The third degree, p.2
The Third Degree, page 2
“Where would an old lady go?” Roberta wondered. She sucked in her breath. “Besides the store, or a friend’s, or church, or the hospital, or to the police, or …” Her voice trailed off dismally.
“Let’s go up there,” Mollie suggested.
“Can you get away?”
Mollie nodded. “My family split for Disneyland this morning. I didn’t want to go, and they said I could stay home alone.”
“Cool,” Roberta said. “My parents would never let me stay home alone.”
“This is the first time in my entire life I’ve been home alone. It’s pretty weird. I keep thinking of that movie and expecting some creeps to show up. I wouldn’t mind getting out of the house.”
“I know!” Roberta said. “I can tell Mom we want to go camping.”
“Will she let you go?” Mollie questioned.
Roberta batted her eyelashes and tapped Mollie’s shoulder. “I’ll be with Miss Mollie Wonderful. What could go wrong?”
“Please, you’re making me sick,” Mollie said, puffing her cheeks.
Getting the go-ahead from Roberta’s mother wasn’t quite as simple as Roberta had anticipated. It seemed that Roberta had refused to attend summer camp as a kid, saying that camping was the stupidest activity on earth and only morons would intentionally sleep outdoors. “Times change, people change,” Roberta argued. “Mollie has opened my eyes to so many new things.”
“I adore camping,” Mollie muttered weakly. “Roberta just needs to camp with the right person in order to appreciate fully the outdoor experience.”
Finally Mrs. Baldwin relented. Roberta threw some clothing in a knapsack, and they were off, driving toward Mollie’s house. As they approached Baker Street, Roberta began to giggle. “What’s so funny?” Mollie asked.
“I was thinking about the wallaby,” Roberta explained. “It occurred to me that his name, Jocko, would be perfect for your boyfriend.”
“Jordan is my ex-boyfriend,” Mollie corrected her quickly.
“Whatever,” Roberta said dismissively. “Anyway, I got this image of Jordan bouncing down the basketball court dressed up as a wallaby, and it just cracked me up.”
Mollie smiled. It was a pretty funny image—humorless, intense Jordan in a wallaby suit. She and Jordan Bosworth had recently broken up. Mollie understood why Roberta thought the name Jocko would suit him. Jordan was the starting quarterback on the Bayside High football team, a basketball star, and the most “desirable” guy in the senior class. Mollie knew that everyone at school—including Jordan—expected they’d get back together.
Everybody expected it but Mollie.
Although Jordan was tall, blond, and gorgeous, he was bland. At least Mollie had started to find him dull, and even duller after the earthquake.
Of course, it was during the quake that Mollie got to know Johnny Chelios. “Bad News Johnny Chelios.”
That’s what a lot of kids at Bayside High called him. Some of them still remembered Johnny from before he dropped out. Going even further back, some remembered when he was the best football player at school. That was before he’d had a fight with the coach. And before his father was arrested for arson, and before Johnny himself was put on probation for being in the car when two of his friends robbed a 7-Eleven.
Mollie had met Johnny while working at The Insurance Shoppe. It wasn’t the kind of job she would have expected Johnny Chelios to have, but he needed something steady to keep his probation officer off his back. The officer didn’t think fixing cars counted as a “real” job.
It hadn’t exactly been love at first sight for Mollie. Johnny smoked and sneered too much for her taste. Besides, she knew of his reputation. Tough. Volatile. The-guy-most-likely-to-do-time.
During the quake, though, Mollie saw another side of Johnny. Kind. Strong. Intelligent. They’d become friends. Then more than friends. Only Jordan had stood in the way. Now Jordan was out of the way.
“Maybe Johnny can come with us,” Mollie said as she pulled into her driveway.
“Good idea,” Roberta agreed. “What’s going on between you two?”
Mollie shrugged. “A whole lot of chemistry, but nothing official.”
“That’s all?” Roberta pried.
“Some kisses and stuff,” Mollie admitted as she climbed out of the Jeep.
Roberta met Mollie in the driveway. “And? How is it?”
“It’s great,” Mollie said, smiling. “He’s a fabulous kisser.”
Mollie opened the side door leading into her kitchen. Immediately a large ball of fur bounded across the floor and leapt onto her. “Hi, Pirate,” Mollie laughed, crouching to let the Akita pup slurp her cheek.
