The Best Laid Plans
by Leta Nolan Childers
"Aaaaaaaa-ahhhh-ayyyyy-ayyy-ahhhhhhhhhhhh," the scream split through the usual noise of the forest forcing Jane's head to jerk up from the blank computer screen. She looked out the window of the mountain cabin. Everything seemed as pathetically the same as the last time she'd gazed blankly out the window-about thirty seconds before. Jane glanced down at the note from Reginald which had awaited her arrival in this hellhole. "Relax, enjoy the peace and quiet, and get to work."
Peace and quiet? When every animal and piece of vegetation conspired against her? Not likely. Relax? When the specter of a deadline loomed unmoving before her? Sure, and she had some great ocean front property in Death Valley she could sell Reginald, too.
Ear cocked toward the door, Jane heard it again. She scanned the heights of the massive oaks, drooping hemlocks and gigantic pine trees. The usual smattering of colorful birds playfully chased one another through the thin mountain air-vicious little creatures with their non-stop chittering and chattering.
Insanity loomed. That had to be it. She'd been in this isolated hellhole for too long-sentenced by her publisher to complete her novel by deadline or face the consequences. She was obviously rounding the bend of sanity on that short trip to the asylum. Oh, for the peace and quiet of the city.
Jane Anne Sorenson was a city girl-born and bred. She had never attempted to venture further than suburbs before that horrid afternoon two weeks ago when she'd received her punishment from Reginald. It was a cruel and unusual punishment, one creating visions of the Spanish Inquisition in her mind-rather than the wilds of the Adirondacks.
No iron maiden filled with spikes could possibly shatter her normally calm demeanor more than the incessant, mysterious sounds in the forest surrounding her. No rack stretching her five-foot, five-inch frame to a full six-foot could close off her imagination more than the boring landscape viewed from the cabin windows-acres and acres of trees scarred only by a babbling brook that intersected one corner of the clearing. She now knew the reason people referred to brooks as "babbling." Listen to that relentless, nonsensical noise it produced for more than a few moments and all one could do themselves is babble incoherently. Now, if it would only tell her the plot of her next novel, it might be worth something.
The vibrancy of the city-that was completely different. Unlike the trees here, no two blocks were ever built the same-the architecture reflecting the imagination of gifted minds. The only wildlife one really had to worry about in the city were the pigeons-rats with wings. But, they didn't bother her.
Here, there were all sorts of rat relatives-near and distant relations. Her third day she'd accomplished a new world record for the standing long jump when one of the vermin hopped in through the open cabin door. Floor to chair in point-two hundredths of a second. Of course Horace, Reginald's estate manager, had claimed it was a chipmunk, but Jane wasn't too sure. She seemed to recall reading a National Geographic article about killer, rabid rats masquerading as harmless wood creatures to seduce unwary people into complacency before jumping on their necks and sucking their life's blood dry.
"Ayyyyyyyyyyyyyy-ayyyy-ahhhhhhhhhhhhh," the shrieking echoed through the cabin. It was coming closer. Jane pushed herself back from the table and picked up the heavy log she'd kept close since arriving here. Bravely, Jane tiptoed to the open cabin door and stepped out on the covered porch. Her eyes scanned the horizon. Whatever it was, she was a city girl-afraid of nothing as long as she remained armed. She slapped the log against her hand, then shook the pain away quickly.
"Ayyyyyyy-ahhhhhhhhhhhh-ahhhhhh-ahhhhhhh," a deep masculine voice called, still closer to the cabin. A flash of flesh caught the corner of Jane's eye. She spun to the left and saw a naked man perched on the huge limb of an oak tree about fifty yards from the cabin. No, he wasn't quite entirely nude-a leather apron was draped around his waist. He was pulling at a stubborn, thick kudzu vine that seemed to have grown from his tree to the next.
There were all sorts of unusual people inhabiting the city-street people pushing shopping carts filled with their lives, junkies staring vacantly into the mysteries of the universe, her neighbor, the cat woman-who literally resembled a cat. This was a different breed entirely. Yet another flake, Jane thought, feeling oddly homesick again. He probably has his loincloth lined with aluminum foil to keep the alien rays from reaching his tiny brain.
When he finally freed the unruly vine, he hauled it taut, jumped up and swung down on the vine.
