Finding Floyd

by Melinda Peters

  "That's something you'll have to decide for yourself dear," said Julia, in a calmer tone. "It's been quite a while since you heard from him."

  "I haven't answered his calls," said Diane sheepishly.

  "Well, I suppose I can't blame you." Julia reached into a large tote bag and pulled out her knitting.

  "Now you're talking," said Theresa. "If he shows his face here, let John handle him."

  While they talked, they could hear Ralph in the kitchen, happily whistling along with the clatter of pots and pans. At last, his barrel-chested bulk filled the doorway and he announced, "I've got something special for you lovely ladies that I think you're really going to enjoy." Grinning, he presented a tray of filled glasses and circled the room deftly setting down a napkin and glass for each of them.

  "Anything you've made will be wonderful, I'm sure." Julia beamed at Ralph and his face lit up.

  "What's this Ralph?" asked Theresa, peering into the squat glass. "It looks like an Italian ice or something."

  "Bourbon Slush," he said proudly. "I found this recipe, but gave it a little twist of my own. There's some lemon, orange, black tea, just a hint of mint, and of course, Bourbon. I'll be right back."

  "This is very tasty," said Diane, sipping tentatively.

  "Yum! Slushy, frozen, but you can drink it," added Vicky.

  "Whoa! Lots of Bourbon! This is good," added Theresa.

  "Oh, that's so nice," murmured Julia, taking another sip. "His new cocktail is really very refreshing."

  Ralph bustled in again bearing another tray. "Hot cheese straws and stuffed mushrooms," he announced and gave them each a small plate.

  Diane looked at the crisp cheese straws and mushrooms caps stuffed with fragrant bread crumbs and minced ham. "This looks wonderful!"

  "Ralph dear, you've really outdone yourself," said Julia, beaming at him.

  The "Ralph dear," did not go unnoticed by the girls. They giggled and Julia blushed. "He really is a very nice man," she said quietly.

  "I think he misses cooking and tending bar at the tavern. He's a really great cook," said Vicky.

  "I think old Ralph kind of likes you, Julia." teased Theresa playfully.

  "Well, I don't know about that," said Julia, blushing.

  Diane finished her drink and absentmindedly munched a cheese straw. With her free hand she toyed with her short hair, missing her long blond curls. I wonder where Chris is now. What's he doing? I should have taken his calls. Man, I'm so tired. I don't ever remember feeling so tired.

  She looked up to see Ralph balancing a bowl in one hand, ladling more of the frozen drink into her empty glass. She smiled her thanks and drank. "This is so good. Really good, but Ralph," She frowned. "You look sort of funny." Someone was laughing. "Actually, you all look funny." As the exhaustion of the last few days caught up with her, Diane's eyes closed and she drifted off.

  * * *

  Driving slowly, Chris negotiated the winding gravel road, until it petered out before an old doublewide. The ramshackle place showed no signs of recent occupancy and there were no outbuildings. Weeds grew in tall profusion around the house and in the surrounding clearing. Nothing. He'd spent all morning and half the afternoon poking into side roads and driveways, hoping to find where Toricello had taken Diane. So far, he'd found nothing that remotely fit her description. Defeated, he turned his vehicle around and made his way back to the main road.

  Swallowing the dregs of his cold coffee, he winced and thrust the empty Styrofoam into the cup holder. Reaching into the paper bag on the seat, he removed a waxed paper wrapped ham biscuit. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. The fluffy biscuit with its thin slices of ham and just the right amount of honey mustard was delicious. In a moment, he was unwrapping a second biscuit.

  Approaching another side road, he paused and took in his surroundings. On his left, rose a steep wooded ridge and on the right were fields bordered by white pines. He hadn't explored this lane yet, because it hadn't looked particularly promising. He shrugged and turned up the gravel road. After passing two or three gravel drives that led to neat homes he decided to go just a little farther and then turn around. Diane couldn't have run for more than a mile before making a turn, as she'd described it.

  Alongside the next gravel drive, there was a tired looking mailbox, canted at an odd angle. He slowed to peer at the faded letters on its side. Shackelford 4201 was how it read. He stopped the Suburban and chewed thoughtfully on the biscuit. Popping the last morsel into his mouth he decided to investigate.

