Thursday, December 25, 2014

Tim, the Lonely Snowman, a Christmas Story

Bear with me. I’m going to subject you to a children’s Christmas story. I didn't dream this up until I sat down to begin the blog post. So read my story with young eyes and be content on this Christmas Day.

*****

TIM, THE LONELY SNOWMAN, A CHRISTMAS STORY

It was all great fun while they were building him. Of course, he couldn’t see the children until they put two pieces of black coal in his head as eyes. But he could hear them laughing and chattering at one another. He loved kids … or at least he thought he would. After all, he hadn’t even existed until now. Falling snow felt good on his rounded shoulders and bald pate, until the little ones put a red knit cap on top and a scarf around his neck. Or where his neck would have been if he’d had one. And green gloves, too. But that was all right. The tykes were all bundled up just like him.
They seemed excited, not just about him, but also about something called Christmas Eve. Christmas must be something wonderful. Finally, the youngsters stood in a group in front of him arguing over a name for him. He was so proud he almost burst his coal lump buttons when they settled on Tim. He liked that name. Had a good ring to it.
The day passed pleasantly. He had a brief fright when everyone disappeared for lunch and the sun threatened to break through the clouds. But then the children returned to throw snowballs at one another and laugh and play while a thick bank of white clouds rolled in to begin dusting everything with gentle snowflakes. The moppets tried to catch them in their mouths or on the tips of tongues. What a happy day.
Just as the light started to fade, the children began slipping away. Going home, they said to one another. Get ready for Christmas Eve. And then, suddenly, everyone was gone. Maybe Christmas Eve wasn’t so grand after all. Tim looked out across the broad park. No one was left except a few pine trees. And Tim got … lonely.
As the day turned into evening, he felt so abandoned his skin, once so soft and flexible, started to harden. After a long, lonely twilight, night fell, and he knew he was truly abandoned. The moon rose, making the snow-cloaked park and the trees and the glow of lights from homes in the distance lovely. But he couldn’t appreciate the sight. All he could think of was that he was alone. Deserted. He didn’t even have another snowman to keep him company.
In the midst of feeling sorry for himself, he heard a flutter and a raucous caw as a big black bird landed on his shoulder.
“Why so sad, bud?” The voice was loud and grating.
“Tim. My name is Tim. And I’m sad because I’m lonely. All the children abandoned me.”
“Aw, don’t worry. They’ll be back tomorrow.” The bird, who said he was Robbie Raven, twisted his head in a curious way. “But they’ll be late. Have to play with their Christmas toys first.”
“Christmas toys?”
“Yeah. It’s a big deal with them. Some fat guy in a red suit is supposed to crawl down their chimneys and leave them a bunch of play things. Funny, though. Most of them don’t have chimneys.”
“What’s going on?” a soft voice startled them.
Tim couldn’t turn his head, but in a moment, a beautiful little deer with huge eyes stood in front of him, flicking her ears.
Robbie gave a loud caw. “Doey Whitetail meet Tim Snowman. He says he’s lonely.”
“Well, let’s just keep him company and cheer him up.”
A little snow wren twittered from a nearby pine bough, and a red fox barked from behind the bole of the same tree. Before long, there were as many animals in the field as there had been children. Tim’s loneliness rose and floated away on the breeze. Even after the wren tucked her head beneath a wing and Doey scooped a bed out of the snow and the others settled down, he was content. He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t abandoned.
The sun rose, chasing his new friends back to the sanctuary of dens and lairs and remote tree branches, but everything was all right. It wasn’t long before the children reappeared to flood him with love and Christmas cheer.

*****

For those of you who can’t reclaim their childhood and ask how a brand new snowman knows all about children and deer and birds but doesn't know a thing about Christmas, I can only say … I feel sorry for you.

As always, everyone … thanks for reading.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.


Thursday, December 18, 2014

An Encomium to Two Electronic Saints

This post is dedicated to two individuals: Larry Strob and Dr. Joe Berdewelle. (For reasons to become plain later, I’ve twiddled with their last names.)

On another blog site (donaldtmorgan.com), I described my vicious war with a new Dell Inspiron One computer and told how two very unlikely guardian angels came to my rescue. I identified the three parties involved in this fiasco and subsequent rescue as Electronic Guardian Angel Larry (or EGAL) and Electronic Guardian Angel Joe (or EGAB … I couldn't pronounce EGAJ, so I played on his loquaciousness for an acronym). The third party was me … the Zinc Penny (i.e., worthless).

During a time of stress and looming deadlines, these two stepped up and saw me through the trials and tribulations (read “disasters”) of ordering and getting a new computer up and running when my old standby spasmed and threatened to die. Actually, it was two computers because the first one, while determined to be absolutely sound, wouldn’t interface with Word’s software, also declared to be faultless. Faultless, schmaltless. I needed a machine that wasn’t so uppity. One that would do what it was told to do. My experience with the second or replacement computer was only a little less stressful. It was an 8.1. What else need I say?

For several months, things have been going reasonably well, and I’ve only had to call on EGAL rarely and EGAB, occasionally. Because of this ongoing this drama, EGAB has become familiar with what I do and how I do it. As a holder of five academic degrees, one of them a PhD, he was appalled at how inefficient I was going about such mundane things as research and editing. Nothing would do but I should start using Dragon Naturally Speaking. Well, I wrote a blog post about that horrific experience, as well. (See post of August 28, 2014.)

