Murder and Mayhem (41 page)

Following the sheriff’s directions, the unexpected
detour took them through picturesque scenery that looked like something out of
a travel magazine. The landscape was filled with warm earthy colors, like
smudges on an artist’s pallet. Being in no particular hurry, Danny drove with
the casualness of a Sunday driver held captive by the splendor of nature in the
gentle rural countryside where the chance encounter of another vehicle was a
rare sight. Occasionally they caught the silvery flash of a river as it wound
its way through wooded banks.

As they passed through the small hamlet of Quaker’s
Farm, they noticed an historic marker by the side of the road that proudly
proclaimed the area was first settled in 1680.

“Wow, that is really something, isn’t it?” Nicola
said.  

“You’re not kidding. This place is unbelievable. Even
though the Australian continent may be thousands of years older than Americas,
your modern history is so much older than ours. It’s hard to believe these
villages were here long before Australia was even discovered by Europeans. We
have no history like this. We don’t have anything like these wonderful cottages
built hundreds of years ago–many still inhabited today, often by the same
family. The history of this country is so amazing it blows my mind every time I
come across something like that.”

“I love these old places,” Nicola agreed. “Have you
done much traveling in Australia?”

“No. Old Harley parts are hard to find in Australia
because there aren’t many old Harleys there. That’s why I come here every year.
And it’s so diverse. Each state you travel is so completely different from the
others,” Danny said and made a sweeping gesture at the countryside. “We don’t
have anything like this. In Australia the scenery doesn’t alter much, unless
you go to the red center. Everywhere you look its bloody gum trees. We don’t
have this wonderful northern hemisphere foliage. In the red center there’s
nothing but desert for hundreds of thousands of square miles. At the top-end
there are wetlands and huge rivers and gorges, and cattle stations the size of
small countries.

“We’re a land of coast dwellers. Most of the
Australian population lives along the coast because the rest is uninhabitable.
That’s why we only have twenty million people in the whole country, while you
have two hundred and fifty–three hundred million. California has around thirty
six million people so you could fit the entire population of Australia into California
and still have plenty of room to spare.

“Don’t get me wrong we have some of the most
spectacular scenery in the world: Kakadu National Park, Katherine Gorge, Cape
York, the Blue Mountains, the Daintree Rainforest and the southern and western
coastline. Tasmania has incredible forests, many unexplored, and some of the
most majestic rivers and gorges in the country, but on the whole, our land is
mainly desert. Even Ularu is just a big rock stuck in the middle of nowhere
surrounded by desert scrub, baking in the hot sun.”

Danny looked over at Nicola and grinned. “I bet you
didn’t know we ship live camels to many of the Arab Countries?”

“No, I didn’t know that. I didn’t even know you had
camels in Australia.”

“We’ve got a huge feral population that run wild in
the desert. I think they were imported some time early in the nineteen century
for transport and construction in the west where the terrain is pretty
inhospitable.”

“I have to admit I don’t know much about Australia
except what I’ve seen in the movies or on cable television. I always thought it
was a bit like the old west used to be years ago,” Nicola said.

Danny laughed. “That’s what a lot of Americans think
but we actually have electricity and hot and cold running water, and all kinds
of modern appliances. We even drive the latest model cars, and our big cities
are just as sophisticated as any throughout the world. And, before you ask, no,
we don’t have kangaroos hopping down the streets.” They laughed. “You’d be
surprised how like America we really are.”

They followed the Eight Mile River till they reach
Southbury where they joined The Yankee Freeway and headed south until they came
to the city of Danbury, in Fairfield County, not far from the New York State
border.

When Danny pulled into a gas station, he noticed a
diner on the other side of the road.

“Do you want to stop and have something to eat?” he
asked while he waited for a break in the traffic after he’d filled the tank
with diesel.

“Sure, why not?”

The driver of a gray Ford slowed to let them in. Danny
waved his thanks and slipped the SUV into the space. He did a U-turn at the
next intersection and turned into the restaurant parking lot. When the gray
Ford followed him in and parked at the back, he commented, “The food must be
good if the locals eat here.”

* * *

While they were waiting for the waitress to bring
their food, Nicola’s eyes scanned the room.

“Are you still looking for our mysterious stalker?”
Danny teased.

“I haven’t seen the green Toyota since we left
Pennsylvania but the last couple of days I thought a blue car was following
us.”

“What kind of car?”

Nicola shrugged. “A small blue car.”

“Small… and blue.” Danny laughed. “Well, that
description should cover oh let me see, roughly around a hundred million cars
in the U.S. Keep me posted if you see it again.”

Nicola nodded, picked up the menu and started to read
the town’s history on the back. “It says here Danbury was originally inhabited
by the Pahquioque Indians and settled by colonists in 1685. During the
Twentieth Century it was known as Hat City because it produced 24% of America’s
hats.”

“Mmm. Interesting–but not what I call riveting stuff.”

* * *

As they walked through the parking lot Danny pointed
to a blue car and asked, “Was it like that one?”

Nicola shook her head and said no.

He pointed to a dark blue Ford. “What about that one
over there?”

“No, it was nothing like that. Wrong color blue!”

Danny looked around. “Can you see anything that
remotely resembles the car you saw?”

Nicola pointed to a small Nissan. “Well, sort of like
that one over there–only it was more a steely, gray-bluey color.”

