Wild Within (Wild at Heart #1) (5 page)

Chapter 6

Early in May of the previous year, west of Oakland’s technical high school, Jerry Kriebel rolled his new mountain bike home toward the dingy single-family house he shared with seven acquaintances. Strong California sunshine reflected off the shiny metal.

He lumbered up cracked cement stairs carrying his purchase, a plastic Stoke’s Spokes bag dangling from the handlebars. He leaned the bike against the living room wall next to the TV, grabbed a beer from the kitchen, and spread out an assortment of new gear on the grungy living room carpet. Biking shorts, shirt, helmet, gloves, and a hydration pack covered the threadbare floor. An extreamly tall young man in shorts and an oversize shirt walked through the room.

“Shit, dude.” Jerry’s roommate examined the acquisitions with obvious envy. “You got yourself some banging stuff.”

Jerry grinned. “If I can find a ride to Marin County tomorrow, I’m gonna take this baby out on the trails. See what she can do.”

“Sweet.” The friend stroked the bike’s gleaming surface. “Bet you could do sixty down a good hill.”

“Yep. Way better than my crap car.”

“Your crap car’s totaled.”

“That’s why I got the bike.”

“Bike’s a better fit for those stubby legs of yours anyway.” The friend punched Jerry’s arm. “If you need a ride to Marin, Rasta might let you borrow his pickup. If you get it back before dark.”

“Got no license, dude, remember?”

“Don’t think Rasta’ll mind. He probably even knows where you should go. Just don’t total his shagging wagon.”

They snickered at the shared joke of their roommate’s consistent failure to get any of his short-lived girlfriends to join him in the bed of his pickup, where he optimistically kept a mattress.

The next morning, Jerry drove the pickup out of Oakland, crossed the Bay Bridge, meandered through fog-encased San Francisco and across the Golden Gate Bridge, and entered Marin. He was grateful for the stinking mattress protecting his new bike in the back of the truck as he navigated bumps in the pavement. The truck wound up Shoreline Highway and then along Panoramic. The Pacific Ocean lay to the left. But a dense white mist hung in the trees over the embankment.

All these clouds. Can’t even see the ocean. It’s like I’m on top of the world.

Jerry negotiated the sharp turns and steep inclines with squealing tires, often veering across the dividing line into the opposing lane. At seven on a Sunday morning, he encountered few other drivers.

The GPS on his phone recalculated when he passed the Mountain Home Inn on Mount Tamalpais. He swerved on the fire road to the north and shot into the empty parking lot across the street. After dressing in bike gear in the front seat, he threw his street in the footwell. The cool air made him wish for a long-sleeved shirt. But it had seemed so unnecessary in sunny Oakland.

He tucked his shoulder-length hair under his helmet, then pedaled up the fire road’s wide dirt expanse.

Jerry rode toward the summit of Mount Tam like an agitated crab, all at right angles. Elbows pointed to the sky, short legs jutted to the sides, torso bent forward. Bulging eyes focused on the trail ahead. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he puffed for air. After ten minutes, he stopped.

Screw all this climbing. I’m wiped.

He jerked his handlebars to the side, nearly lost his balance, recovered, and pointed the bike downhill.

“Now this is more like it.” He leaned forward and shifted into high gear. His legs pedaled furiously, increasing his pace.

The bike bounced across small rocks and dirt, skidding from side to side. It slithered around a turn. Jerry dropped his foot, scraping a long, thin line in the sand. The shrubbery and trees sped past his peripheral vision in a blur. Before long, he arrived back at Panoramic Highway. He turned down the first road he saw. There, the initial descent petered out quickly and his pace slowed as the street meandered past multi-million dollar houses perched on the hillside.

Who the fuck lives here?

He passed gated driveways with surveillance cameras and mysterious steps leading to impenetrable fences. Occasionally, beat up cars hugged the side of the road.

Must be the cleaning ladies’ cars. People around here drive Beemers and Ferraris.

As if to prove him right, a gleaming black metalic Mercedes SL Roadster pulled around a corner. Jerry braked. The balding man in the convertible gave him a wave as he roared past.

Jerry returned the wave with a salute.

Sweet ride
.

Around another corner, he saw what he had been looking for: a narrow dirt and gravel footpath sloping steeply downhill.

Awesome.

He swerved onto the trail.

Now this is effing mountain biking.

