I Want To Live

Chapter Thirty

    Ranger Michael Garrett drove the State Park truck, making his rounds between the two campgrounds. Every campsite booked during July. A multitude of campers to oversee. Without seasonal rangers, his permanent crew wouldn’t be able to keep the peace. Alcohol not allowed in the Park, but still teenagers could get rowdy, disturbing families with small children camped nearby. His campground hosts did a marvelous job keeping an eye on things, able to contact him by walkie-talkie if the need arose. 

    The South Campground was popular with easy access to a sandy beach on Lake Clearwater. Complete, with children’s playground and privately run Convenience Store, the beach attracted families despite the absence of a life guard. There was a roped off swimming area and wooden dock nearby for canoes and kayaks to launch from. Numerous hiking trails crisscrossed the Park’s boundaries. A large group camping area for the use of schools, churches and Scouts existed amongst a grove of white pines. A private horse stable situated off the entrance road offered trail rides. Horses were trailered in every morning, confined in a corral, waiting for eager prospects to take guided trips through the wooded section of the Park. Mountains surrounded the expansive lake, a jewel in the midst of the Wenatchee range. Compared to his many assignments over the years, Lake Clearwater State Park was his favorite. His sidekick, Bella, stuck her head out the passenger window, reveling in the different scents she detected.

    The North Shore campground host, Roger, flagged him over. “You might want to check on that abandoned Inn at the end of the lake,” he said. “Two of our campers were canoeing past there yesterday. They reported seeing scruffy looking teenagers loitering on the premises. Thought you might want to check it out.”

    “Thanks for the tip, Roger. That’s out of my jurisdiction but I’ll take a look-see anyway. Everything nice and quiet here?”

    “The campers are behaving themselves, Mike. It’s early in the season yet. Will contact you if anything comes up otherwise.”

    Leaving the North Campground, Mike drove the two lane highway headed to the far end of Lake Clearwater. He passed the small grocery store serving the few people who inhabited Grovers Corners. Also handy for campers needing small food items or toiletries. At a T-junction he turned left, skirting the lake clearly visible out the driver’s window. Private log cabins occupied that east shore. Property values sky high since their boundaries ran down to the lake. The road snaked through heavy forest, the asphalt shaded even during midday. Up ahead an orange barrier warned of unstable property on his left, the words KEEP OUT prominent on the cross bar. Having reached his destination, Mike parked on the shoulder. 

    Giuseppe’s Inn, famous for it’s Italian fare, did a roaring business in the late eighties. The stucco Italianate restaurant with exterior arches was the place to dine. Purple flower clusters hung from wisteria vines clinging to the overhang of the red clay-tiled roof. Diners often ate outside on the patio, cooled by a slight breeze coming off the lake on a warm summer’s night.  It was a common sight to see a young man kneeling before his date, asking her to marry him. 

    Giuseppe was a short gregarious chap with thick gray hair and a handlebar mustache. Rimless wire glasses perched on his nose, he resembled the storybook grandfather in Pinocchio. The owner was an immigrant from Sicily. Played a mean violin for his customers. He vanished mysteriously in the winter of 1994. The body never found despite searchers combing the area for weeks. Rumors circulated that he was murdered by the Sicilian Mafia. Relatives refused to take over the restaurant, claiming the place was haunted. Neighbors in lake cabins said they heard strange noises coming from the restaurant at times. They believed it was Giuseppe’s ghost roaming the vacant rooms of the Inn.

    Mike stepped down from the truck, shutting the door quietly to avoid alerting any one of his presence. He unsnapped the holster on his belt, right hand suspended above a handgun. Bella slinked beside him, copying his behavior. State Park Rangers were allowed to carry guns in Washington. The Inn had definitely crumbled in the ten years it had lain vacant. Overgrown weeds obscured the brick pathway. Plaster chunks lay at the base of exposed brick columns supporting the arches. Loosened clay roof tiles lay broken where they fell. The wisteria vine grew wild, branching in a loose latticework. 

    Mike walked carefully so he wouldn’t turn an ankle on uneven bricks. His leather boots crunched dead leaves and broke twigs underfoot. You might as well use a bullhorn to announce your presence, Mike. One would have to be deaf to not hear him. He rounded a corner of the building. Bella barked and pointed with her right paw. Two scrawny teenagers scurried for cover into the dark recesses of the restaurant. Cigarette butts, discarded potato chip bags, empty tins of beans and sardines lay strewn haphazardly on the grounds.

    Mike drew his gun. Held it in front with both hands, knowing it was risky to follow them. Bella growled in her throat. He ventured to the doorway. Stood still. Listening. Silence. “I know you’re in there. I suggest you get your stuff and move. You’re trespassing.” Mike felt the hairs of his neck stand on end. Sweat slithered down his spine. “I’m leaving now. Going to alert the cops.” He was a State Park Ranger, not a policeman. He would leave the risky business to them. 

    “Come on, Bella. Let’s get out of here.” He retraced his steps to the truck. Slid onto the driver’s seat. Hit 911 on his cell phone.

