Finding Floyd

by Melinda Peters

  He hefted the trash from under the sink, puzzled by the empty water bottles not ordinarily in her garbage. Handing the sack to Kyle, he said, "We'll drop this on our way back to town."

  Leaning against the kitchen counter, Preston looked at the old woman thoughtfully and then asked casually, "Granny, where exactly is Henry? When did you see him last? I don't believe I've seen him myself."

  She waved vaguely towards the door. "He takes his sorry no-good carcass out to that room over the garage. I told him he had to stay out there, on account I can't abide them stinking cigars. I reckon you'll find him there now, all right, but I can't say for sure. He comes and goes."

  "Well all right then, I'll come by later tomorrow with some more groceries."

  Outside, Kyle tossed the trash bag into the back of the pickup and rounded toward the passenger door. He stopped, waiting for Preston, who stood staring up at the second floor windows, above the garage.

  "Something wrong, Pres?"

  "I wonder. Come on, let's just take a look see," answered Preston vaguely.

  "What? What is it?"

  Instead of answering, Preston walked unhurriedly toward the garage where Granny's old red pickup was backed in. Occasionally, he and Sarah used the truck, but he never backed it in. Something was wrong.

  "Stay down here, for just a minute. I'm going to look around." He rapidly climbed the creaking steps at the back of the building and looked in the window in the top half of the door.

  "Whatcha doing up there?"

  "Holy crap!" whispered Preston, after pushing open the door. "Kyle! This is it."

  Taking the stairs two at a time, Kyle was at his side in seconds. The door swung open and they were assailed with the smell of musty neglect mingled with the more recent addition of rotten food and stale cigar. Their eyes went immediately to a chair that still had remnants of duct tape clinging to the legs.

  "Damn! This is it!" hissed Kyle. "I told you we could find where the kidnapper took Diane."

  "Ho-ly crap," Preston drew out each syllable slowly as he realized the significance of their discovery. On the coffee table, he recognized a couple of Sarah's plates, together with crumpled paper towels, scattered food crumbs, and an ashtray overflowing with cigar butts. When he reached for one of Sarah's tea towels, Kyle put a hand out to stop him.

  "Pres, don't touch nothing. I've seen plenty of cop shows. They always tell people not to touch a thing at the crime scene."

  Preston straightened up and nodded. "You're right. The kidnapper probably has finger prints everywhere."

  "Of course, I'm right. That guy... Hey, wait just a minute!" Wild eyed, Kyle backed nervously toward the door. "Pres, come on. We gotta get out of here. He could be around here somewheres and coming back directly. Let's get the hell out of here!"

  Preston nodded following his friend, but not before taking one last appraising look around the room, shaking his head in disgust. Before he started down, Preston had his cell phone out and was dialing the police.

  Leaping franticly down the last few steps, Kyle raced for the pickup, clambered in and slammed his door.

  Preston was talking rapidly into his phone as he opened the door to his truck and reached behind the seat. "We'll be okay, Boone. I can't leave her here alone, so we'll be inside. Right."

  "Damn Pres! We did it! We found where that Toricello guy has been hiding out. That's where he took Diane. Now let's go. Let's get the hell out of here."

  Preston pulled a 22 rifle out from behind the seat and quickly loaded it, slipping extra rounds into his jacket pocket. "Come on Kyle. Let's get back inside."

  "What? You crazy, Pres? We gotta go! Granny'll be okay. Don't worry about her. She thinks he's Grandpa Henry, come back to life. Let's get out of here!"

  Preston walked away with Kyle scrambling behind him.

  "I don't know about this, Pres. That kidnapper guy, he's dangerous." His head swiveled casting furtive glances around in all directions. "He was gonna kill Diane. Maybe we should get the hell out of here before he shows."

  "Nope," said Preston pulling open the door. "We're going to wait for the deputies. Wouldn't want anything to happen to Sarah's granny."

  * * *

  "You guys, maybe I should stay home in case Chris comes back." Diane blew her nose. "He hasn't tried to call for a while. He could be in danger!"