The wheels bounced precariously and threatened to throw him off. Lattices of exposed roots and large rocks jutted out at unexpected intervals. Jerry braked, tipped, and seesawed down the path. He grazed a tree. Vines and brush that clung to the upside of the hill clutched at him as he sped past.

A little more lift and I’ll take right off. Who said mountain biking is difficult? I’ve got natural talent. With a little practice I’ll probably make a team.

A large rock jerked his thoughts back to the trail. His front tire spun. He caught a brief glimpse of the steep ravine to his left.

Don’t want to end up down there.

His feet pushed the bike to quicken its pace. He rounded a sharp corner.

The next instant, the world moved in slow motion. Flash of blue. Handlebars yanked right. Fingers clenched. Eyes closed. Tires skidding. Body off seat. Bike into hillside. Head back. Shoulder into protruding root. Pain down arm. Leg pinned to slope.

Ouch.

Jerry moved his arm.

That hurts.

He wiggled his fingers.

Don’t think anything’s broken.

Then his leg.

I’m okay.

He stood.

Christ, that was lucky. I could have gone over the handlebars. And down the cliff.

He reoriented himself.

Then he heard screaming.

“Kaylee!” A woman’s voice rose from the woods below him, drifting up through the grey mist. “Kaylee! Are you all right? Kaylee, answer me!”

Jerry pushed his bike back onto the trail and returned to the spot where he’d been knocked off balance. He peered over the edge of the cliff and glimpsed a curled hand. A crumpled body. Sky blue shorts from which protruding legs twisted obscenely, like a mutilated doll. The back of a torn white jacket patched with a crimson that deepened as he watched.

“Kaylee!” The shouting neared.

Jerry grabbed his bike.

The girl’s beyond help. Save my own ass. That’s always the best plan.

He ran up the hill, shoving his bike ahead of him.

“Stop! You hit Kaylee.”

The cries urged him on. Jerry clambered erratically up the trail. His feet toppled over roots. The bike wheels snagged on bushes. He plowed ahead, fueled by fear and adrenaline. The shrieks grew fainter.

When he reached the pavement, Jerry jumped on the seat. The road flashed under his tires as he put distance between himself and the broken girl. Back at the highway, a few cars filled the parking spaces beside his truck. He slid to a stop beside it, hefted his bike, and tossed it onto the lumpy mattress without an ounce of his prior pride or care.

“Easy, dude, easy.” He gunned the engine. His heart pounded in his head like thunder. His hands sweated through the bike gloves. He floored the accelerator.

His breathing didn’t return to normal until he stopped for gas at a Sunoco on a crowded US 101 near San Jose, seventy miles south of Mount Tam. The pimply clerk in the stained Pro-Pain punk band t-shirt admired Jerry’s biking gear when he paid for an extra large Dr. Pepper and three Snickers bars.

“Forget you ever saw me.” Jerry handed the guy a twenty.

“Sure, dude. Never saw you.” The boy pocketed the bill and looked away.

Have to get out of these clothes. Nobody looks at a regular guy in a pickup
.

Jerry got his street clothes and changed in the dingy men’s room where toilet paper littered the floor and lewd graffiti mocked him from the walls. Then he called his housemate from the front seat of the truck.

“Tell Rasta I’m driving his pickup to LA. Tell him to chill out about the money. I’ll wire him some by the end of the week. And don’t spread this around, okay? I had this urge to go south for a while. I’ll call again when I get there.” He hung up quickly and dialed his cousin in Milwaukee.

“Don’t you have a friend in an LA band?” A car pulled into the parking lot and Jerry slouched lower in his seat.

“Yeah. My girlfriend’s roommate’s got a brother in a band. Mega Oil Spill. Why?”

“Can you give me his number? I’m heading to LA and I need a place to crash.”

“No problem.” His cousin put down the phone and Jerry listened to the muffled conversation of two voices. When he returned to the receiver, he gave Jerry the number. “Hey, dude, I don’t want to ask questions, but you in some kind of trouble? Last I heard from you, you were liking Oakland.”

“Just need a change. But if anyone asks, you haven’t heard from me.”

“Sure.” His cousin paused. “Something you want me to tell your folks if they ask?”

“They been asking?”

“Nope.”

“They ever asked?”

“Nope.”

“So you got your answer. Bet they don’t even realize I left Milwaukee.”

“It’s all good, dude. You got some ranking times coming your way in LA. I can feel it.”

The seven-hour drive to LA gave Jerry time to think.