More recently, Dr. Joe (or EGAB) enlightened me on how much a second monitor would benefit me in these pursuits. Finally convinced the value a second monitor outweighed the damage to my budget, I ordered an HP LV2311 Monitor. It arrived the other day, and of course, Dr. Joe had to set it up for me. He did a great job, too. My computer sits on the right and the new screen sits to the left. The only problem was that the cursor wouldn’t go left to the HP monitor. In order to utilize the screen, I had to go all the way around the barn and exit the computer screen on the right. Awkward to say the least. Confusing is more like it. Well, it took EGAL about five minutes to fix that problem. Now I’m making maximum (for me, that is) use of the HP screen.

After reviewing all of this, I’ve decided to promote my two lifeguards to electronic sainthood. After all, they’ve performed more than the requisite number of miracles involving electrons, not the least of which is that I am no longer terrified of my computer. I still approach it with trepidation and anxiety, but the abject fear is gone. Heck, I’ve even punched some buttons without knowing their function. I’ve soared through the innards of this Dell Inspiron as I have no other. (WARNING: I consider anything over six inches off the floor to be soaring.)

So EGAL has become Saint Larry Strob, while EGAB has evolved into Saint Dr. Joe Berdewelle (or should that be Dr. Saint Joe Berdewelle?). I have to admit that at least one of them has a somewhat tarnished halo. I’ve been sitting nearby while Saint Dr. Joe’s been working on a particular problem and learned a couple of new words. I found out the hard way they were not to be used in polite company.

I have even bumped my own status up a notch. I’ve evolved from the Zinc Penny to the Copper Penny. Why not? I can even speak computerese now: Boot up, Interface, Hardware, Software, Dongles, Toolbar, Taskbar (just don’t ask which is which). Pretty good, huh?

Earlier, I said that I had fiddled around with my two Saints’ last names. Oh, they can recognize themselves if they read this, but they are of such generous heart that I didn’t want them to be inundated by a host of know-nothings such as I am … er, was. But the decision wasn’t altogether altruistic. After all, if everyone called on them, they wouldn’t have time to bail me out when future problems arise.

Beneath my feeble attempts at humor, I hope these two guys read this blog and discern the depth and sincerity of my appreciation for all their assistance. Kudos to two electronic Saints.

As always, everyone … thanks for reading.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.


Thursday, December 11, 2014

Pasó por aqui …

Photo of El Morro National Monument courtesy of Pixabay
This week, I’d like to take a look at the El Morro National Monument here in New Mexico. Let me first introduce it in the form of a scene from The City of Rocks, my third BJ Vinson mystery novel. The following scene takes place in Chapter 23 of the book. BJ and his companion, Paul Barton, are headed from Albuquerque to the Lazy M Ranch in New Mexico’s boot heel country. They elect to charter a small plane and enroute fly over the monument:
*****
     Paul and I departed Albuquerque from the Double Eagle Airport early Saturday morning. Jim Gray, a lanky fixed-wing jockey with a small potbelly, got us off the ground and into the air with his usual efficiency. Although the monsoon season was coming to an end, dark thunderheads to the west announced rain over the New Mexico-Arizona border. Exercising his customary caution, Jim was no sooner at altitude than he got on the radio for a final weather report. He knew I didn’t speak radio—all of that static and the special lingo pilots and controllers use rendered it incomprehensible to me—so he obliged us with an interpretation.
     “Gonna be okay. The front’s drifting off to the northeast. It won’t even come close enough to give us a bumpy ride. We’re gonna have a good flight.”
     We circled to the west and settled on a south-southwest bearing, passing over the old mining town of Grants and the El Morro National Monument, a huge, castle-like sandstone monolith rising from the scrubby desert plateau. A reliable water hole hidden at the foot of a bluff had made it a popular campground since pre-Columbian times. A succession of Indian, Spanish, and Anglo passers-by had left inscriptions: names, dates, messages, rock art, all carved into the stone to create a gigantic historical billboard. Somewhere nearby lay the desert Ice Cave. Farther to the west, the lava beds of the El Malpais Badlands cast an ebony shroud across the land.
*****
Water is as precious as blood, itself, especially for travelers in the desert. There was one absolutely reliable source of this life-sustaining liquid in western New Mexico – long before it was New Mexico or New Spain or anything other than a vast unnamed land. Fortunately, this source was clearly marked by a huge sandstone monolith, which over time became known as El Morro, the Headland. 

As rain pelted its stark castle-like walls, water drained into a natural pool at the base of the rock, making the oasis an essential stopping point at the crossroads of primitive paths or highways running both north-south and east-west traveled by Indians, Spanish, and Anglos for something like a thousand years. Its importance in this sense remained constant until a railroad was built (passing 20 miles to the north), so that the site’s water was no longer as crucial.
 
Photo of Atsinna Pueblo Ruins courtesy of Pixabay

During this 1,000 years, the rock was home to Indians as evidenced by the pueblo ruins called Atsinna (Place of Writings on Rock) perched atop the monolith and roughly 2,000 signatures, dates, messages, and petroglyphs inscribed on its sandstone walls. Atsinna, the pueblo occupied by up to 1,500 people from circa 1275 to 1350 AD announces the Native American’s primacy. The coming of the Spanish was proclaimed by an inscription by the first Colonial Governor, Don Juan de Oñate. The English translation of his carved message is “Passed by Here (Pasó por aqui) the Governor Don Juan de Oñate, from the discovery of the Sea of the South on the 16th of April 1605.”

