A Shadow of Death in The Woods (6 page)

I must have lost myself in my musings because the next thing I knew Momma was in the kitchen. In a few minutes we were sitting down for lunch. Once again I was seated across from Frankie. She turned on her smile and charm. I steeled myself to think about home and my family. It was hard to concentrate on family with her smiling at me.
Odysseus had a crew to tie him to the mast to protect him from the Sirens. I had only tableware and my wits to protect myself and my wits had long since abandoned me. I kept wondering: Was she the one who wanted to lure me onto the rocks of my destruction? Life is hard partly because some questions are never answered.

After lunch Bob and Jane walked me to my bike. My bike was loaded and I was ready to get on the road. I was almost giddy from the relief of being able to leave. Jane, with tears in her eyes, gave me a hug. Bob apologized for the twenty hours of suspense but he said they had to be sure of trust. He reiterated his and Jane’s owing me their lives and again said that what was theirs was mine if I needed it.

I was at a loss for words. I couldn’t say that it was no big deal because I had taken one man’s life and abetted in taking a second. It was a very big deal. I merely gave Jane a hug and shook Bob’s hand.

Then I blurted out, “By the way, who is Lydia?” I am not sure why I brought this up but I was curious about her ever since Bob had pointed out her apartment. No one else had mentioned her and she was not around that weekend.

The look on Bob’s face turned hard and I thought I had asked the wrong question in front of his wife.

He said, “Lydia is a special friend who occasionally stays here.” With that as his final word, Bob and Jane climbed aboard their bike.

With that awkward exchange, I climbed aboard my iron horse and fired him up for the trip home, still wondering who Lydia was.

Chapter 6

The Troopers

As I rode down the driveway with Bob and Jane in the lead on their bike, I felt like a boy who had just been let out of school for the summer. No, it was more than that. I had just been given a new lease on life. It is not often that you are given a chance to live again. I began making plans to lead a better life.

I could still see The Cabin in my mirror but in my mind I was recalling the final scenes at The Cabin. When I was packing my stuff, Bob and Jane came to the apartment where I had slept. It had been a very emotional two days. The previous day we had killed two people and today I had waited to see if I would live or die. As I finished packing, Jane completely lost it and started sobbing her thanks to me for saving them. I was embarrassed and didn’t know how to respond. In a situation like that you don’t just say, “Hey, it was no big deal.” It was a very big deal.

She clamped on my body like I was a life preserver in the ocean. Bob could see my discomfort and tried to peal her off but it didn’t work so I wrapped my arms around her and told her it would be okay in time. I wasn’t sure that was exactly true but I didn’t know what else to say.

Finally, she calmed and got hold of herself. I thought it was over until I saw the look in Bob’s eyes. He said, “You know if not for you we would be dead and our children orphans. You have our eternal gratitude and whatever of ours you need is yours; you need only to ask.”

Then there had been a repeat at the final goodbye.

It all came home to me what a big event it had been. I had been so worried about my own survival that I had put the woods out of my mind. Yes, I had saved their lives and it made me feel good but we had killed and that made me feel terrible. I began thinking of the woods where the killings took place as The Woods.

We reached the end of the drive and Bob turned left. He said he would lead me through the hills and get me on a main road toward Ohio.

Soon we came to a highway that I recognized as going into Ohio. I put on my right turn signal and waved good bye to Bob and Jane. I doubted very much if I would ever see them again. Often on bike trips you meet people, have a good time, bond some and then never see them again no matter how much of a good of a time you had together. They faded to a smaller and smaller image in my mirrors and finally were gone. Vanished into the past.

I checked the watch strapped to my handlebars. With a leather motorcycle jacket on it is difficult to check a watch on your wrist because motorcycle jacket sleeves are longer than normal to cover your wrists with your hands up on the handlebars. A long distance biker trick is to strap a cheap watch to the handlebars. You can actually strap on an expensive watch but someone will steal it.

I calculated that I should be home in four and a half or five hours barring trouble. Barring trouble? How much trouble can you have on one trip?

I rode easy through the hills. I was in no mood to work the twisties. I made my way west and finally caught an Interstate. I quickly accelerated up to speed and set my throttle lock. A throttle lock on a motorcycle is an interesting gadget. It mechanically locks your throttle in one position. It turns out that on most Interstates in the East it is a great cruise control. You would think that your bike would slow down and then go too fast as the highway grade changed but surprisingly it held a fairly constant speed.

I settled in for my ride home. Suddenly what I had done only one day ago hit me hard. I felt nauseous and it looked like it was getting dark out. I knew I was on the verge of passing out. I clicked off the throttle lock and eased to the shoulder. I pulled over and stopped. I got my helmet and gloves off and walked to a grassy area where I lost my lunch. That seemed to help and it was no longer dark out. I stayed bent over, expecting the dry heaves, the bane of vomiters the world over.

I am not sure how long I was bent over but I was thinking about rinsing my mouth out with water when I saw the reflections of emergency lights. I turned my head and a trooper car was just pulling to a stop. I felt another wave of nausea so I stayed bent over. A trooper got out of the car and started to come toward me. I took a spit and stood up and saw that it was a man, probably six feet two and maybe two hundred pounds. He swaggered toward me until I stood up to my full height, which in my biker boots was over six feet eight. He stopped in his tracks and subtlety unsnapped his gun with a shaky hand. This trooper was wary. Scratch that. He was scared.

Then it dawned on me. He recognized me as a wanted man. My “friends” at The Cabin must have had a change of heart and turned me into the cops. Maybe that was why Bob and Jane had so many tears as I left. They knew I wasn’t going to reach home.

