Finding Floyd

by Melinda Peters

  The truck was part of his cover, as were the overalls, flannel shirt and Atlanta Braves ball cap. His Dixie redneck disguise was a little thin, as nothing could hide the tough looking heavy features that gave him away. Aviator dark glasses sat on a wide nose that looked as though it'd been broken more than once. A perpetual blue-black five-o'clock shadow with a half-smoked cigar protruding from one corner of his cruel mouth didn't help either. The perpetual cigar and ruthless manner of dealing with his enemies had earned him the nickname, Bruno "Blowtorch" Toricello. Despite his disguise, he looked exactly like the big city thug he was.

  When he'd left Jersey for Virginia, he'd brought plenty of cash with him to avoid using credit cards and leaving a paper trail. He'd spent the day food shopping and was heading back to the safety of the cabin. Behind him were bags filled with wine, bread, cheese, cold cuts, and several pounds of what the grocery store's olive bar had to offer.

  "Store's down here, they don't got any good bread," he groused with irritation. He wasn't used to spending this much time alone and had taken to talking to himself. "It ain't like at home, where you could go buy a good loaf all over. How can they live where you can't get good bread? There's no good pizza, can't find no good Chinese food neitha. These hicks must eat nothin' but ham and biscuits. I like a nice fluffy biscuit as much as the next guy, but no nice crusty Italian bread?" He shook his head in disgust.

  His attention turned back to the road just in time to swerve, barely missing the dead skunk lying in the middle of the road. Toricello wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Speaking of skunks, that stupid shit, Tony DePalma, let his ass get caught. The guy's an amateur!" he ranted at the windshield. "Now he's in jail spilling his guts to the police, the FBI and anybody else who wants to listen. If I hadn't hired his ass, I wouldn't be stuck here today. Biggest mistake I ever made. Here I am. Me. Bruno Toricello holed up here like I'm friggin' Robin Hood out in the woods hiding from the Sheriff."

  Bruno drove along talking to himself and gesturing with his hands. A dusty blue pickup approached and passed him going the other way. The driver nodded and raised an index finger from the steering wheel giving him a friendly Floyd County greeting.

  "What's with everybody givin' me the finger? I don't get these people. They all do that. Don't even know what finger to give. 'Hello?' Hey pal, it's the middle finger."

  Toricello's drug and money laundering operations in New Jersey were extensive. When Tony DePalma was captured, he'd let $250,000 of Toricello's profits, drop neatly into the hands of the FBI.

  "Two hundred fifty grand wasn't enough money to cripple my operation, but losing two hundred and fifty big ones? Forget about it! He told me he had it! Next thing I know, the FBI has the cash and they're climbing right up my ass. I can't afford to let that little shit slide. Lucky for him, he's in jail, otherwise I'd have his ass ground up and mixed in cement," he growled at the windshield, biting down on the cigar butt.

  "The Feds will never look for me here. It's a good, safe place to hide. It really is the ass end of nowhere, he mumbled, looking at his surroundings. Along the road, as it wound through the hills, he saw patches of woods, or fields with a few grazing cattle.

  Rounding another curve, something caught his eye and he slowed. An opening in the trees that might have once been a road turned downward and out of sight, but there was something, just the slightest glint of sunlight on metal. He turned in carefully, driving a few yards to where the narrow track curved away. He saw what had caught his attention. Parked off to the right, a short way down was a very clean, black Chevy Suburban. He craned his neck and could just see beyond it another vehicle. This one was an anonymous looking dark blue sedan. Government law enforcement transportation was easy to spot. Instantly the hair rose on the back of his neck. He smelled the presence of the FBI. Maybe they'd found him after all. He backed out and continued driving slowly, but when he came to the road leading to the hunting cabin, he kept on going. His instincts told him that something wasn't right. Bruno Toricello hadn't survived this long, successfully fending off rival mobsters and the cops, by not listening to his instincts. For the time being, he'd find another place to hide.

