Cold Creek

By James O’Neil

This is a story of young Marka boy in a small town lost in a world of conspiracy and forced to live in the adult world after losing all he knows. He is befriended by a mysterious stranger, who, by some, is suspected of committing mass murder. The actions taken by Buck not only correct the wrong but lead to surprising reunions. Mark is surrounded by mysterious, colorful, and loving characters that mystify the mind and warm the heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503552265

James O’Neil

James O'Neil was born in Canandaigua, New York, in 1949. At age eleven, his family moved to southern California. After graduation, he enlisted in the Air Force, where he served his country for twenty-one years. When he retired, he was employed by an aircraft manufacturing company in Everett, Washington, for eleven years. He and his wife, Carol, moved to North Central Washington in the year 2000. He resides alone in his mountain home after the passing of his wife in 2008.

Book preview

Prologue

W ith the exception of a few puffs of white clouds floating high among the deep, blue sky, the day was clear and above average in warmth. A woman nearing the age of twenty-eight was playing with two, four-year-old girls on a nearby set off swings, complete with a slide and simulated plastic horses appropriate for their age. Each child had long auburn color hair, precisely formed into long curls that framed their innocent faces and hung carelessly about their neck, and each had deep blue eyes somewhat darker in hue of the sky above. They were dressed as twins, wearing checkered play dresses. A gentle squeak sang out as the swing moved to and fro, and mixed with the giggles of delight from the children. A pungent odor of fresh cut grass hung lightly in the air and blended with the sweet smell of roses and miniature carnations that were strategically placed along the front of a covered porch. A puppy lay stretched out on the porch with half-closed eyes; one or another of its eyebrows would lift slightly when hearing the occasional squeal of the girls. One paw drooped lazily over the side, and the other held its chin off the smoothly worn wooden boards as it honorably and somberly guarded the children at play. A soft summer breeze added to the delightful scene and made a somnolent day o f it.

Three men, two of whom were dressed in tailored suits, were sitting at a highly polished, hand hewed, picnic table not far from the children at play. The third man, a handsome young man with brown colored hair and wearing a plaid shirt and faded jeans sat opposite.

Mr. Kirkham, one of the finely dressed men said, is it possible that you may have left out some detail, something that might shed more light on the man in question?

No sir. I’m sure I mentioned everything I can remember.

What about your wife, does she remember anything that you may have forgotten?

I highly doubt it. When you arrived this morning and said you wanted to talk, I asked that you not talk to my wife. You remember that don’t you. I would much rather you leave her alone.

Fine sir, I do recall and I apologize for my thoughtlessness. Forgive me but would you answer a few more questions, sir, and then we shall take our leave. Would you agree to that?

Yes. But I will decide if I will answer them.

The two men glanced at each other and gave a subtle nod of agreement. The second man, who had yet to speak, looked at Mr. Kirkham and said, You stated earlier that you held the deed to this land. How did you acquire the deed in such a short period? It seems unreasonable that someone in your position, not meaning to degrade, sir, would have the means to pay for something of this value in the allotted period previously mentioned. Would you mind explaining that, sir?

Yes sir, I can. We were having breakfast that morning when a car pulled up out front. Like you did today. It seemed strange at the time since hardly anyone comes here without calling first. At first, we thought someone was lost. It’s easy to do around here because there are so many back roads. Well anyway………..

Chapter 1

M ark lay quietly, resting his hands under his head and staring up through the limbs of a great sycamore, feeling the coolness of the green grass beneath him and smelling the decaying leaves and other vegetation still lingering from last fall. He could not help but wonder how that tree came to being. To his knowledge, it was the only sycamore in the entire county. Moreover, it certainly was not the climate for it. For some time, he lay there, listening to the trickle of a little brook as it found its way down stream, and wishing, somehow, that he could be that brook and wander about, seeking new things and eventually becoming part of the great oceans he heard so much about. He sat up and watched the brook as its tiny, silver, fingers leaped up and kissed the sun, only to fall again and vanish to continue the journey, caressing stones to a fine polish and carrying with it leaves, twigs, and the memory of a blissful, warm day.

From the distance came the muffled squeals and laughter from his twin baby sisters as they played in their sandbox. The soft tinkle of their toys mingled with the smell of fresh baked bread, pies and cookies that his mother made three times weekly. Mark felt a sense of guilt for being lazy while his mother worked in the hot kitchen. He knew his sisters were safe behind the four feet high chain link fence, and his mother had a clear view of them from the kitchen window. That did not preclude him from glancing their way and seeing them across the field from where he lay.