  Glancing at his watch, Chris realized he was supposed to meet Sam in Floyd in less than an hour. Quickly, he dialed Sam's number. When there was no answer, he left a message informing him of his intentions.

  He started up the rutted drive that wound around with woods along one side and an empty field on the other. It took a few turns before ending in a level clearing that forked sharply. One way led to an ancient weather beaten barn, and the other went directly to a garage. In between was a graying farmhouse with a sagging porch. He studied the open garage, where a red pickup faced outward. Above was a second story with two windows overlooking the house and driveway.

  Could this be Granny Shackelford's home? The puzzle piece that had eluded him that morning snapped neatly into place. "Ham biscuits," he muttered. Preston had mentioned taking them to Sarah's grandmother. Diane said that Toricello brought back a plate of ham and biscuits and ate them while she was tied up in the small second floor room. I don't believe in coincidences. This could possibly be the Blowtorch's hideout!

  Slipping his handgun from its shoulder holster, he chambered a round and, out of habit, started to call for backup. What backup? Rodriguez wasn't answering his calls. Nobody was. Now what do I do?

  I'll just take a quick look. Resolutely, he strode toward the garage door as silently as possible on the gravel, both arms extended, gripping the gun as he scanned his surroundings. Slipping alongside the pickup, he peered into the empty truck bed.

  Then from behind came the slightest sound, like a soft sigh. He spun halfway around, but wasn't quite quick enough. He heard the crack on his head before the pain exploded inside his skull, blinding him. With one hand he groped for the truck to steady himself before crumpling helplessly in a heap on the cement floor. Intense pain was the last thing he remembered before everything went black.

  * * *

  "I want another one of these slushy things." Theresa looked around and frowned. "Where is that FBI asshole, anyway?" She shifted her position on the couch, gesturing with her empty glass as a substantial belch slipped from between her pretty rosebud lips. "Oh my god. Did I say asshole?"

  "Well, you're absolutely right! Don't apologize, Terry." Vicky slammed her glass down on the coffee table harder then she'd intended. Jumping at the sharp report she frowned at it suspiciously before she continued angrily, "Diane, he treated you like a criminal." She reached over and jabbed her sleeping friend sharply in the side. "He was going to arrest you."

  Diane's tell tail empty glass was nestled in crumbs and crumpled napkins on the plate in front of her. She woke up and began to cry, tears running unnoticed down her cheeks. "I love him," she murmured. "I love him. He's incredible in bed. Amazing. But I never want to see him again." She looked up, anxiously. "Do you think he's good, Julia?"

  Julia looked up from her knitting and smiled. She took a tiny sip from her glass. "I certainly wouldn't know that, but I trust your judgment, dear." She paused, sipped and blushed. "About bed I mean."

  "You mean you and the FBI guy? You did it with him and then he gives you all that shit! What a lousy bastard. Oh my god! What the hell did he think he was doing?" Italian wedding music signaled a call from her mother and she glanced at her phone. "He comes down here, threatens everybody, and then he..." Theresa paused.

  "What am I going to do, Terry?" Diane swiped ineffectually at her tears. "I love him so much!"

  "Sorry, hold on a minute. I gotta take this." Theresa put the phone to her ear. "Ma? What now?"<
br />
  At this, Vicky began to giggle softly.

  "Ma! Listen, I don't want ten bridesmaids. I don't even want the six I've got! It's too much!" Sobered, Theresa hopped up and began to pace the room waving her glass.

  "I'm in love with him," Diane wailed, sobbing into her tissues. Blowing her nose, she cried, "Oh my god, I wish he'd come back. If he'd just call or something. Anything."

  "Diane," Julia whispered, still slowly sipping her drink. "Sweetheart, you haven't spoken with him because you haven't answered his calls, remember?"

  "But I never want to speak to him again."

  Theresa moaned, "Ma. Please. Of course I love my cousins. I just can't have them all in my wedding party."

  "Hey, you girls having a party in here?" asked John, materializing in the doorway with Jack behind him. They eased into the room, studying the four tipsy ladies. Vicky still giggled hysterically at some private joke, Julia smiled benignly, while Diane sniffed and wiped her eyes.

  "I think they're shit-faced," mumbled John under his breath.