Like a buzzard in flight-screeching the most inhuman sound she'd ever heard, the man flew through the air until the vine pulled tight under his weight. As he reached the bottom of his flight, the figure swung his long legs back before propelling them forward, arcing toward a large branch on the next tree. Jane watched in amused horror as the vine snapped with an ominous ripping, tearing sound-dwarfing the wild man's horrendous yell.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhh-ayyyyyyy-aaayyyyy-aaaaaaaa... Ouch!" she heard the beast shriek, as he landed on the ground, thickly covered with ferns and foliage.
Jane deftly tossed the log end for end and caught it in her hand. Nothing to fear there, she noted as she watched the foliage bend and sway as the wild man struggled. She chuckled out loud as she walked back into the cabin. Vines-one; Tarzan-zip.
Funny, in the time that had passed since his last sojourn in the forest, he'd forgotten one could get a leather burn. He tugged firmly on the back apron of his loincloth. He thanked the forest gods that no one was within a mile to see his ungraceful plummet from the heights. It was bad enough dealing with his own fractured ego. Having a witness to his fall would have been unbearable.
Carefully, he picked himself up again, seeking secure footing before he stretched to his full six foot-two-inch height. God, how his feet ached. They were bruised, scratched, swollen and cut. Rack up another one for a fading memory. He certainly couldn't remember his feet hurting this much the last time.
Tenderly, he tiptoed over to the clear, running stream that cut through the forest-attempting to avoid the ragged pieces of gravel lining its shores. He stepped carefully into the icy water. As his foot hit a moss-covered rock, he windmilled his arms attempting to maintain his balance. With a loud and large splash, he fell into the water, landing again on his pained posterior.
Hunter angrily damned his father and the insane bet dear, old Reginald had suckered him into. Letting the cold water numb his aching muscles, tired feet and splitting headache, Hunter leaned back into the water.
A mere week ago, he'd been a happy, busy executive firmly in charge of his own computer software company. Then, he made his fatal mistake. Feeling oddly guilty at neglecting his father, he'd responded immediately to his father's summons to Vista Visions. Guilt was an unusual emotion. No, Hunter plunged through life with a fierce drive and determination-a course he'd charted from his youth. His success begrudgingly earned him respect from his competitors as well as the mavens of Wall Street who closely watched his fledgling company grow into an international conglomerate.
As Hunter steered his latest acquisition-a classic, jet-black Jaguar XKE-through the narrow city's streets shadowed by the humbling skyscrapers, he wondered about his father's sudden request for a visit. Hunter had just seen Reginald the week before at his father's seventieth birthday party-happily sandwiched by twin, blonde twenty-year-olds. He'd been in exceptionally high spirits then-unless the spirits were induced by the huge snifter of brandy he'd been quaffing. No matter, Hunter thought, as he left the skyscrapers behind and entered the slower paced residential area of the city.
An uncomfortable tug of melancholy enveloped Hunter as he parked in front of the huge townhouse. The first floor was dedicated to his father's publishing house, the upper three floors his childhood home. Well, part of his childhood anyway. The best days of his idyllic youth he'd spent at Vista Manor, nestled high in the Adirondacks.
Now, he had returned-though it was far from the usual weekends he'd stolen from his business to escape to the mountains. He was here on a bet-one he recognized his father had placed considerable thought and effort in maneuvering him to accept. Oh yes, there was no out-talking the master when he'd set his mind to something.
Hunter jerked his foot out of the water-responding to the cautious nibble on his toe by a curious trout. Amazingly, the trout failed to dart away, but remained floating gently against the current of the brook.
"I know just how you feel," Hunter sighed to the trout. "Except I got caught hook, line and sinker-by the craftiest angler I ever met."
Soft. Hunter patted his molded abdomen muscles. How dare his father consider him soft. He took pains in working out for at least an hour a day to remain at the peak of his mental and physical abilities. He was proud that he weighed only a couple of pounds more than he had that summer.
Pride. That was his downfall. That was what led him right into taking the bait his father had dangled before him. He'd strenuously objected to his father's assessment that he'd gotten too soft over the years. He'd fallen for the temptation of proving his father wrong and collecting the deed to Vista Manor at the same time. Two weeks, his father suggested, living as he had the summer before he went to graduate school. Alone, high above the Manor, in the treehouse he'd built, living off the land with nothing more than a box of matches and a hunting knife. He thought it would be a romp-the vacation he'd meant to take for years.
