The Murder Cache by Beth Groundwater- written version
Posted by Reader at 2/8/2008 3:55 PM 
Categories: uncategorized
Tags: short story; divorce; custody;GPI devices;geotracking;heart attack
Categories: uncategorized
Tags: short story; divorce; custody;GPI devices;geotracking;heart attack
The Murder Cache
"Let's go to that one, Dad." Jeffrey's finger shook with excitement as he pointed at the computer screen.
"The Murder Cache? I haven't seen it before." Mark clicked on the name. He and his son were avid participants in the sport of geocaching, in which outdoor treasure hunters use Global Positioning System receivers to hide and seek hidden waterproof containers holding a logbook and “treasure,” usually toys or trinkets related to the cache’s theme. They were searching for one to hike to during Jeffrey's weeklong shared custody visit. Scanning the description, Mark said, "It's brand new. Just added to the list a week ago and no entries in the visitor log."
"Maybe no one's been there yet. We might be first. Wouldn't that be cool? You know how much Mom and I like to read mysteries. She even let me read one of her Michael Connelly books when I finished all the R.L. Stine ones."
Mark frowned. "I don't think Connelly's books are appropriate for an eleven year old. You shouldn't be reading thrillers."
Jeffrey rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Dad."
"Your mother should be directing you to Agatha Christie or the Cat Who series if you've outgrown the young adult mysteries."
Mark shook his head. What the hell was Roxanne thinking? This was just one more example of her flawed child-rearing practices. Like letting the boy stay up late on school nights to watch Crime Scene Investigation dramas and R-rated scary movies, then leaving him alone with the resulting nightmares while she hit the bars. All the more reason to get Jeffrey out of her clutches and under his guidance as primary custodian. But the hellion was fighting the custody suit with claws bared.
"The Cat Who stories are too tame for me." Jeffrey leaned toward the computer. "Anyway, it says this cache has stuff from murder mystery books, like bookmarks or postcards from authors, and spyglasses, disappearing ink and plastic weapons." He snorted. "Why'd they post a warning not to leave real weapons—as if anyone would?"
Someone very well could, Mark thought. Who knows what type of kooks a geocache with a murder theme could attract? "I think we should look for another one." He reached out to click on the Back command.
Jeffrey put his hand on his father's arm. "I want to go to this one, Dad. Look, it's close. In the National Forest above the Blodgett Open Space. It doesn't look too hard for you."
Mark winced. Ever since his minor heart attack six months ago, his son had been overly solicitous of his health. The divorce battle was the cause of Mark's high blood pressure readings, not the extra fifty pounds he was lugging around his middle. But Jeffrey wouldn't understand that.
Mark checked the Difficulty and Terrain ratings. Three stars for each—average. He pulled out his topographic map of the area and located the cache's GPS coordinates. "Looks like about a three mile hike in from the trailhead, but there's quite an altitude gain." He counted the contour lines. "About eight hundred feet."
Jeffrey's face fell. "If you can't make it, we can find another one to hike to."
Mark wasn't about to disappoint his son. He ruffled Jeffrey's blond mop. "I can hoof it. I was just making sure you want to do the climb. It'll be hot today. The forecasted high is ninety."
"No problemo." Jeffrey shot him a thumbs-up. "And I've got an R.L Stine bookmark in my backpack to trade for something in the cache. C'mon, let's pack lunch."
* * *
Two hours later, Mark paused on the Blodgett trail to wipe his brow. With absolutely no clouds in the piercingly blue Colorado sky, the sun was merciless. Sweat trickled down his face from under the broad-brimmed hat he wore to protect his balding pate from sunburn. He'd loaned his son a baseball cap to wear, since Roxanne hadn't packed a hat for him. Or a rain-jacket, or sunscreen. And the boy needed new shoes. Mark made a mental note to take Jeffrey out shopping the next day. Hell, he was paying child support, but he seemed to be buying all the clothes for his growing son, lately.
Mark took a swig of his water bottle, then checked their location on his GPS receiver against the map. "Drink some water, Jeffrey." He didn't want the boy getting heatstroke.
Squinting into the distance, Mark spotted where the trail made a wide turn to the left, skirting around a clump of scraggly Gambel oak. He pointed out the turn to Jeffrey. "The cache is north of that turn. That's where we need to leave the trail and start bushwhacking."
"What's bushwhacking?"
"When you blaze your own trail. I guess the expression comes from having to whack bushes to get them out of the way."
Jeffrey laughed. When they reached the turn and left the trail to head up the mountain, the boy found a stick and started swatting nearby bushes. "Take that. And that!"
Mark shook his head. The energy of youth. He was saving his for just putting one foot in front of the other.
With no need to banter with his shrub-conquering son, Mark's thoughts drifted to his ever-present quandary: how to deal with the boy's unstable mother. Roxanne's mercurial moods fascinated him when they were young and had no real responsibilities. But once Jeffrey came along, the heavy burden of fatherhood changed Mark's outlook. Being wakened past midnight to hunt for fairies in the moonlight no longer appealed to him when he had to go to work the next morning. Nor did Roxanne's long calls to the office to breathlessly describe her latest grandiose plan for making a million dollars, or to sob out how a friend had slighted her.
Roxanne had never been able to hold a job for long. Her bosses frowned on employees taking off in the middle of the day, or for a couple of days, for a mental health break. And Mark couldn't let her neediness interfere with his career. He was the breadwinner for the whole family. So, he stopped taking her calls at work. He suspected that was the first of many times her image of him plummeted from an idolized hero to an evil sadist who'd cruelly abandoned her.
She couldn't even manage being a stay-at-home mom. Mark was the one who had checked Jeffrey's homework, washed the clothes she let pile up, packed lunches for the boy, and made sure the checks got written. Mark had grown up, for Pete's sake, and she hadn't.