  Jack looked over his shoulder at the three women nestled in the back seat. They were still feeling the lingering effects of Ralph's happy hour. "Diane, he's a highly trained FBI agent. Chris knows what he's doing."

  "Come on, Diane. He'll be fine. Stop worrying. This'll be fun." John drove out of the B&B driveway and headed toward Floyd. "They call it the Friday Night Jamboree. I was reading about it online. There's music everywhere in town. We'll have a great time."

  Vicky stifled a giggle and Theresa put a hand to her mouth, hiccupping softly. Diane continued whimpering and dabbing at her eyes.

  Jack leaned towards John and murmured, "Ralph really over did it with the Bourbon."

  "Do you think?" John hissed back.

  "Ladies, what would you like to eat tonight?" Jack propped his arm over the seat and grinned at the three tipsy girls. "There's pizza, barbeque, and Mexican."

  "I'm good," mumbled Theresa.

  "There's an Italian Bistro right outside of town too," he suggested.

  "Whatever you want, Sweetie." Vicky giggled and Jack rolled his eyes.

  "I wonder where Chris is. I hope he's all right," murmured Diane. She pulled another handful of tissues from the box on her lap and dabbed her eyes.

  "I told you to kick his ass to the curb, girl! Forget about him," said Theresa. "I'll bet he's off somewhere playing around with his sidekick, that Rodriguez creature. She scares the shit out of me." She belched and looked up, surprised. "Where'd that come from?"

  Vicky snickered.

  "But I don't want to forget him," Diane wailed. "He must be in terrible trouble. I just know it."

  In the front seat, the two men exchanged eye rolls.

  "Girl, face it," said Theresa shaking her head. "He's just not that into you."

  "Well, he sure was the other night! He was into me a lot!"

  At this John and Jack howled with laughter.

  Diane continued to fuss, "I just want him to call."

  John shrugged. "You could always call him. Then you'll see that he's all right and everything is fine. Hey, I remember when you were interested in Van Wart. You called him all the time, right?"

  Diane sank back and pouted. "That was different."

  "Whatever."

  As they neared town, Jack asked them again, "Hey, what are you ladies in the mood for? Pizza in town, or the Italian Bistro, or Mexican?"

  "Let's have some more Bourbon," giggled Vicky.

  "You're right! I'm going to," announced Diane, searching through her purse.

  "That's not a good idea," said Theresa shaking her head. "You two might be a little drunk."

  "I don't care anymore," mumbled Diane.

  "You will tomorrow," said Vicky. "You'll be sick. I oughta know. I was drunk once."

  "I'm calling Chris because I'm worried. I love him and I want to talk with him." Diane stabbed one finger resolutely at her phone.

  "Whatever," muttered Theresa.

  Diane smiled when there was an answer and blurted out, "Chris! Are you all right? I love you! Do you love me?" She listened for a moment, her eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open as she recognized the voice. "You're not Chris! What did you do with him?"

  * * *

  Sam wandered out of the farmhouse kitchen and looked over the weedy yard. He'd been listening to the Sheriff's deputy question Granny. The conversation was going in circles, but gradually the officer was getting some useful information. A second deputy was in the apartment over the garage taking pictures of everything. Rodriguez had an FBI evidence team on their way.

  As he considered his next move, the wiry dark-eyed Agent roared up on her bike, throwing gravel and l
eaving a deep rut behind her. She strode toward him purposefully, her motorcycle helmet in one hand and cell phone in the other. She didn't look happy.

  "Toricello has Agent Owen," she stated. "I called his phone and that asshole, Toricello answered it. We can assume he's got Chris's vehicle and weapon if he's got his cell phone. We've got to get rolling and do something, but we don't have a location. I followed the GPS from his phone, but it led me to an empty field."

  Sam leapt from the porch. "We'll put out an APB on Owens's Suburban. Other than that, you got any bright ideas?"

  The two Floyd County deputies came out and Sam quickly gave them the latest information. They digested this for only a moment, before they got into the police cruiser and left. He and Rodriguez took off after them, their bikes roaring down the gravel drive, as Granny watched from her window.

