The Most Dangerous Animal of All by Gary L. Stewart, Susan Mustafa
Authors: Gary L. Stewart, Susan Mustafa
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handing William five hundred dollars. “Hold this for me in case I ever come back or if I ever need some money in a hurry.”
“Van, you’ve got to stop this,” William begged. “She’s not worth it.”
“Yes, she is,” Van said. “Please don’t tell anyone I was here. I don’t want you involved.”
That same night, around midnight, my father, disguised as a doctor, walked into San Francisco General Hospital looking for my mother. He was not going to let anyone keep her from him. A few minutes later, doctor and patient walked nonchalantly out of the hospital, without attracting attention. Once outside, Judy and Van ran to the rental car he had waiting.
At 3:40 a.m., the floor nurse noticed Judy’s empty bed and sounded the alarm, notifying Dr. L. N. Swanson of the escape. The doctor telephoned the police, who immediately put out an all-points bulletin for the couple.
“Sundae Bride Hunted,” the headline in the San Francisco News–Call Bulletin read the next morning. “Guards on the Mexican border have been alerted to watch for San Francisco’s 14-year-old ice cream bride and interrupt—if possible—her third elopement.”
“The girl vanished early Friday from San Francisco General Hospital, and less than 12 hours later, a blood-stained auto was found abandoned near King City,” reported the Examiner .
Newspapers across the country picked up the story, jumping on the illicit romance of it all. A nationwide manhunt ensued, but Judy and Van were long gone.
When they left the hospital, they had driven south on Highway 101, heading for Mexico, but Van had fallen asleep at the wheel and careened off the road.
Judy screamed as the car crashed into a ditch.
Van, jarred awake, jumped out of the car. “Let’s go!” he yelled, ignoring Judy’s concern about the blood covering the spot where his head had hit the steering wheel. “We’ve got to get out of here before the cops come.”
Judy followed him onto the road. “What are we going to do?”
Van stuck out his thumb as a car approached.
It took them only two hitched rides to reach Sacramento. By that evening they were sharing a chocolate milk shake at a root beer stand in Williams, north of Sacramento. They spent the night in a roadside hotel, making plans. Van knew the police would suspect they were going to Mexico, so he decided to head for Canada instead.
The next day, another article appeared in the Examiner : “Judy Chandler, the missing 15-year-old ex-bride, was seen sharing a chocolate milkshake with her former husband Friday night in the Sacramento Valley town of Williams.” The newspaper got it wrong—Judy was still fourteen.
The article went on: “When the owner of a root beer stand on Highway 99 and his two employees saw a picture of the missing couple on the front page of The Examiner yesterday, they called the newspaper. Police questioned the three last night and said they had positively identified the couple.”
On Sunday morning, my fugitive parents stopped at a diner for breakfast. Van noticed his picture staring back at him from a newsstand and hustled Judy out of there fast. He realized they would not make it to the border without being recognized.
“I’m hungry. Why can’t we eat?” Judy asked him.
Van did not answer as he steered them toward a Longs drugstore behind the diner. He told her to wait outside.
Van headed for the cosmetics aisle, studied the products for a moment, and then slipped a box of women’s hair dye under his sweater. He walked up to the counter and bought a pack of Lucky Strikes. Judy nervously waited outside.
When they got back to the motel, Van insisted that she dye her hair.
“I don’t want to, Van,” Judy cried.
“Our pictures are everywhere. You have to do this,” he insisted. “Do you want to go to jail? Someone will recognize you.”
Tearfully, Judy watched in the mirror as her beautiful blond hair turned black. The person looking back at her was a stranger—a pregnant,
“Van, you’ve got to stop this,” William begged. “She’s not worth it.”
“Yes, she is,” Van said. “Please don’t tell anyone I was here. I don’t want you involved.”
That same night, around midnight, my father, disguised as a doctor, walked into San Francisco General Hospital looking for my mother. He was not going to let anyone keep her from him. A few minutes later, doctor and patient walked nonchalantly out of the hospital, without attracting attention. Once outside, Judy and Van ran to the rental car he had waiting.
At 3:40 a.m., the floor nurse noticed Judy’s empty bed and sounded the alarm, notifying Dr. L. N. Swanson of the escape. The doctor telephoned the police, who immediately put out an all-points bulletin for the couple.
“Sundae Bride Hunted,” the headline in the San Francisco News–Call Bulletin read the next morning. “Guards on the Mexican border have been alerted to watch for San Francisco’s 14-year-old ice cream bride and interrupt—if possible—her third elopement.”
“The girl vanished early Friday from San Francisco General Hospital, and less than 12 hours later, a blood-stained auto was found abandoned near King City,” reported the Examiner .
Newspapers across the country picked up the story, jumping on the illicit romance of it all. A nationwide manhunt ensued, but Judy and Van were long gone.
When they left the hospital, they had driven south on Highway 101, heading for Mexico, but Van had fallen asleep at the wheel and careened off the road.
Judy screamed as the car crashed into a ditch.
Van, jarred awake, jumped out of the car. “Let’s go!” he yelled, ignoring Judy’s concern about the blood covering the spot where his head had hit the steering wheel. “We’ve got to get out of here before the cops come.”
Judy followed him onto the road. “What are we going to do?”
Van stuck out his thumb as a car approached.
It took them only two hitched rides to reach Sacramento. By that evening they were sharing a chocolate milk shake at a root beer stand in Williams, north of Sacramento. They spent the night in a roadside hotel, making plans. Van knew the police would suspect they were going to Mexico, so he decided to head for Canada instead.
The next day, another article appeared in the Examiner : “Judy Chandler, the missing 15-year-old ex-bride, was seen sharing a chocolate milkshake with her former husband Friday night in the Sacramento Valley town of Williams.” The newspaper got it wrong—Judy was still fourteen.
The article went on: “When the owner of a root beer stand on Highway 99 and his two employees saw a picture of the missing couple on the front page of The Examiner yesterday, they called the newspaper. Police questioned the three last night and said they had positively identified the couple.”
On Sunday morning, my fugitive parents stopped at a diner for breakfast. Van noticed his picture staring back at him from a newsstand and hustled Judy out of there fast. He realized they would not make it to the border without being recognized.
“I’m hungry. Why can’t we eat?” Judy asked him.
Van did not answer as he steered them toward a Longs drugstore behind the diner. He told her to wait outside.
Van headed for the cosmetics aisle, studied the products for a moment, and then slipped a box of women’s hair dye under his sweater. He walked up to the counter and bought a pack of Lucky Strikes. Judy nervously waited outside.
When they got back to the motel, Van insisted that she dye her hair.
“I don’t want to, Van,” Judy cried.
“Our pictures are everywhere. You have to do this,” he insisted. “Do you want to go to jail? Someone will recognize you.”
Tearfully, Judy watched in the mirror as her beautiful blond hair turned black. The person looking back at her was a stranger—a pregnant,
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