The situation finally reached the point where Mark couldn't live with Roxanne anymore, so he filed for divorce. He thought getting custody of Jeffrey would be easy, but the state usually sided with the mother, unless the father could show she was unsuitable. So, he'd had to document Roxanne's wild mood swings, impulsive spending and drinking binges. Having her inadequacies paraded in public just made her all the more furious. When he picked up Jeffrey for this latest visit, she'd glared and refused to speak to him.
Probably, Roxanne was dreading their court date later that week when the custody issue would be decided. The judge showed every indication he would rule in Mark's favor.
Mark scanned the trail for Jeffrey. The boy was getting too far ahead. "Hey, son," Mark shouted, "slow down and give your old man a chance to catch up."
Jeffrey smiled and waved, then sat on a large pink slab of Pikes Peak granite to wait.
Thank God, Roxanne hadn't turned Jeffrey against Mark yet. The boy was smart enough to know the poison she spouted about his father was lies. And Mark had explained Roxanne's mental condition patiently to his son, trying not to cast any blame on her.
After reaching Jeffrey, Mark slumped on the rock beside his son. He took out the GPS receiver and handed over the unit. "Time for another check. You do it this time."
Mark drank from a water bottle and wiped his brow while heat waves shimmered off the ground. With no rain in the past two weeks, even the small cactus plants beside the rock drooped. Mark ran his tongue over his dry lips and scanned for wildlife. Nothing moved on the ground or in the sky. Smarter than their human kin, the birds and animals were waiting out the heat and would forage for food after the sun sank below the horizon. Mark lifted the backpack, stuffed with jackets, lunch, first-aid kit and extra water, off his back to let the dry air draw the sweat out of his T-shirt.
Jeffrey painstakingly read the latitude and longitude off the GPS receiver and found their position on the topographic map. They were only a quarter of an inch away on the map from the red X Mark had drawn to mark the geocache location.
Jeffrey looked up at his dad, eyes shining. "Almost there."
"Read the hint," Mark said. "Then see if you can find the landmarks it describes."
"Tucked in a rock pile between two big Ponderosa pines." Jeffrey looked around. "There's pine trees all around us."
Mark pointed north. "It should be over there, about five hundred feet or so, give or take fifty feet. See any rocks?"
Jeffrey stood and craned his neck. "I think so. Can I go?"
Mark nodded, and the boy took off up the mountainside. Mark followed more slowly, stepping carefully on the loose gravel scree between the sharp spines of yucca plants. Three stars, my ass, he thought. With this steepness and roughness to the trail, the geocache should have been rated at least four stars. He'd be sure to post a warning when he logged their visit.
After a few minutes, he caught a glint of metal up ahead, most likely an ammo box, in a pile of rocks behind some chokecherry bushes. As he hiked after Jeffrey, he kept his eye on the spot. He didn't say anything, wanting his son to experience the joy of discovery, but he prepared a hint to throw Jeffrey's way if the boy passed the box.
Two massive Ponderosa pine trees shaded the rocks from the sun now beating down from its zenith. Might be a good place to eat their lunch after Jeffrey spied the cache. Mark could use an extended rest. His legs ached, and the short sit-down hadn't been long enough for him to catch his breath. Maybe he should start going to the gym.
"Found it!" Jeffrey scrambled over the rock pile, sat and hoisted the ammo box onto his lap. He popped open the lid, peered inside and pulled out a piece of paper.
Mark stepped into the shade of the trees and looked up at his smiling son, who glowed with health and the excitement of discovery. God, he loved the boy. Jeffrey seemed to be turning out okay despite of his mother's inadequacies. Though Roxanne would love to strangle Mark, she'd never hurt her son. She loved Jeffrey as much as—or, Mark had to admit, even more than—he did, in her own fierce way.
"Is that the guest log? You want to write in our names?"
Jeffrey shook his head. "No, it's a clue. Listen." He read from the paper. "Congratulations. You've found the cache, but now you need to solve the mystery. Who did it and how? First, find the murder victim, count the clues, then return here to see if you found them all. Go up the hill, north by northwest, to the large rock shaped like a coyote. The body's hidden near the rock. Beware of the blood!"
What the hell? Mark's gut tightened as the possibilities swirled in his mind. Did some sicko really kill something? An animal, or God forbid, a person? And leave the body for geocachers to find? Or was this all some macabre joke? Either way, he didn't like it. Not one bit. He reached for the paper. "Let me see that."
Jeffrey stood, hand shading his eyes as he searched the hillside above them. Engrossed, he let the paper fall from his hand. "I don't see a coyote rock."
Mark picked up the typed note and read it. A prickly premonition made the hair on his neck rise. "There's no need to look for it. I think this is far enough--"
"There!" Jeffrey pointed. He hopped off the rock pile and started running uphill through the dry brush.
"Jeffrey, stop!"
"It's not far, Dad. Take your time. I'll wait for you when I get there." Thin legs pumping, he clambered up the slope.
"Damn it, I said stop."
As if he hadn't heard his father, Jeffrey kept climbing.
Mark searched the hillside far above the boy and spotted a large rock that looked like the profile of a sitting coyote. Getting there would be a steep climb. But Mark was determined to stop Jeffrey before he reached it, or to get there first and shield the boy from whatever traumatic sight lay in wait.
He took off with long, loping strides, clawing his way through the scratchy brush after his son. "Jeffrey," he hollered again, as he heaved himself over a large boulder, "wait for me."
"I'm going to find it first!"
The damn kid thinks this is a game. Mark's heart pounded as he pushed himself harder and faster up the slope. He tried to call his son again, but he was out of breath. His chest heaved with the effort of his uphill scramble. His stomach twisted with fear of what the boy would find.
