Finding Floyd

by Melinda Peters

  "If I'm still here," she said lightly. "I might."

  Hesitating at the door, Chris rattled the keys in his pocket. His uneasiness hadn't diminished, so he looked through the sidelight, checking to see if anything was out of place, until he noticed Diane watching him with a questioning look. He smiled, shrugged and inserted the key into the lock. The door swung open on new, well oiled hinges, with no protesting squeal. They stepped into the silent foyer redolent with the smell of new lumber.

  * * *

  Bruno Toricello stood still, scarcely breathing, at the bottom of the basement stairs, a handgun gripped in one beefy fist. He had heard the crunch of gravel as an engine roared up the road and stopped in front of the house. There was nothing for a moment or two, and then he heard the distant, but distinct slamming of two car doors. He waited motionless and silent, considering his options.

  Whoever's out there might not come in. If they do, they might not come down here. Did I mess up anything upstairs? Nah. I don't think so. Of all the rotten luck. I just found this great hideout. If they catch me here, I got no choice. I gotta eliminate the nosy bastards. Tough luck. After that, what? Maybe I'll torch the place with them inside and get the hell out. On the other hand, a burning house would draw a hell of a lot of attention. I better stash them in the woods. Give them a nice long dirt nap.

  He heard a third car door slam. Good, they're leaving. He waited expectantly for the sound of an engine starting, but there was nothing. Are they leaving or what?

  Footsteps sounded on the floor above and a door gently thunked. There were voices. It sounded like a man and a woman. He listened closely, unable to make out what they said, except for a word or two. He moved closer to the bottom of the stairs, rested a foot on the lowest tread, and aimed the pistol toward the door at the top. "Stay the hell up there and nobody will get hurt," he whispered.

  The footsteps advanced and receded, the two intruders apparently moving from room to room. Bruno strained to catch the words as their voices grew faint and then louder again.

  He looked at the wood stove. The fire had burn out during the night, so there wasn't any smoke coming from the chimney. His sleeping bag, lawn chair and other supplies lay scattered about the room.

  If I make a run for it, I'll have to leave all this shit. It would be easier to ice those two clowns, get everything back to the truck, and set fire to the place. Carting the bodies into the woods to bury them would be a lot of work. Damn, do I have a shovel in the truck? He couldn't remember.

  The voices were louder now and the footfalls stopped near the top of the stairs. He froze, listening intently to the conversation, which he could now hear clearly. The woman spoke.

  "Are you going to show me the basement? You said it was finished down there with a bath and spare bedroom?"

  "Yeah, it's partially finished. The bathroom is mostly done, but again, I still need to paint everything," said the man. "There's not much to see."

  What's this, a freakin' real estate agent showing the place or what? You don't want to see the cellar lady. It'll be the last thing you ever see. He ducked back so as not to be seen by anyone coming down the steps. It will be easier to take them from behind when they get down here. A shot in the back of the head and they'll never know what hit them. The woman spoke again.

  "Chris, that's your man cave down there, isn't it?" She giggled. "Don't try and deny it, I can smell the cigars from here. I'll bet there's a big screen TV and you and the guys sit down there watching football, drinking beer and smoking cigars, right?"

  After a pause of several seconds, he heard the man say, "Come on. Let's get out of here."

  "What, is this some of your FBI cloak and dagger paranoia? What's the matter? Where are we going?"

  "FBI! What the hell? Shit shit shit..." Bruno stuffed the pistol into his waistband and ran for the outside door.

  "Come on," said Chris as he took off through the front door in three long strides, dragging Diane along. She stumbled, trying to keep up with him as he slammed the door, hurtled down the steps, and raced for his Suburban. He opened the driver's door and tossed her in ahead of him. "Get in. Don't ask questions. Fasten your seat belt," he ordered.

  "What's the matter? You're acting like a crazy person," she said, scrambling for the seatbelt.

  "I said, don't ask questions."

  Diane stared at him wide-eyed as she fumbled with the latch until it clicked in place.

