Seventeen
Yosemite National
Park
Drake managed to keep the Suburban moving long enough to put a
mile-or-so between them and Taylor’s Waterloo. At that point jagged bodywork
from the smashed front fender finally ripped through the reinforced sidewall of
the left front tire. The steel-belted rubber let go with a bang, shredding and
thumping around inside the distorted wheel well. That, combined with a shot out
rear tire on the right side, steam billowing from under the hood and a virtual
Christmas tree of blinking idiot lights on the instrument panel, convinced
Drake that Gene’s sport utility vehicle had finally been rendered hors de combat. Think of it like this Gene,
he mentally prepared his defense, your
truck died heroically.
“Where are we?” he asked numbly, switching off the ignition.
Paige didn’t answer immediately. She sat hunched low, her back
against the passenger door watching Drake in an amused, cynical way. Finally
she announced in a matter-of-fact tone, “this is the Nature Center at Happy
Isles. We’re at the Southeast corner of Valley.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, “Happy Isles. …I’ve seen it. Come on, I don’t
think we’re safe sitting here. We’d better get moving.” Drake pulled on the
door handle but the door refused to yield. Apparently the bodywork had
experienced some telescoping as a result of all the slamming and banging. Paige
continued to stare, her smile even larger. The door resisted, stuck tight,
Drake had to put his shoulder into it, shoving hard, before it opened,
squealing in metallic protest. Paige called, “I can’t get my side open at all;
looks like we use the same door.” She shooed Hank out of the cab into Drake’s
arms, then crawled along the length of the seat to the open driver’s door.
After all that drama, the door to the backseat opened without any
trouble at all. While Hank occupied himself sniffing around the remains of the
Suburban, Drake began sorting through the jumbled mess in the back; choosing
some things, discarding others. He rejoiced in his decision to leave his
camping gear in the truck. Now it was available when he really needed it. He
turned, arms full, and handed Paige a worn, canvas duffel bag. Then he
shouldered his way into a venerable, aluminum-framed backpack. Drake hitched
the pack around on his shoulders, shifting the weight to the most comfortable
position. Abruptly he stopped fumbling around, his worried eyes meeting Paige’s
as she put her hand on his arm. She still wore a smug, superior expression;
after all she’d just had another demonstration that this respectable, ordained
minister was fundamentally another human male.
“…What?” he finally asked in exasperation.
“You’re really one little surprise after another, aren’t you?” she
smirked. “I didn’t realize ministers even knew
the kind of language you were using back there.”
Shamefaced,
he said, “Neither did I.”
“Stan,”
she asked him, turning suddenly serious, “are you afraid to die?”
“No,”
he said quietly, “it’s not that. I mean, I am afraid of pain of course. But
really, I’m more afraid of doing something stupid and getting us both killed.
Look,” he said, “God can have my life any time He wants it. I’ve already
surrendered it to Him. But I am still human enough to refuse to roll over and
play dead just because some clown with a gun wants me to. I’m a Christian, not
a masochistic doormat.
“But
aren’t you supposed to turn the other cheek or something?” she asked.
“That’s
a common misunderstanding. It helps if you understand daily life in the Jewish
world of the First Century. The ritual for picking a fight involved tugging the
other guy’s beard, followed by a hefty slap across the face. Kind of like kids
in my day saying ‘I dare you to step across that line!’ Jesus was simply
saying, give the guy a shot at your other cheek and defuse the situation.
“That
means,” he continued, “If someone picks a fight, I’m supposed to walk away if I
can. It does not mean I’m forbidden
from defending my life. Or yours,” he added pointedly. “Okay?”
“Sure,”
she said. “That makes sense, I guess.”
Drake gave the Chevy a farewell slap as he turned to go. They
began walking back up the road in the direction of Mirror Lake. He had to call
Hank twice before the dumb mutt would stop sniffing around and follow them.
They hadn’t gone a hundred yards before a flock of scattered headlights
appeared in the distance, converging directly on their little spot in the big
woods. A few of the lights stopped upon reaching Taylor’s half-submerged RV.
But the rest kept right on coming, racing for the brightly illuminated Suburban
which Drake had foolishly parked beneath one of Yosemite’s scattered street
lamps.