After the Pueblo Revolt, the Spanish re-conqueror of the area, Don Diego de Vargas left a prideful inscription at El Morro, reading: “Here was the General Don Diego de Vargas, who conquered for our Holy Faith and for the Royal Crown all of New Mexico at his own expense, year of 1692.”

The American’s arrival was noted by inscriptions left by Lt. Edward Beale on August 23, 1859 as he
Photo of Don Juan de Oñate's Inscription courtesy of Pixabay
and his train of 25 Egyptian camels established a new route from Texas to California.

The monument is administered by the National Park Service (US Department of the Interior), which in 1997 began an inscription preservation program. Despite the seeming immutability of solid stone, the Zuni Sandstone cliffs of this 200-foot monolith are subject to erosion by both mechanical (freeze/thaw, wet/dry, lichens, burrowing animals and insects, wind and water) and chemical (interaction of chemicals in the ground water) attack. 

Visit http://www.nps.gov/elmo/index.htm to see the steps they are taking to protect this vast historic “autograph album.”

El Moro can be reached from Grants, NM on I-40. Take NM-53 west past the El Malpais National Monument to El Moro. The Visitors’ Center is open daily except Christmas and New Year’s. For information call (505) 783-4226.

As always, thanks for reading.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.


Thursday, December 4, 2014

Indulge Me A Personal Moment

You never know what you're going to get when you read this blog. Last week’s post was rather upbeat, at least Tom Turkey and I think so. Today, I’d like you to indulge me a personal moment for a change. While sorting through some files, I came across a letter I wrote and delivered to the hospital on the day of my wife’s death almost six years ago. After thinking it over, I decided I wanted to share it with you. So as I say … indulge me a moment.
*****
FINAL THOUGHTS
At 6:30 a.m. on February 12, 2009, my beloved wife of almost 51 years lost a four-month battle with pneumonia, renal failure, and exhaustion. In an effort to express our appreciation to the staff of Kindred Hospital who had cared for her in those final weeks, I wrote and delivered the following letter that same day. Then we all had a good cry together.

Dear Friends,

We would like to thank you for the care and courtesy you extended Betty and me, our family, and the friends who visited during her stay there—including, of course, Gizmo, the little white Papillion. We will each have our say here, but first, I would like to channel Betty’s thoughts as she would express them were she able:

Hello, to all of you. You are an extraordinary group of people: professional, competent, but most important to me … caring and compassionate. You did your very best for me, and I am sorry I was not strong enough to allow you to see more positive results from your efforts. Alas, I wasn’t. Too old and weak from my illness, I guess. But my family and I will always remember that you were there for me, offering your best care, always delivered with respect and, I like to think, fondness.

Even though I have slipped away, please let my feelings spur you to offer the same level of professional and personal treatment to others who may better benefit from them. You mend broken bodies, ease tortured minds, and provide an environment where the soul is nurtured. Always, always remember this and take pride in it. Goodbye, thank you, and God bless.

Now, may I, Donald, add my opinion. I echo Betty’s thoughts and feelings about Kindred and its staff, both professional and administrative. During the nine or so weeks my wife was under your care, I received the utmost support from everyone I met. My requests were honored; my wife was well tended…and adored. You made it easy to admit her, gave her excellent medical care, helped me wend my way through the financial morass, nourished me in your excellent cafeteria, and showed concern for me while I sat with Betty every day she was with you. This includes everyone from the medics to the maintenance personnel. In other words, you delivered human compassion in addition to professional care. When it was obvious the end was near, we made it known we wanted Betty to die at Kindred among friends, not at some hospice in the midst of strangers.

Most of you met my son and his wife, and both have often commented on the extraordinary care Betty was receiving. They were made to feel their opinions were as important as mine. And for this, we all thank you. The guests who came to see my wife were also favorably impressed. We cannot all be wrong. As far as we are concerned, the evidence is in: you are a very special group of people. And in this, we are joined by Gizmo, whom everyone met at one time or the other, including some of your patients.

Once again, thank you for the care, concern, and love bestowed upon our family in an extremely difficult time of our lives. We will remember it forever. God bless you for your humanity. Please share this effort to express our gratitude with everyone at the hospital.
From the bottom of our hearts,

*****

Thank you, as well, for letting me share this with you. Intensely personal … yet pretty universal.
As always, thanks for reading.

Don


New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

Happy Turkey Day!

Thought I’d give you a little Thanksgiving story since the calendar places the holiday on my publication date. I wrote this as an entry in a writing contest under rules that required half the story be from the protagonist’s viewpoint, and half from an animal’s point of view. The following is my entry (which won second place, by the way):

