A Boy Called Duct Tape (9 page)

Monroe said he would provide the canoes and headlamps. The lamps would serve as our primary light source. The rest of the supplies and gear were our responsibility.

“If you don’t get those items I recommend,” Monroe said, “it will be you, not me, who will suffer the consequences. Mother Cave shows little tolerance for those people who believe tomorrow will take care of itself.”

A flashlight was at the top of Monroe’s list. He said it would serve as a backup light source.

“And if you believe in the Law of Inverse Perversity,” Monroe said with a big monkeylike grin, “then you’d better bring a third light source.”

“What’s the Law of what-you-said?” Pia asked, crinkling her nose.

“It’s a law all spelunkers believe in,” he said. “It states that the second light source, your flashlight, will always fail when it is needed most. Buy a can of Sterno.” Monroe said Sterno was a jelly-like substance that would burn for two hours directly from the can.

Kiki wrote it all down on the NOTES icon of her phone.

“What is that … contraption?” Monroe asked, eyeing Kiki’s phone.

“It’s something called a Smart Phone. It takes pictures, gives me access to the Internet, and has a built in GPS system.”

“Can you make calls on it?”

“Oh, sure. It’s mainly a phone,” Kiki said. “I can also watch video on YouTube.”

“You-what?”

“It’s a site on the Internet where—”

Monroe interrupted. “Don’t imagine it will be much good inside a cave.”

“You’re probably right,” Kiki agreed with a tight smile.

“You would also be wise to buy whistles,” Monroe said. He explained that a whistle would come in handy if someone got separated from the group.

Each person’s gear would go into a backpack, one made of heavy canvas. “Don’t get a pack with a zipper,” Monroe cautioned. “Zippers get knotted with mud. A waterproof backpack with buckles or drawstrings works best.

“And because cave water isn’t fit to drink,” he continued, “buy plenty of halazone tablets. They’ll purify our drinking water.”

Kiki’s fingers tapped away on her phone.

Monroe listed the other items we would need, including clothes. He said we could find what we needed at the Army surplus store, located three doors down from Lyda’s Café on the town square.

“The experts say a person needs at least a pound-and-a-half of food a day while hiking,” Monroe said. “I have no way of knowing how deep this phantom cave of yours is, but I’d bring enough food for at least three days.”

“Three days?” I asked.

“It’s better to have the food and not need it,” Monroe said, “than to need it and not have it.”

I gave a sigh. Digging a hole in water would have been easier than arguing with Monroe’s logic.

Monroe was saying something about the chilly temperatures inside a cave and the need to stay warm, but I didn’t hear much of what he said from that point on. My brain had created a wonderful picture of gold and silver coins stacked to the ceiling in some dark and dingy corner of Bear Mountain. The image was clear as day.

An early-morning fog hung over James Creek like one of Mom’s old gray quilts.

We planned to meet Monroe at the James Creek Bridge, located a short distance from the city park, at six that morning. At precisely that hour he drove up and parked his old Jeep beside the river. Two aluminum canoes were lashed to the top. He climbed out of the Jeep and began untying the ropes that held the canoes. He wore a pair of dingy khaki coveralls, a white T-shirt, and a blue, wide-brimmed cap. The sun was still not up, but Monroe already had his side-shield sunglasses in place.

We had arrived minutes earlier in Mom’s broken-down Buick.

“That’s your guide?” Mom asked, peering through a crack in the windshield. “He looks mean.”

Seated next to Mom, I said, “He’s not mean. He’s as gentle as a lamb.” I wished I believed that. Something told me not to trust Monroe Huff. I wasn’t sure what that something was.

“Does he provide lifejackets?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“He still looks mean.” She continued to examine our odd-looking cave guide in the khaki coveralls as he went about the business of unloading the canoes.

“He’s very even-tempered,” Kiki said from the backseat. “And professional.”

Kiki had purchased all of our cave exploration gear with her summer vacation money. It was close—she only had $200—but the total came to $197.25. Confident that we would discover the lost treasure of Jesse James, I was certain I could pay her back.

Seated next to Kiki in the backseat, Pia said, “I like him, Mom. He’s nice. He calls me
sweet
pea
.”

“I think I should meet him,” Mom declared. “Everyone stay in the car.”

