Finding Floyd

by Melinda Peters

  "Yeah, and they were all together in that cute little town in New York where we found that shithead DePalma and all that drug money. Now they're all here with Toricello. How convenient."

  "Get off my case!" growled Chris, leaning in, to within mere inches of her face.

  The dark eyebrows lifted again as Rodriguez stared back defiantly.

  Footsteps on the gravel drive caused him to look up and see the big man in black leathers slowly coming their way. Sam Woodruff's huge black mustaches and perpetual scowl were easily recognizable. He knew the former army ranger was quiet, capable, and potentially ruthless. Woodruff had a well earned reputation for being a rogue operative and with the man's checkered past, it was anyone's guess whether he was entirely trustworthy.

  Woodruff had tipped them off that the Blowtorch was in the vicinity. How he'd discovered this, Chris had no idea. It was common knowledge at the bureau that he'd started up his own security business. He had contacts in the FBI and a half dozen other Federal agencies. Presumably, there were individuals willing to pay very well for his particular skills, because the man made a very comfortable living.

  "Sam." Chris nodded a greeting.

  Crossing his arms, the man in black grunted a reply and leaned back on his heels, studying them.

  Grimly, Chris turned back to Rodriguez and glared at her.

  She shrugged. "He was with me when you called. After all, he is our informant, so I figured we could use the help."

  "Right," shot Chris in quick response.

  "Found nothing significant," came Woodruff's low quiet voice.

  Chris sighed. He felt at a disadvantage. The two of them were on the scene well before him. The perspective was never quite the same when other's supplied the facts.

  "At least Toricello is on foot, unless he found another vehicle," offered Rodriguez. "Maybe we should check out that B & B where your blondie girlfriend and her buddies are staying."

  Chris ignored her sarcasm and turned to the other man.

  "Looks like your suspect took off through the woods. There's some prints in the mud that disappear into the pines," volunteered Woodruff.

  So, Toricello was out there blundering around in the woods somewhere, probably pissed off that we found his hideout. Now I have to deal with Rodriguez getting cozy with Woodruff. And I'll never convince her that Diane is innocent. The investigation was rapidly spinning out of control and he didn't like it one bit.

  Chris turned at the sound of a large van climbing the hill. It was the FBI evidence team. How am I going to explain this one to the boss? While we were knocking around the county looking into empty holes, the suspect was hiding in my own house! And I let him get away. He rubbed his aching head. I guess this means goodbye promotion.

  * * *

  Slapping at the buzzing insects that circled his head, Bruno Toricello stopped to consider the best way to get safely across the stream before him. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he took several deep breaths as he mopped his face. He wasn't used to marching straight up and down hills through the woods. Grimacing he saw that the muddy stream banks were lined with tangled brush that he'd have to traverse. Carefully lifting a leg over, he awkwardly straddled the vegetation. Leaning in to grip some small branches, he started to bring his other leg over, when he noticed a large paw print in the mud.

  Jeez! That had to be some big ass animal. After he disentangled himself from the thorny vines that clung to his clothes, he felt for the automatic and extra clip in his coat pocket. Reassured, he adjusted the weight of his duffle and slung it over his other shoulder. The damn thing is heavy, but I can't afford to throw anything else away. God knows when I'll be able to get more shit. Damn that FBI asshole for ruining the truck. How the hell did the feds find me?

  Glancing around, he took a few cautious steps to the side and found another big print. What the hell did that? Seems kinda big for a deer. Maybe a bear? His eyes searched the woods about him. Cold, damp, and silent, they revealed nothing.

  Bruno Toricello wasn't really afraid. He wasn't afraid of anything, but he was out of his element and this made him uneasy. From the streets of New York or Philadelphia, to the trash strewn back alleys of less desirable neighborhoods, he was at home. Alone in the quiet woods of Virginia, he was unsure of himself.

  Something skittered noisily through the underbrush behind him. "Shit! What the hell was that?" Heart pounding, he spun around and drew his gun, expecting to find that one of the federal agents had tracked him down. Relieved to see no one there, he relaxed until he realized he'd lost his footing in the soft mud and was sliding towards the stream. Struggling to keep his balance, Bruno did a complicated dance down the slippery bank into the cold creek and found himself sitting in water up to his chest. The decision of how to cross the stream had been made for him.