*****

DIVINE INTERVENTION
Jordy banged the screen as he barged out the back door on his way to the barnyard. Gramma usually yelled at him, but tomorrow was Thanksgiving Day. She’d be too busy to worry about slamming doors.
He liked watching the chickens scratch and the turkey strut. There was something grand about Tom Turkey. Goofy grand. The big black and gray feathers with white tips were awesome, but the bald, red head and bloody-looking beard were just plain gross. Tom walked and talked funny, too. First, his head darted forward, and then the rest of him just sorta caught up with it. His gobble made Jordy giggle.
#####
I don’t like the way that kid’s looking at me. The big people are bad enough, but at least they feed a guy. This yahoo just stares like he knows something I don’t. Gives me the creeps.
I ambled over for a closer look, stopping now and then to peck a seed the hens had overlooked. He was a pale creature with icky yellow stuff on his head and teeny blue spots in his eyes—the only bits of color on the drab little fellow.
#####
Jordy pictured Tom as he would look on Gramma’s table tomorrow baked to a golden brown and giving off those great, mouth-watering smells. Jordy liked the dressing and giblet gravy Gramma served—even though he’d refused to eat the stuff for a long time because he’d seen her poking it up the bird’s heinie. But when he finally tried it, the stuffing was super.
“Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving,” he said. “You’re gonna taste sooo goood.”
He took a step backward as the bird suddenly raised a ruckus.
#####
Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving was when turkeys went missing. My dad had disappeared the day before the last one. My feathers went stiff, and I raced in rapid circles. I gave an anguished gobble. No place to hide. No way out. I halted at the back gate and stared across the fields to the woods. So near, yet so far. I was doomed. Unless….
I turned and went on display, giving the kid my best strut. My magnificent ruffle feathers scraped the ground. My tail popped open like an awesome fan as I let out a plaintive gobble.
#####
Jordy snatched a look at the bird on the platter as he took his place at the far end of the big table and bowed his head for Gampa’s Thanksgiving prayer.
“Dear Lord, we give heartfelt thanks for this great bounty we are about to receive.”
Jordy peeked up to find Grampa’s stern eyes fixed on him.
“Even though we’re having chicken on this Thanksgiving Day…due to what I can only attribute to Your Divine Intervention.
Jordy hid a knowing smile behind his reverently folded hands.

*****

Well, there you are. My Thanksgiving Day offering. Hope you got a chuckle out of reading it. Please feel free to look around the site while you’re here, and I hope you’ll give me some feedback.

As always, thanks for reading.

Don


New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

The Warren Trading Post Caper (Conclusion)

Well, folks, the story finally let me finish it. It’s probably more accurate to say that it finished itself. Either way, here’s the conclusion of The Warren Trading Post Caper.