Jeffrey's bright red hat bobbed ahead, in and out of patches of scrub oak and chokecherry bushes, marking his progress toward the coyote rock, now within a few yards.
Mark ignored the stitch in his side and lunged forward. "S-s-stop," he cried out again, expelling all the air in his chest with the effort. He gasped, coughed and lost his balance. He fell, slamming his knee against the ground. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he shoved to his feet again.
Jeffrey reached the rock and put a hand on it to steady himself. He looked down, head moving back and forth as he scanned the ground.
Damn. Mark felt a tight band constricting his chest, but he pushed on, only a few yards to go now. Maybe he could get there before Jeffrey found the body. But, no.
Jeffrey's face screwed up, his mouth fell open, and he stumbled back. "Eeww, gross."
Too late. What had the boy seen?
Dizzy now with fatigue, Mark threw his body up the hill with sheer willpower. He crashed through the brush next to Jeffrey, and stood with hands on his knees, chest heaving.
A decapitated, nude Barbie lay on the ground in a pool of dried red liquid. One of the doll's legs was sliced open. A small skeletal bone protruded from the cut. A miniature ax lay imbedded in her well-endowed, red-streaked chest. The blonde head lay off to the side, the hair matted with the red liquid, dark shadows drawn under the innocent eyes, the perfect, pouty mouth fixed in a macabre grin.
Mark fell to his knees and sucked in a couple of quick breaths. "What kind of . . . sick person . . . would leave this?"
Jeffrey stepped back toward the doll and puffed out his chest. "I think it's cool."
Well, thought Mark, that's a fine indication of how Roxanne's warping the boy's sensitivities. Murder's cool, now.
Jeffrey picked up a stick and drew it through the crusted red pool. "What do you think this is? Pig's blood? Jello?"
"Put the stick down, Jeffrey." Mark rubbed his left arm, which felt numb and sore.
Jeffrey threw the stick away, then bent to stare at the Barbie. He slowly walked all the way around the pretend crime scene, eyes searching the ground.
"Get away from there." Mark grimaced. He was still winded, still gasping for breaths, even feeling a little dizzy. He sat down hard and groped for the water bottle in the pack behind him.
Jeffrey plopped down next to him and reached over to pull the water bottle out of Mark's pack and hand it to him. "So who do you think did it? The ax makes me think a lumberjack. Is one of the Ken doll's friends a lumberjack?"
In the process of slurping water from the bottle, Mark sputtered. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Suspects, Dad. And clues. We need to find more clues. Mom said the killer always takes something with him and leaves something behind. He left the ax, but maybe there's something else. And he took Barbie's clothes, but he coulda' taken something else, too. Maybe the killer wasn't even a he."
Mark swiped sweat away from his eyes and looked around while Jeffrey droned on. Mark needed to find some shade, to get away from the merciless sun. His dizziness was getting worse. But no trees stood nearby, and the looming rock faced south, so it cast no shadow. The sky was still pure blue, no clouds, not even small puffs, only a predatory hawk circling on a thermal, scanning for prey.
With a triumphant scream, it dived.
A heaviness made Mark clasp his chest. The water bottle slipped from his hand.
Jeffrey stopped talking and stared at his father. "You okay, Dad? You look kinda sick."
The clues coalesced in Mark's mind while he pieced the puzzle together. Shortness of breath, sweating, chest feeling like an Anaconda had wrapped itself around his ribs, pain radiating down his arm, dizziness, and yes, even some nausea. The logical deduction forced its way into the open. He was having another heart attack. A big one this time.
Mark dug his bottle of nitroglycerin and aspirin out of his pocket. He chewed an aspirin and washed the bitter taste away with water, then slipped a nitroglycerin pill under his tongue. He felt for a pulse on his neck. It seemed weak and fluttering.
"Jeffrey," he started, then licked his lips and debated how much to tell his son. What if he sugarcoated the serious situation and died right here and now, leaving the boy fatherless? No, Jeffrey had to be told the truth. All Mark could do was to be calm himself, show his son how to be a man. He reached for Jeffrey's hand.
"I'm having a heart attack." At Jeffrey's gasp, Mark gripped his son's hand tighter. "People live through heart attacks every day. Remember, I lived through my last one."
He held up the bottle of pills. "These should help. But we need to get some more help for your old dad."
Jeffrey leapt to his feet and looked around, his actions jerky with panic. "There's no one here." Tears welled in his eyes.
Mark nodded. Even that little movement hurt. "We have to call 9-1-1 with the cell phone." He reached behind him for his backpack, but a sharp pain made him gasp.
Jeffrey's wide-eyed face loomed over him. "I'll get it."
Gratefully, Mark let his son ease the backpack off his back, then he slipped another nitroglycerin pill under his tongue and lay down. The world shifted and spun. He closed his eyes to focus on settling his stomach. The contents of the backpack clattered on the ground. Mark felt his head being lifted, and Jeffrey slid a lumpy pillow made out of his jacket underneath.
When Mark opened his eyes, Jeffrey had the cell phone open and was staring at the screen. "I see two bars."
"Then we've got service." Mark sucked air through clenched teeth. Even talking was getting difficult now. The pills didn't seem to be working. "Get the GPS out of my pocket."
Jeffrey's fingers scrabbled in Mark's pocket and pulled out the device.
"Now call. Give them the co-" The Anaconda squeezed Mark's chest.
"The coordinates?"
"Yes," Mark whispered.
Clutching the two devices tightly, Jeffrey called 9-1-1 while glancing worriedly at his father. Mark tried to listen to the boy answer the dispatcher's questions, but his attention kept drifting to his dizziness, nausea and chest-crushing pain.