He listened to the sounds of the forest. The melody of several robins, the interjected squeak of a tree squirrel provided a rhythmic beat; the rustle of a field mouse or chipmunk as it scurried among the colored leaves. The far off bark of a dog made for a bass and the whispering of aspen leaves as the breeze moved them in a rhythmic dance of flashing light and shadows. All of this, collectively, was a harmonious symphony provided by the forest and he was thankful to the Creator for assembling such a great and wonderful orchestra in which He alone conducted. High above an eagle soared with outstretched wings floating on air as it searched for a meal. The world was bursting with enchanted wonders.

The serenity of mid-morning was broken with the sound of cars as they came over the little knoll toward his house, their springs and shocks protesting the ruts and stones, the tires crushing and grinding the gravel beneath them, making them smaller still. He recognized one as being a county sheriff’s car, the second car he did not know. He remained motionless as his eyes followed the two cars making their way along the drive, then stop at the gate of the fenced in yard surrounding the log house.

The first to open a car door was the sheriff. With him was a deputy who opened the passenger door and come out. As the sheriff and his deputy walked through the gate then towards the porch steps, he saw his mother step out from the house and onto the porch, letting the screen door noisily slam shut behind her. Drying her hands on a kitchen towel, she greeted them with a smile and muffled words. He noticed stains on her apron. She had been baking again and he could smell the scent of fresh bread even at this great distance. His baby sisters paid no attention to them and kept playing in a sand box near the steps.

The sheriff was gesticulating with his arms between the house and the second car, of which no movement came. He was too far away to hear any words, just broken and muted sounds. The deputy was standing several feet back from the porch and to the right of the sheriff. Mark could see papers in his hands.

The Sheriff motioned toward the second car, and then pointed to the twin sisters. Mark witnessed the towel drop from his mother’s hands as a very heavyset woman in an oversize, ankle length dress stepped from the second car. At the same time, several things began to happen. The heavyset woman walked over to his sisters and picked them up; the sheriff’s deputy handed his mother some papers; the sheriff removed handcuffs from his belt, placed his mother’s hands behind her back, and securely fastened the handcuffs about her wrists, making her drop the papers as he did so. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

Within minutes of their arrival, both cars were gone. His mother was gone. His baby sisters were gone.

Mark ran to the house and flung the screen door open, the pull of the door spring straining and squeaking. He burst through the door and heard the tiny bell ring that his father placed above it years ago. He said it was to announce visitors, and to ring in their welcome. He remembered his father’s words, ‘There is always room for one more."

Silence had befallen the house. Nothing stirred except the pounding of his heart and his rapid breathing as he tried to catch his breath.

Fear replaced confusion. The house was empty, the air still. What had happened? Who was the woman who took his sisters? What did his mother do? Where did they go, and why?

He ran from room to room, searching the kitchen and calling out for his mother. Nothing. He ran outside to find an empty sandbox, confirming his nightmare. The small toys his sisters were playing with stared back at him in silence. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the sandbox, he could still hear them in his thoughts, but the only thing left of their presence was a small footprint here, or a handprint there. The loose sand obscured any detail.

He went back into the house and called for his mother once again. Stillness answered his call. Half running, half stumbling, he went into the kitchen. The fresh smell of baked goods still lingered heavily in the air. The kitchen seemed hot from the heat of the oven. A slow steady drip came from the faucet, the drops echoing as they hit a metal bowl still in the sink, waiting for the return of the lady of the house,

Once again, he ran out onto the porch. His mother’s towel, the one she used to wipe her hands with, lay upon the worn, old boards, a solitary reminder of what was.

He stood mute, staring into the empty sand box. His arms and shoulders felt heavy, his knees like jelly. His body began trembling and tears welled up in his eyes. Panic soon overtook him and he collapsed.

Slowly, his eyes opened. The sun was setting and he was chilled. His mind was disoriented, as he did not know where he was. A minute or two passed and he realized he was laying on the front porch. Why, he did not know, only that he had a very bad dream and he was sore and stiff from the early evening chill. His right arm had gone to sleep and as he began to move, it tingled with pain as his blood began to circulate. He rolled to one side to set up and noticed a small amount of blood on his mother’s hand towel. What was her hand towel doing here, he asked himself? Moreover, where did the blood come from? Then he noticed blood on his right hand. It was then that he felt the pain in his face and nose.

As his memory slowly returned and he knew now where he was, he began to understand what had happened. He fainted, and in doing so, landed on his face, which is what caused his nosebleed. When he landed, his right arm lay beneath him. Now he remembered the sheriff, his mother, and his sisters. He also remembered the woman that took his baby sisters.

A sudden chill ran through his body and he shivered. He picked up the hand towel, feeling his mother’s warmth and comfort as he clutched it tightly to his chest. Something was burning. The smell and smoke was coming through the screen door. He jumped to his feet, a little too fast because it made him dizzy.

He opened the screen door and called for his mother, forgetting that she was no longer there. Then he remembered the kitchen. The house was now dark inside and he felt his way through, not thinking clearly enough to turn on a light.