The story ended last week with Marlene getting strange phone calls in the middle of the night. Calls from people – or creatures – with odd, metallic voices. Calls that turned her into a demanding sex machine.
*****
THE WARREN TRADING POST CAPER (Part 4)
A week to the day after Walter Black checked out the recording of the mysterious early morning calls, he summoned us to the Warren Trading Post. It was a trip we needed to make anyway because Marlene’s ’09 Chevy Malibu was still sitting in the garage there. She hadn’t left the house enough since her abduction to make the hundred-mile drive worthwhile.
We arrived before the appointed hour and entered the post hesitantly. As soon as we walked through the door, my wife moaned and sagged against me. The restored western wall seemed to have shaken her badly. John’s brother-in-law had done a good job repairing the gaping hole, but the spot where the safe had stood was highlighted by a big rectangle of wood darker than the surrounding area.
“You can wait outside, if you want.”
She blinked a couple of times. “That’s all right. I want to take a look around to see what else is missing. Then maybe I’ll go lie down in back.”
A few minutes later, she had completed her inspection. “Nothing else seems to be missing. Think I’ll lie down now.”
She didn’t have much of a rest because Black arrived soon thereafter, accompanied by a couple of state troopers. He’d barely said hello before other vehicles began arriving. John Benchley walked through the door, followed closely by Big Hat and another Navajo built in the same mold. The stranger was introduced as Delbert, who I gathered was a cousin of Big Hat’s. The Indian under that huge Stetson started for my wife but halted when I put an arm around her.
In Marlene’s dad’s time, the post had been a social gathering place, so a number of old oaken chairs were still scattered around the showroom area. Black had the troopers assemble enough of them so everyone had a seat … except for the two uniformed policemen. They stood behind the detective’s chair and watched everything through expressionless eyes.
Black “ahemed” for attention, and everyone settled down. “There have been a couple of developments I thought everyone should know about. First off, we found the empty safe.”
He allowed time for the inevitable “oohs” and “ahhs” but not for questions before informing us swimmers had found it in Greenwater Lake not ten miles from where we sat.
“Empty? How was it opened?” I asked.”
“It wasn’t burned open like you’d expect. It was totally undamaged except for some scratches likely done while dragging it through the wall. Mrs. Lund, who has the combination to that safe?”
She seemed startled. “Why … just me. And Frank, of course.”
“Did you open the safe for your abductors?”
“N-no. But I don’t remember things, too clearly.”
“And why is that?”
“I –”
“What kind of question is that? Shock, of course,” I said.
“Witching.” John quietly stated his opinion.
“Aliens took her mind.” I think  Big Hat said that.
Black adopted the look of an impatient parent dealing with children. “Let’s be clear about this. We aren’t dealing with aliens.” He looked at John. “Or witches, either.”
“What about the craft someone saw flying around?” Big Hat asked.
“And strange lights,” John put in.
“And a big hole in a three-foot, hundred-year-old adobe wall?” I added. “Not to mention carting off a big safe that weighs half a ton empty. And the weird voice on the telephone.”
Black paused and looked at everyone sitting before him one-by-one. I don’t know about the others, but his gaze provoked a sense of guilt in me – and I hadn’t done anything. “Finding that safe is what convinced me we aren’t looking at aliens or witches. This caper was done by human beings. Perhaps even by someone in this very room.”
I expected gasps and protests, but everyone went absolutely quiet until John asked ta simple question. "How's that?”
“The safe was dropped into the lake from a bluff on the west side, and it took out part of the embankment before settling in shallow water. If some alien or witch was responsible, he – or it – would have plopped the thing down in the middle of the lake in a hundred feet of water. No, this was the work of human beings.”
He looked at me. “As far as the metallic voice on your nighttime telephone calls, that’s a simple electronic device that alters the human voice. Our lab people are certain they can filter it out and get the true voice of the caller. It’s just a matter of time.”
“What about demolishing a three-foot wall?" I asked. "I didn’t see any signs of explosives."
“Our people reconstructed the pieces of that wall in our lab up in Santa Fe and found a hole bored through the adobes.”
Big Hat spoke up. “There you go. Lasers. Those aliens are good with lasers.”
“Not lasers. Plain old masonry drill bits. They drilled through the wall, snaked a big cable through, put a steel plate on it, and jerked out the wall with a truck. To make matters easier, they sawed into the adobe in a few places to further weaken the wall.”
John took off his hat and scratched his head. “And drug off a thousand-pound safe?”
“Plenty of winches in this country capable of that. Big Hat’s got one on the back of his truck, for example.”
“What?”
“And I’ll bet you’ve got a drill with some extended bits in there, as well. What say we go take a look, Hat?”
“You got a warrant?” There was an emotional tremor in the tall Indian’s voice.
“As a matter of fact, I have.” Black said. “Based on a description of a truck seen leaving the vicinity of Lover’s Leap Bluff at Greenwater, a judge signed a warrant for me.”
“Go ahead. You won’t find nothing.” Hat stood and dug a ring of keys out of his denim trousers.
Black handed the keys to one of the troopers behind him. As the officer walked out the front door, Hat started after the man. Black stopped him. I could see from the glint in Hat’s glittering brown eyes that he considered defying the detective. But he backed off and sat down.
“Something else corroborated my rejection of any otherworldly events being involved. Mrs. Lund, you described one of the articles in the missing safe as an extremely rare peace pipe with the stem covered by beaver fur and eagle feathers attached. Is this it?” He held out a photograph.
Marlene leaned forward to examine it. “Yes, that’s it. It’s called a calumet. It’s over two hundred and fifty years old. Where did you find it?”
“In a pawn shop up in the town of Shiprock. This and several other stolen pieces were found yesterday. We also have a video of the individual who pawned the items.”
The man introduced as Delbert got to his feet and started edging toward the entrance.
“Hold it right there, Mr. Adelberto.”
Big Hat’s cousin broke for the door, but when he snatched it open, he ran straight into the burly trooper who had gone outside to check Hat’s truck. The second policeman helped put the man in handcuffs.
When we all settled back down, I noticed Big Hat was no longer in the room. Black took notice, as well.
“Mr. Menda seems to have slipped out.” He nodded to his men. “Put Adelberto in the patrol car and go after Hat.”
The two troopers hustled to obey. Black didn’t seem too concerned at Big Hat’s disappearance. “We have the keys to his truck. He won’t get far on foot,” he explained.
Marlene, sitting at my side, gave a small gasp. That told me all I needed to know. I’d been battling with myself ever since Black’s little show-and-tell had started. Now, all the denial building inside me collapsed.
“Check the garage,” I said. “My wife’s car is there, and I’d guess he has a key.”
Black drew his gun, a big black semi-automatic, as he headed for the door. He was shouting at the other policemen as a car roared up from behind the post. Then we heard several shots and a crash.
I sat numbly and watched Marlene go pale. She looked as if she was going to faint, but I didn’t care. Not really. Not even as one human being feeling for another. Before I finished my thought process, Black returned.
“Mrs. Lund, I’m afraid your car is demolished. I’m sure you heard the commotion. Big Hat tried to drive right by us, and we had to put the vehicle out of commission.”
“Is … is he …”
“He’s unharmed, but in custody. It’s clear what happened. Hat and his cousin planned and executed the robbery very carefully.”
My stomach fell even farther when he didn’t say “and abduction.”
“What about them lights and the craft somebody saw?” John asked.
“Nobody actually saw a craft, Mr. Benchley. All anyone saw was lights. I checked the weather report for the night of the robbery. There was a low bank of clouds. All Hat and his cousin did was use the spotlights on their vehicles to play the beams across the low-lying cloudbank. Pieces of colored plastic in front of the spots made different colors appear."
Black flipped a chair around and sat down facing my wife, his arms resting on the upright back. “The only question is how much you were involved, Mrs. Lund.”
“I … What do you mean? I was abducted.”
“I don’t think so. It took quite a while to drill through and weaken the west wall of the building. You were living here. Even from the living quarters at the back, you’d have heard the racket that drill and the masonry saw made. And, of course, you claimed you’d been abducted by aliens.”
“Hat drugged me. And he threatened me if I didn’t do what he wanted.”
“And I suppose he made you open the safe, as well.”
“Y-yes, that’s right! He forced me to do it.”
“With respect ma’am, that’s simply not true. I’m sure I’ll find every key to this trading post on Hat’s key ring. And his tire tracks are in the garage beside where your car was. I’m pretty sure he’s been living here for quite some time.”
“You can’t prove that!” Marlene’s voice held a snarl and a plea.
“You’re right. I can’t prove that … yet. But I will. Or one of the men will turn on you to make it easier on himself. You can count on that. But for the moment, I don’t have enough to arrest you.” He paused. “You know, you might have gotten away with it if one of those guys hadn’t gotten greedy and sold some of the loot inside the state. Probably Adelberto. Big Hat’s smarter than that.”
#####
I sat where I was for a long time after everyone else left. Marlene had disappeared into the living quarters at the back. I shuddered and groaned a couple of times as I worked my way through my emotions. But eventually, my stomach returned to its proper place and my mind stopped seething.
Then Marlene was suddenly there in front of me. She took the seat Black had been using, folded her long shapely forearms over the worn wood of the chair back, and placed her dimpled chin atop them. Her big, velvet eyes regarded me closely. God, she was beautiful. I wanted her something terrible right at that moment.
“Frank, surely you don’t believe all that garbage Black was saying, do you?”
That was a mistake. On her part. I heard the false note. Saw the hardening of the muscles around her mouth. Discerned the treachery in her eyes. And she wasn’t so attractive any longer. Nor as desirable.
“I’ll tell you how much weight I give his words.” I put as much syrup in my voice as I could summon. “I’m filing for divorce tomorrow morning.”