"Dad!" Jeffrey's face was inches from his.
"Wh-what?"
"She wants to know if you're conscious."
"For now."
"He's conscious. He talked to me." Jeffrey listened for a minute, nodded, then laid the phone down and started stuffing their jackets and rocks into the backpack.
Mark's head was lifted then returned to the ground after Jeffrey removed the jacket. "What're you doing?"
"They said I should elevate your feet until they can get here." Jeffrey zipped the full backpack, lifted Mark's feet and shoved the bulky pack under them.
"How long?"
Jeffrey relayed the question, then stared at his father in dismay. "About forty-five minutes."
Mark grimaced in pain. Forty-five minutes was a long time. He wasn't sure he'd make it. But he had to. If he died, Jeffrey would be raised by his crazy mother.
"I'm scared, Dad."
"Me, too."
"I wish Mom was here."
Mark couldn't answer 'me, too' to that, but realized Jeffrey would have been comforted by Roxanne's presence. Should he have Jeffrey call her? He envisioned what she'd tell the judge about their predicament—that Mark had exposed Jeffrey not only to a disturbing scene, but to danger by taking the boy out in the wilderness where Mark had no business being with his heart condition. Why give her fuel for arguments that she should have custody?
Mark looked at his son, hunched over with his brow furrowed, chewing on his lip. "Call her."
"What?"
"Tell the dispatcher you want to call your mom."
"Okay." Jeffrey asked the dispatcher then listened for awhile. "Ten minutes. Every ten minutes. Right. I'll call you then." Then he recited Mark's cell phone number.
He turned to Mark. "She told me to call back every ten minutes until the EMTs come. If I don't, she said she'd have the phone company interrupt my call to Mom so she can check on you."
"Good. Hold my hand." Mark felt Jeffrey's hand, warm and slippery with nervous sweat, slide into his. "You're doing a good job, son. You've been real brave."
Mark wheezed. What if he stopped breathing and his heart stopped? Would Jeffrey be able to follow the dispatcher's CPR instructions? CPR was hard work. How long would the boy be able to keep it up? The last thing Mark wanted was for Jeffrey to feel guilty if his father died.
When Jeffrey squeezed his hand, Mark gave a weak squeeze back. He had to hold on, for his son. "I'll keep squeezing to show you I'm still okay. Now call your Mom."
Jeffrey punched the buttons then almost shouted, "Mom. Dad's having a heart attack. I had to call 9-1-1. I'm really scared."
Roxanne's voice murmured from the cell phone. Good, she was trying to calm the boy. Mark focused on regulating his breathing, trying not to gasp with the pain. A dark tunnel closed in on the edges of his vision.
Jeffrey's voice seemed to come from far away. "Dad?"
The tunnel receded, and Jeffrey's face filled Mark's vision. He wouldn't faint, or die. Yet. He gave Jeffrey's hand a weak squeeze. "Yes."
"Mom wants to talk to you." Jeffrey put the phone by Mark's ear.
"How are you feeling?"
"Terrible."
"Jeffrey said you're having a heart attack. You going to be able to hold on until the paramedics get there?"
Mark glanced at his son. "Don't know."
"Damn, Mark. I feel for you, I really do, but I can't do anything from here. Jeffrey says you ran after him when he went up the hill to find the doll. Poor boy's feeling guilty that he didn't stop when you called to him."
Though she tried to sound sympathetic, Mark could tell she was more worried about the impact on her son. Rightfully so. Jeffrey must be scared to death. "Y-yes, but--"
"I told him it wasn't his fault that you piled on the pounds, let your blood pressure get too high. Won't protect yourself, but you're way too protective of him."
"It could've been an animal. Or human."
"Don't worry about Jeffrey. He's a brave boy. He'll be able to deal with it, and I'll be there every day to help him."
Mark realized she wasn't talking about the doll. "I'm not going to die."
"From what Jeffrey tells me, you won't make it."
The dark words sank into Mark's head, spreading poison like a coastal oil spill he tried to help clean up years ago. The black goo had coated everything: gasping seabirds, withering vegetation, and flaccid fish with cloudy eyes. It sucked at his shoes, sapping his motivation and energy. Death had lurked everywhere, and he could do nothing about it.
Just like now.
A heavy weakness settled on Mark's limbs. His chest fought his efforts to make it rise. Blackness loomed at the edge of his vision. Soon he'd lose consciousness then stop breathing. With many minutes to go before the EMTs arrived, he doubted his son could keep him alive.
"Mark, you need to say goodbye to Jeffrey. Tell him you love him."
Mark looked at Jeffrey's solemn face, opened his mouth, but no words came out. He silently mouthed, "I love you." He gazed at his son, memorizing the features, the sweetness of the last moment of being just a boy, a carefree kid, before being shoved out of childhood and into the adult world by tragedy.
Jeffrey blinked, fighting tears. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I love you, too, Dad."
"Good," Roxanne said into Mark's ear. "Now you can let go. You know I'll take good care of Jeffrey."
Mark knew she loved Jeffrey, fiercely loved him, with as much intensity as she hated Mark. Yes, she would take good care of the boy, maybe too good, smothering him, but he'd never lack for anything. Except a father. Roxanne would try her damnedest to poison the boy's memories of his dad. Mark could only hope Jeffrey would hold onto the good times they'd shared. He exhaled long and slow. The black tunnel narrowed again.
"One last thing."
Mark heard a muffled sound, like she was stifling a laugh, no, more like a cry. Maybe the hatred hadn't eaten away all her feelings for him.
"Jeffrey and I will clean up that geocache, get rid of the Barbie doll. We wouldn't want someone else to have a heart attack, would we?"
