Ripped To Shreds Read online

  I swallowed hard at the heartrending sight of the orphaned cub who approached the body of the prostrate bear and tried to awaken its mother by nudging her with its nose. I held my breath in fear Bea was going to kill the baby too. I think she was seriously considering it when a man and woman pounced on her from behind and grabbed the gun from her hands. There was absolute chaos and wild hysteria in the campground for a few minutes. I wanted to slap the cruel campground owner and demand to know why she felt it necessary to kill the animal after it'd become apparent the mama bear was not posing a threat to anyone.

  Thirty-some people were now scattered around the common area, standing in shocked silence: their mouths agape, their eyes as wide as tea cup saucers, and their bodies motionless, as if frozen in time. Mrs. Whetstone briskly scanned the crowd before shouting out, "The show's over, folks! Now there's one less bear who'll be trying to get in our trash dumpsters."

  A murmur circulated through the crowd. It was clear nobody could believe what they'd just witnessed, and not one person made a move to depart from the scene until Bea stomped her feet and barked, "Time for all you gawkers to go back to your RVs and mind your own business!"

  "Oh, my goodness," Jan whispered to me. "She's yelling at the very people who put food on her plate with the site fees they pay. Can you believe that woman's audacity?"

  "No, I can't. Nor can I believe she killed that defenseless cub's mother. Could it be she killed that poor sow only because she was ticked off about bears raiding the park's dumpsters? Reckon that's what put a Bea under her bonnet?"

  "Who knows. From her remark, it sure sounded that way. Like I said, she's a wicked witch!"

  Within fifteen minutes the carcass of the dead bear was loaded into the back of a truck and the crowd had dispersed. Emotionally drained, Jan and I returned to finish our work in the laundry room. We were both too upset to chatter, so went about our duties silently. As I folded the clothes I'd removed from a dryer, my eyes welled up with tears, concerned for the welfare of the cub who now had no mother to protect it.

  What kind of person would gun down an animal whose only intention was protecting her young, a natural maternal instinct of nearly all of God's female creatures? I was on edge as I walked back to the welcoming comfort of the Chartreuse Caboose and felt bile rise up in my throat as I passed the pool of blood left on the ground by the slain bear. I realized that I was now in total agreement with Jan's description of Bea Whetstone. Although it goes against my grain to call people unkind names, the woman truly was a wicked witch.

  Chapter 5

  "Was that my stomach growling?" Rip asked as I rinsed off the breakfast dishes. "If so, it's because it's not sure if it will make it to lunch. It's touch and go already."

  "That noise was from the motorhome firing up in the site next to us. Trust me, honey. You're not going to dry up and blow away any time soon. You can inform your stomach it can look forward to a grilled chicken salad in a few hours."

  "Oh, yum. I can hardly wait to tear into a chicken salad. Are you trying to kill me, woman?"

  "No, on the contrary, I'm trying to prevent you from killing yourself. Dr. Herron just started you on cholesterol-lowering medication, and she warned you that your last lab results indicated you're at higher risk of becoming diabetic if you don't change your diet and increase your exercise immediately."

  "That's exactly why I hate going to see doctors," Rip countered. "I was perfectly healthy when I arrived at her office, and a total wreck knocking on death's door when I left. It's all the doc's fault!"

  "Yes, of course it is, dear. I always have thought Dr. Herron was responsible for all of your health issues," I said dryly. "In fact, I'm not sure she isn't just making it all up to keep you coming back."

  "You're just standing up for her because my doctor's a female like you."

  "Yeah, that's the reason. You bull-headed buffoon!"

  Our bantering was all in good fun, but my concerns about his health were genuine. Dr. Herron had not been joking when she warned him of impending ill health if he didn't make dire changes immediately. In line with her suggestions, for breakfast, we'd each made do with one slice of unbuttered wheat toast and a shared grapefruit. We both needed to drop a few unwanted pounds. Actually, it was more than just a few in Rip's case. He could lose twenty pounds overnight and his arteries, heart, back, and knees wouldn't miss them one bit. Nor would his wife!