“Man! He’s getting huge,” Roberta noted. Pirate was also a survivor of the quake. He’d been set free from his cage at the pet store in the mall right as the rumbling started. He’d sensed the teenagers in the bunker and found his way through small openings until he reached them. Later, when Mollie tried to return the pup, the pet-store owner gave Pirate to her as a gift.
Mollie set out a dish of fresh water for Pirate. Then, while Roberta munched on an apple from the kitchen fruit bowl, Mollie picked up the phone and called Johnny. “Wanna go somewhere and make out?” she asked when he answered.
“Okay,” Johnny said. “Who is this?”
“Madonna,” Mollie shot back, “and I’m carrying your love child.”
“Very funny,” Johnny said. “What’s up?”
Mollie explained the situation, leaving out the part about Jaime being a diabetic. “So can you come with us?” she asked.
“I want to, but …”
“But what?” Mollie pressed. “This is important.”
“I promised my sister Katie I’d run a birthday-party thing for her. She’s going to be seven. And Doris is so batty sometimes, I don’t think she could handle all those little twerps alone.” Doris was Johnny’s grandmother. He and Katie had moved in with her after his father was put in jail and his mother ran off to Las Vegas to become a blackjack dealer.
“I guess that’s pretty important, too,” Mollie said.
“Hey, listen. If the weather’s nice tomorrow, I’ll ride up on my bike and meet you.”
“Oh, sure. And if the weather’s bad, then to hell with us,” Mollie said. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“No. If the weather’s bad, I’ll take my car.”
Mollie gave Johnny the address and phone number of Yolanda Santos and hung up. Next she called Sherman at the Rats’ Nest. “It’s totally insane here,” he told her. “The phones haven’t stopped ringing.”
“What was that person doing with avocados?” Mollie asked.
“You heard that?” Sherman said. “It’s disgusting. You don’t want to know.”
“Yes I do,” Mollie insisted.
“Well,” Sherman whispered, “I’ll tell you after I get back from her house. I made a date to go over and sample the hundred and one avocado pleasures with her.”
“Sherman!” Mollie shrieked.
“Just kidding.”
Mollie told Sherman they were going to Lost Camp to look for Jaime and invited him along. “Too bad. No can do,” Sherman said. “I promised to monitor the chess-club tournament over at school. But give a call if you need anything at this end.”
“Thanks, Sherm,” Mollie said, hanging up. Next she called Meredith Hughes. After speaking to the butler and the upstairs maid, she was connected.
“Oh, darn,” Meredith said when Mollie explained the situation. “Hilary canceled a cover shoot for Mademoiselle just so she could fly in from New York. She wants us to spend time together. I can’t not be here.” Meredith and her sister—a top fashion model—had just recently ended a long-standing period of mutual dislike. Mollie knew it was important to Meredith that they become friends.
“No problem,” Mollie told her. “Sherman’s staying home, too. Maybe the two of you can get together and kind of be by the phones, in case we need you.”
“Sure thing,” Meredith agreed. “We’ll be here.”
After hanging up, Mollie picked up the phone and dialed again. “Let’s try Yolanda Santos one more time,” she said to Roberta.
The old woman’s number rang. Once. Twice … Ten times. Still no answer.
CHAPTER 3
“Lost Camp, five miles,” Mollie announced, reading a sign. With one hand still on the steering wheel, she used the other to stick a stray strand of hair back into her black stretch headband.
Roberta and Mollie had set out for Lost Camp at one. They’d taken a few wrong turns along the way, and it was now nearly five o’clock. Pirate had been restless for the first half of the trip, but finally he’d settled down and now napped contentedly in the back of the Jeep.
“It sure is beautiful around here,” Roberta observed. They’d driven through cattle land, irrigated rice fields, pecan groves, and peach orchards. Compared to San Francisco, it was like another world.
In a short while they reached another sign that said: LOST CAMP, POPULATION 2028. In the middle of the sign was a drawing of a leaping frog. Under the frog were the words: FIND YOURSELF IN LOST CAMP—WE’RE GROWING BY LEAPS AND BOUNDS.
“Hey, is this where they have that big frog-leaping contest?” Roberta asked as they drove past the sign.
