadowy image of an outhouse out back.

As we stood staring at the cabin and wondering what to do next, a light breeze rippled through the high grass. The grass seemed to tremble.

“What now, Pablo?” Kiki asked, keeping her voice low.

There was an awkward cloud of silence. Finally, I said, “I guess maybe, uh, I’ll go knock on the door.”

“Are you sure about this, Pablo?” Kiki said in little more than a whisper, her eyes riveted on the cabin.

I gave a small nod. “Pretty sure.”

As I summoned the courage to walk up to the cabin door and knock, it flew open. A big man appeared in the doorway, a longhair Siamese cat cradled in one hand, a grooming brush in the other. Shirtless, the man wore plaid shorts.

“That’s him,” I whispered, the muscles in my neck stiff with tension. “That’s Monroe Huff. I recognize him from his picture in the newspaper.”

“Newspaper?” Kiki asked.

“He’s a famous spelunker,” I said in a hushed voice. “The newspaper did a story about him.”

“His license plate is right,” Kiki observed in a soft voice. “He
does
look like a caveman.”

I had never seen Monroe Huff in person. I’d only heard rumors about the best spelunker in Missouri, and later read the article. But Kiki was right: he
did
look like modern man’s prehistoric relative. Built like a fire hydrant, short and squatty, his thick brow sloped and his massive jaw jutted. His stomach was flat, his hips were narrow, and his muscular shoulders looked like an Olympic weightlifter’s. His dark hair was cut short and a large silver hoop hung from his left ear. A pair of dark sunglasses with leather side shields—the kind Arctic explorers wore—rested atop his head.

“I can feel my heart beating, Pablo,” Pia whispered, placing a quivering hand over her heart. She took a half-step back.

The Caveman set the cat down inside the cabin, pulled the side-shield sunglasses down over his deep-set eyes, and started toward us, his long arms swinging freely at his side like those of some apelike ancestor.

A tiny gasp arose from Kiki.

“Easy,
primo
,” I said, my legs feeling more like rubber than flesh and bone.

When Monroe Huff walked out of the shadows and into the light I could see a chest matted with dark, curly hair. It reminded me of a thorny briar patch.

“Let’s get out of here,” Kiki said, tugging at the sleeve of my T-shirt. She moved toward her bike, dragging me with her.

I grabbed Kiki’s hand and pulled her to a stop. “It’s okay, he’s harmless.” I didn’t know if I believed that or not. Up close Monroe Huff looked hideous. Up close he looked like he ate babies, and I felt a sudden urge to pee.

Monroe came over to where we stood in the tall grass. From behind the tinted sunglasses he gave each of us a casual sweep with his eyes. After several uneasy seconds, Monroe looked at me and asked, “Lost?”

“L-Looking for M-Monroe Huff,” I stammered, a worried smile wobbling on my lips.

“Are you … you M-Mr. Huff?”

“Why would you be looking for Monroe Huff?” he asked, glancing at Kiki and Pia.

“I’ve b-been told …” A spasm arose in my throat. Monroe Huff had the scariest face I had ever seen. “I’ve been told h-he k-knows about c-caves.”

Monroe had a smell about him that I couldn’t identify. A wet smell. A musty smell.

“That so?” His deep voice was like the bawl of faraway thunder.

I nodded. “M-My name’s Pablo Perez.”

“Congratulations.”

“This is my sister, Pia,” I said, nodding to where Pia stood cowering in the tall grass. “And my cousin Kiki. Sh-She’s from St. Louis.”

“Get to it, boy!”

“Yes, well, I heard”—I tried to find some spit to send down my throat, but it had all dried up—“that Monroe Huff was one of the best s-s-spelunkers in the state.”

“You heard wrong.”

I fell silent. I could definitely use a bathroom break.

“He’s
the
best.”

“Yes, well, uh, we’d like to hire him. You.”

“To do what?”

Kiki leaned into the conversation. “We’d like to go cave exploring, Mr. Huff. You are Mr. Huff, right? If you’re not, then we’ll be on our way.” Kiki let out an awkward chuckle.

Monroe Huff made a strange puffing sound through his nose. “I’m Huff. What cave do you want to explore?”

“Could we go inside and talk?” I asked, trying to put some muscle in my voice
.

Monroe hesitated for a moment. “Sure, let’s go inside.” He snorted again, then turned and strode back toward the cabin.

“Pablo, are we sure about this?” Kiki whispered. “Do we really want to crawl inside a cave with this … this Neanderthal?”

“Who’d you expect? Orlando Bloom?”

Pia giggled, but it didn’t stay on her lips for long.

We followed Monroe into his cabin. The curtains were drawn over the windows and it was dark inside. It reminded me of a cave. Or a tomb.