“Well, that definitely narrows down the field a bit,”
he said, and rolled his eyes. “Tell you what, if you see it again, or any other
car that looks remotely suspicious, let me know. Okay?”

They crossed the border into the state of New York as
storm clouds gathered and rain washed the countryside clean, creating small
puddles in muddy ditches that pooled around dead leaves and roadside debris,
and inched its way across the road where car tires sent water spraying into the
air.

Their journey took them through small towns with names
that conjured up images of early pioneers who carved history out of the
wilderness, and the Native Americans who inhabited the land for thousands of
years before them. Names like Mahopac, Croton Falls and Shrub Oak. The
landscape filled with colorful hues of gold, bronze and copper.

As they approached a sign that pointed to Peekskill
and Bear Mountain, recognition bloomed inside Danny.

He pulled off the road and peered out the window. A
truck loaded down with logs passed them in the rain. “I’ve been this way
before,” Danny said. “I remember that landscape from a couple of years ago.”

Nicola laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”

*****

Ross folded the newspaper and dropped it onto the
lawn. “We’ve been through there haven’t we, Bee?” he said.

“I think so.”

“Don’t you remember? It was the place where that truck
got stuck?”

“What truck?” Rosie asked as she hoisted herself up
and adjusted the pillows on the white wicker lounge.

“A couple of years ago we were heading across Bear
Mountain on our way to New Jersey and we stopped overnight at a motel somewhere
near there.” Ross looked at me, and asked, “Do you remember where it was?”

“No. I haven’t a clue. We’ve stayed in so many motels
in so many places it’s impossible to keep track of them all.”

Ross nodded. “Anyway, the next morning, when we drove
out the parking lot there was an eighteen-wheeler lumbering up the hill ahead
of us. It must have been carrying a heavy load because it seemed to be making
very little progress even though the engine was running at full throttle.

“The road was steep, but not that steep, so I wondered
what was going on when I suddenly saw sparks coming from the rear axle. When I
looked closely, I noticed a gouge in the road, like a long groove, marking the
route the big rig had taken up the hill. So I pulled up as close as I could to
try and see where the sparks were coming from, and saw an enormous boulder
wedged under the back axle and knew this juggernaut was going nowhere fast.

“Oh my God, Ross, what did you do?” Rosie asked. 

“I could see the driver looking out the window with a
puzzled look on his face, so shoved it in park, pulled on the handbrake, jumped
out of the car and raced up to the cabin.

“I yelled out to the driver that he had a large rock
stuck under the back axle. But he had trouble hearing me over the roar of the
engine. So I jumped upon the step, and yelled in through the open window that
there was a large boulder stuck under the back axle. The driver looked at me,
dumbfounded, still not comprehending what I said. He pulled on the brakes and
followed me to the back of the truck where I showed him the rock wedged tight
in the axle. He just stood there scratching his head with a bewildered look on
his face.”

“This was no small rock we’re talking about, Hon,” I
added.

“No, it wasn’t. It must have weighed oh around fifteen
hundred, two thousand pounds,” Ross said.

“It was huge, solid. Looked like granite,” I added.

“Well, whatever it was it was one hell of a big
mother-fucker. Oops, sorry ladies,” he said. When I shrugged it off, he
continued, “Anyway, the driver looked down the road; his eyes followed the deep
groove cut in the asphalt, to where he had turned out of a driveway. You could
actually see where the boulder must have been half submerged in a gully by the
side of the road. I think maybe the semi cut the corner as it came out the
driveway and drove over the top of it. The ground was wet from overnight rain
and you could see the grooves the tires had made in the mud.”

“So, what did you do?” Rosie asked.

Ross shrugged. “Me? There was nothing I could do. I
just got back in the car and left the driver standing there with a bewildering
look on his face.”

“How would he get the rock out?”

“I have no idea. Jacking the back axle up wouldn’t
work because it wouldn’t be able to raise the wheels high enough. They’d have
to offload the cargo onto another vehicle first then I suppose he’d have to get
a crane to lift the truck up; and some type of machinery to pull the boulder
out. It looked as though it was wedged in pretty tight, so I’m not really sure
how they could do it. The cost would be massive. I wouldn’t like to be in the
driver’s shoes, poor guy!”

I looked at my watch and noted the
time.

“Whoops! We need to get a
wriggle on, kiddo. Time and tide waits for no man.”

*****

The river was running fast in the shadows of the
bridge, riffling over boulders in the current. The sun shining through the tree
canopy looked like slivers of glass as they crossed the Hudson River and turned
onto the Palisades Interstate Freeway. A short time later they drove across the
state border arriving in Pennsylvania some three weeks after they had started
out.

As they drove into the town of Port Jervis, they were
confronted by a large banner strung high above the main street. 

“It looks like we’re just in time for the motorbike
show tomorrow. Is that good timing or what?” Danny chuckled.

“I’m sure you had this planned all along.”

“No. Honestly. I had no idea the motorbike show was
on.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to someone who believes you
‘cause this chick ain’t buying them goods.”

When they entered the hotel foyer, the woman behind
the desk looked up. She was tall and imposing, her features, striking; her high
cheekbones and mahogany hair plaited in cornrows bespoke her Maasai heritage.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a rich cultured voice.

“I sure hope so. We’re after a room for the night,”
Danny said.