When he entered the kitchen he knew where the smoke and acrid smell was coming from. The oven was still on. Now, thinking more clearly, he found the light switch and flipped it upward. A dark, dingy glow filled the room and he walked over to turn off the oven. Seeing a glove shaped pad, he slipped it on his hand and opened the oven door. Heavy black smoke billowed from the open door and inside was what he thought to be a pie. Leaving the oven door open, he went back outside, choking and coughing and wiping the tears from his burning eyes.

He must think. What would his father do? He was gone! His mother would certainly say something to him. But what? She was gone! He had to find a hiding place from those who had stolen his family, for surely they would be back for him.

He sat on the front porch near his mother’s rocking chair. Tears welled up in his eyes but he dared not let one fall. He knew he had to leave, or risk being taken like the others. Oh, how he wished for the guidance of his father, and the loving arms of his mother. What he thought of most were his little sisters. Would he ever see them again? Ever? What would become of him?

When the house cleared of smoke, Mark took what food he could easily pack from the kitchen. He found a fresh loaf of bread that was left to cool on the counter, a jar of peanut butter, a jar of jelly, a bag of hard candy, and a box of cereal. He also took a spoon, a knife, a fork, and a small pan. From his room he gathered a blanket, a few articles of clothing, and his jacket. He found an old hatchet and tarp in the shed used to store small farm implements. Taking the items from the house and shed, he rolled them into a tarp and secured it with a piece of twine.

He was walking the two hundred yards up the draw behind the house when he remembered a flashlight. He was afraid to go back but knew he must.

After retrieving a flashlight, he retraced his steps up the draw. He recalled what his father taught him and began building a shelter under a fallen spruce still laden heavy with green boughs. The tree once stood tall and stately within the draw that wound around rolling hills that worked their way up into the foothills of the mountains. The rain soaked ground and the wind that blew down the valley fell the giant tree months ago. The boughs were still green as some of the roots still clung to the soil, struggling to sustain what little life they could provide.

Using the hatchet, he cut boughs from the uphill side of the spruce so their missing boughs could not be noticed from below, and set them against the fallen tree to form a shelter. The tarp he used to cover the boughs. He added another layer of boughs to conceal the tarp. Then, he cut smaller boughs from the end of the tree and added handfuls of grass to make a thick soft bed under the shelter. The base of the tree was nearly four feet through and provided ample space. Using the hatchet again, he hollowed out a hole in the upward side of his shelter and placed several stones around it. Doing this, he had a place for a small fire no larger than his hand. The young man gathered an ample supply of dead twigs, pinecones and bark, and then placed them within easy reach. The pine boughs and tarp would conceal any glow from a fire, and would dissipate smoke, if any, before it raised high enough to be seen more than several yards.

His first night alone was full of uncertainty. He fought the onset of tears and fear. He built a hand size fire using dry twigs and sat cross-legged as he watched the miniature flames slowly creep along each piece. The fire seemed to sooth his misery and was hypnotizing. Being inside the crude shelter, he ignored his father’s words of wisdom: Never stare into a fire because it blinded one to the darkness. He did not care, it was comforting and the fire made him feel safe.

A long while passed before he laid back and let the tears prevail. He cried himself to sleep, wondering what happened and why. He did not know where his sisters were, who had taken them, or why. He questioned what law his mother had broken to be taken away in handcuffs. She had always been friendly, loved by all, and of a religious nature.

The night passed slowly and several times he woke up and added a few twigs to the few coals that still glowed. Just before the eastern sky turned a light gray, he woke again from the cold, added a few sticks and a pinecone, and covered himself with the light blanket.

Mark asked himself why he was hiding. Why didn’t he just walk to town and explain to someone what happened? Would they take him also? He was taught to respect the law and trust in the man behind the badge. Then he thought to himself; it was not what happened, it was the way it happened! The cold made him shiver slightly so he curled into a tight ball and slept again.

For three days, Mark stay hidden. A frightened boy he was. He became familiar with the sounds of night, an owl calling from afar in the valley below, another answering nearby. The sharp bark and yelping of coyotes across the field had set distant dogs barking. A deer mouse went scurrying among the grass and leaves in hopes not to be seen by the owl. Summer brought the nighthawks during their annual migration and he called them bear birds because they sounded like a young bear calling for its mother as they searched sporadically high above for insects. He learned to listen for unfamiliar sound that should not be there.

Each day, from a small knoll a short distance from his shelter, he would watch the house, as he lay hidden among the tall grass and dense brush of wild roses. Once filled with joy and laughter, the house now stood as empty as his heart.

From his hiding place, he could see cars come and go, bringing people who combed the property, and turning his hopes into despair. As people wandered about, he could hear muffled voices but no clear words. He was sure they were looking for him. Twice he saw the sheriff’s car and hatred welled within his stomach. Men rummaged through his home and out buildings but he did not see them remove anything. Some walked the property calling his name; others searched the nearby stands of trees. He wished he had thought of the binoculars so he could pick out faces to remember.