  Until recently, I'd let him eat about anything he'd wanted following his hip replacement last August, so he could concentrate all his complaints on the pain and suffering from the surgery, as men are wont to do. But the scales had begun groaning louder and louder each time he stepped on them, and I knew it was time for both of us to resume a healthy eating regimen. Rip's primary physician, Dr. Herron, had verified that conclusion at Rip's check-up before we left Rockport for Wyoming in late winter.

  At that appointment, which Rip had felt was totally unnecessary, the no-nonsense doctor had warned him his high cholesterol and off-the-chart triglyceride levels put him at greater risk for a stroke and heart disease. She told him he needed to reduce his saturated fat, carbohydrates, and sugar intake. My stubborn husband had scoffed at her advice, saying man could not live on carrots alone. He also pooh-poohed her suggestion to join a gym so he could exercise more.

  An unhappy camper, Rip was missing his customary bacon and cheese omelets, which in the past seven or eight months had been routinely served with an English muffin, laden with butter and lathered in strawberry jam. He clearly wanted to make sure I appreciated the sacrifice he was making to help me keep him alive for at least another week.

  "It's not fair," he grumbled. "I feel weak. I think I could actually pass out if I don't get some real food in my stomach soon."

  "Then pass out quietly, dear. All your squawking is getting on my nerves."

  Rip was now fully invested in the pity party he was throwing for himself in the living room, grumbling that his stomach thought his throat had been cut. As usual, I was unmoved by his bellyaching. It was his health I was most concerned with, even if he didn't appear to be worried about it at all. Finally, I'd had enough. "Would you like a little cheese with your whine, darling?"

  "Yes, yes, and hell yes!" He enthusiastically replied. "And a handful of crackers to accompany the cheese would be welcome, as well. In fact, I'll take anything you have to offer, as long as I can stuff it in my mouth."

  "Why don't you stuff that throw pillow you're leaning on in your mouth? It may not appease your stomach, but at least it'd plug up your pie-hole."

  "Humph! Neither you or Dr. Herron care about my misery and anguish, do you?"

  I ignored his grumbling and dried my hands on a dish towel before joining him in the living room. I picked up my iPad to see if I could locate an owner's manual online that'd explain how to use my new critter cam. "How about we go search for a good location in the woods to set up this new camera? It will take your mind off eating."

  "I doubt that, but I'm game if you are."

  "Great. Just let me see if I can find some instructions on how to operate it first."

  "We don't need instructions. How difficult can it be? It's a camera, for goodness sakes. It should be self-explanatory."

  "Um, yeah. But–"

  "Trust me, I'll figure it out. It's not like I haven't used a camera before, you know. I had to take photos of crime scenes for years. It's the exact same thing."

  "Was the department's camera motion-activated? Did the victim have to come back to life and wave at the camera to trip the shutter release? Did the only item a burglar didn't steal have to roll off the coffee table? It is not the exact same thing, Rip."

  "Don't be ridiculous. I can figure it out, honey. It's not rocket science, for goodness sakes." Rip exuded confidence, but that didn't prevent the flashbacks I was suddenly experiencing.

  "Listen here, Rapella. How difficult can it be to fix this lawnmower?"

  "Come on, Rapella. I really don't need instructions to repair the dishw
asher."

  "Seriously, Rapella? You, of all people, want to waste money on a mechanic when I can fix this transmission malfunction myself?"

  "Trust me, sweetheart. I can get this DVD player working perfectly. Like new, in fact."

  In each case, a few days and many profanities later, the lawn mower, dishwasher, transmission, and DVD player had indeed all worked perfectly. Like new, in fact, as Rip had promised. But that's only because all four were brand new after Rip had declared that the faulty ones he'd tried to repair were worthless and unfixable pieces of crap. On each occasion, all that was left of the faulty device was a box full of miscellaneous parts he'd removed in his attempt to repair it and later didn't have a clue where they'd come from or how to return them to their rightful place.