  "Don't know what all the fuss is about, but I hope somebody comes back with something good to eat soon. I'm getting hungry. Damn that Henry," she mumbled and pushed her walker back to her chair in front of the television.

  * * *

  "Boone, his deputies, and the FBI folks will take care of everything. They don't need us interfering," insisted Preston, as he turned onto Main Street. He waved to some friends gathered in front of the post office. "Nope. I'm not going to ride all over hell and gone, looking for some guy who's most likely halfway to Florida, or Texas, or someplace. I'm going downtown and play music, like I do every Friday night."

  "I'm just saying. We told Boone everything we know, but I think we should help out, kind of like a posse, and catch the kidnapper," said Kyle eagerly.

  "If I remember correctly, when we were in the room over the garage and realized it was where the guy held Diane, you couldn't get out of there fast enough." Preston grinned at his friend. Now you want to go looking for him?"

  "Well, yeah, but..."

  "Come on Kyle. Get yourself a slice of pizza, or an ice cream, and listen to a little music. Sarah and the guys are probably already here." Preston pulled into the courthouse parking lot, grabbed his fiddle case, and slid from the driver's seat. There was a good crowd on Locust, spilling off the sidewalks and slowing traffic, even though it was still early. Nice weather always brought more people out to the Friday night Jamboree.

  * * *

  "I got your gun up here and a twelve gage I borrowed from that little motel-six where I was staying temporarily." Toricello giggled.

  That news sent a shiver of dread through him. I can't let any of the local police get hurt. I've got to warn them somehow. If I can roll close enough to the taillight area, maybe I can kick it out. They'd be sure to pull him over if they saw his brake light out.

  "Pow! Any cop stops me, I blow his brains out. Hey. I got nothing to lose."

  Then again, maybe that's not such a good idea, thought Chris.

  "Ah shit! I'm coming to a town. Where the hell's the highway? These country roads run me round in circles for an hour, and then I end up in this shitty little one-horse town. What gives?"

  Thank god he's lost. It gives me more time. I don't know where he's taking me, but Bruno answered my phone when Diane called, so she knows that Toricello must have me. If Diane lets the police know what happened, my chances might be better. Of course my phone is in a roadside ditch somewhere, so the tracking app won't do me any good.

  He tried to figure the odds of Toricello having an accident, or being stopped for reckless driving. Could there be a BOLO out for his Suburban already? When the boss and everyone else in his division up in New York found out he let himself be taken by the very suspect he was supposed to be apprehending, things would only get worse. If I survive I'll probably have to kiss my job goodbye.

  The SUV made a sharp turn to the left and he rolled over, grunting with pain, as he connected firmly with the hatch door, wedged in tight and unable to move.

  * * *

  "Please, take me back home. That man has Chris's phone! Something terrible must have happened!" Diane covered her face with both hands and began to weep.

  "Calm down," said Jack. He reached back and patted her shoulder. "I'm sure the police and the FBI know their jobs. Chris is probably on his way to see you right now."

  Just ahead on the right was the Floyd Country Store, where inside people of all ages danced and Bluegrass musicians played. Other groups gathered around musicians on the sidewalks, or anywhere they could find room. Each band was surrounded by a knot of enthusiastic listeners. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, except for the jerk in the black Suburban ahead of them, who kept pressing on his horn.

  "Victoria, check this out," said Jack, pointing to the Floyd Barber Shop. It was a small, one chair establishment. Someone was in the chair, getting a cut from the middle-aged barber, but at the back of the shop, four men and a woman were playing a lively Bluegrass tune.

  "Live music while you get your hair cut. Pretty cool," said Vicky.

  The barber smiled and gave them a small wave with his scissors.

  "Everybody here is so friendly," said Jack.

  "Yeah, just like the Grove, only more so and then there's the music," offered John.

  Down the road, two pickups had stopped near the crosswalk, their drivers leaning out to talk to each other, effectively stopping traffic. Pedestrians milled around them crossing the street, eager to listen to the music.

  As his engine idled, John drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the lively Bluegrass tune that musicians were playing to his left. The black Suburban was two cars ahead, the driver still rudely leaning on his horn.

