Missouri Loves Company (Rip Lane Book 1) Read online

  I waved weakly and then drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER 24

  WHEN I GOT out of the hospital I was on crutches. I hobbled like an old geezer, with my body bent forward. It seemed as if my height had shrunk from six feet two all the way down to three feet one. My face was stitched up like Frankenstein, my chest was wrapped up like a mummy, and my hair had grown out like a werewolf.

  It didn’t matter to Sally. Nothing could have kept her from taking care of me, not even my assurance that I could manage on my own. She told me it was no inconvenience, that her RV was only feet away from mine, and that she liked helping people out.

  I wasn’t sure how her husband felt about it. Some husbands get jealous when I’m around their wives. Harry seemed to be okay with it. He wasn’t a bad guy—for a lawyer.

  Sally cooked meals for me, did my laundry, kept me company. We watched movies together. Inspirational movies. Rocky. The Karate Kid. Payback.

  I slept a lot. Took a lot of naps. Read some crime novels.

  After a few days of recovery I started to go for some short walks outside. I could walk without the crutches, though not without half dragging my leg.

  One cool morning, rain misting down, I decided to try some bodyweight training. I dropped to the grass and started to do push-ups. I managed to do ten before I collapsed.

  Normally I can do sixty. At least. When I was younger I could do a hundred.

  I lay still for a long moment. Then I tried again.

  My arms trembled, my jaw muscles pulsed. Pain surged through my battered body. I kept at it. Yet all I accomplished was to rise a few inches from the ground. Which was nothing. I could have done that without even using my hands—just by mentally undressing Scarlett Johansson.

  I took a minute to hum the theme to Rocky. Then I tried to do some more push-ups. I did three of them. It took a lot of grunting and straining to do it.

  “The hell’s all that grunting for?” a voice said to me.

  It was a man who had to be in his eighties. Nineties, maybe. His hair was so white and his skin so tan that he looked like a photo negative. On his leathery forearm was a Marine Corps tattoo. The guy reminded me of a drill sergeant.

  I grunted to my feet.

  “Son, you got more bruises than an overripe banana,” the aged man told me. “What happened? You get run over by a steamroller?”

  “I did. But at least I left a dent in it.”

  “Along with a lot of your skin.”

  “I’m Rip.”

  “Lance. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “You remind me of one of my mentors, Lance.”

  “Good-looking guy, huh?”

  “That sounds like something he’d say.”

  Lance chuckled.

  “Bet you saw a lot of the world,” I said, pointing to his Marine Corps tattoo.

  “I’ve seen more places than Christopher Columbus and Anthony Bourdain combined.”

  “Favorite place?”

  “Okinawa.”

  I nodded.

  “You a military man, Rip?”

  “Law enforcement.”

  “Active?”

  “Retired.”

  “Me too, believe it or not.”

  I believed him.

  “That’s my truck camper over there,” he said. “The Arctic Fox.”

  “Nice. You like it?”

  “Not as much as the luxury motor home I used to own. But I needed to downsize after my wife died. The motor home was just too damn big for one person.”

  “Sorry about your wife.”

  “Happened six months ago. Ever since then I’ve been revisiting our favorite spots around the country. At each location I scatter some of her ashes.”

  His eyes stared at a misty image from his past. After a moment he shook his head and shrugged the memory away.

  “Anyway,” he said, “my Arctic Fox gets me where I want to go.”

  The rain had stopped but the air was still damp. Some people were starting to come out of their RVs to walk their dogs. The dogs, panting and grinning, seemed happy. One kept wagging his whole rear end back and forth.

  Lance dropped to the ground and ripped through twenty push-ups. Then he sprang back to his feet and grinned at me.

  “Drop and give me twenty push-ups,” he said.

  I did it.

  CHAPTER 25

  NOT FAR FROM S’mores and Snores Campground stood an abandoned building. Plywood covered the windows, graffiti covered the walls, weeds covered the ground. I had discovered the building about a week after I got out of the hospital.

  Each morning I would walk there and enter through a doorless entranceway. I would go to the stairs and climb as many flights as I could. It was dim inside the building, but not too dim to see.

  The first day was rough on my battered legs. I wanted to run up the stairs like a deer but I could only waddle like a penguin.

  The second day wasn’t much better. I had to stop on the third flight of steps. My legs throbbed and my breathing came in painful gasps. I sat down on a step and watched sweat pool at my feet for a while. Then I went up another flight. Climbing to the fourth flight was like climbing Mount Everest, but with a less spectacular view at the peak.

  It was a tall building. Ten stories. Twenty flights of steps. By the ninth day I could make it as far as the tenth flight. Halfway to the top. It was progress.

  Later that evening I saw Lance again. He had built a little campfire at the edge of the lake that lay in the middle of the campground, and he was sitting there roasting hot dogs on a long stick. The stars were reflected in the lake.

  “Where can a man get a hot dog around here?” I said.