“Well,
we sure can’t keep going this way,” said Paige. “We’d be caught out in the open
before we could get into the cover of the forest. There’s nowhere to hide this
side of the river. I think we should head back toward the foothills and wait
for them to pass us by.
“I’m not sure,” Drake said skeptically. “They could be counting on
us running away from all the lights; you know, herding us right into one of
their little jamborees. No Hank, stick around,” he said warningly. The oncoming
lights fanned out after crossing the Merced and came to a stop. Vague shapes
could be seen through the intermittent rain. They spread out and began to
search the area. The sounds of men drawing nearer, beating the bushes as they
came rendered the brief argument irrelevant. They had no choice now but to fall
back, heading up the steepening canyon from which the Merced River flowed.
* * *
Ranger
Gutierrez’s hand shook as he slowly put the phone’s handset back in its plastic
cradle. The dead line filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. What had
happened to his niece? Why had the phone been cut off? This whole day had been
one long, endless nightmare, starting from the moment Rod Weatherly had been
gunned down on the trail beside him; now this. Why had Paige been suddenly cut
off? And where had she been calling from in the first place? Only the ‘who’ was
certain; it had to be those stinking cochinos
who called themselves a Militia.
He
picked up the phone again and placed a call to his niece’s cottage. the phone
kept ringing with no answer. Of course,
he slammed the receiver down. It’s a
crime scene! Next he punched the number for Bridalveil Gifts. This time he
got a busy signal. Despite his fatigue and worry he knew he had to think the
problem through rationally.
Gutierrez
dropped his head to his hands, massaging his throbbing temples, trying to
decide on a course of action. He still felt kind of punchy after the drawn-out day
of warfare and useless, bureaucratic buck passing. The entire office had been
buzzing with continual cross-country conference calls between the upper levels
of the National Park Service and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms;
even the Park Service’s parent organization, the Department of the Interior,
had gotten into the act, not to mention Big Daddy Homeland Security. Finally
the Secretary of the Interior had been tracked down somewhere in the wilds of
Wyoming. Apparently he had screwed up his courage and summoned the nerve to
make a decision; Close the Park. About
time too, Gutierrez grumped.
Beginning
at 3:00 local time, employees at Yosemite’s several entrances had begun turning
away all new arrivals. And at that moment Park Service Rangers accompanied by
agents of the ATF, were moving through Yosemite’s road-accessible campgrounds,
cottages and hotels, prepping campers to leave at first light if not sooner.
Once the peripheries were evacuated they would then concentrate on Yosemite
Valley itself. Ultimately, heavily armed Park Rangers and ATF agents would have
to move into the high country, rounding up stray backpackers and seeking the
militia’s whereabouts.
The bottleneck of the whole operation would be the lack of
adequate road space. An immediate, all encompassing evacuation was simply going
to overwhelm the Park’s existing infrastructure, resulting in utter chaos.
Worst case; the Park’s hundreds of miles of roads would become a huge immovable
parking lot. That would be a big help. The entire concept seemed improbable and
even kind of hopeless, but in reality it was simply a matter of channeling
their thinking and actions in accordance with the contingency plan. Rudy’s
concern in all the purpose and scramble was that Paige’s welfare might get lost
in the shuffle.
The
beat up phone on his desk jangled shrilly, startling him from his irrelevant
mental wanderings.
“Hello!” he shouted into the receiver. What are you, a hysteric?!
His mind demanded. Rudy got himself under control, adding in a more
professional tone, “Park Ranger office, how can I help you?
“Good evening,” said a confident voice on the other end of the
line, “my name is Gene Prentice. I need to speak to a ranger Rudy Gutierrez as
quickly as possible, please.”
“This is Gutierrez,” he said jumping out of his chair in
uncontrollable excitement. “What have you got for me?”
“I’ve just received a call for help from my pastor, Stan Drake.
He’s somewhere in Yosemite.
“The Padre called you?” Gutierrez demanded. “What did he say?”
“Pastor Drake sent me an e-mail asking me to call you immediately.
The message is as follows:
THE
BATF AND THE MARIPOSA MILITIA ARE HUNTING PAIGE AND I. BOTH GROUPS HAVE
DEMONSTRATED A DEFINITE WILLINGNESS TO SHOOT US ON SIGHT, NO QUESTIONS ASKED.