The trooper activated his shoulder mike and said something too low for me to hear. Plus it was full of police jargon. All professions develop a jargon that only people in their profession understand. How many times have you gone to a doctor with a sore elbow and have the doctor announce with a professional demeanor that you have something in a Latin phrase. You write it down and look it up when you get home only to find that in Latin it means a sore elbow. All professions do this. It sends the message that only I, the professional, can understand this. If you cannot understand it, you are not a professional, at least in my profession. It strokes the ego and justifies the bill.

I couldn’t hear clearly nor could I understand what he said but I got the impression he was calling for backup. Why would a cop call for backup? Well, if he or she was faced with a dangerous criminal, say a murderer, that might do it. I had a sinking feeling. Had I been set up? Did my mountain “friends” arrange this?

*   *   *

Julie was sitting on a median, watching traffic for speeders when the call came in. An officer needed backup immediately. It was in her sector and she knew the trooper. It was Mark and she had ridden with him during his final training on the road. She had trained him on how to make a stop without getting killed.

Why would he need a backup? The only thing that made sense was if guns or drugs were involved. Every trooper lived in fear of walking up to a car and seeing the wrong end of a gun barrel. That was why they were trained to never come up to the car window. They always stood behind the driver.

She had always feared for Mark. At times she didn’t care that much if he got killed but it would reflect badly on her training. Mark was big and too full of himself. He didn’t understand that a pint sized person with a gun could take you out just as fast as a big person, maybe faster. Cop killer Clyde Barrow was a small man.

She knew Mark well but didn’t like him. He was arrogant. She couldn’t stand his attitude. He didn’t like women and he resented her being his superior. Still he was a fellow trooper and she was going to help him.

She flipped on her emergency lights and jammed the car in reverse, doing a three point turn around. Amazingly, the traffic was clear and she pulled onto the Interstate. As soon as her tires hit the pavement, she nailed the throttle and the big V-8 roared as she forced the car to over a hundred miles per hour in seconds. Mark was five miles away and she would make it in about three minutes.

Up ahead she saw Mark’s cruiser stopped with its emergency lights flashing. She couldn’t see what he had stopped. There didn’t seem to be a car. Maybe something else was going on. She pulled up behind his cruiser and got out after informing dispatch that she was on site. She walked up and saw that he had stopped a motorcycle. The biker was standing a few feet in front of Mark.

As she approached closely she could see that it was not a biker. In motorcycle jargon he was a rider, not a biker. He was well dressed. His hair was cut in a business style. In fact, it was probably styled but it was hard to tell since he had helmet hair. He had a recent shave and his jeans were clean. He was wearing a motorcycle jacket but it was an expensive one and had no gang colors. She pegged this guy as a professional who rode a motorcycle on weekends. Mark had overreacted.

However, she could see why. The guy was huge. In his motorcycle boots he must have been over six feet eight inches tall. He wasn’t fat and had no belly hanging over his expensive belt. His shoulders were huge. His jacket made him look even bigger but she could see he had weightlifter shoulders. He was cute, too.

*   *   *

As soon as the lady trooper was behind the first trooper, he told me to get out my driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance. I told him they were in my wallet, which in turn was in my tank bag. I made no move to the bike. I wanted explicit instructions and assurances that I wasn’t going to get shot. He asked me if I was left- or right-handed. I said right. I didn’t offer the information that I could box either right-handed or left-handed. It didn’t seem like a good time to brag. He instructed me to use my left hand to take out my wallet slowly.

I did so as exactly as I could, making sure that I made no sudden movements. I didn’t want him saying “Oops” over my dead body. Scared people with guns are dangerous people.

I got my wallet out and he instructed me to step away from my bike. He then told me to get out my driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance, which I did. He told me to approach and hand them to him. He took them to his patrol car and began working computer magic.

*   *   *

It was Mark’s stop but when Mark went to his cruiser to call in, Julie moved closer to the rider and asked him a few questions. She quickly established that this man was a professional and he was headed home to his family.

Julie was a rider and asked questions about his bike. The bike looked too long to her. Then she found out he had built it and, of course, made it longer for his long legs and arms. It was a beautiful bike. As she admired the bike, she was thinking that Mark would be furious at her for talking to his stop. Well, he shouldn’t have screwed up and called for backup.

It was going to be a long time before Mark lived down this screwup. He not only panicked because of the man’s size but he had to call a woman for backup. Julie could hardly contain her amusement. She couldn't wait to spread the word among the troopers.

*   *   *

The lady trooper seemed much more at ease. She asked me a few questions and I thought I could see a smile developing on her face.

I was beginning to feel better too. First, I decided that this couldn’t be the result of my friends turning me in. It didn’t make any sense to turn me in. It would only make sense if they killed me. Second, the lady trooper was completely at ease. She had just made a decision that I was not a threat.

In a few minutes the man was back and handed my papers to me. He wanted to know what I was doing. Why do people ask such stupid and ambiguous questions? I knew it was the wrong thing to say but I couldn’t help myself. I told him that I was on my way home. I said it with such an even voice that he couldn’t determine if I was a wise-ass or not. He took the safe route and asked what I was doing stopped on the Interstate. I told him I felt sick and stopped to throw up. I volunteered that the evidence was just off the road behind me. He didn’t seem inclined to go look. I guess by this time he figured that I was telling the truth.

There remained only one thing left to do. The man trooper had to save face. He lectured me on the evils and illegality of stopping on the Interstate. I didn’t remind him that it was an emergency stop and therefore lawful. Instead I said, “Yes, sir.”

I grabbed a water bottle and rinsed out my mouth. I felt a little better and got ready to ride home. I was going to be late.

I wasn’t sure I could take anymore stress that day but I probably was going to have more since I was late.