  “I don’t mind sharing my hot dogs with you,” Lance said, “but the potato salad’s all mine.”

  “You won’t get any argument out of me.”

  “Here, take that one on the end of the stick.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Mustard and buns are right over there.”

  “No onions?”

  “They give me gas.”

  “I wouldn’t want you blowing out the fire.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Nothing tastes better than food cooked on a campfire. Not food cooked at home. Not food cooked in a restaurant. Maybe because the smoke adds flavor. Or maybe because the food is eaten farther away from civilization.

  “Before I met my wife,” Lance said, “there was a woman I was madly in love with. A beautiful woman. Classy. Elegant. We dated for a long time. I don’t know what she saw in me, except that I loved her.”

  “But you didn’t marry her,” I said.

  “No. Her older brother ran me off. He didn’t like me for some reason, and didn’t want me around his sister. I couldn’t stand being apart from her. I joined the Marines to escape the pain.”

  “The pain go away?”

  “Never.”

  Lance poked his stick at the embers of the fire. Red sparks flew skyward and floated off with a gentle wisp of wind.

  “You ever see her again?”

  “Only in my dreams.”

  I nodded.

  “She still alive?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “You want me to find out for you?”

  Lance looked up from the fire and stared at me.

  “I don’t know where she’d be living now.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I know how to find people. I was a deputy U.S. marshal.”

  Lance stared at the glowing embers for a long time. He looked like he was giving it a lot of thought. Finally his eyes came back to me.

  “Okay,” he said. “I want you to find her, see if she’s still alive.”

  I nodded.

  “Tell me more about her.”

  He did.

  CHAPTER 26

  THE SOCIAL SECURITY Administration will attempt to forward letters to missing persons in certain circumstances. For instance, to inform them of important matters. Money due to them. Death in the fami
ly.

  The procedure is different when a relative simply wants to make contact. In that case the relative’s letter is not forwarded. Instead the Social Security Administration writes to the missing person.

  Lance’s lost love was not a relative of his. And as far as I knew she did not have important matters she needed to be informed of. So I had to be creative when I wrote to the Social Security Administration and asked them to forward my letter to the missing woman.

  Having her Social Security number would have been useful. But Lance did not know it. So I provided the Social Security Administration with the only identifying information I had. It consisted of the woman’s name, date and place of birth, her father’s name, and her mother’s full birth name.

  In the letter to the missing woman I included my contact information. I hoped she was still alive, I hoped she would receive my letter, and I hoped she would respond.

  I dropped the envelope in a big blue mailbox on my way to the abandoned building.

  I was wearing Adidas running shoes, Adidas running shorts, and an Adidas running shirt. I ran past a guy who was wearing Nike gear and I felt sorry for him.

  When I got to the abandoned building I attacked the stairs two at a time all the way up to the twelfth flight. Progress.

  After that I returned to the campground and did three sets of push-ups. Thirty-six on the first set, twenty-nine on the second, twenty-two on the third. Progress.

  Pull-ups require more strength than push-ups. Normally I can do about thirty of them. But my body was not back to normal yet. So I did not expect to do thirty. Fifteen, maybe.

  There weren’t any pull-up bars at the campground, so I found a horizontal tree branch to use. I reached up and gripped the thick branch and pulled my body up.

  One.

  My battered torso ached like hell. It wasn’t going to stop me. I pulled myself up again.

  Two.

  My biceps felt strong. My lats too.

  . . . three . . . four . . . five . . .

  My arms were pumping like a piston.

  . . . six . . . seven . . . eight . . .

  My form was perfect.

  . . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . .

  My breath was labored.

  . . . twelve . . . thirteen . . . fourteen . . .

  My lats and biceps were swelling.

  . . . fifteen.

  I dropped to the ground and bent over, bracing my hands against my knees, gasping for breath. My clothes were soaked with sweat. Everything in my body was on fire. I walked it off.

  After a few minutes of rest I was ready to do some sit-ups. I knew I couldn’t do my usual sixty. I was shooting for forty.

  When I got to twenty my bruised abdominal muscles screamed in pain. The pain burned like a blowtorch. I had to stop for a moment.

  Then I grit my teeth, pushed through the pain. Welcomed it even.

  Pain makes you stronger. It never lies. It tells you who you are.

  Pain told me to stop after thirty-three sit-ups. I did as I was told.

  I was willing to do whatever it took to recover from my injuries, but there was no guarantee I would recover completely. It was possible I would never come back from this. Would never be as good as new. Would never be all that I was.

  It was possible. But not likely.

  Not with my discipline and work ethic.

  Not with my tolerance for pain.

  I did not plan to become as good as new.

  I planned to become better than ever.

  CHAPTER 27

  MY FAVORITE CHILDHOOD toy was a pogo stick. I used to spend hours at a time bouncing up and down on it. The thing made a lot of noise. The incessant sound must have driven the neighbors crazy. Squeak-chunk squeak-chunk squeak-chunk.

