70 x 7 and Beyond: Mystery of the Second Chance - Softcover

A Knight in Rusty Armor

I didn't look back. I couldn't stand seeing Jared, frightened and crying. In the police car I leaned my head on the back of the car seat. Here we go again. I didn't want to surrender. Who wants to go to jail? But in a strange way it was a relief to have the uncertainty over with. And a relief to get away from Holly. She had told be she accepted me the way I was. And she loved me. Nothing could change it. She was so sweet and kind to me, no matter how I treated her. I couldn't handle it. It made me feel like a heel and I didn't want to feel anything.

What others have said about this deeply inspiring book...

"70x7 and Beyond is one of the most powerful life-changing tools to come along since The Cross and the Switchblade.7quot;

"I can't remember a time I've ever been so affected by something I have read."

"I'm one of the many who have read 70x7 in one night. It was impossible to put down. While making dinner, I had a pan in one hand and the book in the other."

The mountain pass highway out of Missoula descended fast after the summit, as though it couldn't wait to get me out of Montana. It deposited me in Grangeville, Idaho, at one o'clock on a warm June morning in 1976.

Along the quiet streets, four-way blinker stoplights reflected in the windows of lifeless, one-story buildings. The movie theatre's marquee announced Smokey And The Bandit, but missing bulbs gave it a chicken-pox appearance. Several people in their early twenties, my bracket, crowded out of the theatre's double doors and headed for a pickup truck.

I lowered my window. "Which way to Portland, Oregon?"

"Go right, through Lewiston," one of them yelled. He surveyed my yellow 'seventy-three Eldorado. "Nice wheels. Hey! Want to party? We've got beer."

I followed them to a house where a party was in progress, and introduced myself as Monty Montana. To show my appreciation for their hospitality, I opened my attache case and broke out cocaine and Thai sticks. I stuffed my thirty-eight special in my jacket.

"Man, that's a lot of dope," someone said. "You get busted and you've had it."

I blew him away. "I'd rather die than let a cop take me, and I'll kill any cop who tries!"

There was a murmur of mixed approval and awe. Even in my drug stupor I realized they sized me up as a heavy trafficker. Who else would blow into town with a three-year-old Cadillac, lots of dope and a gun? Let them think it. I had left a trail of so many lies and half-truths, one more wouldn't hurt.

Everyone wanted to buy stuff, and I had plenty. Besides, I needed cash to get to Oregon and to Uncle Truman, the only one who could help me. So the next day when a guy who was up on the dopers said he knew a place in Lewiston where both of us could sell stuff, I said, "Let's go."

We parked my Caddy in the driveway and jumped in his jazzed up'fifty-six Plymouth drag car with a 426 Hemi. Attracted attention like blazes, but the guy's parents were important in town, so the cop probably left him alone. Not exactly like Monty "Montana" Christensen.

I snugged the guy's pot stash under the seat and leaned back, remembering the judge who said, "I see no reason Monty need go to the reform school. Who will take custody of him?"

And no one stepped forward. Not Mom, not Grandma. My stepdad, forget it, and my real dad didn't know about the problem. I went to reform school by default.

We cut around a produce truck while the Plymouth driver slapped his hand to a rock song. I braced my feet and looked at him. Some of us were born on the right side of town.

The Lewiston contact wasn't there. We got something to eat and got back to Grangeville about midnight. I wished we had made the trip in the Eldorado so I could let this guy off and go on my way. A bad feeling started in my stomach, and it wasn't from the fifth of wine I had with dinner. Something was up.

We stopped in front of the house. My car sat in the driveway, but the bad gut feeling was still with me. I touched the bulge under my jacket where the gun rested in my belt.

"You go in," I said. "Leave the motor running."

"Sure, Montana. But it looks quiet. Got the coke on you?"

"In my pocket."

"Okay." He laughed. "Just don't run off with my stash."

He went into the house. The faint grumble of a gearing down semi coming off the pass drifted throught the open car window.

The fast as a diamondback rattler on its tail can strike, two guys in jeans and plaid shirts burst out of the front door and ran for the car. One braced an automatic, and light bounced off the other's shotgun.

I had been set up. Those so called "nice people" were ripping me off. They would get my money and the couple ounces of coke I had left. I would be stranded.

I slid to the driver's seat, but they were at the car, shoving the shotgun in one window and the automatic in the other. Straight at my head.

"Freeze! Police!"

My insides turned to liquid. Police! Possession and intent to deliver were both thirty years in Idaho. Sixty years. Not to mention priors.