Yes, the cleanup was a good thing to do. Mark stopped fighting the dark. The Anaconda slammed him one last time.
Roxanne's voice came from far away. "Besides, the Murder Cache has served its purpose."
"Let's go to that one, Dad." Jeffrey's finger shook with excitement as he pointed at the computer screen.
"The Murder Cache? I haven't seen it before." Mark clicked on the name. He and his son were avid participants in the sport of geocaching, in which outdoor treasure hunters use Global Positioning System receivers to hide and seek hidden waterproof containers holding a logbook and “treasure,” usually toys or trinkets related to the cache’s theme. They were searching for one to hike to during Jeffrey's weeklong shared custody visit. Scanning the description, Mark said, "It's brand new. Just added to the list a week ago and no entries in the visitor log."
"Maybe no one's been there yet. We might be first. Wouldn't that be cool? You know how much Mom and I like to read mysteries. She even let me read one of her Michael Connelly books when I finished all the R.L. Stine ones."
Mark frowned. "I don't think Connelly's books are appropriate for an eleven year old. You shouldn't be reading thrillers."
Jeffrey rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Dad."
"Your mother should be directing you to Agatha Christie or the Cat Who series if you've outgrown the young adult mysteries."
Mark shook his head. What the hell was Roxanne thinking? This was just one more example of her flawed child-rearing practices. Like letting the boy stay up late on school nights to watch Crime Scene Investigation dramas and R-rated scary movies, then leaving him alone with the resulting nightmares while she hit the bars. All the more reason to get Jeffrey out of her clutches and under his guidance as primary custodian. But the hellion was fighting the custody suit with claws bared.
"The Cat Who stories are too tame for me." Jeffrey leaned toward the computer. "Anyway, it says this cache has stuff from murder mystery books, like bookmarks or postcards from authors, and spyglasses, disappearing ink and plastic weapons." He snorted. "Why'd they post a warning not to leave real weapons—as if anyone would?"
Someone very well could, Mark thought. Who knows what type of kooks a geocache with a murder theme could attract? "I think we should look for another one." He reached out to click on the Back command.
Jeffrey put his hand on his father's arm. "I want to go to this one, Dad. Look, it's close. In the National Forest above the Blodgett Open Space. It doesn't look too hard for you."
Mark winced. Ever since his minor heart attack six months ago, his son had been overly solicitous of his health. The divorce battle was the cause of Mark's high blood pressure readings, not the extra fifty pounds he was lugging around his middle. But Jeffrey wouldn't understand that.
Mark checked the Difficulty and Terrain ratings. Three stars for each—average. He pulled out his topographic map of the area and located the cache's GPS coordinates. "Looks like about a three mile hike in from the trailhead, but there's quite an altitude gain." He counted the contour lines. "About eight hundred feet."
Jeffrey's face fell. "If you can't make it, we can find another one to hike to."
Mark wasn't about to disappoint his son. He ruffled Jeffrey's blond mop. "I can hoof it. I was just making sure you want to do the climb. It'll be hot today. The forecasted high is ninety."
"No problemo." Jeffrey shot him a thumbs-up. "And I've got an R.L Stine bookmark in my backpack to trade for something in the cache. C'mon, let's pack lunch."
* * *
Two hours later, Mark paused on the Blodgett trail to wipe his brow. With absolutely no clouds in the piercingly blue Colorado sky, the sun was merciless. Sweat trickled down his face from under the broad-brimmed hat he wore to protect his balding pate from sunburn. He'd loaned his son a baseball cap to wear, since Roxanne hadn't packed a hat for him. Or a rain-jacket, or sunscreen. And the boy needed new shoes. Mark made a mental note to take Jeffrey out shopping the next day. Hell, he was paying child support, but he seemed to be buying all the clothes for his growing son, lately.
Mark took a swig of his water bottle, then checked their location on his GPS receiver against the map. "Drink some water, Jeffrey." He didn't want the boy getting heatstroke.
Squinting into the distance, Mark spotted where the trail made a wide turn to the left, skirting around a clump of scraggly Gambel oak. He pointed out the turn to Jeffrey. "The cache is north of that turn. That's where we need to leave the trail and start bushwhacking."
"What's bushwhacking?"
"When you blaze your own trail. I guess the expression comes from having to whack bushes to get them out of the way."
Jeffrey laughed. When they reached the turn and left the trail to head up the mountain, the boy found a stick and started swatting nearby bushes. "Take that. And that!"
Mark shook his head. The energy of youth. He was saving his for just putting one foot in front of the other.
With no need to banter with his shrub-conquering son, Mark's thoughts drifted to his ever-present quandary: how to deal with the boy's unstable mother. Roxanne's mercurial moods fascinated him when they were young and had no real responsibilities. But once Jeffrey came along, the heavy burden of fatherhood changed Mark's outlook. Being wakened past midnight to hunt for fairies in the moonlight no longer appealed to him when he had to go to work the next morning. Nor did Roxanne's long calls to the office to breathlessly describe her latest grandiose plan for making a million dollars, or to sob out how a friend had slighted her.
Roxanne had never been able to hold a job for long. Her bosses frowned on employees taking off in the middle of the day, or for a couple of days, for a mental health break. And Mark couldn't let her neediness interfere with his career. He was the breadwinner for the whole family. So, he stopped taking her calls at work. He suspected that was the first of many times her image of him plummeted from an idolized hero to an evil sadist who'd cruelly abandoned her.
She couldn't even manage being a stay-at-home mom. Mark was the one who had checked Jeffrey's homework, washed the clothes she let pile up, packed lunches for the boy, and made sure the checks got written. Mark had grown up, for Pete's sake, and she hadn't.