WE ARE HOLED UP AT PRESENT IN THE DOWNSTAIRS CLOSET AT BRIDALVEIL GIFTS. WE ARE
IN POSSESSION OF A COMPUTER THUMB DRIVE CONTAINING INFORMATION HARMFUL TO THE
MILITIA. WE ARE ATTEMPTING TO ESCAPE. WILL TRY TO REACH THE RANGER STATION AT
MIRROR LAKE. PLEASE CONTACT PARK RANGER RUDY GUTIERREZ AT THE NUMBER BELOW.
SEND HELP QUICK.
“That end’s the message,” said Gene.
Gutierrez thanked him profusely. They exchanged what little
information they had, then he slammed the phone down again on its plastic
cradle and went looking for help. He found that help in the break room where
another ranger, Walt Frazier, sat cooling his heels. Quickly explaining the
situation as he yanked Frazier out of his chair, Gutierrez led the way into the
stormy night.
* * *
Drake flicked on his flashlight to read the weathered wooden sign
at the head of the trail. The words ‘Nevada Falls’ had been carved into its
rustic face. It had taken them only two hours to hike up the mist trail, a trip
which normally took longer. But as the saying goes, fear lent them wings. Now,
within sight of the sign—as if they had not climbed the last mile in sight of
the waterfall itself—they had reached a high alpine meadow. The Merced River
rushed past to their right, cascading over the rocky falls. As they watched, the
moon broke through the clouds, throwing a silvery light over the rugged
landscape before them.
Farther upriver sat Little
Yosemite Valley, high above and beyond the actual Yosemite Valley floor. Little
Yosemite was surrounded by a rocky, forested highland. The moon-swept fairyland
vision stretched off into the distance until swallowed up by the shifting
clouds of a still rainy night. Though above 6,000 feet, the entrance to Little Yosemite Valley is still far
below the glacier-carved rim of the Valley walls. Had the sky been clearer, the
twin bulks of Liberty Cap and Mount Broderick would have occluded a sizeable
portion of the heavens off to their left.
Hank
romped around them while Paige left the marked trail and struck out cross-country,
finally able to leave the open, obvious and—as more time passed—increasingly
dangerous trail.
“Coming
up the canyon we had no choice but to stick to the trail for speed,” she explained.
“But up here I think we’d be smarter keeping out of sight. I know a secluded
little glade up around the base of Liberty Cap where we should be safe enough
for the night.”
By
the time they reached Paige’s glade the rain had begun falling again, lightly
pattering down on the densely carpeted pine needles under their feet. Drake
shivered, knowing they needed to get under shelter soon before they began
suffering the effects of hypothermia. The little clearing she led them to
backed-up against the towering, rocky majesty of Liberty Cap. A dense stand of
trees surrounded the glade on three sides. It looked secluded enough to safely
spend what was left of the night there. Drake gratefully dropped his heavy pack
to the ground and heaved a well-earned sigh of relief.
From
out of the depths of his knapsack he produced the makings of a compact dome
tent. Drake proceeded to erect this modern camping marvel as quickly as his
cold, wet, numbed fingers would allow. There were rips in the fabric he that
suspected were bullet holes; small price to pay for escaping with their lives,
while still having a serviceable roof over their heads. At length he ushered
Paige ahead of him into the completed shelter. He followed her in dragging
their gear behind them. Hank stuck his head into the zippered entrance but
showed no inclination to come inside.
“Stick
around Hank,” Drake said quietly, giving the pooch a pet before zipping the
flap closed.
“You’re
not going to leave him out in the rain are you?” Paige’s eyebrows compressed
indignantly.
“Yes,
for the moment,” He said firmly. “I’ve camped with this dog before. He likes to
explore an unfamiliar place before he settles down. When he wants in, he’ll let
us know. Meanwhile, you don’t want eighty pounds of canine insomnia pacing
around in this dinky little tent. Okay?”
“You’re
sure he’ll let us know if he wants in?”
“You
won’t be able to sleep for all the pitiful whining,” he assured her.