I lay over in the seat, punched "Drive" on the push button transmission, and jammed my foot down on the gas pedal. The car shot forward, and I grabbed the steering wheel with one hand trying to peer over the dashboard.

Pop, pop, pop. They were shooting at the car. Then boom-boom. The shotgun went off.

The car shimmied hard with a rupturing screech. The flat from the detonated tires sounded like tarps in the wind. I hung on, the steering wheel slippery in my sweaty hands. Rocks from the downhill gravel road machine-gunned the fenders, and the smell of burning rubber filled the inside of the car.

Dead ahead another gravel road intersected. The Plymouth's nose hit the ground and bounced into weightlessness as it flew through the air.

My throat was like a wound-up rubber band. I fumbled for my gun, but it dropped when we nose-dived. I gripped the steering wheel with one hand, got the coke with the other, and in mid-air threw the incriminating evidence out the passenger window.

The next instant my body whiplashed as the car smashed to the ground, slid sideways and spun twice, then slammed against the curb and stopped.

"Get out of the car, Monty!" I yelled at myself. "Get out of the car!"

Coke and adrenalin combined forces, and my body seemed on the verge of exploding. I grabbed the door handle on the driver's side and pulled. It broke off in my hand.

The police were maybe a block-and-a-half away. Where was the gun? I couldn't find it. My heart felt huge, as if there were nothing else in my body except its enormous pounding. I crawled out the passenger door and sprinted.

"Stop! Police!" They shouted at me, but I kept running. Halfway through a big field I dropped to my hands and knees in the tall wet alfalfa, and crawled. I couldn't see where I was going. I ran into a barbed wire fence, climbed through and kept on.

To my right, the porchlight on a trailer house illuminated a fat man with a rifle running out the door. He froze at the yell, "Police! You're under arrest!"

I crouched down, biting at the wire cuts in my hand, and watched in disbelief as the cops had this poor guy on his face. He must have heard the shooting and noise, and thought he was under attack, so flew out of his house with his gun-and the cops thought it was me.

That guy doesn't know how lucky he is they didn't kill him, I thought. I wished I could tell him I was sorry. I needed to tell a lot of people. Holly and Jared were at the top of the list. Then Uncle Truman who had believed in me. And Grandma. The Caddy wasn't worth it.

A police car screamed up to the trailer, and a voice rang, "You idiots! The guy we want is six feet tall and slender. You think this guy's it? Spread out and find the right one!"

I crawled away praying the dark would wrap around me.

Paradise Trailer Court -- The softly lighted sign sent a faint buzz into the court's quiet darkness. But it wouldn't be quiet for long.

An old bus converted into a camper sat apart from the nicer trailers. I looked hard at the double doors. They were ajar. I pushed them gently. Was someone there? Every blood vessel in my body seemed to bulge from terror and drugs.

The doors opened and I listened. No sounds. I eased up the steps, pulled the door back, and locked it. I crept to the back. A pile of clothes lay beneath one of the bunks. I crawled under, pulled the clothes on top of me, and lay shaking.

It didn't take long for the action to start. Sirens shrilled into the court. The bus's thinly curtained windows couldn't deflect the police car's red-and-blue lights flashing like whizzing gum balls. Floodlights glared and radios crackled instructions in high static to searchers who called to each other.

I tried to stop trembling and not to breathe as I heard the bus doors rattle. "It's locked," someone said. I heard them poking around under me.

Car engines gunned, and the occupants of other trailers yelled, "What's going on?"

By degrees my body settled down under the hot, stuffy clothes. They must have looked for me for several hours.

One by one the lights dissipated, and the cars left. I pushed aside a smelly blanket, and turned on a small radio. Maybe there was information about the chase.

No news, and middle-of-the-night disc jockeys don't talk much. This one rolled Jim Croche singing "Time in a Bottle." That had been a favorite at the Jekyll and Hyde Bar in Billings where Holly and I met. Beautiful blue-eyed Holly...no, hazel eyes set in a face as smooth and clear as a Montana spring morning. God, I missed her. The song lyrics reached out to grab me.

If I could put time in a bottle,
The first thing I would do, would be
Save everyday
Til eternity passes away-
And spend it all with you.

I groaned, and the groan echoed in my ears as though from a bottomless grave. Oh, to imprison the time with Uncle Truman and afterward with Holly. To breathe its fragrance, sip its sweetness-the first time my life meant something, when it counted.

But I would pour out the times that I screamed as an evil force tried to suck me into itself.

I would pour out all the days I didn't want to remember. Beginning with the Tonka trucks...