Lawrence Looks for Treasure

Part 2 - Chapter 28

I took it slow. Keeping beside the forest, I biked across the grounds, over the hill and onto the road. Two cop cars were parked side-by-side. The officers stood in front talking. I hit the brakes, got off my bike and lay behind the trees. The dewy soil muddied my clothes.

From the ground, I could no longer see the officers. But better I couldn't see them than they could see me. I heard the slam of cars doors, the rev of engines and the crunch of dirt beneath tires. The cops were leaving. As I lay in the dirt, I prayed to hear Matty's voice, swearing he was finished the adventure. Or Ema's, taking charge. Or even Stinky Mike's, saying whatever the hell he says. But all was silent. I hadn't time to despair. I needed to act. I jumped to my feet, hopped on my bike and followed the tire treads marking the dirt road—following those treads wherever the hell they led.

The tracks ran away from camp toward the main road. It was dark. My flashlight lit the way forward, but on either side, it was black as emptiness. Yet I had a paranoid sense that it wasn't empty at all. Someone was watching me, someone unseen. I biked harder, but I couldn't escape the feeling. Instead, I braced myself for a one-eyed, scalpel-swinging psycho, grabbing me and taking me back to his barn.

For ten minutes or so, I bumped along the dark, dirt road. Finally, I reached the main road, still safe, and awfully happy about it. The tire tracks turned right. So I did too. Unfortunately, that was where the tracks ended. The main road was paved. Though my butt felt better for it, the butts of Matty, Chris and Ema were far worse off. Those butts were in sore need of saving. And, without the tracks to lead me, I hadn't a clue where to go. I followed the main road, hoping beyond hope that I would find a clue soon.

The main road was well lit, but it was empty and farm country surrounded me. Murder still seemed a distinct possibility. I kept my eyes open for a sign of my friends. I couldn't see any. I wondered whether I was even going the right direction. After all, there were no longer car treads to follow. What to do?

I couldn't decide. What would Dmitri do? He never gives up. He keeps on, keeping on. So that's what I'd do: keep biking, keep hoping. And soon enough, a car appeared driving towards me, a big ol' BMW. It was doubtful that a one-eyed, psycho killer would drive a Beemer—though one should never underestimate the guile of a psycho killer—so I got off my bike, stood in the middle of the road and waived the car down.

The car slowed. I stood back. I didn't want to freak out the driver. For all the driver knew, I was the psycho killer. The car rolled to a stop and the window lowered. The driver was a young-mom looking kind of woman. Still, I kept my right hand in my pocket, holding a Swiss-Army knife. She didn't look dangerous. But never, not never, underestimate the guile of a psycho killer.

'Hi there,' I said. 'Do you know where the police station is?' The words just came out. I had no idea if that's where my friends were. But, after I said it, I figured the station would be a good place to start. Even if the guys weren't there, someone at the station could, hopefully, locate them and their law-enforcing captors.

'The police?' she asked. 'Is everything okay?'

'Oh yeah . . . Long story,' I said. 'Everything's just fine.' I didn't know how to start explaining.

She told me quickly that the station was ten kilometers down the road, or so she thought, and then she sped off. Ten kilometers was a long time to bike, simply on a tip. But I quelled the self-doubt, embraced my inner Dmitri, and stayed the course. Thankfully, she was right. And eventually I arrived at the station.

The station was right off the main road. It was small, more of a police trailer, than a police station, really. I would have biked right past it, but for the big sign out front. As I pulled in, I saw lights were on inside. Outside, two police cars were parked, in a half-hazard, stop-and-get-out kind of way. As I got even closer, I saw those familiar tire marks on the dirt driveway. These were the cars I was after.

I didn't know exactly what to do. So I did what I always do when the pressure is on and it's up to me to save the day: I hid. I got off my bike, walked quietly to the trees enclosing the station—trees enclosed almost everything around here—and I maneuvered behind them.

I felt like I was there forever. Just crouching and watching the window. Occasionally, a dark little head move across it, but there was no sign of my friends.

Time passed. I didn't know how much. I didn't even have a watch. It was taken, along with my book and my other possessions, by the officers. I guessed it was at least two in the morning. What in the world was going on? What a crazy moment in my life.

More time passed. Nothing happened. I wondered whether I should leave hiding, and knock on the station door. I mean, I'd blow my cover, but at least I'd see if my friends were inside. Then suddenly I heard a voice shout 'Please!'

It was Chris. I was sure of it. His shouts were positively unmistakable. And if Chris was there, the rest of the gang was probably there, too. What should I do? What would Dmitri Waltz do? I was sweating like a fatty in a sauna. Even though it was night time, the summer heat was unrelenting. Then I noticed the air conditioner, jutting out of the police station, rumbling like an old bomb preparing to explode. It hit me. I had a plan.

It was hot, see. The station wasn't much more than a tin box. And the air conditioner, oh the air conditioner, was sticking out like a golden ticket. You see where I'm going with this? If I could mess with the air conditioner, boy would it bake in the station. I couldn't say exactly what would happen next. But in chaos, the clever find opportunity.

First, though, I had to break the air conditioner. I didn't know much about air conditioners. But I was familiar with the old mechanic's trick: jam a wrench in it. I used a stick, because I didn't have a wrench, but the same formula applies. I snuck over to the air-conditioner. The tired machine was spitting and sputtering like it was caught in a tongue-twister. I'd never seen anything so old work so hard. I took a small stick and slid it through the grills, trying to put the machine out of its misery.

The air conditioner sounded like it was trying to digest the stick. Then, it went silent. I walked back to my hiding spot, satisfied with my handywork, and waited behind the trees. To my surprise, the machine started rumbling again. Slowly, but surely, it resumed its normal pace. The damn thing was tougher than I thought. But then, the rumbling reached a new intensity. That air conditioner was going nuts. The eruption lasted a couple seconds, and then the machine went silent. It ejected a couple coughs, and then, bingo bango, it died for good. The air conditioner fought hard, but it was fighting a losing battle. Poor thing—at the end of the day, aren't we all?

I stood behind the trees, smiling like an idiot, until the door to the police station swung open. I came to, crouched down and waited. But then, from my low vantage point, I saw something troubling. My footprints marked the dirt, from my hiding spot to the air conditioner and back again. Panic struck me. I thought I was a clever adventurer, when in fact I was a trapped chicken.

The officer stepped outside. I recognized him from the campsite. The bastard wouldn't take long to find my footprints. Then what would I do? He walked to the air conditioner, shining his flashlight all over it. He investigated like it was the scene of a homicide. He was right to do so. That machine had died, and it was I who killed it.

'Piece of crap' the officer said, smacking the machine. It didn't respond.

He looked at the unit, then smacked it again. Evidently, the man had the same technical know-how as the rubber in his shoes. Maybe he was just tired. It was early in the morning, after all. But those two smacks were the only steps he took in terms of technical analysis before shouting, in courser language than I'd reproduce: 'This fruitin' thing's busted, Jerry. Whad I say?' Then he went back inside, slamming the door behind him.

That was, of course, the second lucky stroke of the night: he never saw my footprints. The cop came out, smacked the air conditioner, and went back inside. Now that I report it to you, I can reflect on the event, and hope that his professional work didn't suffer from the same lack of rigour. At that moment, though, I was elated. Step one of my plan was complete. The air conditioner was busted. Now, I played the waiting game. See how long the officers could last in that baking police station.