First, don’t speed. Last thing I need is a cop who looks at my license and punches me into a police computer. Second, when I get to LA, I’ll need cash. So I’ll sell the bike. Even if I only get half what it’s worth. The sooner I get rid of it, the better. Probably has something disgusting from that girl on it. I’ll sell this truck while I’m at it. That’ll give me enough to send to Rasta. With probably some left over.

Interstate 5 traffic inched into the city bumper to bumper. His dented truck jostled for position with lipstick red Ferraris and utilitarian grey Prius hatchbacks. Drivers shared middle finger gestures as they cut each other off. Jerry relaxed.

There’s no way the trouble I left on the mountain will follow me here. To the land of movie stars. The land of money. One day soon, I’ll be driving one of those Ferraris.

For now, I’ll get stoned. Get that crumpled girl out of my mind. Back in Milwaukee, I was always good at forgetting things.

***

The following afternoon, Ed Galeano looked up from behind Stoke’s Spokes bike shop counter as the door chime rang. Streaming sunlight framed the dark silhouette of a uniformed police officer.

“Good afternoon. My name’s Turangeo. From the Mill Valley Police Department. I’m looking for Edmundo Galeano, the owner.”

Ed’s eyes narrowed slightly, visions of previous encounters with the police briefly flooding his thoughts. He took a breath. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“There was a mountain bike accident yesterday on Mount Tamalpais.” The officer paused, advanced a stride, and appraised Ed’s face.

Must have been one of my customers
, Ed thought.

He relaxed and stepped from behind the desk. “How can I help?”

The officer hung his thumbs from his belt. “A nine-year-old girl was run off a trail on Mount Tam. She’s in critical condition.” Again, he paused and scanned Ed. “Her mother saw someone on a mountain bike. We think it was the person who ran her down.”

Ed nodded.

“Someone identified you at the scene of the crime, Mr. Galeano. So I have a few questions. Is there a room where we can talk?”

Chapter 7

I never got his real name.

The thought jerked Grace awake. She shook off the sleeping bag and pitched out of her tent, thinking hard about where she was and where Lone Star had gone.

Lake Morena County Park. Lone Star left. Without me.

She hurriedly packed her tent and filled water canisters at a bathroom sink. Her hands still dripped and gear threatened to fall out of her half-closed pack as she raced past rows of campers where scents of bacon and cinnamon drifted on the early morning air.

Wait, Lone Star.

But before she reached the park entrance, her thigh muscles cramped. Her fingers numbed. Surrounding trees greyed and swayed.

Oh, no.

Shaky knees gave way, and her back slid down a pine tree trunk to the dusty ground.

***

“What am I going to do without him?” Grace watched her new friend back at the RV cook breakfast, inhaling the sweet odor of pancakes that pervaded the trailer. “I almost killed myself out there. Now I’m terrified I’m going to do it again. Although it won’t be for lack of water. I’m filling all my containers I have to the brim. I don’t care if I look like an elephant.”

“Sweetie, I always told my kids, if you fall off a bicycle, you have to get right back on. Or else you’ll be scared of bikes for the rest of your life.”

She presented Grace with a stack of pancakes. Grace sniffed the steam, reminded of home.

“I don’t know if that applies in this situation.” Grace positioned knife and fork to slice into the heap. “I mean, the trail’s not like a bike. More like a living thing. Like if you get bitten by a dog. You don’t run back and try to pet it again, do you? Maybe the trail bit me. So maybe I shouldn’t keep going. Maybe I should hitch a ride to the next resupply stop and get my bearings before I continue.”

The older woman put her hands on her hips. “Or get to the next resupply stop and catch Lone Star?”

“I don’t usually act like a stalker. But I don’t even know his real name. What if something happens and I can’t find him again?”

“Look, dear, if that’s what you want to do, you should do it.” She shrugged and turned back to the stove. “Go find Lone Star. But I thought he promised to keep in touch.”

“He did.”

“Well, you and he can’t hike together anyway. So what’s the point of rushing up the trail to see him again for an hour, when he’s going to leave you behind again? If you ask me…” She stopped and occupied herself with peeling an orange. “I’m sorry. I’m handing out unasked for advice. You didn’t ask me, did you? Ralph always says I put my nose in where it doesn’t belong.” She handed Grace fruit sections on a paper plate.

“Go right ahead.” Grace put down her utensils and waited.