  "What's his hurry?" John said under his breath, as one of the pickup guys smiled and waved to someone in the crowd.

  "Oh my god! That's Chris's car," screamed Diane. "Look, right there! The black one." She flung open her door, jumped out and ran down the center of the road into the crowd.

  Vicky climbed down and called after her, "Diane, wait!"

  Sam and Agent Rodriguez stood on the corner, in front of the County Courthouse, watching the traffic roll past. They recognized Chris Owen's Suburban as it took the turn onto Locust.

  Sam punched a number into his phone and spoke without a greeting. "The vehicle has just turned down South Locust. Yes. Too many civilians. Let's move in farther down." Several impatient blasts on a horn sounded.

  "I'm going to go see what the hell is going on," said Rodriguez.

  Sam pocketed the phone. "No. There's a big crowd over there. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt. McAndrew's on his way."

  Ignoring him, she sprinted across Main Street in the direction of Chris's Suburban.

  Sam shook his head and took off after her.

  She dodged around knots of people and ran down Locust. As she ran, she unzipped her leathers and felt for the holstered gun on her hip. Afraid of injuring a bystander, she rested one hand on her pistol, as she pounded on the driver's window. "Federal Agents! Step out of the vehicle with your hands up!"

  As she watched, the window slowly lowered and she saw Bruno Toricello's ugly grin. Just below, the muzzle of a hand gun rested on the door, only a foot from her. "You got a problem with me bitch?"

  Without warning, the door was violently thrown open, hurling her back, forcing the wind from her lungs with a "whoosh" as her head whacked the pavement. Agent Rodriguez lay sprawled in the street, staring at the darkening sky, listening to banjo music and laughter.

  Moments later Sam's face swam into view above her. "I told you to wait," he said, shaking his head in disgust.

  * * *

  The "Wreck of the Old '97,"was a favorite of Preston and his friends. It was a tragic ballad about a brave engineer, who drove his locomotive too fast and was killed when the train jumped the tracks. Sarah and Mike McCorkle crooned out the sad story, while he played his fiddle with practiced ease, tapping his foot to keep time. Next to him was sober faced Beau Shackleford, thumping on his bass. The McCorckle brothers, Pat and Mike, played banjo and guitar.

  A persistent blasting horn came from the stree
t disturbing an otherwise peaceful evening at the Jamboree. Whoever was doing all that impatient honking needed to chill out.

  Scanning the crowd, Preston saw Kyle's grandfather, Jeremiah Evans, dancing with a pretty woman who had to be twenty years younger. Preston smiled at the old man who gave him a sly wink in return. The weather was fine and everyone was having a good time.

  Preston saw there was some commotion up the street, but he and the boys kept on playing while Sarah sang the lyrics in her high lonesome twang. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a vehicle door fly open and a big man carrying a shotgun jumped out and raced through the crowd. The runner threaded through the onlookers, jogged down the steps into Lineberry Park and disappeared. A few seconds later, two of Boone McAndrew's deputies dashed after him.

  Cutting his eyes back to the black vehicle, he saw Diane screaming, "Chris, oh my god, Chris!"

  Sarah came to the last line of the lyrics. "Now ladies take warning, from this time on and learn, never speak harsh words to your true loving husband, for he may leave you to never return."

  The crowd parted for Boone McAndrew as he approached. He rested a hand on Diane's shoulder. "Here now, what's all the trouble?"

  "Oh Sheriff, thank god you're here. I don't know where Chris is. That Toricello guy had him, and this is his car, but he's not here!"

  "I promise you, we'll find him soon enough. Don't you worry Miss Vandersmoot. He can't be too far off." He reached down, opened the hatch, and a bound and gagged Agent Owen tumbled into the street at their feet, the duct tape muffling his grunt of pain.

  The Sheriff stood, hands on hips and poked the bound man with the toe of his boot. "Well now, that was easier than I thought it would be."

  Diane knelt, tugging at the ropes that bound Owen. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she moaned, "Chris, oh Chris," over and over.