*****

Whew! That’s done. Wonder what will show up next Thursday.

As always, thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.


New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

The Warren Trading Post Caper (Part Three)

The Warren Trading Post Caper has taught me a valuable lesson. If you’re going to post a serialized story to your blog … finish the thing before you put up the first installment. As I said last week, this tale has taken on a life of its own. The story went from two-parter, to a three-parter, and now to a four-parter. All unintentional, folks.

Last week, we ended the story when Detective Walter Black of the New Mexico State Police confronts Frank Lund and Big Hat after interviewing Lund’s wife, Marlene, who although confused, insists she was abducted by aliens.
                                                                       *****
                                       THE WARREN TRADING POST CAPER (Part 3)
The investigation seemed to be going nowhere, which was ridiculous. You don’t beat a hole in an adobe wall, haul off a thousand-pound safe, abduct a woman, and leave no clues behind. Detective Black wasn’t doing his job so far as I was concerned.
Of course, Marlene wasn’t being much help. Whenever asked about the ordeal, her eyes went out of focus and she insisted she didn’t remember anything. Black sent her to a state shrink of some kind, but he didn’t help much. In fact, he set me back on my heels. He was skinny – emaciated, really – and had a big head sort of like an alien. One of those aliens from “up there.”
My wife stayed home in Albuquerque for three solid months under the care of a therapist and was making progress … until the phone calls started. I took the first one at three o’clock on a Wednesday morning. Awakened from a sound sleep, I wasn’t too sharp as I fumbled for the phone beside the bed. Silence greeted my slurred “hello.”
“Hello!” I repeated in a firmer voice. “Who’s there? Do you know what time it is?”
Silence.
I sat up on the side of the bed. “Hello! Answer me or go to hell!”
A strange whine came over the line. Faint at first, and then increasingly loud. I slammed the old fashioned Princess phone down with a bang.
“What’s going on? Who was that?” Marlene scooted up against the headboard, the covers held tight against her chest. Two marks like snakebite fangs we’d discovered on her left shoulder after the abduction almost seemed to glow in the semi-darkness. She’d taken to insisting we sleep with the bathroom door open so the nightlight spilled into room.
“Wrong number, I guess. At least nobody spoke.”
“I-it’s them!” Her voice was almost a shriek. “They’re coming for me again.”
“Nonsense. It was some drunk trying to call home.”
The phone rang again. It seemed shriller than usual in the quiet room. Darlene leaned across me and snatched it up.”
“What do you want?” she yelled. “Leave me alone!” Five seconds later she re-cradled the phone and flopped down on the bed in a fetal position.
I spooned up against her. “Who was it? What did they say?”
Her body shook. “It’s them. They want me to go back to the trading post.”
I got out of bed and reached for my robe. “You aren’t going, but I am.”
“No!” The word came out as a wail. “They said me. Alone.”
I grabbed the phone and started dialing the number Detective Black had left me. Marlene snatched the instrument from my hand.
“Don’t. Please. I don’t want that man prying around in my life again. Just hold me, Frank. Make love to me.”
Making love wasn’t my priority right at that moment, but she held onto me so desperately, I couldn’t help but respond. In a few moments, I was thinking of nothing but the handsome woman beneath me responding to my attentions. In an unusually aggressive but very pleasing way.
#####
The eerie phone calls came again the next night. I answered the first and got the whining sound once again. Faint. Loud. Then faint again before the connection was broken. Marlene took the second one, listened momentarily, and then reacted in the same terrified way. Followed by demanding and giving tremendous sexual release.
I called Detective Black from my office the next morning without letting Marlene know what I intended. He questioned me carefully about the dates and times of the calls and promised to get back in touch with me.
The following day, he phoned me at the office.
“Anonymous cell phone,” he said without preamble. “Untraceable, although I can tell you some of the calls came from the vicinity of your home, and others went through cell towers that were consistent with being near the Warren Trading Post.”
“So we’re at a dead end?”
“At present. We can install some equipment at home so you can record the calls. We might be able to tell something from a recording.”
Marlene must have suspected I had contacted Black because she surprised me by putting up only a token resistance to the idea. The very next night after two technicians attached a little device to the bedroom phone, the phone rang at two in the morning. I answered and got the whining noise. A little more aggressive this time. She answered a second call, listened for a moment, and then handed the phone to me. All I caught was a dead receiver, but Black’s little device allowed us to listen to both the whine of my call and a strange, halting, metallic voice on hers that told her to “Come home now.”
“Why won’t they leave me alone? Oh, God! What did I do to deserve this?” She flew into my arms, the terror replaced by want. “Frank, make love to me! Make me forget!”