“Well, you were talking about a dog. I think if a dog bites you, maybe you had bad luck. Maybe you aren’t experienced with dogs. So get out there and meet a few more. Play with them. Before you know it, you’ll have a dog as your best friend.” She refilled Grace’s coffee cup. “If you let someone else do all the interacting, you’ll never get the hang of it yourself.”

So the trail’s a dog?
Grace thought later as she sat in the park ranger station, poring over the contents of the hiker box.
And I should go out and make nice with it?

The black plastic bin in front of her contained an assortment of hikers’ discarded clothing, food, and equipment. The sign above it indicated anyone was free to sift through what others had left. She held up a partnerless dirty sock.

Yech.

She rummaged more.

Strange thing is, as bad as yesterday was, it was also amazing.

She sorted through thick winter gloves, insect repellant, and heavy items of every description. A bottle of hand lotion. A Bowie knife. A small battery-operated radio. A couple of mystery novels. She even found two dozen chocolate chip power bars melted into outlandish shapes.

Grace’s own contributions included batteries, deodorant, rice cakes, and the two-pound bear-proof canister the park ranger insisted she wouldn’t need until the Sierra Mountains. She also abandoned over half her food.

My first resupply box is waiting at the Mount Laguna store, only a day long day of hiking up the trail.

When she lifted her pack to leave the station, a chuckle escaped her lips. She turned to the ranger standing behind the counter. “This weighs a lot less.”

The uniformed man nodded encouragingly. “You’re gonna be happy you did that. Take care of the ounces, and the pounds will take care of themselves.”

Grace gave him a wry smile. “I learned my lesson yesterday. From now on, I’m making as much room as possible for water.”

“Wait.” The ranger raised a hand. “You’re the woman who came in with heat exhaustion?”

“Word travels fast. I’m afraid I am.”

“Then I’ve got something for you. Hold on.” The man disappeared into a back room and emerged a minute later holding a green plastic water bottle stamped ‘
San Diego County Parks and Recreation
.’ “It’s not new, but I washed it out.” He wiped the outside with a paper towel. “It’s to remind you how lucky you were.” He handed it to Grace. Grace hesitated. “Go ahead. I can get another back at the main office any day.”

“Thanks. It’ll be my good luck charm.”

“Everybody needs a little extra help now and then. In less than two weeks, the park’s hosting the annual kick off party for the PCT hiking season. After that, there’ll be more people on the trail. You won’t be so isolated.” He scratched his chin. “I worry about you novices, coming from all over the world to hike in one of the most inhospitable places this country has to offer. I had a guy from Finland early last summer. He’d never been in temperatures above eighty before. He didn’t take enough water either. Had to be medivaced out. Almost didn’t make it.” His eyebrows drew together. “You take care, okay?”

“I promise I won’t make any headlines.”

Grace stood outside the ranger station, looking at the water bottle.

Here in the park, it’s easy to forget I’m in a desert. Cabins, bathrooms, and showers. A playground and a boat launch. Motor homes with water and electricity hookups. But I know what it’s really like out there.

She added an extra gallon of water to her pack before she set out the following morning. The elderly couple and their Chihuahua walked her to the end of the road. The woman wrote her phone number on a scrap of paper that she slipped to Grace.

“We live in Palm Springs, dear. Got a small house with a guest room and a pool. You’re always welcome. And if you get into any kind of trouble, call us, day or night. We’re usually up past midnight playing cards anyway.”

Grace’s stride leaving the park was almost as light as it had been at the Mexican border.

I thought this hike was going to be boring. Instead, I spend years looking for that special someone in bars and online, and we find each other under a tree in the middle of nowhere.Now all I have to do is not fall too far behind.

At nine in the morning, she stopped at the Boulder Oaks Campground for a snack in the shade. She removed her shoes and socks and tiptoed to the bathroom to rinse her burning feet, lifting one at a time into the sink.

Okay, Lone Star. Now I see what you were doing. Distracting me from the pounding my feet are taking. Rolling hills and never-ending chaparral seemed a lot more interesting when I was talking with you.

She replaced her footwear and returned to the trail.

Did Kenji know what hiking in the desert’s like?
She trudged through the dust.
Pitiless sun, scorching heat, and interminable monotony? And, to be fair, vistas in twenty shades of brown. Green, six-inch lizards basking on rocks. Cacti shadows that flicker at dusk. Okay, it’s not so bad.

She tripped in a mouse hole and stumbled into bushes, scraping her arms and legs.

