The Drunkard's Path

“The Godwit flies tonight.”

Michael “Call” Sanchez swung long legs off his desk at the Humboldt County Observer in Eureka, California. His feet hit the floor with a thump, and his cracked, imitation leather chair jerked upright. He tried not to choke on a mouthful of cinnamon mocha Frappuccino.

“What?” He swallowed hard. “When? Where?”

Bambi’s high-pitched giggle tinkled through the receiver. “You forgot who and why. The Elk Grove. Arcata Community Forest, eight p.m. Oh, and it’s semiformal, so dress nice.” Click.

Call stared at the phone. What did she mean by that last comment? He shrugged it off. Women. Who could understand them?

Everything about this particular woman had begun to annoy him. Her perfume was cloyingly sweet, and she never stopped complaining about the size of her ass. However, her voice, which ordinarily sounded like two cats mating on the back fence, today was sweet music to his ears.

He resumed his customary pose, chair tilted back, feet propped on the desk. Phones rang, reporters chattered, and keyboards clicked in the newsroom around him, but Call didn’t hear them.

Bambi Martin, secretary to the mayor of Vleetville, had just handed him a ticket to the big leagues. He was about to break the story of the year, maybe of the decade. He’d unseat the mayor, possibly send his honor and a few crooked contractors to jail, and save the taxpayers a bundle.

He was about to uncover the stinking sewer plant scandal.

* * *

“No, Jeremy. For the last time, you may not have a paint ball gun.” Cameo Muldoon glanced at her nine-year-old son, riding shotgun in the farm pickup.

Jeremy’s fists were clenched, and his lightly freckled complexion flushed bright pink. “But Jason has one. And so do Kyle and Monte and Connor. I’m the only kid in the whole fourth grade who doesn’t have a paint ball gun.” His hair seemed to emit streaks of red fire as he pleaded his case. Or maybe it was just the reflection of the setting sun.

She sighed, determined to avoid another argument. “I’m sorry, Germ. You know how I feel about weapons. Even pretend ones.”

Jeremy settled into what was lately his second most frequent posture. Sullen. Perhaps sensing further argument was futile, he slumped against the pickup’s door, as far away from her as he could get, and stared out the window. The truck had barely stopped when he jumped out and ran into the sprawling gray clapboard farmhouse. A door slammed inside.

She stood for a moment beside the open door of the pickup, gazing at the house. He was probably playing video games, another area of contention because she wouldn’t allow him to buy the more violent ones. Or maybe just lying on his bed with his pet rabbit, Attila, staring at the ceiling and brooding about the injustice of life.

Should she go in and make him help unload the produce they hadn’t sold at the farmers’ market today? Probably, but she didn’t have the energy.

Jeremy had always been such a sweet boy, but he was changing lately. He’d become moodier and more susceptible to peer pressure. He seemed desperate to fit in.

Growing up without a father couldn’t be easy. And that damn camp down the road didn’t help. Within the past few months, it had morphed into a training ground for wannabe mercenaries, survivalists, and assorted wild-eyed lunatics from all corners of the globe.

Cameo opened the tailgate of the cherry red 1963 Chevy pickup with a little more force than necessary. They could afford a new vehicle, but her partner and farm handyman, Tobias Greene, kept this one in mint condition. Besides, the vintage truck with the logos of Bunny Love Farms and Mama Gia’s Bakery painted on its sides was an excellent marketing tool, helping draw tourists off Highway 98 to the family business in Nugget, California.

She pulled a wooden crate filled with an assortment of baby salad greens from the back of the truck and began the first of many trips to the screened front porch.

When Colonel Tremaine had been in charge of Mad Jack’s Wilderness Experience, the camp had taught solid outdoor skills emphasizing judgment and decision making. Folks in Nugget snickered a year ago when the new camp flyer included courses like Aligning Your Chakras and Spiritual Healing through Tai Chi.

They’d all assumed the New Age offerings were the brainchild of Trevor Tremaine, the colonel’s chubby, adored, only child. The colonel had spent months grooming Trevor to take over the family business before he and Mrs. Tremaine went on a round-the-world cruise to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary. Sort of a trial run, in case the colonel ever decided to retire.

The Far Horizon had barely set sail before Trevor named himself CEO of Mad Jack Enterprises and brought Gundar Romanov to Nugget as the new camp commander. Gundar completely revamped the curriculum to attract a tougher, more fanatic brand of camper. He staked out a paint ball course and began advertising in the back of Soldier of Fortune-type magazines.

Unfortunately, hundreds of the pre-Gundar fliers had already been mailed, so the camp currently accommodated an uncomfortable mix of back-to-nature types, along with look-at-me-wrong-and-I’ll-kill-you campers.

Cameo dropped a box of brightly colored bell peppers onto the growing stack on her front porch. No sir. She didn’t like it. Not one bit.

She’d called a family meeting at her mother’s house in Nugget to discuss the situation but the results had been disappointing. With three of her four sisters present, not one had supported her suggestion that they call Colonel Tremaine to let him know what was going on.

As usual, Mama Gia had the last word. “Cara mia, I know you don’t like these men who come to Nugget, strutting around with their big muscles, pretending to be soldiers. I know you don’t want Jeremy to be like them. But have they committed any crime? I don’t think so. We can’t call Colonel and Mrs. Tremaine on their second honeymoon because we don’t like a man’s looks, can we? Trevor is in charge now. It’s not our place to interfere.”

That was all well and good, but Mama hadn’t been going to the camp twice a week to deliver produce. Something wasn’t right. There had been a complete turnover in staff, and the campers looked more like felons than nature lovers. Several of the employees were even carrying guns.

Cameo stacked the last box of produce on the porch, then stood for a few minutes, gazing out at the fields while she caught her breath.

She liked the physical work on the farm, liked feeling strong and independent. Until recently, she thought she’d done a good job as a single parent. Would Jeremy be any happier, better adjusted, if he had a father?

Probably, but a father was one thing she couldn’t give him. Nor could she bring back the grandfather her son had loved so much.

She stretched her back, watching the Klamath River flow past neat rows of snow peas, scallions, beets, turnips, and radishes. The ever-shifting face of nature helped strengthen her resolve.

There were some things she couldn’t change, but by God, she could find out what was going on at Mad Jack’s Wilderness Experience. And she planned to do just that.