  "Damn it all to hell!" he yelled, as the ice cold water instantly soaked through his clothes. He's wrenched one ankle and it felt as if he'd sprained it. Slipping and splashing, he clambered up onto the opposite bank. Muddy water streamed from his clothes as he gingerly stood and tested his ankle. It hurt, but he could walk. Shaking water from the gun, he was tempted to toss it away, but decided to keep it. Muttering curses, he limped uphill through the trees as low hanging branches whipped his face and thorny brambles grabbed at his clothes. The wet duffle bag seemed twice as heavy as it dug into his shoulder, draining more cold water down his back.

  The patches of sky he glimpsed through the branches overhead were cloud covered, promising rain. He needed to find another place to hide out, and soon.

  The Feds are after me. Somehow those bastards found out where I was. That place hadn't been lived in for months. How the hell did they find me? Maybe I better head back to Jersey. At least in Jersey I got people. People who know better than to cross me. And I don't gotta wade through streams and climb mountains!

  At the edge of the trees, a long slope planted with shrubs stretched down to an overgrown lawn and a rambling weather beaten farmhouse. He sat on a fallen tree and watched, but the house and dirt road leading to it looked deserted.

  Fishing his cell phone from a jacket pocket, he tried to turn it on, but it was soaked. Where the hell am I? How long did I hike through the woods, trying to get away from those lousy freakin' FBI assholes? He glanced at his Rolex. At least that still worked. I took off around noon and it's now four. I'm beat.

  Hunting around in his jacket pocket, Bruno found his last cigar and unwrapped the cellophane. He dried off his lighter, and after a few clicks, it flickered to life. Puffing gently he expertly lit the cigar. There was another box of Arturo Fuente Gran Reservas in the duffle, but god only knew what shape they were in. He was soaking wet, cold, and had no food, except for a few chocolate bars.

  "Damn the FBI! When I find out who ratted on me, the bastard will wish he'd never been born." He sat smoking and watching the house. It was a weathered gray, badly in need of a coat of paint. Off to one side an ancient barn was standing at a precarious angle, looking as though it might come apart with the next strong storm. On the other side of the house was a two bay garage. A staircase led up at the back of the structure to the second floor. If the place was deserted, maybe he could hide out up there. Cautiously, he rose and picked his way down the slope.

  Reaching the house, he stepped carefully onto the porch, making as little noise as possible. He inched along until he came to a window and heard the sound of voices. Pushing his sunglasses up onto his head, he leaned over to peer through the dirty window. The flickering glow of a television illuminated the face of an old woman slumped in an easy chair. Her eyes were closed, head canted at an uncomfortable looking angle, and a few strands of wispy white hair had come loose and fallen across her face. As he watched her lips parted slightly and her exhalation fluttered the stray lock of hair. He thought he heard a faint snore. The old lady was asleep and maybe half deaf and blind.

  Sensing an opportunity, he walked quietly around the porch to the other side of the house. Finding a d
oor, he tried the knob and found it unlocked. Pushing it open a few inches he waited for squealing hinges to give him away, but there was nothing. Opening the door farther, he stepped into the farmhouse kitchen.

  The icebox and gas stove looked ancient. He saw no dishwasher, or microwave. Touching the counter beside him he detected a patina of dusty grime. Maybe he could steal something to eat, just to tide him over a day or two. His empty stomach growled in response to the thought. He clamped the cigar firmly between his teeth and eased open the refrigerator door. It squeaked. He bent to peer inside at the contents. There was the usual, milk, eggs a plastic bag containing a few last slices of bread and some scant remains of deli counter cold cuts and cheese. On the bottom shelf was something that looked much better. It was a blue flowered plate containing three or four pieces of fried chicken. His guts rumbled again. Reaching in, he plucked a drumstick from the plate, straightened and pulled the cigar from his mouth. Leaning on the refrigerator door he opened his mouth to take a bite.