  He had the car started and his cell phone out, before his door slammed shut behind him. In one fluid motion he pressed a speed dial key on the phone, slammed his door and stepped on the gas. Instead of returning the way they'd come, he sped around the side of the house and gunned the engine, heading uphill with gravel flying behind.

  Glancing to his left, he saw a blur of motion at the back of the house. It was someone racing across the yard and vanishing into the pines. Concentrating on his driving, he turned skillfully to take the sharp curve as the road wound up through the trees.

  From behind came the distinct pop of a gunshot. "Hold on," he yelled, pressing the accelerator to the floor. Two more shots in rapid succession caused Diane to flinch and duck her head. A loud ping told him that at least one bullet had hit the Suburban's rear panel. The engine roared as the tires bit deep into the gravel. The SUV rocketed uphill.

  "Chris, somebody's shooting at us." hissed Diane, her head still down.

  He glanced at her, impressed with how calm she sounded. "In two seconds we'll be out of range. Don't worry sweetheart. It'll be okay. Trust me."

  Just ahead, pulled off to the side in the tall grass and weeds, was a battered and faded blue pickup truck. He slowed and peered at the license plate. It had been skillfully obscured with mud and was illegible.

  He stopped, wrenched the 9 mm automatic from his pocket, and rapidly fired, putting a bullet in each of the tires on the near side of the truck. As rapidly as it had appeared, the gun vanished into his jacket pocket. He stomped on the accelerator and they were racing up the road.

  "Damn! I should have known, but what were the odds..." He banged on the steering wheel in frustration and realized he was still holding the cell phone in his hand. A voice was speaking faintly from the phone. Speeding up again, he took the next curve, fishtailing precariously on loose gravel, until he gained control.

  "Chris, I don't know what's going on, but please be careful," murmured Diane. Her voice was still calm, but her eyes were wide with fright.

  He held up one finger, signaling for her to wait, took another dangerous curve, climbing higher and yelled into the phone, "Rodriguez, I found him. You need to get to my place, ASAP." The phone slipped out of his grip and landed on the seat between them.

  Diane calmly picked it up, pressed "speaker phone" and held it up so Chris could hear. "Slow down Chris. You're going to get us killed."

  He ignored her, gave his partner careful directions to the house and briefly explained the situation.

  With a grinding crunch of gravel beneath the wheels, he braked to a full stop at the top of the ridge. From there the road forked, both ways looked even rougher and less traveled than the gravel track behind them. His head swiveled around, but no one was in sight. He took the handgun from his pocket and held it on his lap.

  "Chris, why did you shoot at that truck?"

  He closed his eyes briefly and he sighed. "Listen, I'm an FBI agent, remember? I blew out the tires on that truck, so the bastard who was taking potshots at us won't be able to follow." He spun the wheel and turned sharply, the rear wheels sliding in loose gravel before finding a purchase, just inches away from the roadside ditch. Bouncing and bumping downhill, banging in and out of ruts, he turned left and right, trying to avoid the largest of them. He glanced at Diane and saw that she was as white as a sheet, clutching the hand grip above her head. Her eyes were closed and her jaw set firmly.

  "I had to get you out of there. I didn't want you to be in any danger," he said quietly. He glanced over his shoulder, and slowed when he saw no one beh
ind them. One last turn at the bottom of the ridge and they were on a paved road. She opened her eyes and sighed with relief, but it didn't last long. Chris drove as fast as he possibly could over the winding mountain roads. She took hold of the grip with both hands, stared through the windshield and moaned softly.

  "Chris? This road is like a roller coaster. I think I'm going to barf. "

  "Just hold on. In a minute or two I'll have you back at the B & B. Sorry for the wild ride, but I had to get you away from him. I'm going to drop you off and then go back after that guy. He's gotta be the one I've been searching for."

  As they took the next bend in the road, a logging truck piled high with stout tree trunks came at them from the opposite direction. He deftly jerked the wheel slightly and the truck hurtled past, mere inches from the Suburban's side mirror.

  "Eeeek!" Diane screamed, covering her eyes.

  "It's okay. Don't worry. Those trucks are on the road around here all the time. Here we go." He slowed at an intersection and turned left. Another mile and he was braking with a squeal of tires in the driveway of the B & B.