The situation finally reached the point where Mark couldn't live with Roxanne anymore, so he filed for divorce. He thought getting custody of Jeffrey would be easy, but the state usually sided with the mother, unless the father could show she was unsuitable. So, he'd had to document Roxanne's wild mood swings, impulsive spending and drinking binges. Having her inadequacies paraded in public just made her all the more furious. When he picked up Jeffrey for this latest visit, she'd glared and refused to speak to him.
Probably, Roxanne was dreading their court date later that week when the custody issue would be decided. The judge showed every indication he would rule in Mark's favor.
Mark scanned the trail for Jeffrey. The boy was getting too far ahead. "Hey, son," Mark shouted, "slow down and give your old man a chance to catch up."
Jeffrey smiled and waved, then sat on a large pink slab of Pikes Peak granite to wait.
Thank God, Roxanne hadn't turned Jeffrey against Mark yet. The boy was smart enough to know the poison she spouted about his father was lies. And Mark had explained Roxanne's mental condition patiently to his son, trying not to cast any blame on her.
After reaching Jeffrey, Mark slumped on the rock beside his son. He took out the GPS receiver and handed over the unit. "Time for another check. You do it this time."
Mark drank from a water bottle and wiped his brow while heat waves shimmered off the ground. With no rain in the past two weeks, even the small cactus plants beside the rock drooped. Mark ran his tongue over his dry lips and scanned for wildlife. Nothing moved on the ground or in the sky. Smarter than their human kin, the birds and animals were waiting out the heat and would forage for food after the sun sank below the horizon. Mark lifted the backpack, stuffed with jackets, lunch, first-aid kit and extra water, off his back to let the dry air draw the sweat out of his T-shirt.
Jeffrey painstakingly read the latitude and longitude off the GPS receiver and found their position on the topographic map. They were only a quarter of an inch away on the map from the red X Mark had drawn to mark the geocache location.
Jeffrey looked up at his dad, eyes shining. "Almost there."
"Read the hint," Mark said. "Then see if you can find the landmarks it describes."
"Tucked in a rock pile between two big Ponderosa pines." Jeffrey looked around. "There's pine trees all around us."
Mark pointed north. "It should be over there, about five hundred feet or so, give or take fifty feet. See any rocks?"
Jeffrey stood and craned his neck. "I think so. Can I go?"
Mark nodded, and the boy took off up the mountainside. Mark followed more slowly, stepping carefully on the loose gravel scree between the sharp spines of yucca plants. Three stars, my ass, he thought. With this steepness and roughness to the trail, the geocache should have been rated at least four stars. He'd be sure to post a warning when he logged their visit.
After a few minutes, he caught a glint of metal up ahead, most likely an ammo box, in a pile of rocks behind some chokecherry bushes. As he hiked after Jeffrey, he kept his eye on the spot. He didn't say anything, wanting his son to experience the joy of discovery, but he prepared a hint to throw Jeffrey's way if the boy passed the box.
Two massive Ponderosa pine trees shaded the rocks from the sun now beating down from its zenith. Might be a good place to eat their lunch after Jeffrey spied the cache. Mark could use an extended rest. His legs ached, and the short sit-down hadn't been long enough for him to catch his breath. Maybe he should start going to the gym.
"Found it!" Jeffrey scrambled over the rock pile, sat and hoisted the ammo box onto his lap. He popped open the lid, peered inside and pulled out a piece of paper.
Mark stepped into the shade of the trees and looked up at his smiling son, who glowed with health and the excitement of discovery. God, he loved the boy. Jeffrey seemed to be turning out okay despite of his mother's inadequacies. Though Roxanne would love to strangle Mark, she'd never hurt her son. She loved Jeffrey as much as—or, Mark had to admit, even more than—he did, in her own fierce way.
"Is that the guest log? You want to write in our names?"
Jeffrey shook his head. "No, it's a clue. Listen." He read from the paper. "Congratulations. You've found the cache, but now you need to solve the mystery. Who did it and how? First, find the murder victim, count the clues, then return here to see if you found them all. Go up the hill, north by northwest, to the large rock shaped like a coyote. The body's hidden near the rock. Beware of the blood!"
What the hell? Mark's gut tightened as the possibilities swirled in his mind. Did some sicko really kill something? An animal, or God forbid, a person? And leave the body for geocachers to find? Or was this all some macabre joke? Either way, he didn't like it. Not one bit. He reached for the paper. "Let me see that."
Jeffrey stood, hand shading his eyes as he searched the hillside above them. Engrossed, he let the paper fall from his hand. "I don't see a coyote rock."
Mark picked up the typed note and read it. A prickly premonition made the hair on his neck rise. "There's no need to look for it. I think this is far enough--"
"There!" Jeffrey pointed. He hopped off the rock pile and started running uphill through the dry brush.
"Jeffrey, stop!"
"It's not far, Dad. Take your time. I'll wait for you when I get there." Thin legs pumping, he clambered up the slope.
"Damn it, I said stop."
As if he hadn't heard his father, Jeffrey kept climbing.
Mark searched the hillside far above the boy and spotted a large rock that looked like the profile of a sitting coyote. Getting there would be a steep climb. But Mark was determined to stop Jeffrey before he reached it, or to get there first and shield the boy from whatever traumatic sight lay in wait.
He took off with long, loping strides, clawing his way through the scratchy brush after his son. "Jeffrey," he hollered again, as he heaved himself over a large boulder, "wait for me."
"I'm going to find it first!"
The damn kid thinks this is a game. Mark's heart pounded as he pushed himself harder and faster up the slope. He tried to call his son again, but he was out of breath. His chest heaved with the effort of his uphill scramble. His stomach twisted with fear of what the boy would find.