Or maybe it is. What did he think he was going to get out of this? And what the heck goes through Lone Star’s mind as he’s walking out here?

She saw a large footprint in the path. Her heart fluttered.

Is he slowing down so I can catch up to him?

She sped up. After hours of hard, persistent, and solitary climbing, Grace spent the night at a campground a few miles short of her first resupply stop.

My soles feel like I’ve been walking on hot coals. I’m sure Lone Star’s long gone already. And that Mount Laguna store is probably closed. Don’t want to make a wasted trip.

After pitching her tent and cooking her first trail dinner, she shone her headlamp on her feet. Several enormous, festering blisters stared accusingly at her.

Wow. I’ve gotten blisters with a new pair of pumps, but these are larger than a Texas hippo’s backside, or whatever Lone Star would say. I’ll wear my camp shoes tonight. Maybe they’ll disappear.

They didn’t.

Grace hobbled onto the porch of the Mount Laguna store before eight the next morning. Four bearded, smelly hikers greeted her with high fives. The contents of their backpacks plastered the ragged wooden floorboards. The twenty-somethings pawed through the contents of the hiker box.

“We’re looking for anything we can yogi.”

Yogi?

“How did I miss you guys on the trail yesterday?” Grace pushed aside a pack to sit on the edge of the porch.

“We hiked straight through from Lake Morena. Must have leapfrogged your tent.” A freckled teenager winked at her. “We got here right at closing and stayed in that cabin over there. Too bad you weren’t here to join us for the vodka shots.” He patted an empty bottle next to him.

I remember their type from college. Fun-loving, but not reliable. Still, I could use some advice.

Keen faces crowded around her dangling feet. Fingers examined and prodded the blisters. Different people offered solutions.

The consensus was that while blisters were serious business out on the trail, Grace was in luck. Hers hadn’t broken open and bled. But judgments divided about the best treatment. To pop or not to pop. To build a small wall of foam around each one, or to cover the entire surface with foam. To hold bandages in place using duct tape or surgical tape. Grace held her head in her hands.

“Who knew blister care was as controversial as fracking?”

A gravelly voice interrupted the heated debate. “Hope you don’t mind my butting in. But I think you need to give your feet a rest. I suggest you get a cabin for tonight, one with a bathtub. Soak your feet. Then take another look in the morning. Don’t use duct tape if you can avoid it. Thrus love it, but the adhesive is nasty stuff.”

The voice had a distinctly Midwestern ring to it. Grace looked behind her, expecting to see a grizzled farmer in overalls with a corncob pipe jutting from his mouth. An athletic, handsome man of about sixty in tan hiking pants and a lightweight, long-sleeved shirt returned her glance. Blue gaiters with white stars protected his shoes. He smiled benevolently and swung a day pack across his back.

“Good luck.” He jerked his chin, saluting Grace. “Next time, stop as soon as you feel any kind of pain. Treat anything that could become a blister like it is a blister, and you’ll be in better shape.” To the guys congregated on the porch he waved a hand. “See you soon. I’m sure you’ll leapfrog me in no time.”

“Who was that?” Grace stared after him.

The young men answered in unison. “Eagle.”

“Used to be a banker. Now he’s a trail angel.” The freckled youth smiled at her.

“Do you have to talk in code? I can’t understand half of what you’re saying.”

“A trail angel is someone who helps thrus.” The young man edged closer as his companions returned to examining the hiker box. “You know, thru-hikers. Like you. Someone hiking
through
from Mexico to Canada. Trail angels pick them up at the airport and take them out to the trailhead and stuff. Some let you sleep at their house.”

“I met a couple like that at Lake Morena. This guy does it too? He volunteers? Or is it some kind of National Park Service job?”

“He does it for free, of course. If he didn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart, he wouldn’t be an angel.” The youth tapped his heart, then let his hand fall lightly on Grace’s shoulder, as if by accident.

“Right.” Grace ignored his touch and looked around the porch. “So are all of you…thrus?”

“Naw, we’re section hikers. Doing a piece of the trail on a long weekend. We’re in school. We do this during breaks.” He’s grin widened as he hesitatingly stroked Grace’s back. “It’s too bad you weren’t here with us last night.”

This guy has no idea I’m almost old enough to be his mother.

Grace hopped off the porch. “Be careful what you wish for.” She entered the store.

Later, in her one-room cabin, she soaked her feet in the bathtub.

How am I going to get to Canada at the rate I’m going? One day on and one day off? I can’t make this a habit.