  "How did you do that? I mean, how did you get us back here so quickly?" she asked, looking around at her familiar surroundings.

  "No time for questions Diane. Please go inside. I've got to get back there and meet Rodriguez. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  She stared at him, and blinked.

  "Please Diane, I've got to go. You're safe now. Everything's all right."

  "What just happened? You don't want me to be in any danger. I understand that, but why would someone try to kill us?"

  "I can't tell you now. Just trust me." He reached over, undid her seat belt, and pulled on the door handle. Pausing for an instant, he leaned in and kissed her lightly.

  "I know. I know. You could tell me, but then you'd have to kill me, right?" She sighed and slid to the ground.

  "You got it!" He grinned at her through the open window, as the car moved away. "I'll see you as soon as I possibly can. Oh, and Diane? Thanks for being so calm. You were great." His deep blue eyes made contact with hers for just a second, but the look spoke volumes.

  In an instant, he was gone. Diane stood bereft, staring at the empty road as the black SUV disappeared. Finally, she turned and walked slowly toward the back porch where she could hear people talking and laughing.

  Chapter 11

  'The Lieutenant and his five men stepped down into a low boggy place where Cyprus trees materialized eerily out of the fog. At the bottom their feet splashed through an inch of coffee colored water until they scrambled up the low bank on the other side.

  Nervously, he glanced back to assure himself that he wasn't alone in the mist. The two boys, Ethan and Jeremiah, came up behind him and returned his gaze, looking as frightened as he felt. On his left, the old gray-haired trapper and the huge blond bear of a man glided silently forward, but the Choctaw Indian had vanished once more into the fog.

  He started onward again, until he heard the whinny of a horse, louder now, and the muffled "clump thump" of hooves. The Lieutenant strained to see what was just ahead, suppressing the urge to flee.

  Emerging from the fog, the company halted as the Tennesseans and the English were revealed to each other all at once. After but a second’s hesitation, rifles and muskets were raised and pistols drawn. The stillness of the morning was shattered as a terrific dueling fusillade erupted from the six Americans and a like number of British. Muzzle flashes lit up the fog and the detonations, so close at hand, were abnormally loud. These were the last sights and sounds witnessed in this life by the young Lieutenant. Struck in the chest with a heavy caliber lead ball, fired from an English Brown Bess musket, he was dead before he hit the ground. Like a lightning flash in the dark, the skirmish was over within mere seconds, almost before the combatants were aware of what had transpired.'

  From, Reelfoot Legacy, by Melinda Peters

  "Now here's a real interesting story, Missy." Jeremiah was seated in his favorite cushioned rocker, regaling Vicky with tails from the past as she typed rapidly on her laptop, endeavoring to keep up with the old man. "I recollect my granddaddy telling me this a good many years ago, just as was told him by Old Jeremiah his self. Was about how he and some others joined up in 1814 with Andrew Jackson to fight the British at New Orleans. This one you ought to write down." He shot Vicky a quizzical glance. "Thought you said you was going to write these old tales as I told them, sweet thing."

  "Oh, I am, Mr. Evans," said Vicky, pointing to her laptop.

  "On that thing there?" he asked skeptically eyeing the computer.

  "That's right. See," she said, turning the screen towards him.

  "Huh?" He grunted, leaned over the arm of his rocking chair, and squinted at the text on the screen. "I dunno. Seems like it would be a damn sight easier to use pencil and paper, but suit yourself." He eased himself back in the chair, hitched up his overalls and made himself comfortable.

  "Now then, what was I saying?"

  "You were about to tell us about Jeremiah, Andrew Jackson, and New Orleans," responded Vicky.

  "I don't believe I've heard this story, Mr. Evans," said Preston Hardwick, who leaned on the porch rail listening. He and his wife, Sarah, had stopped by on their way home from church.

  Turning to Preston, Jeremiah said, "You probably never heard it, on account of, I don't think I've thought to tell of it for a good number of years, young feller. Maybe was even before you were born."

  "Go ahead Mr. Evans," urged Vicky, hands poised over her keyboard.