  But, I didn't want to dissuade him and have him change his mind about accompanying me into the deep, dark, and totally horrifying woods. So I choked back a sarcastic retort on the tip of my tongue and, with fingers crossed behind my back, said, "Okay, dear. I guess I'm ready if you're certain you can figure out how to set the camera up and make it function properly."

  "I couldn't be more certain!"

  * * *

  "What do you reckon 'burst' means?" Rip asked. "Or 'delay'?"

  I remained silent. Not only was I already irritated with him, I knew he'd pay no attention to any opinion I voiced anyway. He'd fiddled with the camera while I nervously paced in circles around the pine tree he'd chosen to attach it to. Attach it after, of course, he'd figured out how to set and activate it to trip the camera's shutter whenever the motion sensor was triggered. My head was spinning on my neck like a merry-go-round as I tried to keep my concentration fixed on our surroundings and off the unimaginable amount of time it was taking Rip to figure out how to operate the camera.

  He'd been randomly pushing buttons and turning dials on the critter cam, more accurately referred to as a game camera, for over half-an-hour. Pushing random buttons and arbitrarily turning dials in an eenie-meenie-miney-mo fashion is exactly how he frequently screws up the settings on the remote control, forcing us to watch reruns of the Three Stooges for hours on end until some seven-year old stops by and re-programs it. Rip thinks the trio of screwballs are hysterical. But after about fifteen minutes of watching their nonsense, I'm ready to throw a brick through the TV screen.

  Thinking back to Rip's earlier statement, I was thankful now that utilizing the camera wasn't rocket science. If it were, the critter cam, and the two of us, would probably be orbiting the moon by now, having been rocketed into space by Rip's haphazard fiddling with the device. It would have given an entirely new significance to the term "space junk".

  At this point, I realized from years of experience my husband would never be able to duplicate the procedure even if he did manage to get the camera set properly. But I kept that thought to myself. I was more interested in getting back to the safety of our travel trailer than anything else, and a bout of bickering would only delay, or possibly prevent, that desirable outcome.

  "What 'burst' says to me is how bright the infrared flash illuminates if motion is detected at night," Rip reasoned, talking to himself more than me. "And what 'delay' says to me is the amount of time it takes for the shutter to open after that motion has been detected."

  "Whatever you say," I replied. Unable to contain my annoyance any longer, I added, "But what both 'burst' and 'delay' say to me is that you should have listened to your wife and let her Google the instruction manual for you to study before we left the trailer. That way you wouldn't have had to wing it once we got out here in the woods, thereby making us vulnerable to attacks by wild animals for a much longer time than necessary."

  As expected, Rip ignored my response. Although activating the camera seemed as if it might turn out to be nothing more than a time-consuming catastrophe, he'd had no trouble deactivating his selective hearing at a moment's notice.

  Rip was a stubborn man, determined to save face. He was not going to throw in the towel if there was still an unlikely chance to prevent having to swallow his pride and admit I might have had a valid point. This was a man who'd once driven four counties out of our way rather than stop so I could walk into a convenience store and ask for directions.

  When I realized it could be a good long while before he needed my assistance to strap the camera to the tree trunk, I sat down on a bed of pine needles and leaned my back up against a large rock. The warmth of the sun shining through the tree limbs was on the verge of lulling me to sleep when the snapping of a branch about twenty yards behind me nearly made me wet my pants. Even Rip was startled by the unexpected noise and reached for the forty-caliber pistol in the holster attached to his leather belt. Only to run the animal off, unless it becomes a life or death situation for us, he'd promised. I wanted an approaching animal scared off, not mortally wounded, as Bea had mercilessly done to the mama bear the previous day.

  "I don't like this location. Too close to the campground." We heard a man's voice say, but couldn't make out what a softer female voice said in response. It sounded to me as if she'd mentioned something about a saw, claw, or jaw, but I couldn't be certain. I also thought I'd made out another word she'd said, like "tack" or "tap". Rip couldn't hear the woman's voice at all because his hearing deficiency was most prominent in the higher-pitched tones. It was an issue I was always reminded of when he claimed to not have heard me ask him to do something he'd had no desire to do in the first place.

