Halfway down the mountain Alan realized he was nearing the end of his internal resources. He was desperately thirsty now, even with sips of rainwater and had been too many hours without food, other than a few pieces of chewy bark layer he’d been able to pry off some young pines. He knew from his Boy Scout days that the layer of bark under the outer one was rich in nutrients that would sustain him for a time. He encountered many young and tender pines in his meander down the mountain. The bark was chewy, bad-tasting and not at all to his liking.
There was almost no wind which gave the mosquitoes and other flying inhabitants of the thick forest an advantage. Alan worried more about ticks carrying Lyme’s and other nasty diseases. He checked when he remembered and disposed of the few ticks he discovered crawling on his pant legs. He was exhausted. His legs trembled and his body cried out for rest. He forced himself to make brief stops, but worried that if he lingered too long he’d lose his will to get back to civilization.
The sound of an engine faded in, then out again. Alan realized he’d been hearing that intermittent and faint sound for several minutes. It was obviously not a motorcycle. Maybe a small truck? That didn’t matter. What mattered was the sound behind him got louder. Lockem turned back up the mountain in the direction of the engine noise. He broke through yet another barrier of thorny bushes tearing at his shirt and stumbled into a dirt track running at an angle to his path down the slope. A small ancient pickup truck suddenly appeared from around a switchback in the road and stopped ten yards away from where Lockem stood bent, swaying in the middle of the track.
The driver killed the engine. Alan watched him struggle to get the door open. It finally gave with a rusty groan. A very short, old man in a gray shirt buttoned up at the neck and wrists, and wearing well-worn overalls and heavy scuffed boots stepped down and looked at Alan. “You lost, feller?”
“Dunno,” said Alan. “I’ve been heading down this hill for a long time. Hope to reach somebody soon who can help.”
“Your car stuck up here somewhere?”
“Nosir. I was, well, dropped off, you might say, by some people who wanted me to get lost.”
“Uh-huh. Well, you get on in here. You look about ready to drop. We’re eight, ten, miles from Grand Lac. There’s a turnout where I can get around. You c’mon now.” He gestured toward the other side of the rusty dented cab of his truck.
Alan realized he was close to becoming irrational. He started toward the truck and stumbled to one knee. The old man scurried forward and helped him up. Once in the truck the old man introduced himself as Walter O'Malley. “No seat belts. Sorry. Just you hang on.” He grinned and cranked up the ancient engine. They set off up the mountain to a wide place where he could maneuver the truck around. An hour later, Lockem was jounced awake from his doze when the truck slammed over a rough railroad crossing and into a quiet north side neighborhood of Grand Lac.
“There’s a quicker way to your hotel, young feller, but I figure you might want to sneak in the back way. Happen my grandson works in the kitchen there. He should be there if he ain’t fishin’ or somethin.’”
Lockem nodded. He’d rasped out just enough of his story to keep O’Malley interested. O’Malley had shared his one bottle of water and Lockem’s dry throat felt a little better. Sitting down, even in an uncomfortable rattle-trap truck cab with no springs in the seat, had been a significant improvement. His energy was returning, fueled in part by anger at his abductors. The truck turned west and then south again and suddenly he saw the alley where he’d been abducted. O’Malley shuddered his truck to a halt close beside the dumpster in the alley and beat a rat-tat-tat on the horn which miraculously squealed loud hoots that bounced off the building sides.
A few minutes went by. The door opened and a young man who looked to be a young Walter O’Malley stuck his head out, waved and came to the side of the truck.
“Wuzzup, gran’pa?”
“Sonny, help this here guest of this here hotel quietly inside, you get me?” He turned to Alan. “I heard about you workin’ for Edie and Sam. They’s good people. Do yer best for ‘em.” He stuck out a weathered hand and gripped Alan’s. It had become clear to Lockem as they made their way down the mountain that O’Malley was only reluctantly willing to assist. He wouldn’t have left Lockem in the mountains to die, but he knew there were bad people around and he wasn’t looking for any trouble if he could avoid it. He’d admitted to Lockem that he knew about some dark shenanigans, he called them, going on in and out of town. Alan got the impression O’Malley wasn’t too fond of the city police force. He looked his rescuer full in the face for a long moment and nodded.
Lockem left the truck and the grandson, Sonny, helped him into the hotel. They went slowly down corridors and around corners in a part of the hotel seldom seen by paying guests. It was obvious Sonny had figured out a way to get a seriously bedraggled Lockem up several flights and into his room without being observed. Lockem was undecided whether Sonny was showing an abundance of caution or wanted to protect himself. He took Lockem up in a private elevator to their floor. Sonny rapped hard on the door and then unlocked it with a master key. Alan stepped slowly across the threshold.
Standing there on unsteady legs, smelly, thirsty, hungry and nearly out from fatigue, Lockem tried to stand straight but kept one hand on the door jam, afraid of collapsing to the floor. From the bedroom, Marjorie swept in and stopped as if she’d run headlong into an invisible wall.
“Oh, my God! Alan,” she cried. Nearly leaping forward, she swept him into her arms and almost carried him to the nearest chair. When she glanced up, Sonny sketched a wave and said, “I’m in the kitchen all day.” Then he backed out and closed the door quietly. Marjorie turned the entire force of her energy and attention to her swaying and rapidly fading companion. She enveloped him in her strong arms and helped him to their bed.
“Shower?” She kissed his smudged cheek and simultaneously wiped a tear from her face.
“Water. Food. Shower,” he panted softly. The phone rang.
Marjorie grabbed it and swiftly connected and then disconnected. Then she punched in a code and in firm and urgent tones prevailed on room service to bring a tray of soup and some sandwiches as quickly as possible. She refilled Alan’s glass of water and he practically poured it down his throat.
Suppressing her questions, Marjorie set about catering to Alan’s every need. In short order, hunger assuaged and thirst abated, she had helped him into the shower, getting drenched herself and ruining one of her favorite outfits in the process. Now he lay prone on the bed fading to sleep before her eyes. The steady pressure of her fingers reassured and relaxed him and he faded to rehabilitating sleep.
Once she’d assured herself he was sleeping, Marjorie called Sheriff Carter to tell him Alan had returned. Sheriff Carter wanted to interview Alan immediately but Marjorie put him off, declaring he needed to recover from his ordeal first. She agreed she and Alan would meet the officer at the hotel late in the afternoon. He agreed, suggesting he would find a deputy to assign as protection at the hotel.