  Jack snickered, "Victoria's pretty funny when she's had a little too much. Remind me to tell you about the time she and I shared some of Uncle Charley's Applejack."

  John's eyebrows lifted. "I remember old Charley's homemade stuff. It was like drinking lighter fluid."

  Ralph lumbered into the room asking, "So girls, how was the Bourbon Slush? Did everyone like it?"

  "It's wonderful. Babe! You gotta try Ralphs stuff." Theresa held up her glass to John and spoke into the phone. "No, Ma I'm talking to John."

  John's eyebrows rose and he mouthed, "Your Mom?"

  She nodded and made a face. "Ma! Seriously? Ten bridesmaids?"

  John reached for the phone and Theresa gave him a grateful smile.

  "This slushy what's-its, its freakin' awesome! Is there anymore?" Vicky's glass slipped from her hand and rolled across the carpet. "Oops," she muttered.

  Colby-Jack uncoiled from his perch on the back of the couch, stretched, and jumped nimbly to the floor. He glanced curiously at John, stopped briefly to sniff at the empty glass on the rug and with a swish of his tail, exited the room.

  Ralph looked into the empty punch bowl and frowned. "Maybe I ought to cut back on the booze in the recipe."

  "Don't you dare, Ralph sweetie. It's perfect. Great little drink. I want that recipe," said Theresa.

  "Thanks, Rose, you're a doll. I can't begin to tell you how much Theresa and I appreciate all you're doing. Tell Mr. Buonadies we said hello. Thanks again. Yes, yes I will. Okay, bye bye now." John ended the call and chuckled, wrapping his arms around Theresa. "Of course you do, Babe. You always want the recipes."

  "So how many bridesmaids do I have now?" Theresa teased.

  "The same as before, just six." John looked smug.

  "I don't know how you do it," exclaimed Theresa.

  Bourbon Slush

  Serves 16–18

  6 cups water

  2 cups strong tea

  2 cups bourbon

  1 cup sugar

  One 6-ounce container frozen orange juice concentrate, thawed

  One 6-ounce container frozen lemon juice concentrate, thawed

  Garnish: Mint sprigs optional)

  Combine the water, tea, bourbon, sugar, orange and lemon juice concentrate in a large

  container or bowl, and mix until sugar dissolves.

  Pour into two gallon-size freezer bags.

  Freeze until an hour before serving.

  Place the frozen punch in a large bowl and let thaw, breaking up every 15 minutes.

  When punch is melted, add more ice, water, or Bourbon, as desired.

  Serve in punch cups. Garnish with mint sprigs, if desired.

  * Strong Tea

  2 cups water

  1 family-size or 4 regular tea bags

  Chapter 19

  Zooming out of town, away from the crowds that were gathering to hear music along Locust Street, Sam pressed his Beamer as hard as he dared on winding country roads. He sped on, around sharp bends and over rolling hills, toward the Shackelford farm. He'd been just a few miles away, checking in with Agent Rodriguez on his cell phone, when he'd received Chris's message. The Shackelford place was only about a mile from where Kyle had found Diane the other night. His instinct told him clearly that Chris had found the right place.

  Returning the call immediately, he'd sworn when Chris hadn't answered. Now he was worried. Owen was taking a tremendous risk, investigating Granny Shackelford's farm alone while Toricello was still on the loose.

  * * *

  The air stank of cigar smoke and Chris's cheek was pressed into a gritty carpet. His hands felt cold and numb and every joint ached. Someone was talking, but he couldn't make it out. He grunted in pain as the vehicle rounded a sharp bend and he was thrown against something hard. Struggling to right himself, his eyes opened and he realized where he was. Trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, he was in the rear of his Suburban.

  Toricello had him bound with duct tape, just as Diane had been. Thin ropes were tied tightly around his wrists then down to his ankles. Rolling helplessly with every turn, he realized nobody knew where he was. He was a dead man.

  When Toricello heard him struggling, he growled out, "Hey, FBI guy. Don't bother. You ain't gonna get away like that blond bitch did. I tied you up, but good."

  Dejected, Chris slumped back down. What the hell is this crazy idiot doing? I've got to get out of here.