Monroe offered us chairs, but I said we’d stand.

In case we need to make a run for it.

The one-room cabin was sparsely furnished: a twin bed, a tiny refrigerator, a worn sofa, and a rocking chair. A small wood-burning stove sat in the middle of the room. A rope ladder lay on the floor next to it. About 50 hardback books were stacked in one corner. I could make out one of the titles:
The Grapes of Wrath.

An old GE radio sat on the kitchen counter. It was tuned to a classical music station out of Springfield. An announcer said the next song would be “O Sole Mio” by someone named Pavarotti. It didn’t seem like the kind of music Monroe Huff would be listening to.

This whole thing is too weird.

Monroe pulled his sunglasses away from his eyes, pushing them up on his head. “I don’t like light.”

I wondered what else Monroe Huff didn’t like. Uninvited guests? Three amateur explorers? Kids on dirt bikes?

Pia stood staring at cave memorabilia that covered the wall above the sofa. The mementos included color photographs of spelunkers in various underground locales.

“My wall of fame,” Monroe said, gesturing at the photos.

I studied the pictures, labeled with captions like:
Cave of the Winding Stair, California; Sitting Bull Falls, New Mexico; Clinton’s Cave, near Great Salt Lake, Utah
.
Several awards and citations were mixed in with the photos including one that read
: Monroe Huff—Lifetime Member—National Speleological Society.
Another read:
The 1,000-Mile Club.

“Is this you, Mr. Huff?” Pia asked, pointing at one of the photos. The man in the picture was hanging from a rope halfway up a towering cave wall.

“Sure is, sweet pea,” Monroe said, dropping into the rocking chair. “That’s the Stamps Pit Cave in Tennessee. A vertical climb of 200 feet.”

“Is it like … dangerous?”

“Not for me.”

“Oh.”

The cat, which had been eating from a bowl at Monroe’s feet, hopped up onto his lap and began washing its paws.

“Can we talk business, Mr. Huff?” I asked, trying to sound mature.

“Talk.”

Monroe Huff was grinning, but for the life of me, I couldn’t tell if it was a cheery grin or an evil grin.

“There’s a cave we’d like to find and explore,” I began, fighting to get each word out. “We don’t know exactly where it’s located, but we have a map.”

“What kind of map?”

“Uh, sort of a special map,” I said, searching for the right words.

Yeah, special. A special one-dollar fake map.

Suddenly, the whole thing seemed childish, and I had the urge to turn and run out of the cabin. Sure, we had a map, if you could call it that. A map that had been around for years. A map that everyone in the county had seen. Why in the world had I thought the map was something special?

“What kind of
special
map?” Monroe asked, stroking his cat.

“A treasure map,” Kiki said.

“A
treasure
map?” Monroe snorted a horselaugh. “You kids have been watching too much TV.” Monroe laughed again, louder and longer. After his laughter had died, he said, “You kids ever explore a cave?”

We shook our heads.

“You can get bad lost in caves,” Monroe said, leaning forward in his rocking chair, his eyes roving, wild. “Most people think cave exploring is like walking down a lighted, four-lane highway, with road signs marking the way.” He leaned back and began rocking, his finger tracing the cat’s right ear.

“Nothing could be further from the truth. Some caves are like rat mazes, with miles and miles of tunnels. Some of those tunnels intersect, but most don’t. Take the Mammoth Springs Cave system in Kentucky, for example. It snakes its way underground for 350 miles.” Monroe leaned forward again, his eyes sparkling with what must have been good memories. “I know. I hiked and crawled and stooped every muddy, rocky, watery mile of it.”

I started to speak, but I wasn’t fast enough.

“You,” Monroe said, leveling a finger at Kiki. “What’s a Bachman knot?”

Kiki shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

“You’ve never heard of it and yet you want poor old Monroe to risk the only good life he has for you?”

He next trained his finger at me. “What’s Moon Milk?”

“I-I don’t have a clue,” I said, wishing at the moment that I was somewhere else.

“You don’t have a clue and yet you want a man named Monroe Huff to crawl into Mother Cave on your behalf?”

Now his finger was aimed at Pia. “Tell me, sweet pea, does water run uphill?”

Pia shook her head. “No way.”

Monroe threw his head back and laughed again. “Wrong. I’ve seen water run uphill in many a cave.”

“Mr. Huff,” I said, “all we want is—”

“Caves are cold and dark, and filled with rabid bats and bottomless holes.” His finger ran up and down the cat’s nose, and in a low voice, he said, “Mother Cave is the last frontier for those of us seeking to escape into the dark unknown.”

There was complete silence. Even the birds outside seemed to have stopped chirping.