Mom crawled out from behind the wheel of the Buick and marched over to where Monroe stood unloading the canoes. Monroe removed his hat and pushed his sunglasses up onto his head as Mom approached.

“That’s a good start,” Kiki said, leaning over the front seat and gazing through the pitted windshield. “Removing his hat as a sign of respect. That should earn him points with your mother.”

“He’s a real gentleman,” Pia observed.

I hope you’re right, Pia.

The conversation between Mom and Monroe continued for several minutes, and it seemed to me that Mom was doing most of the talking. Occasionally, Monroe would nod and say a few words, and Mom would continue.

“Wonder what they’re talking about?” Pia said.

“Mom wants to know that he’s a legitimate guide,” I speculated, “and not some weirdo.”

Maybe he
is
a weirdo, Pablo, did you ever think of that? Some weirdo who likes to eat live frogs and—

“Aunt Anna is doing the right thing,” Kiki said. “She wants to know we’ll be safe.”

“How long will we be gone, Pablo?” Pia asked.

“I told Mom it was an overnighter, but we might be back sooner than that.”

“And you believe this because …?” Kiki said.

I turned in the seat to face Kiki. “Because the map might be totally worthless, and once Monroe sees it he’s going to have a serious breakdown.” That single thought continued to ricochet through my head.

“Think positive,
primo
,” Kiki encouraged, giving me a playful punch in the shoulder.

Mom’s conversation with Monroe ended with a handshake. She returned to the car and poked her head in the open window.

“You’re in good hands, kids,” Mom reported. “He’s nice. He called me
ma’am
. I can’t remember the last time I was addressed as ma’am.”

Mom helped us unload the backpacks from the trunk of the car. She wished us good luck, climbed back into the old Buick, and drove off toward another long day of trimming dead chickens.

“I can use some help!” Monroe called out to us.

We hurried over, and five minutes later the canoes were loaded and in the water.

Before shoving off, Monroe announced that he had checked the weather report and clear skies were forecast for the next 48 hours. There was a line of squalls in central Oklahoma, but it was expected to fall apart before moving into southwest Missouri. Monroe said he didn’t mind a lethal fall from a subterranean cliff or dying of starvation after becoming hopelessly lost, but he didn’t relish the thought of drowning in a cave. “I have an unnatural fear of that,” he confessed. “You see, I am not a swimmer.”

We strapped on orange lifejackets and set out, Kiki and Monroe in the lead canoe. Pia and I followed. The sun had begun to melt away the fog, and the prospects for a sunny day looked good.

We had gone only a short distance and were floating under the James Creek Bridge when a red Ford pickup crossed above us. I glanced up at the truck through the lingering haze and recognized the two men inside—the Blood brothers. One of them was leaning out the driver’s window and peering down at us.

“Give us back our coin, you swindlers!” I roared, raising a fist.

“Yeah, give me back my coin!” Pia trumpeted, standing up in the canoe, her face drawn into an ugly snarl. The canoe rocked from side to side.

The brother leaning out the window laughed like a hyena and waved. It was the kind of silly wave you’d expect from a four-year-old. The Ford pickup continued on across the bridge and out of sight.

“That was them!” I called out to Monroe. “The Blood brothers!”

From the lead canoe, Monroe nodded. He seemed unconcerned.

“Monroe, what are they doing here?” Kiki asked, swatting a bug on her forearm.

“I’d say they’re going to follow us, sugar plum,” Monroe said, his long paddle strokes propelling the canoe forward.

The morning passed without incident. We followed the ribbon of water as it meandered in and out of the Ozark woodlands, falling at a gentle rate of only four feet per mile. At a point in the river known as Devil’s Bend, the landscape changed. Towering limestone walls crowded the river, squeezing it, quickening it. Falling now at eight feet per mile, we passed through several slices of whitewater. But there was never any danger, and it was soon behind us.

When Kiki wasn’t paddling she passed the time reading
The Life and Times of Jesse James,
the book she had purchased at the Outlaw Days Festival. Seated in the bow of the lead canoe, she would occasionally glance over her shoulder and slip me a smile, as if to confirm my presence.

At a little before eleven that morning Monroe motioned to a thin finger of water that angled away from the river and extended back into a dense stand of overhanging river birch. Pia and I guided our canoe into the narrow lagoon, paddling over to where Monroe and Kiki sat in their canoe.