That night, it was not Frank Lund who made love to his wife. It was his wife who turned into a nymphomaniac siren and wore me plumb out.

*****

To be continued… once again. I can hardly wait to see how it comes out. I still don’t know. Haven’t finished it yet.

As always, thanks for reading. And take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

The Warren Trading Post Caper (Continued)

This thing has taken on a life of its own and demanded a longer telling. The story has turned into a three-parter. Sorry about that. Last week, we ended the story when Frank Lund called the County Sheriff’s Office after finding his wife’s remote trading post in the western part of New Mexico looted and his wife missing.
*****
THE WARREN TRADING POST CAPER (Part 2)
The county cops immediately called in the state police, and within an hour a detective by the name of Walter Black drove into the parking lot and got out of his unmarked car. After perfunctory introductions, John and I escorted him inside the trading post where he inspected the gaping hole near the spot where the missing safe had sat. He looked over the scene much more dispassionately than either one of us.
“You say your wife is missing, Mr. Lund?”
I confirmed this fact and said she wasn’t answering her cell phone before I provided a description of Marlene Warren Lund, a five-foot, two, 110-pound blonde with sky blue eyes and fetching dimples. In response to a question, I advised that I had last spoken to her at 5:00 a.m. this morning on the rather disjointed telephone call that sent me racing to the trading post. I had not seen her since the prior Sunday when I left for Albuquerque. I informed the detective  the missing safe was a large container weighing approximately 1000 pounds, big enough to accommodate all of the pawn items the trading post held.
In the midst of his interview, the state’s forensics team arrived, and one of its members pulled Black aside. A few moments later he returned with a quizzical look on his face.
“Either of you know anything about some sort of craft flying in this area last night or early this morning? A helicopter, maybe.”
Both John and I shook our heads. “Don’t know anything about it,” I said.
“You know anyone with a chopper or a small plane?”
Neither of us had personal knowledge of such craft, but John mentioned that the gas plant owned a helicopter. About that time, the head of the forensics team chased us outside. Black warned us not to leave the area, and then went around behind the trading post to take a closer look at the outbuildings. I leaned against the fender of my car and worried about my wife while John took out a can of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. After I declined his offer of one, he lit the crude affair with an old-fashioned wooden match and settled back to wait with me. John wasn’t much of a talker, but somehow his presence was welcome. He was a connection to Marlene’s past and that was comforting.
Black came from around behind the main building talking earnestly on his telephone. As he drew near, it was apparent  he was concentrating on trying to run down the aircraft, or whatever it was, that someone had reported seeing near dawn this morning. Judging from his end of the conversation, things weren’t going well. All anyone had really seen were lights flashing in the general area.
After the detective reentered the trading post, John bestirred himself to speak. “Big Hat ain’t gonna take this too good. He’s gonna come flying when he hears about it. You better get ready.”
I knew all about Big Hat. Or at least the tall, good-looking Indian that hung out under the gigantic Stetson. His name was Charles Menda, but nobody ever called him anything but Big Hat. Even Marlene called him that when they were going together. They’d been an item for a couple of years before we hooked up. As a result, Big Hat wasn’t too kindly disposed toward me.
“You keep that guy away from me, you hear?”
John gave an uneasy chuckle. “I don’t keep him away from nobody. He don’t ask my permission.”
Black came outside and beckoned me over. “Mr. Lund, the Albuquerque Police tell me your wife is at home.”
“At home? And the police are there. Is she all right?”
“Seems to be unharmed. Confused, but unharmed.”
“How did she get there? Her car’s in the garage out back.” Another thought struck. “And why are the police there?”
“I asked them to check the house. The detective I spoke to said she’s confused about what’s happened. Said she seems disoriented.”
“I’ve got to go to her.” I turned to John. “Can you get someone to seal up the hole in the wall?”
Black spoke up. “You stay right where you are. I’m having her brought here.”
“Why? She’ll be better off at home.”
“This is where the crime was committed. So this is where I want her.”
Black was adamant, so I switched from protesting to making arrangements with John for his brother-in-law, who did some construction work on the nearby reservation, to patch the hole in the trading post’s wall after the forensics team turned the building back over to us. After that, I tried to phone the house in Albuquerque, but got no answer. Apparently, Marlene was already on the way.
#####
My wife and the Albuquerque police and Big Hat all got to the trading post at the same time. Marlene got out of the police cruiser and sort of wobbled over to me. When I enfolded her in my arms, she began crying.
“It’s okay, honey. You’re safe.” I noticed Big Hat watching from the cab of his truck.
“It was horrible, Frank. Horrible!”
“What was?”
Black stepped up and stood uncomfortably close. “Mrs. Lund, I’m Detective Walter Black of the State Police. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything until after I interview you. We can go to your living quarters at the rear of the store where you’ll be more comfortable.”
I insisted I was going with them, but Black was just as insistent that I wasn’t. He and his badge outweighed me and my wedding license. They entered the building without me.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Big Hat got out of a blue Dodge Ram pickup outfitted with a host of steel boxes. He was a mechanic who apparently hauled his tools around with him.
That huge brown Stetson floating toward me atop a lean, six-two Indian seemed to exude suppressed violence. “Lund, I find out you had anything to do with this, I’ll take you down personally.”
I drew up to my full five foot-nine height and poked a finger at him. “She’s my wife, Big Hat, and I’ll thank you to keep out of our business.”
“She might be your wife, but she’s my friend. What’s going on? Tell me right now.”
John stepped between us. “Take it easy, man. We don’t none of us know what this is all about.” He shrugged. “Other than taking out the west wall of the post and hauling off a big safe. Oh, yeah, and some lights hovering around somewhere about dawn this morning.”
We spent fifteen minutes arguing and making threats while John patiently filled Big Hat in on what little we knew. After that, a sullen silence grew as we waited another three-quarters of an hour until Black emerged from the post. Marlene wasn’t with him. Big Hat and I both started for the door.
“Hold on there,” the detective said. “Who’re you?” He addressed the Indian.
“My name’s Charles Menda, and Marlene Warren is a friend of mine.”
I forgot for the moment he was bigger and tougher than I was. “Marlene Lund, you lunkhead,”
He ignored me. “What did Marlene tell you?”
Black paused for a moment before answering. “That she was abducted.”
“Abducted,” I said. “Abducted by who?”
The detective speared me with his eyes. “Aliens.”
“You mean Mexicans?” Big Hat asked.
Brown lifted a finger skyward. “No, I mean aliens.