    “What’s your emergency?” a female voice asked.

    “I need to get hold of the Mittenwald Police Department to report an act of vandalism.”

    “Just a moment. I’ll connect you, Sir.”

    “Officer Morrison. How may I help you?”

    “State Park Ranger Garrett here. I’m at the North end of Lake Clearwater. Parked by the abandoned Giuseppe Inn. Surprised a couple of squatters. Garbage everywhere. Definite health hazard to the property and lake. Shall I remain in place?”

    “Ranger Garrett, we’d appreciate it if you stay put. Sending a squad car with two officers as I speak. Do not engage the squatters. I repeat. Do not engage the squatters.”

    “Don’t have to worry about that. Over and out.” He stroked Bella’s forehead to calm her. “Guess we hang for a while, girl.”

    A patrol car parked behind Mike’s truck. Didn’t blare their siren or use rooftop lights, using a stealth approach. Mike looked in his rearview mirror. Two officers in khaki uniforms wearing badges approached. A tall dark-haired officer in sunglasses leaned down to talk with Mike. “Ranger Garrett?”

     “That’s me.” Bella woofed under her breath.

     “Name’s Bret, Sir.” Smiled, removing his glasses. “Nice dog you have there. You say there’re some squatters inside the building? Looks to be in bad shape. Roof collapsing and all.”

    “I haven’t seen anyone come out yet. Told them they were trespassing and I was going to call the police.”

   Shorter partner with sandy buzz-cut asked, “Do you know if they’re armed?”

    “Couldn’t tell you.”

    Bret faced his partner. “Okay, then. Sam, you circle around back. I’ll take the left side.” The two officers unholstered their guns and took off in separate directions. 

    Mike waited in the truck, eyes and ears alert for anything unusual. Bella’s fuzzy ears perked. Both focused on the ground beyond the windshield. An interminable amount of time passed before he heard a muffled, “Stop right there! Hands in the air!” At the rear of the Inn he saw a lone figure thrashing in the bushes, arms frantically pushing branches aside, swearing at the obstructions impeding his getaway. 

    Officer Sam shouting, “Stop! I’ll shoot!” followed by “Damn it!”

    Mike thrust his door open. Hopped down, his own gun drawn. Bracing his feet in a wide stance in front of the hood, both hands on his weapon pointed straight at the intruder as he stumbled over the rise. “Give it up, son. You’re not going anywhere.”

    The frightened teen stopped short, hands held high, palms facing out, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. Sam scrambled up behind him. “Thanks, Ranger. Got snagged by a tree root down there.”

    Officer Bret herded the other teen up the hillside to join the group clustered by Mike’s truck. 

    “You arresting us?” chirped the teen being prodded by Bret. Dirt-streaked face shaded by strands of greasy hair. Features contorting like he was about to cry. Wide-eyed. Scared shitless. 

    “Cuff ‘em, Sam. Before these jackrabbits hightail it out of here.”

    Sam bound their wrists behind them with zip ties. The boy he chased up the hill stood stoic and silent. His partner whined, “Our backpacks are down there. We need our gear.”

    “How old are you two?” asked Bret, standing a head taller than either teen. “Are you a couple of dropouts?”

    “You got us all wrong, mister,” said Whiney, defiantly. “We just graduated from high school. Heading to Canada.”

    “On foot?” scoffed Bret, smirking. “That’s going to take a while. Most of the summer, I reckon.”

    “We’ve been hitchhiking.” Whiney said with a sneer. “You can’t do anything to us. We’re underage. We’re not responsible for that garbage you see down there. Looks like this place has been used as a hideaway for some time. You should see the discarded beer bottles.”

    “He’s right about that,” said Mike. “I’ve heard rumors of teens coming here for a beer party and campfire at times.”

    “Sam, go down and get their backpacks,” said Bret, heady with his authority. “We’ll take them back to the station. Check to see if there’re any warrants out on them.”

    Sam, still trying to catch his breath from scrambling up the hill didn’t look too pleased, but Bret outranked him. He sauntered down the hill carefully. 

    “Think you ought to report the conditions around this place to the Health Department?” asked Mike. “I’m sure rats are crawling all over the place by now.”

    “You can go, Ranger Garrett. Thanks for your help,” said Bret. “We’ve got things under control here. He grabbed both boys by their elbows, steering them forcefully to the back of the squad car. He pushed them into the rear, none too gently, slamming the door shut. 

    Sam huffed back up the hill, dragging two backpacks, sweat dripping from his forehead. Bret popped the trunk so his partner could stow the packs inside.

    Whiney yapped, “You better not have lost any of our stuff, man.”

    “Shut up, kid! One more word out of you and---” said Bret, turning his head in the driver’s seat to threaten him.

    “And what, hit me? That would be police brutality.”

    Mike climbed into his truck. Bella whined beside him, disturbed by the confrontation.

   “I don’t like to see that either, Bella. Unfortunately some officers let their position of power go to their heads. He watched the Crown Vic pull away from the shoulder, heading back to Mittenwald. “Better get back to the State Park. Nothing more we can do here.”