Paige
gave him some more eyebrow treatment then opened the canvas bag she had
carried. She removed a tightly-rolled sleeping bag from its depths. It too
displayed evidence of having slowed a few slugs. Goose-down packing leaked from
several slits in the bag, spilling out on the nylon floor around them. Their
constrained movements created a continual blizzard of tiny downy-white feathers
floating around inside the tent. It struck Drake as vaguely humorous, like
being stuck inside a giant snow globe.
Paige
zipped open the sleeping bag to serve as a blanket. Wrapping herself in its warmth,
and avoiding the bullet-hole drips from the tent’s leaky roof, she watched
Drake as he rooted around in the rucksack.
“Every time we s-sit down for five minutes,” she said through
chattering teeth, “you start pouring hot coffee into me. B-b-brother, if you
could produce some nice hot j-java right about now, I’d b-believe you were a
real-live m-m-miracle worker.”
Drake
looked up with a grin, “Curses!” he said, “foiled again. There’s nothing hot in
here I’m sorry to say, but I do have some dry clothes as well as a tasty little
ensemble of chocolate bars and trail-mix. All my clothes are going to be way
too big for you I’m afraid, but maybe you can find something to sleep in while
your clothes dry out some.”
He
passed the knapsack over and Paige began rummaging through it, smiling a bit as
Drake discretely turned his back. She stripped off her damp, clingy clothing while
Drake occupied himself sorting out their meager rations. When he turned at her
all clear, he saw that she had chosen an old gray sweatshirt, his Seminary logo
emblazoned across the front. It was several times too large, the waistline
reaching almost to her knees and the sleeves falling down beyond her hands. She
tried pushing the sleeves up past her elbows, but they slipped right back down
again. Finally, she resorted to rolling them up a bit. Drake sighed. She still
looked better in it than he ever had.
“Here,” he said tossing her some chow, “dig in.”
“Thanks,”
she began unwrapping a thick slab of chocolate. “Okay,” she said, taking a
small nibble, savoring the chocolate slowly, “now, this is where you tell me
that you’re really an ex-Navy Seal or Ranger or something, right? I mean, sure,
you retired from the ways of violence to pursue the quiet life of a peaceful
country minister. But really, you’ve been taught to annihilate large masses of
super-trained ninjas all by yourself, right? …Right?!”
“Well, no…” he said mock-seriously, “but I was in Boy Scouts once.
And I probably should warn you that I did earn my pocket-knife-safety merit
badge.”
“Great,” she responded. “If we have a sudden need to whittle some
emergency crafts I’ll feel very safe.”
Drake’s laughed. “I guess I deserved that,” he said a bit
defensively, “I’d feel happier with some protection around here too, but if
you’re expecting me to challenge these guys to a shoot-out at high noon well,
all I can say is; we’re talking Billy Graham meets Rambo, here.
They lapsed into silence again, studiously concentrating on their
skimpy meal. After a while Paige sighed in resignation and lifted a corner of
the sleeping bag, offering to share. Drake gratefully accepted her largesse,
snuggling in close to keep both of them covered. They sat that way for what
seemed like a long while, in a cozy, companionable silence. The steady drumming
of rain against the nylon over their heads was like a lullaby. Gradually their
chilled bodies began to warm as their combined body heat accumulated under the
thick sleeping bag.
It had been a long, exhausting, even terrifying day. It came as no
great surprise to either of them when they found themselves wrapped in each
others arms. At first, it was simply a reflex action; two scared, cold
children reaching out for the warmth and security of the only other person in
the world they could trust. Soon however their fearful embrace evolved into
something approaching the passionate. It had been many long and empty months
since Linda. All the aching loneliness buried deep inside engulfed him at this
first sign of intimacy in such a long time. He returned the embrace eagerly.
Necking was one thing. It turned serious though when the warm,
tender embrace progressed into something a bit more torrid. That’s when Drake shifted
uncomfortably.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered.
“Nothing,” he said, breathing hard and feeling like a jerk; there’s nothing sillier in this day and age
than an unattached male fighting off a willing female.
“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?” she demanded. “Are you thinking of
her, your ex wife?”
“No, it’s not that.” He said sadly.
“You’re gay!” she said aghast.
The irony of that set him to laughing harshly in spite of the
tension of the moment. “I get that a lot here in Yosemite. No, that would make
things easier, but that’s not it. Look Paige, I’m supposed to be a Christian; a
minister even.”