So, when dear, old dad offered the bet, he'd snapped at it. The stakes were high, but worth the effort-his Jaguar against the deed. Hunter believed it was almost too easy a bet to win; that should have been his first clue that his father was up to some sort of meddling mischief. Half way through his self-imposed torture, Hunter was still trying to fathom his father's motives.
He relaxed back into the water, letting it numb his aches further. His stomach rumbled angrily-a reminder of his sparse diet for the past week: mushrooms, wild berries and lichen. His digestive system wasn't used to the natural foods on which he'd existed for the past two weeks-the violent bouts of diarrhea evidenced that. Funny, he didn't remember having that problem the last time he'd done this.
He'd hoped to vary his menu by snaring a rabbit and roasting it over a roaring fire, but when he'd succeeded in the attempt, he failed to act. The bunny looked straight at him, unafraid, with those huge brown, trusting eyes. So, he lifted the trap he'd fashioned from twigs and vines and set it free, tossing the remainder of his cache of berries to it as an apology. Since then, the rabbit had taken residence under the tree where he'd built the house.
Hunter planned to grab some food when he raided the kitchen of the Manor-nothing much, just some crackers or something to tide him over for the next week. However, he'd failed in that as well as in the main mission of the raid-to secure fresh batteries for his cellular telephone.
Horace was thorough in his instructions from Reginald. Before Hunter could leave for the treehouse, the estate manager ascertained that all he had with him were the matches, the knife and the loincloth. Fortunately, Horace balked at checking the loincloth or he would have found the tiny cell phone Hunter had hidden in it.
The batteries would have lasted more than the two weeks of his personal hell, if he hadn't become so lonely for the sound of a human voice. So, several times a day, under the guise of checking in at his office, he'd called his assistant, Scarletta. She was always more than willing to drop whatever she was doing to chat amiably with him and offer him that touch of mothering that he so appreciated.
When the low battery light illuminated that morning, he planned his raid carefully. Judging by the sun in the sky, he knew just when Horace would be busy tending the horses in the stable. The sun evidently had changed its timing since he'd last needed to use it as a clock. He'd no more than entered the kitchen when he heard Horace entering the side door.
He flew out of the back door in a flash, then hid in the bushes, waiting for Horace to leave the kitchen. Repeatedly, he'd peeked into the house praying that Horace would leave to attend to his chores, but the estate manager settled at the table with a pot of coffee and a huge book. From the looks of it, he'd be there for hours. Reluctantly, Hunter sneaked from the grounds and back up into the mountains.
His bare feet ached from the tortuous descent to the manor and screamed in rebellion as he tried to ascend. That's when inspiration struck, and he remembered swinging from tree to tree on a kudzu vine as a kid. The more distance he could cover that way, the less pain he'd inflict on his feet. Of course, he now recognized why Tarzan developed such a distinctive scream.
Each time Hunter raised his courage enough to step off a branch fifty feet from the ground, a fearful scream tore itself from his lungs. Just as he was gathering a bit of confidence in his abilities as a swinger, the vine broke.
A school of minnows joined the trout in exploring the delicacies offered by his body in the stream. Fearful they might discover a taste for the tender meat concealed by his loincloth, Hunter shooed them away. Within seconds, they were back-more daring than ever. Wearily, Hunter pulled himself from the water, carefully tiptoed over the gravel and plopped down on the thick grass.
As the warm rays from the sun danced over his body, Hunter dozed briefly-only to wake surrounded by a cloud of buzzing, biting mosquitoes. He slapped at them fiercely, noticing the angry red welts dotting his arms, legs and chest. The bites stung and itched miserably. As Hunter crawled back to the stream, he began to wonder if the loss of his Jaguar was all that high a price to pay for a soft bed and a good meal back in his condo.
Scooping up large handfuls of mud, he covered all the insect bites heavily. His body demanded nourishment. His mind craved conversation. As he scooped up more mud, the light dawned, inspiration struck and he slapped himself on the forehead for not thinking of the obvious sooner. The guest cabin. It wasn't too far, and there were bound to be dry goods and canned food and batteries in the cabin.
With a single-minded purpose, Hunter attempted to stand-the pain from his aching feet and muscles only allowing him to half stand, half stoop. He forced the muscles in his legs to comply as he loped toward the cabin.
Jane glanced up out of the window, willing inspiration to find her here in the middle of nowhere. A glimpse of movement caught the corner of her eye. She turned her head and focused. There was the nearly naked man jogging up the hill near the cabin; she recognized him with alarm. He seemed headed straight for the cabin.