  The voices were getting harder to make out as the distance between us appeared to get greater. The only other word I could decipher was the male voice saying "valley".

  "What kind of idiots would be out here in the middle of the woods?" I asked.

  "Besides you and me?"

  "Well, uh–"

  "Maybe they've entered the photo contest too and have visions of twenty-five thousand buckaroos dancing in their heads like you do," Rip said. He sounded more frustrated than amused. "I think I've got this thing ready to strap to the tree trunk now. Let's get it done and get the heck out of here!"

  I couldn't have agreed more. But strapping the game camera to the tree was easier said than done. I was afraid that at any given moment he'd drop kick the entire contraption into the mountain stream that meandered through the woods not far from the pine tree Rip had been cursing for the last twenty minutes. I'd actually witnessed him booting a golf club into a pond one day after whiffing three straight shots from the edge of a sand trap. So I had first-hand knowledge of how disgusted he could get when aggravated.

  He controlled his temper this time and continued fiddling with the straps. Finally, he rubbed his hands together and said, "There! Now if I can arm it without causing it to slide down the tree or tilt over again, we've got it made."

  I clapped my hands and was backing away from the tree when a loud, shrill "SCREECH" made me trip over my shadow and fall on my rear end. Fortunately, there was just enough padding there to keep me from breaking my tailbone. A broken butt was not something I was anxious to deal with.

  Once I'd gotten back up on my feet, my first instinct was to sprint away from the direction from which the sound had originated, but Rip advised me to stay next to him. He was the one with the weapon, he reminded me, and the hip replacement surgery he'd undergone eight months ago was not going to allow him to outrun a bear, or any other animal, except possibly a pissed-off sloth.

  He told me that in a situation like this, one should not panic. He said, "The worst thing to do when approached by a wild animal is to run away from it."

  Not panic? I couldn't promise that, but I definitely was not going to run. Especially when we didn't know which direction to flee since we weren't entirely sure from which direction we'd come. If I sprinted off erroneously, I'd likely beat the bears back to their den, where they'd devour me as if I'd been delivered by room service on a silver platter.

  Although I didn't say so out loud, I felt confident that due to that aforementioned surgery of Rip's, I could outrun my husband and, natura
lly, it was the one pulling up the rear who was most at risk of being mauled, killed, and/or eaten by the animal you're fleeing. Not that I wanted him to be attacked or injured in any way either, you understand. Survival of the fittest is an appropriate phrase that comes to mind. Just saying...

  But, fortunately, outrunning Rip was not an issue that day. Luck was with us and he was able to retrace our path well enough that we emerged only seven RV sites down from where we'd initially entered the woods. The frightful screeching noise we'd heard was enough to make me want to forget the idea of winning a photo contest and sacrifice the twenty bucks I'd spent on the critter cam. And for me, that's saying a lot.

  I assumed Rip was just as reluctant as I to ever step foot inside the terrifying woods again. But I soon realized the scary sound we'd heard had only served to encourage him when he remarked, "I can't wait to see if we capture any wildlife photos on the camera, maybe even that critter we heard screeching right before we headed back. Didn't Cora say she could download the photos on the memory card to our iPad for us to look through?"

  "Yeah, but–"

  "Good. Let's give it three days. Then we'll go retrieve the camera and check it out. I think there's a way to tell how many images have been captured on the memory card from the display on the camera. Why don't you find the owner's manual online so I can study it in the meantime?"

  "Gee, why didn't I think of that?"

  * * *

  "That's amazing!" I exclaimed. "Eight hundred and forty-seven photos!"

  I was so excited I could barely contain myself as I watched Cora upload the photos to our tablet. I just knew my critter cam had captured an award-winning photograph of the female mountain lion Boonie had assured me belonged to the screeching noises emitting from the woods surrounding the Rest 'n Peace campground.

  After reading the manual during the three days' wait Rip had allotted before checking it, he'd figured out how to operate the camera. When we'd returned to the pine tree and removed the camera from the tree, Rip had said, "I'm going to mark this tree with a ribbon. If we capture any wildlife photos here, it's likely a great location to set it back up in the future."