  "Well now, Jeremiah became an important feller here, back in the day. He bought a considerable piece of prime land along The Little River. Times was hard back then and cash money was scarce, so folks always wondered how he was able to do that. Fact was, as my granddaddy told it, Jeremiah come back from New Orleans with treasure in his pocket." The old man paused and looked at Vicky and Preston in turn for effect.

  "So, did your granddad tell you what the treasure was?" asked Preston.

  "That he did, that he did indeed." He looked at them to watch their reaction as he announced, "It was a sack full of gold coins. That's how Jeremiah bought the land, with them gold coins. Best part though, was how he come to have that there gold."

  Reaching for his mason jar, he looked down to where he's kept it the day before, and sighed. "Today being Sunday, I left my jar at home."

  Vicky looked at him quizzically, puzzled at his habit of drinking from a mason jar. "Oh, are you thirsty?"

  "You reckon them gals in there have some sweet tea? I am a little dry."

  "Sure thing Mr. Evans," said Preston. "Hold on just a minute. Don't tell the story 'til I come back."

  * * *

  Jack was impressed when Kyle revealed the variety of fishing gear neatly stored on one wall of the garage. "This is great! I'd love to get some fishing in while we're here. You do much hunting? We saw a fair number of deer, when we were driving around."

  "Sure," said Kyle. "Deer and other critters. This time of year it's legal to hunt wild turkey. Come back in October and you can hunt for bear."

  "Bear, really? Are there a lot of them around here?"

  "You see a black bear from time to time." Kyle shrugged. "Ain't seen one recently, but we did see some tracks up by our place the other day."

  "Really!"

  "Now, there's a real nice pond full of hungry trout on the property over that way." Kyle pointed. "Lots of folks that stay here like to fish. You want to try our luck for a while?"

  "Isn't it a little late in the day for trout?"

  Kyle shrugged, "There's a shady spot on the far side that I like. We'll do fine there."

  Jack grinned. "I can't argue with that. Just let me text my wife before I disappear."

  Moments later, the men emerged carrying poles and tackle boxes. As they started across the yard, a metallic-blue Cadillac rolled slowly into the driveway and parked in front of the garage.

  The window on the driver's side hummed open and a
n enormous bald head appeared. "Hey, Jack! Is this the Red Shutters B & B? Am I in the right place?"

  "Ralph, you made it! This is the place all right," called Jack.

  The big, barrel-chested man unfolded from his seat, stretched elaborately, and grinned. Taking a deep breath of the fresh, clean air of the Blue Ridge, he glanced about him.

  "You know that guy?" asked Kyle. "Who is he?"

  "Ralph Spangenberg. He's just about the best cook on the East Coast. I pretty much lived at his restaurant before I met Victoria. I'll bet that before too long, we'll be eating something very tasty." He strode toward the older man with an outstretched hand, Kyle in his wake.

  "Ralph, it's great to see you," he said grasping the big man's hand. "How was Florida?"

  The burly shoulders shrugged. "Florida was...sticky. Real humid and the bugs are something awful. Some people seem to like it, but it's not for me, know what I'm saying? I gotta look for some place different."

  "You can always come back to Pippin's Grove," said Jack.

  "Thanks. I'll keep it in mind." Ralph pounded a beefy fist into his arm. "So, Jack. How's married life?"

  "It's great, just great. Victoria's out on the back porch. I know she'd love to see you."

  "Good, good. It'll be great to see everyone."

  "This is Kyle Evans. He lives right up the road there." Jack pointed toward the gravel road that wound past the house into the trees.

  "Pleased to meet you," rumbled Ralph as Kyle's smaller hand disappeared, enfolded in his big hairy paw. You two look like you're going fishing."

  "Kyle says there's a great trout pond here. You know me, Ralph. Always ready to take time to bait a hook and relax at the water's edge."

  "Yeah, I remember. Tell you what. You catch anything, clean it and I'll cook it for you," said Ralph.

  "God, it's good to see you again. You're looking fit and you've got a nice Florida tan. Did you lose some weight?"

  "With nobody to cook for, I've been eating less and doing a lot of walking," said Ralph.