  "Henry! Henry Shackleford! I knew you'd come back to me some day. I never did believe you drowned in that lake like they told me. Never believed it for a minute. You old dog. You run off, but I knew you'd come home one day." She advanced slowly into the room on her cane."

  Bruno took a long draw on the cigar and studied the old woman. Casually, he took a bite of chicken and slowly chewed.

  "Put that damn thing out this minute. You hear me, Henry? I told you! You can't go smoking them stinky cigars in my house."

  Holding the chicken leg in one hand, and his cigar in the other, he grinned at the old lady who clutched the door frame and pointed at him with a rubber tipped cane. He made some mental calculations. The crazy old coot thinks I'm somebody named Henry. I wonder... The cigar returned to his lips and his free hand strayed toward the pistol in his pocket.

  Chapter 13

  Ralph proudly placed an enormous platter of barbecued chicken on the big dining room table and took a step back. His masterpiece was surrounded by serving dishes mounded with green beans, glazed carrots, baked beans, and coleslaw. A steaming casserole of Virginia spoon bread, too hot to pass, was at Julia's side where she could serve everyone.

  Bella wagged her tail and optimistically sniffed the air. After being ignored by the hungry crowd, she gave up and settled on the floor in the corner with a long sigh of resignation.

  "Dinner looks absolutely wonderful, Ralph," breathed Vicky.

  "Hey, I just fixed the chicken. Julia gets the credit for everything else."

  Julia Blake shot him a twinkly smile as he took a seat across from her.

  "Now Ralph, you know you did most of the work. I just bossed you around and showed you where to find things in Sandy's kitchen."

  John looked up in surprise at the flirtatious exchange. He nudged Theresa and murmured under his breath. "Whatta ya' know! The old seadog still has it."

  "Cooking with her was a pleasure," rumbled Ralph. "Julia and I had a pretty good time getting to know each other. Her husband was a Navy man too." Pointing down the table he said, "You gotta try that spoon bread she made. It smells incredible. I've never had it before, and I thought I'd seen all the food there was to see."

  "The chicken is perfect. Nice and crispy with just the right amount of sauce," said Theresa.

  "Oh man! Is that your tavern's famous barbeque sauce?" Jack asked.

  "Yes it is," said Ralph, pleased with the compliments.

  "I'm just glad I didn't have to cook today," said Diane shaking out her napkin.

  "If I'd known you needed help, I'd surely have come by earlier. With all those boys stopping by to help with the tree, you did have your hands full," said Julia.

  Diane smiled as she passed the coleslaw down the table. "That's all right. In the end, we managed, but I did run out of food. I never thought to look in that big pantry though."

  "So, that FBI Agent Owen is down here? What's with that?" John shot the question across the table at Diane.

  "What?" She frowned. "Don't look at me. I had nothing to do with him coming to Virginia."

  John grinned at her. "You know that guy's got the hots for you."

  "Leave her alone, Babe." Theresa jabbed him with her elbow.

  Ignoring her, John continued, "Do you think he still suspects us of something? Is that why he's here?"

  "He did actually save Diane's life when he got here," said Vicky. "She could have frozen to death out there, all alone in the ice storm."

  "That's right." Diane lifted her chin. "I thought for sure I was going to freeze to death and he came along and rescued me in the nick of time."

  "Seriously?' John looked skeptical. "The guy came to Floyd and got here right when you did, for no reason?" He raised his eyebrows and gave her a significant look. "Maybe he was already watching the place and just happened to see you slip down that icy hill."

  "Well." Diane toyed with the food on her plate, turning the slaw over and over with her fork. Then she looked up and said in Chris's defense, "He told me it's all a big coincidence."

  "Coincidence my ass," murmured John.

  "Be nice!" hissed Theresa, elbowing him sharply in the ribs.

  John shrugged. Looking around the table, he asked pleasantly, "Who would like some wine?" Collecting a bottle each of red and white, he began to circle the table filling glasses.

  "Oh my god!" moaned Theresa. "Mrs. Blake, this spoon bread is to die for. How do you make it? I've got to have this recipe."

  "Why thank you," said Julia, pleased that Theresa was enjoying her cooking. "Before I go, I'll be sure and write it down for you."