“No,” Mollie replied. “That’s Angels Camp. It is kind of confusing.”
Mollie couldn’t help noticing that many of the houses that lined the country road had new white-and-red signs in front. FOR SALE—OFFERED BY TERAULT REALTY, the signs read. “I thought this town was supposed to be growing by leaps and bounds,” she said.
“That must have been a misprint,” Roberta replied. “Maybe it was supposed to say going, not growing.”
“Going by leaps and bounds would be a lot more like it,” Mollie agreed.
“Why would anyone want to book out of here?” Roberta asked. “It’s such a pretty place. Jaime told me that Lost Camp is really a mispronunciation of Last Camp. Lots of elderly, retired people move here because it’s so gorgeous and the weather is great.” Roberta smiled and pushed a braid off her forehead. “Guess what? I just realized that I didn’t really and truly lie to my parents. I am on a camping trip—a Lost Camping trip.”
“Does that make you feel better?” Mollie asked.
“Yeah, in a strange way it does.”
In the center of town Mollie drove past the Lima Brothers Carnival. Rides, exhibits, and food tents were pitched on a broad green park area. “I wonder if anyone has found the missing wallaby yet,” Mollie said.
Roberta crossed her fingers and closed her eyes, as if making a wish. “Jaime found him, he’s safe at grandma’s, he has the five-hundred-dollar reward, and everyone lives happily ever after.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Mollie. “But right now Fathead needs to guzzle some gas. And we need directions to Yolanda Santos’s house.” Mollie pulled into a two-pump station on the corner and picked up the hose.
“Oh, Mollie, you’re so self-serving,” Roberta teased, as she climbed out of the Jeep.
“I’ve reached a fulfilling station in life,” Mollie shot back, pumping the fuel into her Jeep’s gas tank.
When Fathead was full, Roberta and Mollie went inside to pay. “Have you got a phone book?” Mollie asked the attendant, a short, skinny kid with bad skin. There was a grimy patch on his uniform with the name Clyde on it.
Clyde pointed at a public phone with a thin, dog-eared phone book hanging from a metal chain. Mollie thumbed through the pages and quickly found the name Y. Santos. “One hundred twelve, Route E,” she read the address. “Can you tell me how to get to Route E?” she asked as Clyde gave Roberta change for the two bottles of Yoo-Hoo she’d just bought.
“Sure can,” said Clyde. “You go out of here and go to the left, and then you kind of zigzag through this kind of traffic circle like until you get to a sign that’s kind of hard to see, and—” The attendant sighed. “Come on outside. It’s easier if I just kind of point it out.”
“Thanks,” said Mollie. She and Roberta followed Clyde to the front of the gas station.
“Okay, now,” Clyde said, facing left. “Look on down there to that roundish kind of—”
At that moment a deafening roar filled the air. In the next minute seven huge Harley-Davidson motorcycles, each carrying a massive Hell’s Angel-type biker, sped around the corner and into the gas station. They came to a stop, revving their engines several times.
One of the bikers, a giant with bleached white-blond hair, a denim jacket with the sleeves ripped off, and a black-and-purple snake tattoo coiling up his right arm, looked at the pumps, then at Clyde. “You got anything higher than ninety-three octane?” he growled.
“If you’re looking for airplane fuel, try the airfield,” Clyde said.
Slowly the biker’s heavy jaw slid forward. His beady blue eyes got beadier. “Uh-oh,” Roberta whispered as the hulking figure lifted himself off his bike and stomped toward them. His muscular snake-arm shot out, and the biker lifted Clyde by the top of his khaki shirt. “What was that you said?”
“I’m … I’m … I’m … just telling you what I’ve told your friends. The … the … the … airfield is that way,” Clyde sputtered, pointing off to the right. “That’s where I send Joe Gemulka.”
“Joe Gemulka don’t put that sissy stuff in his bike,” the biker said, throwing his head back and laughing. “He drinks it!”
“Hey, put him down, would you!” Mollie piped up.
Clyde dropped to the ground. The biker studied Mollie with watery eyes. He stepped toward her, leering. “You want a ride, little girl? This face seats six!”
Behind him the other bikers broke into hysterical laughter.