“Let’s see if the Blood brothers have picked up our scent,” Monroe said craftily, snatching a glimpse up river.

We back-paddled deeper into the river birch until only a slender patch of James Creek could be seen through the tangle of limbs and leaves. The knot of trees overhead cut the light to a murky gray.

In a few minutes, Earl and Burl Blood came floating past. I couldn’t make out what the two brothers were saying—they were too far away for that—but it sounded like one brother was doing most of the talking. I guessed it was Earl, whose face seemed contorted with anger. The sun gleamed off what appeared to be a rifle strapped to his back.

“Idiots,” Monroe observed. “Not one good brain between them.”

“You know them?” I asked.

“Everyone in Ozark County knows them,” Monroe said. “Bad luck has a way of sticking to their backs.”

“They’re mean,” Pia said.

“When they realize they’ve lost our scent,” Monroe said, “they’ll paddle even faster and put that much more distance between us.” Monroe grinned darkly. “They’ll be all the way to Ginger Blue Resort before they figure out they’ve been had.”

“They’re not real smart are they, Mr. Huff?” Pia asked from her place in the bow of our canoe.

“Smart enough to steal your gold coin, sweet pea.”

“That’s okay,” Pia said. “I’ll find another one. In fact, I bet we find hundreds of gold coins.”

I caught Monroe’s eye. “By the way, what’s Moon Milk?”

“Huh?”

“You asked me what Moon Milk was that day at your cabin.”

“Oh, that. It’s the calcite coating on some cave formations,” Monroe said. “It looks like milk. Cave walls resemble the moon’s surface—moon milk.”

“How about a Bachman Knot?” Kiki asked.

“It’s a knot used when you’re ascending a cave wall or pit, sugar plum. A special climbing knot.”

“How does water run uphill, Mr. Huff?” Pia asked.

“It can happen, sweet pea,” Monroe snickered. “When a tremendous gush of water is pushed through a small opening, the force of the water can be stronger than gravity—it can run uphill. Seen it a dozen times.”

While we waited for the Blood twins to lose themselves, Kiki made a few observations on her phone.

“What’s that you’re writing?” Monroe asked from his place in the rear of their canoe.

Kiki looked up. “I’m making notes.”

“Why would you be making notes?”

“I’m going to submit a story about our Jesse James treasure hunt to the newspaper in St. Louis. It’s a writing contest. If we find the treasure, it will make one awesome story.”

“And if we don’t?”

“I’ll write the story anyway, but I don’t know whether to depict Jesse James as a good guy or a bad guy.”

“Wasn’t he like a bad man or something?” Pia asked.

“Yeah, he was,” Kiki said, “but my book also has some good things to say about him.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“There’s one story about Jesse and his gang robbing a train not far from St. Louis,” Kiki said. “Later, they stopped at the farm home of a widow and asked for a meal. The widow was a young mother and had little food in the house. But she gave Jesse and his men the best she had. When Jesse went to pay the woman for the meal he saw tears on her cheeks.”

“Why was she crying?” Pia asked.

“The widow told Jesse that she owed several back payments on her home and she had no money,” Kiki continued. “She said a St. Louis banker was coming to take possession of her home. The amount owed was $500. Jesse gave the woman the $500 and he and his gang left. The banker later arrived, but to his amazement, the widow had the money.”

“Great story,” I said.

“There’s more,” Kiki said. She seemed energized by the story. “The banker had no choice but to allow her to stay in her home, and as he returned to town in his buggy, Jesse and his men stepped from behind a tree and robbed the man of the $500.”

I glanced at Monroe. He was grinning.

“So Jesse James
wasn’t
a bad man?” Pia asked.

“It depends on who you talk to,” Kiki said.

We ate a quick lunch and ten minutes later paddled out from beneath the overhang and continued down the river.

At one o’clock that afternoon an abandoned mill slid into view. Monroe said it had been built in 1850. The skeletal remains of the mill’s 20-foot waterwheel cast its shadow on the clear waters.

As James Creek carried us west and deeper into the Ozark hills, a dreadful thought continued to bounce around inside my mind:
What will Monroe do when he sees the map?
I was certain Monroe’s reaction would not be good, and a queasy feeling settled into my stomach.