Jeffrey's bright red hat bobbed ahead, in and out of patches of scrub oak and chokecherry bushes, marking his progress toward the coyote rock, now within a few yards.
Mark ignored the stitch in his side and lunged forward. "S-s-stop," he cried out again, expelling all the air in his chest with the effort. He gasped, coughed and lost his balance. He fell, slamming his knee against the ground. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he shoved to his feet again.
Jeffrey reached the rock and put a hand on it to steady himself. He looked down, head moving back and forth as he scanned the ground.
Damn. Mark felt a tight band constricting his chest, but he pushed on, only a few yards to go now. Maybe he could get there before Jeffrey found the body. But, no.
Jeffrey's face screwed up, his mouth fell open, and he stumbled back. "Eeww, gross."
Too late. What had the boy seen?
Dizzy now with fatigue, Mark threw his body up the hill with sheer willpower. He crashed through the brush next to Jeffrey, and stood with hands on his knees, chest heaving.
A decapitated, nude Barbie lay on the ground in a pool of dried red liquid. One of the doll's legs was sliced open. A small skeletal bone protruded from the cut. A miniature ax lay imbedded in her well-endowed, red-streaked chest. The blonde head lay off to the side, the hair matted with the red liquid, dark shadows drawn under the innocent eyes, the perfect, pouty mouth fixed in a macabre grin.
Mark fell to his knees and sucked in a couple of quick breaths. "What kind of . . . sick person . . . would leave this?"
Jeffrey stepped back toward the doll and puffed out his chest. "I think it's cool."
Well, thought Mark, that's a fine indication of how Roxanne's warping the boy's sensitivities. Murder's cool, now.
Jeffrey picked up a stick and drew it through the crusted red pool. "What do you think this is? Pig's blood? Jello?"
"Put the stick down, Jeffrey." Mark rubbed his left arm, which felt numb and sore.
Jeffrey threw the stick away, then bent to stare at the Barbie. He slowly walked all the way around the pretend crime scene, eyes searching the ground.
"Get away from there." Mark grimaced. He was still winded, still gasping for breaths, even feeling a little dizzy. He sat down hard and groped for the water bottle in the pack behind him.
Jeffrey plopped down next to him and reached over to pull the water bottle out of Mark's pack and hand it to him. "So who do you think did it? The ax makes me think a lumberjack. Is one of the Ken doll's friends a lumberjack?"
In the process of slurping water from the bottle, Mark sputtered. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Suspects, Dad. And clues. We need to find more clues. Mom said the killer always takes something with him and leaves something behind. He left the ax, but maybe there's something else. And he took Barbie's clothes, but he coulda' taken something else, too. Maybe the killer wasn't even a he."
Mark swiped sweat away from his eyes and looked around while Jeffrey droned on. Mark needed to find some shade, to get away from the merciless sun. His dizziness was getting worse. But no trees stood nearby, and the looming rock faced south, so it cast no shadow. The sky was still pure blue, no clouds, not even small puffs, only a predatory hawk circling on a thermal, scanning for prey.
With a triumphant scream, it dived.
A heaviness made Mark clasp his chest. The water bottle slipped from his hand.
Jeffrey stopped talking and stared at his father. "You okay, Dad? You look kinda sick."
The clues coalesced in Mark's mind while he pieced the puzzle together. Shortness of breath, sweating, chest feeling like an Anaconda had wrapped itself around his ribs, pain radiating down his arm, dizziness, and yes, even some nausea. The logical deduction forced its way into the open. He was having another heart attack. A big one this time.
Mark dug his bottle of nitroglycerin and aspirin out of his pocket. He chewed an aspirin and washed the bitter taste away with water, then slipped a nitroglycerin pill under his tongue. He felt for a pulse on his neck. It seemed weak and fluttering.
"Jeffrey," he started, then licked his lips and debated how much to tell his son. What if he sugarcoated the serious situation and died right here and now, leaving the boy fatherless? No, Jeffrey had to be told the truth. All Mark could do was to be calm himself, show his son how to be a man. He reached for Jeffrey's hand.
"I'm having a heart attack." At Jeffrey's gasp, Mark gripped his son's hand tighter. "People live through heart attacks every day. Remember, I lived through my last one."
He held up the bottle of pills. "These should help. But we need to get some more help for your old dad."
Jeffrey leapt to his feet and looked around, his actions jerky with panic. "There's no one here." Tears welled in his eyes.
Mark nodded. Even that little movement hurt. "We have to call 9-1-1 with the cell phone." He reached behind him for his backpack, but a sharp pain made him gasp.
Jeffrey's wide-eyed face loomed over him. "I'll get it."
Gratefully, Mark let his son ease the backpack off his back, then he slipped another nitroglycerin pill under his tongue and lay down. The world shifted and spun. He closed his eyes to focus on settling his stomach. The contents of the backpack clattered on the ground. Mark felt his head being lifted, and Jeffrey slid a lumpy pillow made out of his jacket underneath.
When Mark opened his eyes, Jeffrey had the cell phone open and was staring at the screen. "I see two bars."
"Then we've got service." Mark sucked air through clenched teeth. Even talking was getting difficult now. The pills didn't seem to be working. "Get the GPS out of my pocket."
Jeffrey's fingers scrabbled in Mark's pocket and pulled out the device.
"Now call. Give them the co-" The Anaconda squeezed Mark's chest.
"The coordinates?"
"Yes," Mark whispered.
Clutching the two devices tightly, Jeffrey called 9-1-1 while glancing worriedly at his father. Mark tried to listen to the boy answer the dispatcher's questions, but his attention kept drifting to his dizziness, nausea and chest-crushing pain.
"Dad!" Jeffrey's face was inches from his.
"Wh-what?"
"She wants to know if you're conscious."
"For now."