  * * *

  Special agent Constanza Rodriguez picked her way slowly down the rutted gravel road, her eyes darting glances into the shadows under the trees. The coal black, glittering eyes were what drew attention first, but her entire demeanor was that of a hunting wolf. Her tight black jeans looked like a second skin over her rear and down her long lean legs. A dark blue and yellow FBI wind breaker just barely hid the holstered automatic on her hip. Rodriguez rarely smiled and she certainly wasn't smiling now. They'd had a fruitless day waiting for a suspect who hadn't materialized.

  Chris rose from his vantage point at the side of the road and walked stiffly to meet Rodriguez. He was cold and tired after an entire day of waiting and watching. As the sun sank, casting dusky shadows, he stopped before Rodriguez and they scrutinized the road and woods one last time.

  Owen shot a questioning glance at his partner. He looked at her impassive face and saw there the cold cruel features of her Conquistador and Aztec ancestors. She perpetually wore an expression that looked as though she were perfectly capable of committing murder and was about to do just that. His boss had sent her down to Virginia, in spite of his repeated protestations that he didn't want to work with her anymore. Rodriguez was intense, abrupt, and too often unorthodox in her methods. Owen was more the good cop, persuasive and easy going.

  "So, what do you think?" he asked.

  "Maybe a phony tip? Maybe he made us?" she said, shrugging. "Who the hell knows? But I know somebody's been living in that cabin."

  "You went in? We weren't supposed to unless he was in there. We've got an arrest warrant, but no search warrant."

  "Back door was open," she said, shrugging again.

  "It was unlocked, or it was open after you picked the lock?"

  In answer to his question, she simply stared unsmiling, with those deep onyx eyes. He sighed, looked away and ran a hand through his short blond hair.

  "Tomorrow, how about you flash his picture around the local businesses? See if anyone recognizes him. He has to buy food. Maybe he's gone all the way to Roanoke or some other place."

  "Yeah, I'm gonna do that. He's been shopping all right. There's wine, a little fruit and other stuff inside. Found a couple of receipts for local stores too. He paid cash," she said, pausing. "The guy's a slob. There's trash everywhere in there."

  "Well, that's something. It's a start. Let's get out of here. I need a shower and a bite to eat," he said, heading down toward the road and their cars.

  Chapter 7

  Becky clung to Ethan like a drowning person tossed on the flood. The ground heaved beneath them. A tremendous series of thunderclaps came out of the west and washed over them. Although they’d experienced the first quake just five weeks before, they were no less frightened by this one. It seemed as though the whole world was coming apart. Ethan thought that this second quake was at least as violent as the first. The girl held onto him, face buried on his chest and whimpering with terror.

  Eventually the motion of the earth subsided. Ethan couldn’t have told how long the violence continued. It hadn’t collapsed their lean-to shelter of pine boughs, but shook needles in a fragrant stickiness upon them. They lay in one another’s arms, the comforting scent of pine filling the narrow space. Finally, they lifted their heads. Becky’s blue eyes were misted with tears, and her blond hair, shaken loose, fell over her shoulders and across Ethan. For a long moment, the couple stared into each other’s eyes, their fear slowly subsiding. At least they weren’t alone, in a world gone eerily silent and still. He softly whispered her name and their lips met in a kiss so passionate, it took them both by surprise.'

  From Reelfoot Legacy, by Melinda Peters

  "Sure, I know all about them earthquakes," said Jeremiah. The old man shifted his weight in the porch rocker, leaned back, and squinted at the distant blue-green hills as i
f what he wanted to say was written there. "Reason is, my great-great-granddaddy settled out there, right near the Mississippi, about two-hundred years ago. It was the Territory then, but now it's Tennessee." He stopped his rocking, leaned over the arm of his chair, and gave her a curious frown. "What you want to know about all that for, young lady? Most folks nowadays just aren't interested in them old stories."

  Vicky swept her dark auburn hair over her shoulder and leaned toward the old man, excited at the thought of a personal story to further her research. "Oh, but I'm interested Mr. Evans. I'd love to hear them all. I'm fascinated by the past." Since deciding on the historical setting for the next book, she'd taken to asking people what they knew about the New Madrid earthquakes. Until now, the only responses she'd received were blank looks.