“So?” she said hotly, “you are aware aren’t you, that Christians
make love too. That’s why all those Right-to-Lifers have little babies, you
know.”
Drake cleared his throat and said as delicately as possible,
“we’re not supposed to do it outside of marriage.”
“Oh, I see!” she was really angry now. “You’re judging me. You
think I’m some kind of bimbo now—a scarlet letter floozy—don’t you? I’ll bet
that just makes you feel righteous and holy all over, doesn’t it?”
“No,” he said ashamed, “actually, I feel pretty much like a jerk
right now. Look Paige I was cooperating in this too. I want you. God forgive
me, I do. But I can’t, for your sake as much as mine.
“My sake? Don’t dump your
guilt on me, thanks!”
“That’s not what I meant. What kind of Christian or pastor would I
be in your eyes if we got carried away tonight? A phony; like every other
‘Christian’ you know. And you know it’s true. I want to be a better man than
that. Paige,” he said desperately, “I don’t want to be a phony with you of all
people. And as far as judging you goes, how can I do that when any judgment due
tonight, belongs to me.”
Paige began to weep now. “I feel so cheap. You led me on!”
“Yes,” he confessed, “you’re right, I did. I’m truly sorry Paige,
please forgive me.” The simple confession seemed to draw the poison from the
wound in a way that arguments and sincere statements of faith never could. He
held her again as her tears fell. While they clung to one another tightly,
Drake wondered why he felt so miserable. He’d done the honorable thing, after
all. Shouldn’t he feel spiritual and righteous? Shouldn’t the heavens roll back
so he could hear the angel choirs singing the Hallelujah Chorus? But all he
felt was self-pity and the only sound he heard was the lonely pattering of rain
in the dark. Drake sighed. After a while he found himself praying for
deliverance from their circumstances. He prayed for the healing of Paige’s
alienation from God, and he asked about the possibility of a real relationship
with Paige.
* * *
Rangers Gutierrez and Frazier approached Bridalveil Gifts in an
unprofessional compromise between speed and caution. The light shining from the
street lamps showed the front door of the shop closed. However, as they drew
near they could see that the door’s window had a broken pane in it. Rudy sent
Walt around to cover the back.
“Be real careful,” he warned. “These could be the same guys that
took Rod down this morning.”
Walt’s
eyes narrowed in renewed anger. “I’ll be careful,” he began making his way
around to the back ally. After a few minutes the radio in Rudy’s hand crackled
softly, “This is Walt. I’m in position. The back door’s standing wide open but
there’s no indication anybody’s home.”
“Okay,”
said Rudy, “let me think.” In normal circumstances, it would be a good time to
call for backup, but tonight everybody was out evacuating the Park. That left
limited manpower here on the Valley floor: Walt and Rudy.
Rudy, made his decision. “This is how we’re going to do it…” They
were using lousy radio discipline, but so what? They were operating in an
informal, tactical environment and besides, it was working.
Rudy
cautiously approached the front door from the sheltered side and reached across
to try the knob. The unlocked door easily swung inward. He hastily snatched his
arm back before some thoughtless cretin inside decided to shoot it off.
Recalling the building’s layout, he drew his weapon and held it close to his
chest. Rudy stepped a slow half-circle past the doorway, viewing quadrants of
the interior, “slicing the pie.” His quick-view did not reveal any hostiles. He
stepped quickly through the door, angling to his right until he reached the
front corner of the shop. There he turned and took up position behind a massive
oak chest of drawers.
Nobody shot him. Nothing moved. No sound.
“See
anything?” he whispered into his radio.
“Not
a thing,” came Walt’s quiet reply. “I’m coming in through the back door.”
“I’ve
got the back covered from here,” said Rudy. “I’m on your left as you come through
the door. Watch your right.”
Walt
entered in the same tactical manner as Rudy. Once inside they cleared the shop room
by room, upstairs and down. The place was empty. They turned their attention to
looking for smaller clues. Walt found the only thing worth finding in the back
closet. They found the Reverend Stan Drake’s notebook computer, concealed in a
file drawer, connected to the World Wide Web via the shop’s telephone line.