"He's conscious. He talked to me." Jeffrey listened for a minute, nodded, then laid the phone down and started stuffing their jackets and rocks into the backpack.
Mark's head was lifted then returned to the ground after Jeffrey removed the jacket. "What're you doing?"
"They said I should elevate your feet until they can get here." Jeffrey zipped the full backpack, lifted Mark's feet and shoved the bulky pack under them.
"How long?"
Jeffrey relayed the question, then stared at his father in dismay. "About forty-five minutes."
Mark grimaced in pain. Forty-five minutes was a long time. He wasn't sure he'd make it. But he had to. If he died, Jeffrey would be raised by his crazy mother.
"I'm scared, Dad."
"Me, too."
"I wish Mom was here."
Mark couldn't answer 'me, too' to that, but realized Jeffrey would have been comforted by Roxanne's presence. Should he have Jeffrey call her? He envisioned what she'd tell the judge about their predicament—that Mark had exposed Jeffrey not only to a disturbing scene, but to danger by taking the boy out in the wilderness where Mark had no business being with his heart condition. Why give her fuel for arguments that she should have custody?
Mark looked at his son, hunched over with his brow furrowed, chewing on his lip. "Call her."
"What?"
"Tell the dispatcher you want to call your mom."
"Okay." Jeffrey asked the dispatcher then listened for awhile. "Ten minutes. Every ten minutes. Right. I'll call you then." Then he recited Mark's cell phone number.
He turned to Mark. "She told me to call back every ten minutes until the EMTs come. If I don't, she said she'd have the phone company interrupt my call to Mom so she can check on you."
"Good. Hold my hand." Mark felt Jeffrey's hand, warm and slippery with nervous sweat, slide into his. "You're doing a good job, son. You've been real brave."
Mark wheezed. What if he stopped breathing and his heart stopped? Would Jeffrey be able to follow the dispatcher's CPR instructions? CPR was hard work. How long would the boy be able to keep it up? The last thing Mark wanted was for Jeffrey to feel guilty if his father died.
When Jeffrey squeezed his hand, Mark gave a weak squeeze back. He had to hold on, for his son. "I'll keep squeezing to show you I'm still okay. Now call your Mom."
Jeffrey punched the buttons then almost shouted, "Mom. Dad's having a heart attack. I had to call 9-1-1. I'm really scared."
Roxanne's voice murmured from the cell phone. Good, she was trying to calm the boy. Mark focused on regulating his breathing, trying not to gasp with the pain. A dark tunnel closed in on the edges of his vision.
Jeffrey's voice seemed to come from far away. "Dad?"
The tunnel receded, and Jeffrey's face filled Mark's vision. He wouldn't faint, or die. Yet. He gave Jeffrey's hand a weak squeeze. "Yes."
"Mom wants to talk to you." Jeffrey put the phone by Mark's ear.
"How are you feeling?"
"Terrible."
"Jeffrey said you're having a heart attack. You going to be able to hold on until the paramedics get there?"
Mark glanced at his son. "Don't know."
"Damn, Mark. I feel for you, I really do, but I can't do anything from here. Jeffrey says you ran after him when he went up the hill to find the doll. Poor boy's feeling guilty that he didn't stop when you called to him."
Though she tried to sound sympathetic, Mark could tell she was more worried about the impact on her son. Rightfully so. Jeffrey must be scared to death. "Y-yes, but--"
"I told him it wasn't his fault that you piled on the pounds, let your blood pressure get too high. Won't protect yourself, but you're way too protective of him."
"It could've been an animal. Or human."
"Don't worry about Jeffrey. He's a brave boy. He'll be able to deal with it, and I'll be there every day to help him."
Mark realized she wasn't talking about the doll. "I'm not going to die."
"From what Jeffrey tells me, you won't make it."
The dark words sank into Mark's head, spreading poison like a coastal oil spill he tried to help clean up years ago. The black goo had coated everything: gasping seabirds, withering vegetation, and flaccid fish with cloudy eyes. It sucked at his shoes, sapping his motivation and energy. Death had lurked everywhere, and he could do nothing about it.
Just like now.
A heavy weakness settled on Mark's limbs. His chest fought his efforts to make it rise. Blackness loomed at the edge of his vision. Soon he'd lose consciousness then stop breathing. With many minutes to go before the EMTs arrived, he doubted his son could keep him alive.
"Mark, you need to say goodbye to Jeffrey. Tell him you love him."
Mark looked at Jeffrey's solemn face, opened his mouth, but no words came out. He silently mouthed, "I love you." He gazed at his son, memorizing the features, the sweetness of the last moment of being just a boy, a carefree kid, before being shoved out of childhood and into the adult world by tragedy.
Jeffrey blinked, fighting tears. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I love you, too, Dad."
"Good," Roxanne said into Mark's ear. "Now you can let go. You know I'll take good care of Jeffrey."
Mark knew she loved Jeffrey, fiercely loved him, with as much intensity as she hated Mark. Yes, she would take good care of the boy, maybe too good, smothering him, but he'd never lack for anything. Except a father. Roxanne would try her damnedest to poison the boy's memories of his dad. Mark could only hope Jeffrey would hold onto the good times they'd shared. He exhaled long and slow. The black tunnel narrowed again.
"One last thing."
Mark heard a muffled sound, like she was stifling a laugh, no, more like a cry. Maybe the hatred hadn't eaten away all her feelings for him.
"Jeffrey and I will clean up that geocache, get rid of the Barbie doll. We wouldn't want someone else to have a heart attack, would we?"
Yes, the cleanup was a good thing to do. Mark stopped fighting the dark. The Anaconda slammed him one last time.
Roxanne's voice came from far away. "Besides, the Murder Cache has served its purpose."
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