“No, thanks,” Mollie replied, cautiously letting only an edge of irritation creep into her voice.
“Good girl,” Roberta whispered into Mollie’s ear. “Just say no to thugs.”
“Whad she say?” the biker demanded.
“Ummmmm,” Mollie drew a long, stalling-so-she-could-think breath.
Grrrrr. Pirate stuck his head out the window of the Jeep and bared his white teeth. Animal instincts: Pirate knew the biker was trouble.
The biker glared at Mollie as he backed up to his Harley, all the while keeping one eye on Pirate. With a wave to the others, he kick-started his motorcycle. The seven motorcycles revved until the roar was once again deafening. Leaving a dry cloud of dust behind them, the bikers peeled out of the station.
“What delightful young men,” Roberta quipped, waving away the dust. “And that stunning blond was wearing such a fabulous cologne. I believe it was Eau de Hog. I forgot to ask him where he gets his hair done. I must have the name of his colorist.”
“I think her name is Clorox,” Mollie said, walking to the Jeep. “Good dog!” she said, scratching behind Pirate’s ears with both hands. She looked over at Clyde and noticed that he was still trembling. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Me? Sure. Those guys don’t scare me,” Clyde answered.
Roberta smiled. “Are they locals, or are they just here for the great wallaby hunt?”
“Neither,” Clyde said. “They’re new in town, but they ain’t temporary. They showed up a couple of months ago. Joe Gemulka brought them into town with him when he came back.”
“Who? Back from where?” Roberta asked.
“A local guy who fought in Desert Storm. He brought these guys with him when he was done over in Iraq. They weren’t soldiers though,” Clyde added. “Don’t know where Joe got them. They’ve got everybody—not me, but most everybody—scared to death. This town is going to hell in a hurry, thanks to Joe Gemulka and his pals.”
Once Clyde calmed down, he directed Mollie and Roberta to Route E. The road led them out of the city again and back into the breathtaking countryside. “Mol, look at that.” Roberta pointed as they approached a large billboard advertising Princess Rowena Spaghetti.
“Yeah, I’ve seen that ad,” said Mollie. “I love her outfit. Especially that crown thing she wears. I wonder where you get those things.” The ad showed a serene black-haired beauty in flowing robes and a shimmering crown standing in a field of wheat. In her arms she held a large bowl of spaghetti, tipped forward at an improbable angle to reveal its tangled, steaming contents. Behind her the sun shone. Blue and pink clouds billowed majestically. The sign boasted: ONLY THE FINEST WHEAT IS USED IN PRINCESS ROWENA SPAGHETTI.
“I’m not talking about her fashion sense,” Roberta said. “Though her crown is très cool. Look just under the sign.”
Mollie was now less than a quarter mile from the billboard. Three old ladies were kneeling in front of it, their heads bent toward the ground. “They’re praying to a spaghetti sign?” Mollie said incredulously.
“It sure looks that way,” Roberta said. “They should change the name of this place from Lost Camp to Lost in the Twilight Zone.”
Mollie passed the old women and drove on. In another mile they came to a trestle bridge. After they crossed it, Route E changed from a main road into a narrow, winding one. Mollie began driving slowly so that Roberta could read the numbers on the mailboxes along the road. “There it is,” Roberta said at last. “One hundred twelve.”
Beside the mailbox was a dirt driveway. Mollie turned down it. Fathead bounced along, kicking up pebbles and sticks on the way. The driveway dipped slightly, and at its end was a low white stucco house. In front, a field of purple flowers danced in the light breeze.
Mollie pulled up to the end of the drive, which bent around to the front of the house. “It’s pretty quiet,” she observed.
Pirate scrambled behind her as Mollie stepped out of the Jeep. He seemed happy to run after so many hours of being cooped up. Mollie and Roberta walked up to the house and stepped onto the front porch. Healthy, squat cacti sat in clay pots along the wide porch railing. Fat red and green tomatoes had been set out to ripen on a small table by the door. A white cat slept in a sunny patch on the porch. He studied Roberta and Mollie with sleepy eyes, then returned to his nap.
The screen door was shut, but the wooden door had been left open, giving them a clear view of the inside. It was an uncluttered, clean house; neat, yet comfortable. The furniture was old-fashioned and simple. The house gave Mollie a good feeling.