  Jeremiah looked at her suspiciously. "Are you now?" Shrugging, he tugged on the legs of his overalls, and settled into the cushions. The chair began to gently rock again.

  "Did your ancestors ever write anything down about the earthquakes, Mr. Evans?" she asked hopefully.

  "Nah. Nothing like that." He waved a hand towards her dismissing the idea. "Leastways, not here in Virginia. My granddaddy said once he thought his kinfolk out in Tennessee wrote it all down, but I don't know for sure." He rocked for a moment before continuing, "There's a passel of stories handed down over the years though. There's things my daddy told me, that his daddy and granddad told him. Some of it fearsome enough to make you go all over gooseflesh, and that's a fact."

  "So your family lived there before it was part of Tennessee?" she asked encouraging him.

  "It was the first Jeremiah settled out there with his folks. I'm named for him, don't ya know." Warming to his story, he turned to Vicky and continued, "The Evans's were one of the first white families to settle there. Lived with the Indians, Chickasaw if I remember correctly, or maybe it was the Choctaw. Worked hard, clearing the land themselves and living in a little ol' log cabin."

  "That's amazing. Tell me more," she enthused.

  "Well now. If I recollect, Jeremiah, he and his folks survived them earthquakes." He frowned, remembering. "But their home and everything they'd worked so hard for was destroyed, and they had to rebuild. Then, it wasn't hardly any time at all; he marched off to war with Old Hickory and fought in the Second War of Independence. War of 1812, they call it now. They say he was nearly killed in an Indian attack. Had a brother was killed by the Indians, though. Or in the war somehow." The old man reached down, took up a mason jar by his side, deftly spun the lid off, and took a long swallow. He sighed deeply with satisfaction and set it down beside his rocking chair.

  "I'd like to spend more time with you and hear more of your stories. They shouldn't ever be lost and forgotten. Would you mind if I took notes?" she asked eagerly.

  "Well now. I reckon that's not a bad idea, if you've a mind to, young lady. Daddy and Granddaddy told me lots of stories." Nodding thoughtfully, he admitted, "I'd like for them to be writ down. Probably should've done it myself long ago."

  Her curls bouncing with every step, a pretty little girl in a pink dress trotted past the musicians as they tuned their instruments, and stopped in front of Vicky and Jeremiah. She cradled a baby doll on one hip, a miniature baby bottle pressed firmly into its tiny mouth. There was a smug, self possessed expression on her alert little face.

  "Hi. I'm Lina," she announced, eyeing Vicky with curiosity.

  "Is that your baby?" Vicky asked.

  Lina smiled indulgently at the doll and sighed. "Yes. My baby's name is Cassandra. I'm taking her inside now. She has to have her nap."

  "I see," said Vicky, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

  "Yes, it's nap time," she said reaching up to open the kitchen door. "Good-bye." The screen door slammed behind her.

  "That sweet little thing is just cute as a button. Reminds me of my own youngsters, a good many years ago," said Jeremiah.

  He glanced away to watch the quartet of musicians begin playing on the other end of the spacious porch, his foot keeping time with the lively tune. He picked up his jar and took another drink before tucking it safely back beside his chair.

  Vicky vaguely wondered why the old man was drinking water from a dusty mason jar. "All this talking has made you thirsty!" She leaned towards him and raised her voice to be heard over the music. "Here I've been asking you all these questions and I never offered to get you an iced tea or lemonade. Maybe you'd like some coffee?"

  "That won't be necessary sweet thing. He grinned and winked at her. "I've brought along my own jar." He turned to watch the men playing guitar, mandolin, fiddle, and base as the volume increased. "Lord have mercy," he shouted. "That Hardwick boy is one fine fiddle player for one so young. My own daddy was right handy with the fiddle, but I never had the gift."

  Vicky was about to steer Mr. Evans back to the subject of the earthquakes, when she felt Jack's hand on her shoulder.

  "Got a minute?" her husband asked, motioning for her to follow him into the kitchen."

  "Excuse me, Mr. Evans." Vicky stood up and leaned down so the old man could hear. "I'm looking forward to visiting with you soon to hear more about your family history. Perhaps later?"