*****

To be continued…again. Hope it’s been interesting enough to draw you back one more time.

As always, thanks for reading. And take a look around the blog site while you’re here.


New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

The Warren Trading Post Caper

How about another short story today? Unlike last week’s story, this one is a contemporary tale told in two parts.
*****
THE WARREN TRADING POST CAPER
Blue skies. Gently rolling terrain. Purple mountains in the distance. Sounds like paradise, right? Not when a merciless sun boils tar right out of the pavement. I passed an endless stream of road kill, one a rattlesnake that appeared to have become mired in the goo and died out of desperation. I felt like that reptile as my tires struggled free of oozing oil with each turn of the wheels. The air conditioner in my Camaro struggled to keep the temperature at an acceptable level even though it was only eight in the morning.
My race across this desert terrain had started with a telephone call at five o’clock this morning. Marlene’s voice had sounded desperate. Frantic, actually. I couldn’t quite make out what the problem was before the uncertain connection was broken, and I was left to stare into a dead telephone. She had called from the little store her parents, Mike and Evelyn Warren, left her following their tragic automobile accident last year.
I had encouraged her to sell the establishment, but she had been raised in that trading post out in the middle of the western New Mexico desert. So sentimentalism triumphed over good sense. At least in my opinion. I worked full time for an engineering firm in Albuquerque and was only able to make the hundred-mile drive to Warren Trading Post on weekends. I had thought she would soon tired of the loneliness, but she seemed to thrive on it. And I had to admit our reunions every five days were something to look forward to. She was comfortable; I was frustrated.
I topped a rise on a surviving stretch of old Route 66 and spotted the trading post on the south side of the two-lane highway about a mile ahead. A pickup turned into the store as I watched. I tromped on the accelerator and managed to lurch into the parking area just as an Indian I recognized as John Benchley, tried the door. It appeared to be locked. John, a friend of my wife’s since childhood, beat on the door and shouted for Marlene. He turned as I slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car.
“Hi, Frank. You got any idea what’s going on? Marlene ain’t opened up yet.”
We both knew my wife never opened later than 7:00 a.m. in order to serve coffee and donuts to a few regular customers – most of them local area Navajos – on their way to work at the natural gas processing plant 20 miles to the south. “No idea, John. I got a frantic call at five o’clock, but we were cut off. I got here as fast as I could.”
I fumbled with my keys and managed to get the door open. As I entered calling for my wife, an ominous silence shouted back at me. Both of us came to an abrupt halt and gaped at the sight confronting us. A portion of the western wall of the trading post was gone. A hole the size of a small truck gave us a perfect view of the sand outside the building.
“Jesus! What the hell happened here?” John asked. “What could take out a three-foot adobe wall like that?”
“And where in the hell is my wife?”
I shouted her name as I ran through the store to the living quarters at the rear. After a thorough search of the entire premises, including the two small building behind the post, revealed no trace of Marlene, I discovered John searching the ground outside the wrecked wall.
“Whoever or whatever it was raked and swept the area clear. I can’t find nothing but a faint track over here where they got careless. Maybe a semi tire print, but maybe not. Damn, Frank, did you notice the big safe holding all the pawn goods is missing?”
“So is Marlene.” I paused a beat. “What do you mean, whatever?”
“There was doings out here last night.”
“What doings?”
John shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno. Lights. Things a man don’t look at too close.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Just saying …”
“I don’t have time for stories about witchcraft, man. Marlene's missing! I’m gonna call in the County Mounties.”

*****

To be continued. What do you think? Witchcraft? New Mexico's "Alien" country, you know. Time will tell. Hope it’s been interesting enough to draw you back next week.

As always, thanks for reading. Read, read, read! Please.

And take a look around the blog site while you’re here.


New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

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