Frantically, Jane looked around for something she could use for protection. She jumped from the table and grabbed her wood log from the basket near the fireplace. She crept up to the door, her back hugging the wall and raised the log over her head.
As the door swung open, the log descended. Jane tossed the log aside and ran to the other side of the room. She looked closely at the man lying unconscious on the floor. He wasn't dead. She could see the muscles on his sunburned, mud splattered back rising and falling evenly as he breathed.
"I know Horace said there weren't any bears around here," she whispered, one hand on her heart in a vain attempt to slow its beating. "But he didn't warn me about Big Foot."
The world blackened, then lightened. Squinting one eye open, Hunter felt, rather than saw, the close napped carpet pressing into his sunburned cheek.
It hurt. But, it didn't hurt nearly as much as the radiating pain emanating from the back of his head. He attempted to raise his head, but gave up the crazy idea as the shooting stars of pain pushed him back to the carpet. He tried to remember how he'd gotten conked. He remembered his surprise that the cabin door was unlocked. He'd opened the door, taken a step inside, then the bomb exploded in his head and the lights went out.
Hunter squeezed open an eye. It was painful, but the steady ache was nearly tolerable. He slid his hand under his chest and tried to push himself up from the carpeting.
"No you don't...you stay right where you are! Horace, come on, Horace, answer the damn phone," a lovely, light voice screamed at him-sending echoes of pain hurdling through his brain. He heard the telephone slam down on its cradle as he tried again to rise from the floor.
"Arggg...errr...rruhrrrr..." Hunter, half raised from the floor reached out for her. For some reason, the words formed in his head but refused to come out of his mouth correctly.
The small, dark woman grabbed a spatula from the counter and waved it menacingly at him. Her eyes sparkled with fear. "Don't you move, you animal. You stay away from me."
"H-h-h-help," he managed to say weakly before collapsing on the floor again. He looked up from the carpet at her. His eyes wandered from her bare feet, to her shapely calves, to her well-shaped thighs, to the fringe of her cut-offs. He closed his eyes and swallowed the pain. When he opened them again, he saw the rapid rise and fall of her round, excited breasts beneath her T-shirt before looking back into her face. It was a beautiful face-full, kissable lips below a pert, upturned nose. Her eyes were amethyst-no, closer to the color of the violets carpeting the glades in the forest. Her head was capped with a mane of ebony hair, freeing itself from the clip at the back of her neck.
"Help?" she asked, dropping the spatula on the counter. "You want my help? I didn't know Big Foot could talk. Not that I'm all that up on the latest Big Foot trivia."
Weakly, Hunter nodded, as the pain began to ebb. He watched as she threw open the refrigerator, salivating at the sight of all that wonderful food. He'd hadn't been deprived that long, but the sight of cold cuts and watermelon looked like manna from heaven compared to the mushrooms he'd been eating.
The woman pulled an ice cube tray from the freezer compartment, and Hunter saw the neat stacks of frozen dinners, the gallon container of ice cream and the frozen roasts stored inside. Ambrosia fit for the gods. If he could only figure out a way to get this stranger to share with him, he'd survive this self-imposed hell. Of course, Dad must never find out.
Too soon, she slammed the door shut barring Hunter's sight from the delicacies the refrigerator held. She grabbed a kitchen towel and dumped the ice cubes on top of it. Hunter struggled again and managed to sit up with only a minimum of excruciating pain rolling through his cerebrum. She ran back to him, kneeled and slammed the ice pack to the back of his head.
Through the stars exploding from the impact, Hunter saw concern etching lines in the woman's face. It was too beautiful a face to scar with worry.
"M-m-me...okay," Hunter managed to say, grabbing the ice pack from her hand and gently placing it over the knot at the back of the head.
"Oh thank goodness. I thought maybe I'd killed you or something. Who are you? What are you doing here? Do you know Reginald? Do you live around here? Why haven't I seen you before?" Her words ricocheted like machine gun fire in his head. He managed to nod slightly-all that the pain would allow.
"Heavens. You probably don't even understand what I'm saying? Can you talk more than one-syllable grunts? Do you know what I'm saying?" she asked. "Can I get you something?"
Hunter managed another slight nod.
"Oh, good, you do understand. Me...Jane." She pointed to herself, before pointing to him and asking, "You...you...what is your name? Me...Jane. Jane."
This was too good to be true, he thought as he looked down at his skimpy loincloth. Where's Cheetah?
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