  As a kid I never realized how strong my legs were getting from all those hours on the pogo stick. The realization came later in life. It came when I was in high school.

  I used to get a ride to high school from an older student who lived in my neighborhood. One year he decided to try out for the school’s cross-country team. Since he was my ride home, I decided to try out too. Otherwise I would have just been waiting around for him after school every day.

  Both of us made the team. He was in twelfth grade and I was in ninth grade, yet I could run faster than him. In fact I could run faster than everybody on the team. Which surprised me.

  It surprised my parents too. They said the pogo stick must have developed my runner’s legs. I think they were right.

  At cross-country meets that year I won a number of trophies and plaques and ribbons. It encouraged me. I kept running.

  The following year I ran even faster. There were more trophies, plaques, and ribbons. More encouragement.

  Then, in eleventh grade, I switched schools. At the new school I joined the cross-country team and had a stellar season. It helped me make friends.

  Track season began after cross-country season ended. I joined the track team as a distance runner. My trophy shelf got more crowded.

  In twelfth grade I did the same thing. I joined the cross-country team and then the track team. On the cross-country team I won the state meet. On the track team I broke the school records in the mile and the two mile. I was voted Most Valuable Player by the members of the track team, and Athlete of the Year by the student body. The plaques went on my trophy shelf.

  My trophy shelf is bare now. All the awards are gone. I got rid of them. Nobody cares how fast I ran in high school. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the person I became because of the experience.

  The most important part of that experience was my track coach. I owe a lot to him. He instilled in me the quality of self-discipline. It is the quality that underlies all great achievement.

  My track coach was the best teacher I ever had. I learned many lifelong lessons from him. I learned how to develop strategies and set goals. I learned how to harness my willpower. I learned how to make short-term sacrifices for long-term gains.

  My track coach used to help me develop long-term strategies for beating my opponents. He also helped me set a series of short-term goals to achieve each long-term strategy. Daily goals. Weekly goals. Monthly goals. Each time I met a goal it made me feel good. It made the short-term sacrifices bearable. They were tough sacrifices. My time. My diet. My physical comfort. My social life. Tough sacrifices made me tougher. They made me do things I needed to do but didn’t want to do. They made me a track star.

  The self-discipline I developed in high school served me well over the years. It helped me in college. It helped me in my career. And it has helped me ever since.

  Running is still a big part of my life. Four or five times a week I go for a run. Usually I run for at least half an hour. For health benefits the amount of time I spend running is more important than how far I run and how fast I run.

  Researchers have found that runners have a thirty percent lower risk of death from all causes, and a forty-five percent lower risk of death from heart attack or stroke. Running prolongs life.

  There are other benefits to running. Mental benefits. Running builds confidence. Especially for those who lose weight and gain a better self-image. Running provides a feeling of empowerment. It relieves stress. It clears your mind. It strengthens your mind.

  I am a lifelong runner. Running has made my life better.

  And it all started because of a pogo stick I had when I was a kid.

  Squeak-chunk squeak-chunk squeak-chunk.

  CHAPTER 28

  ON ONE OF my morning walks I stopped to talk to an oil painter. She stood behind an easel, one brush between her teeth, one brush in her hand. Her hair was bunched untidily atop her head. A kaleidoscope of colors dotted her rumpled blue smock.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  She took the brush from her mouth.

  “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

  “Your painting’s very nice.”

  “It’s for sale.”

  “Too big to hang in my RV.”


  “I have smaller ones inside. Want to see them?”

  Through the open door of her travel trailer I could see canvases of all sizes scattered about.

  “You sell a lot of those?”

  “Enough to make a living.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Want to buy one?”

  “Persistent, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I am. But not just persistent. I have other merits too.”

  “I can see that.”

  She smiled at me.

  “I’m Nichole.”

  “Rip.”

  “I’d shake hands but mine’s got paint all over it.”

  “You been doing this long?”

  “Painting?”

  “Making a living at it.”

  “Nine years now.”

  “How’d you get started?”

  “I was diagnosed with cancer at the young age of thirty-one . . .”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks. This is my eighth year in remission. So I’m doing good. Anyway I realized how short life was. I decided change was on the horizon. This little voice in my head kept telling me there must be more to life than just working all the time. Like traveling. Seeing the world. Painting places I see. It was always my dream but I never acted on it. I always kept putting it off until tomorrow. Until I was diagnosed with cancer. That’s when I realized my tomorrows were running out.”

  Nichole paused thoughtfully.

  “So I quit my corporate job, walked away from a great salary. Sold just about everything I owned. I gave up the traditional lifestyle and started to live my dream. I bought this trailer and began to travel across North America. That was nine years ago.”

  “Nine years of living the dream,” I said.

  “The decision to take that leap wasn’t easy,” Nichole said. “Going from a corporate salary to no salary at all was very terrifying. But the fear was outweighed by the excitement, the adventure, the journey. Eventually I was able to earn a mobile living by selling my paintings.”

  “What was the best thing about leaving the corporate world to work for yourself?”