  Toricello muttered to himself and occasionally giggled as he sped around the winding mountain roads, causing Chris to roll helplessly from side to side. Between the acrid cigar smoke and all the duct tape wrapped over his mouth, he could barely breathe. The knot on the back of his head ached and the thin ropes wound around him sawed painfully into his wrists and ankles.

  What an incredibly stupid move. I should never have gone anywhere near that garage without backup. I might not make it, but at least Sam will get my message and will know where to find his hideout.

  Chris heard his phone playing, "My Diane" from somewhere in the car. It was the ring tone he'd chosen for Diane's number.

  "Hello?" Toricello chuckled. "Sorry, but your boyfriend, he's a little tied up at the moment. You know what I'm saying?" This was followed by his insane cackle.

  The bastard's got my phone! Chris stiffened and struggled again to free his hands.

  "You were one lucky bitch, getting away from me. Don't know how you did it, but there's no way this guy's gonna." He ended the call and almost immediately 'The Bitch is back' sang out from the phone.

  "What?" There was a pause and then, "Hey lady, I don't know who you are, but you can kiss your FBI boyfriend's ass goodbye." Chris heard the window buzz open and fresh air rushed in. "I ditched your phone," yelled Toricello. "I'm tired of talking to all your stupid girl friends. Now where the hell is that interstate? All the roads around here just go in circles. Dumbass redneck hellhole. He took another turn way too fast and Chris rolled and slammed hard against the side wall with a bone jarring thump.

  * * *

  "Hey Pres." Kyle craned his neck eagerly, looking up and down the deserted road. "Maybe we can catch this crook before the FBI does and hand him over to the Sheriff. Wouldn't that be cool?"

  "Calm down, we're not going to search for the kidnapper. I don't want to be driving around all night and besides it would be foolish. This Toricello guy is a very dangerous man."

  "Maybe we might could just find where he's been hiding out? It's got to be up here somewheres."

  "I reckon by now, he's long gone," drawled Preston. "He knows Diane got away and the cops will be looking for him."

  "It wouldn't take no time to look around," Kyle sounded dejected.

  "Sarah asked me to check on Granny, and that's all we're going to do. I promised Pat and Mike I'd be in town later with my fiddle," said Preston, tapping the case beside him on the seat. "We'll stop by and see her Grandma, take the trash and just ask her does she need anything."

  Pres
ton lifted his hand to wave as a black Suburban came towards them, but received no response from the driver as the vehicle roared past, crowding him over onto the shoulder. "Man! That guy's moving awful fast."

  "Yeah, and he didn't even wave," muttered Kyle, shaking his head in disgust. "Must not be from around here."

  Preston grinned at him. As they neared the old Shackleford farm, he slowed and turned into the rutted drive. Granny's enormous black Tom cat rose out of his chair and stretched in greeting, as they drove up to the weather-beaten porch.

  "Come on Kyle. This won't take long." Banging hard on the back door, Preston called out, "Granny!" He let himself in, calling her again.

  "Don't she lock her door?" Kyle asked.

  Preston laughed. "She never has and probably never will. I doubt that there's even a key to fit that lock anymore."

  "Just the same." Kyle shook his head. "With all that's going on these days, that ain't safe."

  "You tell her that," said Preston, peering into the refrigerator. There wasn't much inside, only a few bottles of beer and a carton of milk, way past its sell-by date, along with a few ancient jars of salad dressing, mustard and ketchup, which probably hadn't been touched in a year.

  The old woman came into the kitchen slowly, leaning heavily on her walker. "I was watching my shows on the television."

  "That's nice. Hey Granny, did you already eat that ham we brought you a few days ago?"

  Frowning, the old woman looked past his shoulder. "What?"

  "We left a plate of sliced ham and potatoes for you, some egg salad and a mess of ham biscuits. Did you eat all that food already?"

  "Ham biscuits?" Peering in confusion, first at Preston and then into the refrigerator, she shrugged and waved a hand dismissively at the empty shelves. "No. Not a bit of it. Weren't me. Henry ate all that. He always was a good eater. I told him, I don't cook no more, so generally, he helps himself of an evening." Preston and Kyle exchanged knowing looks, trying not to grin, but Preston still wondered about the missing food. Granny, at her age, simply didn't eat that much anymore.