  "I ain't going anywhere, leastways not 'til the good Lord calls me home," he yelled. "Be happy to tell you everything I can recollect darlin'." He began rocking again, his attention already focused on the music.

  Jack put his arm around his wife's waist, pulling her to him as they stepped inside. Just like the back porch, the kitchen was humming with activity. Diane was slicing cakes and brownies that the women had brought. Several of the chainsaw jockeys were seated around the table, plowing their way through the desserts. Two women were at the sink rinsing and stacking dirty dishes. On the floor, Lina and her sister, Callie, played under the work island with their dolls.

  Gesturing towards the crowd, Jack said close to her ear, "I thought I'd go to the store for Diane. With all these unexpected guests, she's running out of groceries. You want to come? We could check out Floyd and find The Country Store. I want to go there on Friday night for the music."

  Vicky grinned at him. "Absolutely! I'm so going with you. Friday night there's a lot of activity in Floyd. I read about it on the web site. Ask Diane what she needs while I get ready. I won't be long." She slipped through the crowd and out of the kitchen."

  "Jack?" He turned to see Diane at his side. She looked frazzled in the midst of the barely controlled chaos.

  Pushing damp tendrils of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand, she said, "Thanks for offering to buy some groceries. I sent a list to your phone. Just a few things to last me until I have a chance to go on Monday. Make sure you get a lot of coffee."

  "No problem. We came here to help, not just to relax."

  "Thanks." She glanced around and said, "It seems like everyone is either bringing in food, serving food, eating food, or cleaning up the mess from food. I don't know how Sandy can afford to feed all these people! And I don't know how I'm going to pay those men for all that work. Sandy never mentioned an emergency fund, or said anything about people coming for breakfast. She told me there were no guests booked for the rest of the month and I just had to take care of the animals. They all just started showing up. Everybody's real nice and friendly, but...I wasn't ready for all this."

  Carol Anne, Beau Shackleford's wife, was loading the big commercial dishwasher. Frowning she called over her shoulder, "Hey Diane. I think there's something wrong here. The handle on this faucet is loose and it's started to leak some."

  "Let me take a look," said Jack, stepping up to the sink. After examining the fixture, he said, "This faucet needs to be replaced. It's just plain worn out."

  "Oh no!" moaned Diane. "What else can go wrong?"

  "Just be careful with it. I'll get a new faucet while we're out and tomorrow I'll replace it. No problem."

  "Thanks, Jack," Diane said gratefully. "I'm really glad you and Vicky could come."

  Out on the porch, the music
stopped and the men began packing up their instruments. The people at the table pushed back their chairs and began to carry their plates to the dishwasher. The women hung up their dishtowels and gathered their things.

  Diane smiled weakly as they all stopped to thank her.

  Kyle hung back from the crowd as they filed out, and then approached Diane. "It was mighty nice of you, Miss Diane, to take over for Sandy like this." He winked as he slipped another brownie from the plate. "Usually there's more music, but today we wanted to get that tree out of your way. I'm fixing to head into town. Why don't you come along with me? I could show you around and then we could get us a bite to eat."

  More food? Seriously? Diane's mind reeled. Except when they were cutting up the fallen tree or playing their instruments on the back porch, they'd been eating all day long! "Thank you, Kyle. I really appreciate your thinking of me, but I'm pooped. Maybe another time?"

  "I understand, but I'd sure feel privileged if you'd let me take you to lunch, maybe tomorrow? There's a couple of nice places to eat in town. Be happy to show you round." He smiled and gave a tug on the bill of his baseball cap before slipping past Vicky as she returned to the kitchen with her jacket and purse.

  "He totally likes you, Diane!" Vicky teased as she rejoined her friend.

  Diane sank onto a kitchen chair and groaned.

  "Hey. Where'd everybody go all of a sudden?" said Vicky.

  "I don't know. They all just left and I'm totally worn out. I think I'll just finish cleaning up things here after you leave. It was so nice of those women to bring those desserts and clean up all the dishes. There's not much left to do."

  "They really are the nicest people," said Vicky as her husband took her hand and led her outside.