Carl vs. the Nazis Ch. 5 The Chase

"Carl vs. The Nazis Ch.4 Damon the Evil" 
Chase through Darkness

My Dad wasn’t always negligent. During our summer stay at the cottage, he liked to work with me in the yard now and again. Since I was a little boy, my father and I always planted trees. His favorite trees were blue spruces. We would search the forest for fine baby trees, and carry them home. He would dig the holes for the tiny trees, and I would fill them with water and replace the dirt over the roots and spread mulch on the top. Now the house was completely ringed by twelve-foot trees. Dad liked to watch them covered with snow in the moonlight, or catching the last light of the setting sun.
One early December we were returning home from the grocery store when we saw Damon in his truck heading the other way on the narrow gravel road. We pulled aside so he could pass. He waved and smiled.
When Dad pulled into the driveway he began to cry. The top seven feet of each tree had been cut off.
That afternoon we drove to Damon’s house. He had a new sign, written in dripping, green spray-pained letters on plywood that had been taken from the resort. “Fresh Cut Xmas Trees, $17.” Our beautiful trees were leaning in a neat row against his garage. Business was brisk. We went to the police station.
Chief Hoggleton was the only full-time officer in town, and also functioned as the local health inspector. He was weak-chinned, wide-nosed, plump and red-faced from eating and drinking for free in the local restaurants and bars. He was short and walked with a swagger, greeting everyone with a big, “how ya doing, buddy,” and a fake smile. Although he earned little, he always had a new car and vacationed in the Bahamas every winter. He listened to my father, hands folded on the office counter, nodding in sympathy.
“So what to you want me to do?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t you arrest him?”
“For what?”
“Stealing and trespassing.”
“Did you have the land posted against trespassing?”
“No I didn’t,” said my father, looking thoughtful. His confidence was wavering.
“Well, it’s possible that he didn’t even know those were your trees. It seems natural: a guy walks into the woods, and find some nice trees and cuts them down. Anyway, he didn’t cut them to the roots. They’ll grow back.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” said Dad.
“Sure,” said Wallace, pressing his advantage. “Why, I’ll bet they’ll be thicker than ever, what with all that pruning and whatnot. Anyway, arresting Mr. Damon won’t bring your trees back. I’ll talk to him. It won’t happen again.”
I could stand no more.
“How could it happen again! All our trees are gone! You are a liar! You’re in on this too! This guy red-handed steals our trees and wrecks our property and you do nothing. I hope your take is worth it, you worse-than-worthless, venal fool!”
Hoggleton turned red, but he never stopped smiling. Stroking his tiny chin, he turned to my father.
“Your son is upset. I feel bad for him, and I feel bad for you having such a disrespectful son. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear him. I advise you and your boy not to make a big deal out of this. Mr. Damon’s a good man, but you can push a man only so far. It’s hard to protect people way out in the woods. Anything can happen. Do you understand?”
My father stared at his fingers.
“It’s really important for me to know if you understand what I’m saying. I don’t need trouble,” said Hoggleton.
“Yes sir. I understand,” replied my father meekly.
“Great. Now you and your boy have yourselves a nice day. It was good seeing you. Merry Christmas.”
I was almost to the door when the chief called to me.
“And son?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m looking up ‘venal’ and it better means something nice.”
I wasn’t worried. I didn’t think he even had friends that could read a dictionary.
Dad became so withdrawn and sad in the weeks that followed, it was like he wasn’t there. I kept wandering the buildings and rearranging furniture. My grudge with Damon was the only thing I had going that winter. I was going to get even.
A week later, I walked to the music camp’s main building on a night I knew he would drive by. I hung Halloween masks from a row of windows, and lit candles in the room. Damon stopped his truck and swaggered into the building, gun in hand, to figure out what was going on. I deflated the tires on his truck.
He had to walk on overgrown roads for two miles to go home, frightened by the strange sight in the camp, by what had happened to his truck, and by the forest night. I followed him hidden in the woods. He sometimes paused when he heard my footsteps, but tried to drown out the noises of the night by singing and whistling. When the wind blew and the trees rustled, I spoke to him, soft enough to be just out of earshot. I spoke so quietly, he could not decide whether he really heard a voice, or if it was just the wind and his frightened heart. “Damon . . . Damon . . . Who is the fool in the woods, alone in the darkness? And who will save this sad lonely man?”
“Who is that!” he shouted. “Come out now, you coward!” He fired his gun into the night. I waited behind a tree. He tried running, but could not waddle at that pace for more than 100 feet.
Confident he could never catch me, I laughed out loud. That was a mistake. Damon lost his temper. An entire lifetime of hatred and disappointment he focused on me, and it gave him super-human strength. With speed I had thought impossible for a large man, he charged, gun-in-hand, toward the spot where he had heard me laughing. Of course, fear is a pretty powerful emotion too, and now I had plenty of it. I sprinted through the woods with Damon close behind.
If you don’t freeze up like you’re in a nightmare, fear can help you run fast. It doesn’t help you think. I saw a clearing ahead and realized I had foolishly been running out of the safety of the forest toward the music camp’s playing fields and would soon be an easy target. But I was young, and Damon, although angry, would soon tire. I turned on the speed. I still believe I would have gotten away, if I hadn’t twisted my ankle.
My foot caught heavy branches, and I tripped. Pain shot through my leg and I fell, screaming.
“Ahhhhheeyee!”
“Aha,” shouted Damon. “Stay where you are, and I might kill you quick so you don’t suffer too much.”
I sat still, my foot still caught in the branches, trying to think of a good explanation to get me off the hook. I had finally settled on begging for my life, when unseen hands gently freed my foot. Hands from behind lifted to my feet.
“Run!” urged a hoarse whisper. It wasn’t Damon’s voice.
I ran as I was pulled along. My ankle hurt. It hurt so much I was whimpering and begging to be left behind.
“Not much farther,” said the voice. “Now when I say jump, push off your good foot and jump just as far as you can.”
Damon was just behind us.
“Stop! Stop or I’ll kill you!” He fired again.
“Jump!” Shouted the voice. I jumped. Far beneath me something glittered. It smelled horrible.
Jumping didn’t hurt so much. Landing did. I got up and started hopping on my good foot. In the darkness I could make out the form of a wiry, bald-headed man sprinting ahead, abandoning me.
“I’ve got you now!” Damon screamed victoriously, his footsteps so close they thundered in my ear.
“KERSPLOONK!”
I would not expose you or anyone else to the horrible language I had to hear that cold December night after Damon fell into the thick, deep ooze of the music camp’s old cesspool, hidden from site by the surrounding weeds. Those of you who have occasionally heard vulgarity can probably imagine the words an ignorant and angry man would use under such upsetting circumstances. If you haven’t heard that sort of talk, good for you. The foul language was coupled by the horrible smell that Damon made by his panicking and splashing. I would have loved to have seen him when he crawled out, which, thank goodness, took quite a while. But it seemed wise for me to hobble home as quickly as my sore leg could carry me.
I don’t know if Damon had recognized me that night. I tried to stay out of sight while my ankle healed. After that, I hid my limp and tried to walk as normally as possible when I went past him. From then on, Damon never bothered me. He also stopped his patrol of the buildings. I thought he was afraid. It didn’t occur to me that he might have a reason to like me, or that he might be too busy.

"Carl vs. The Nazis Ch.6 The Immortals"