  "Please! My family has several restaurants up in Jersey. We're always interested in new food."

  "That's wonderful! Now then. John, the Christopher Owen you all are talking about. Isn't he that nice young man who stays here occasionally to work on the house he's building? Sandy mentioned that he's with the government. Wasn't it the Parks Department or something like that?"

  Everyone but Diane laughed at this.

  "Parks Department! That's a good one," scoffed Jack.

  "He's an FBI agent," announced John. "His crazy partner, Agent Rodriguez, actually arrested Diane last year. This Rodriguez woman dragged Diane down to the police station in handcuffs and was very abusive. I don't trust anyone from the Feds. Doesn't matter, EPA, FBI, IRS, or whatever! They're all out to screw us and they're always sticking their greedy hands into our pockets."

  "You don't mean that," said Julia looking shocked. "Chris is such a nice man, and very helpful. He's always doing something nice for us when he stays here. Such a considerate young man."

  "Owen is an okay guy," opined Ralph, as he spooned more slaw and beans onto his plate and reached for the chicken. "You all just got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time with that business last year." Gesturing with his fork for emphasis he continued, "I don't blame the FBI for being suspicious. It was all a big mistake, and wasn't anyone's fault."

  "But Ralph, that's what I'm talking about," said John, putting his wine glass down with a thump. "Owen tells the people down here that he works for the Parks Department. They're all a bunch of liars."

  Julia looked distressed, saying softly, "He never actually told me that he worked for the Parks Department. I just heard it somewhere, I think. I couldn't say who told me."

  "John's right," chimed in Theresa. She pointed to Diane. "Don't let him use you, girl."

  "No, I think Chris's telling the truth, Terry," said Vicky. "We talked to him for quite a while last night. He's here on FBI business and it's got nothing to do with any of us."

  "She's right!" Blinking back tears, Diane dropped her fork onto her plate. "Chris is very nice, and he's...well, I kind of like him." her voice trailed off.

  "That's just fine, dear." Julia smiled at her reassuringly. She shot a significant look at Ralph and cleared her throat.

  "Hey, there's Julia's pecan pie with whipped cream for dessert!" Ralph said, changing the subject. "And I understand the secret ingredie
nt is Bourbon."

  Diane looked relieve when the talk turned back to food.

  While everyone else was busy with conversation, John made eye contact with Bella and surreptitiously tossed her a chunk of chicken. She caught it in mid air with practiced ease and her tail thumped the floor in gratitude.

  "Did you know that nutty Agent Rodriguez is snooping around here too? We saw her in Floyd last night with some creepy looking big dude. Maybe it was another FBI guy," offered Jack.

  "You're right. That cinches it," said John decisively. "They still think we're guilty. I'm convinced, no matter what you guys say. If Owen were here now, I'd have no problem telling him so."

  "Chris couldn't possibly think I'm mixed up with the man he's looking for down here." Diane looked alarmed. "I think that must have been the guy who was shooting at us. Chris doesn't think..."

  "All I'm saying is, don't take anything for granted. Things aren't always what they appear to be, and don't trust any of these government weenies," said John.

  Diane picked up her plate and slipped from the room.

  * * *

  Chris Owen sat parked in the driveway of the B & B, assessing the situation. He rolled the two spent shell casings thoughtfully around in his fingers and wondered about Diane. Rodriguez did have a valid point. What were she and all her friends doing here at the same time The Blowtorch was in the area? Could Diane be linked to that mobster? As soon as the thought crept into his head, he dismissed it. That was impossible. Diane wasn't even a good liar. I can't remember who first suggested going to see my house, but she'd never lure me out to where The Blowtorch was hiding. She has to be innocent, but maybe her friends aren't?

  There were four cars parked in front of him. One belonged to Jack and Vicky. One he recognized as Julia Blake's sedan. The Ford Explorer he easily identified as crazy John Van Wart's because of the odd combination of 'NRA' and 'Save the Ta-Tas' bumper stickers adorned with pink bows. The fourth had Florida plates and he had no idea whose it was. With that group, whatever was going on inside must be interesting.