During the day, he suffered from the intense heat of dry grass and parched earth. In the late afternoons, there was usually a breeze until the setting sun cooled the air, turning it into a deep chill at night. He kept his fires to not more than a handful; just enough to keep the chill and dampness out of his shelter and provide a little security. By using dry twigs, sticks, and other pieces of broken wood, he kept the fire hot and the amount of smoke low. His meals, such as they were, were dwindling and he wondered how he was going to suffice himself when gone. He still had the bag of hard candy he had taken from the kitchen but it did not seem like much.

To avoid leaving obvious tracks, he removed his shoes, wearing only his socks during his nightly walk to the little brook. Walking with just socks on also let him know before he stepped down on a twig. Once he reached the brook, he savored the fresh coolness as it trickled down his throat to quench his immense thirst and wished for something to take water in back to his shelter. On such trips, he would bathe his arms and face, then depart using a different route each time. By now, he was getting sore from sleeping on the matted boughs, and he was hungry. He was also in need of a good hot bath with plenty of soap, and a toothbrush. After three days, his clothing was fast becoming filthy, tattered, and torn by the thorns of the brush.

Most of all, he was alone. So very alone.

On the evening of his fourth day, Mark suddenly awakened from a short nap by a strange sound. It was like none other he had learned to recognize. He lay motionless with his eyes open, listening for the slightest movement. He dared not move, for bear were common among the hills, and he feared any sound he made would draw unwanted attention. He knew that bear and cougar avoided human scent when possible, although bear were notional. For that reason, he purposely urinated a large area around the camping site to mark his territory where he set up camp. If it worked for some animals, why not him?

Several minutes passed and he heard the distinct sound of denim as it brushed against the thorny bushes surrounding his campsite. He knew that someone was out there for no animal would make the sounds he herd. Perspiration began forming on his forehead and something terrible was happening in the pit of his stomach. He desperately tried to control his breathing so it would not be heard. His heart was pounding so he thought it would explode! Slowly and quietly he chanced moving, just enough to lift the tarp to look under. The small fire had burned to cold ashes so there was no chance of any light escaping when he peered out. He studied and listened for several more minutes before deciding to investigate further.

Cautiously, Mark lifted the tarp and stuck his head out. The sun had set but there was still enough light from the western sky to allow good visibility. Toward the east, a few stars were beginning to show and soon there would be enough to bathe the earth in their soft glow. He quickly glanced around and after not seeing anything; he crawled out further and braced himself for a quick retreat. A lot of good that would do, he thought, he had no weapon, and even if he did, it would do little good against beast or man. He continued on until he could lean back on his heels. There before him, skewered on a vertical stick planted firmly in the ground, was a fully cooked rabbit. His excitement and empty belly made him forget all caution as he retreated inside the shelter with his find.

The rabbit was still warm and very tasty. His belly now full, he laid back and rested. His eyes were closing when suddenly he sat upright. Where did the rabbit come from? Who brought it? If he was discovered, why was he not taken like the others? Now he was wide-awake and he could not sleep! Should he walk to the brook for water? Someone knew he was there so what difference would it make now? But who?

Regardless, there was no question he had been discovered.

Afraid to go outside again, he laid back down and resigned to the thirst he knew would come. He wondered how long it would take before that someone would act. The thought of capture gnawed at him. He knew he certainly could not live like this forever.

Morning came without his knowledge. He must have fallen asleep, after all. He yawned and stretched, then remembered the previous night and the rabbit. Now conscious of his discovery, he slowly lifted the tarp. There was nothing unusual outside. He looked for tracks but found none but his own. The tall grass had been trampled flat with his own walking about, but the brush still provided concealment. He avoided walking on the low side, as that might be visible if someone looked up the draw.

Keeping low to the ground and moving among the brush, he made his way to the knoll where he could see his log house. There was no sign of anyone about. Having no water the previous day, he decided to chance a quick trip to the brook, which was nearly a quarter mile away. The route would take him through a thick stand of aspens and large spruce trees with low hanging branches. He was confident that if he kept to low ground and used the brush and surrounding trees he would not be seen.

Decades of spring runoff and heavy rains had made some parts of the brook banks very steep. At this time of year, the brook was running four to six inches deep and nearly three feet wide. Mark located a spot that provided good cover due to the high banks and overhanging branches and drank his fill. Feeling unclean, he laid down in the cold running water giving no attention to the polished rocks that littered the creek bottom and pressed against his back.

Refreshed, and now cold and wet, he climbed to the bank edge and lay in the warm sun to dry. When he awoke, the sun was high and he was afraid that he might be spotted on his way back. Using more caution than before, he reluctantly returned to his shelter without a store of water, thinking the entire time about his mother and sisters, and what had become of