Diners, Dives, and Dirty Deeds

by David F. Berens

  “I’m going to go find the little boy’s tree. I’ll give you a couple minutes before I come back.”

  I crawled over her and was shocked to find it freezing outside of our tree. I walked far enough away to relieve myself and give her some privacy. When I returned, she was walking around our tree from the opposite side.

  “All good?” I asked her. “Ready to head out?”

  “Yes, and yes,” she said, and we started toward the road.

  There weren’t many turns to remember, and they were all fairly obvious to me when we came to them. I kept turning around to see our route from the same perspective I had on the way in, and I was confident that we were going the right direction. My stomach growled at me a couple times, but neither one of us mentioned food. The smells and tastes of all the wonderful food that came from Ezra’s place came back in tidal waves. But, for now, I was more concerned about water, and soon became thankful for the cool temperature. This long walk would have been torture without water on a hot day.

  We didn’t talk much—only at the more difficult places to navigate. We just kept a steady pace, and I had to really hand it to Alison. She kept up without any complaining. We never stopped for a break, and eventually we made it to the road that ran to the mint hunting area and where my car was parked.

  We were almost there when I heard a car engine. We scampered off the road and hid behind a fallen tree. I risked a peek and watched Ricky’s truck drive by. We stayed put until he was sufficiently past, then continued through the woods toward the car. Not long after, we heard Ricky’s truck coming back. We dove to the ground and lay in some low bushes until he went by again.

  Slowly my focus shifted from the sound of the truck to the shape of the leaves rubbing my face. Long and slender with serrated edges, in groups of seven. Marijuana! I raised my head and looked around. We were lying in a patch about twenty feet square. Some hillbilly was growing weed out here, and we were trampling it. Great. One more thing to add to our troubles.

  We stayed in the woods a good distance away from the road the rest of the way to the car. We passed through the area where Ricky had grabbed us, and I saw that my camera bag was gone. I had been thinking about that ever since we left the dog pen. I had at least five thousand dollars’ worth of camera equipment in that bag, and I wanted it back. I was sure that Ricky had it.

  My car was still there. I had been thinking about that, too. I unlocked it and got two water bottles out of the back. I learned a long time ago to always carry water with me. I gave one to Alison, and we emptied them both. I found a couple of gooey, melted snack bars, so we made quick work of them, too.

  Alison got into the passenger’s seat, and let out a piercing shriek. Scared, I yanked open my door and asked what was wrong.

  She was muttering “oh my god oh my god, oh my god” and rooting through her purse.

  She came out with a hairbrush and started pulling it through her hair, using the mirror on the back of the sun visor.

  My head dropped in relief. Really?

  I climbed inside and said, “Let’s get out of here.” While we were driving out, I told her what I was thinking.

  “Ricky has my camera bag, and he has my emerald. I want to get them back.”

  I glanced at Alison, and she didn’t say anything, so I continued.

  “I think he’s out looking for us now. That’s why he came here and then left right away. He was seeing if my car was still here. I bet he’s going to be out looking for us for a while. If we go to his house now-while he’s out scouting around for us-we might be able to get my stuff back without incident.”

  “Good Plan. But we don’t know where he lives,” Alison said.

  “It has to be right up the road from the dog pen. And he won’t be there now.”

  “Or he’ll be there on the porch with his banjo and his shotgun.”

  I arched an eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry. I want you to get your emerald back,” Alison said quietly. “But I don’t want you to die doing it.”

  “And my camera bag,” I added. “And I’m not going to die. Neither of us is.”

  At the bottom of the road, I turned in the direction that we had just walked from.

  When we reached the short road to the dog pen, I eased the car to a crawl and rolled down the two front windows.

  “I want to be able to hear outside in case there are any people around,” I explained to Alison.

  As I suspected, Ricky’s house was just up the dirt road past the dog pen. It was a peeling, rusted, window-boarded heap of a single-wide trailer. The scraggly yard looked like it had never seen a mower. It was overgrown with weeds and bushes and waist-high grass, except for one rectangular spot that was totally bare. Probably where he parked his truck and walked back and forth to the house. I drove around to the back and parked behind the house, in case Ricky decided to show up while we were still there.

  We didn’t see any signs of anyone inside, and amazingly the front and back doors were both locked. I found a half-buried brick nearby and smashed open the window in the back door. I reached through my handiwork, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

  I had never done anything like this before. My heart was pounding inside my chest; my stomach was tying itself into a knot.

  “Well, go on. What are you waiting for?”

  “Huh?”

  “Go on.” It was Alison’ voice. “I need to step over this glass. You’re in my way.”

  She seemed totally fine with this. I stepped to the side and leaned against the counter to pick a piece of glass out of my shoe sole.

  “This place is disgusting,” Alison said.

  And she was right. The interior of the trailer matched the exterior perfectly. We were in the kitchen, and there was a film of dinginess covering the countertops, the floor, and even the walls. Piles of dirty dishes teetered in the sink. Used napkins and old newspapers littered the floor. Clearly, Ricky’s maid… didn’t exist.

  Alison’s calmness helped settle me down, but it was still creepy breaking into someone else’s house. The fact that this was our kidnapper’s home only made it worse, so I didn’t want to linger.

  We searched the kitchen and living room, careful not to disturb the filth but didn’t see any sign of the emerald or my camera bag. I walked down the crusty, orange shag lined hallway. I picked through the bedrooms opening drawers and looking under beds. Besides the scattered dust bunnies and discarded liquor bottles, I found nothing. The bathrooms produced mold and scum, but no camera and no stone. This wasn’t looking good. I peeled back the doors of every closet. I found a double-barrel shotgun and shells, which I made note of—also a spool of the same cord that Ricky had used to tie us up—but again, no luck finding my stuff.

  I went back to the front of the house where I found Alison in the kitchen.

  “Find anything?” I asked.

  “No. I’ve opened every drawer and cupboard in here. This is disgusting.”

  “How about the living room?”

  “Not in there, either.”

  “Is there any food in here?” I asked. “That one bar I ate did little more than make me even hungrier.”

  “You would eat in this place?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m starving.”

  “Well, there isn’t much,” Alison replied. “There’s a package of hot dogs in the refrigerator, and a bunch of meat wrapped up in newspaper in the freezer.”

  I opened the fridge and grabbed the hot dogs. The package was unopened, but I still made sure the expiration date was reasonable. They were still good, so I picked up a knife from the counter, sliced open the package, and took out two for myself. I offered the package to Alison, but she hesitated.

  “You need to eat,” I said, already chewing.

  “I barely eat hot dogs anyway and you want me to eat some we found in this place?”

  We made a second pass through every room, checking every drawer, every cabinet and under every piece of miss-matched furniture. I
came from the last closet holding a new prize.

  “Have you ever fired a shotgun?” I asked Alison.

  “Sure. My Uncle Billy showed me how.”

  “Really?” I wasn’t expecting that answer.

  She nodded her head, shoulders shrugging slightly.

  “I want to show Ricky a taste of his own medicine. We’re going to get my things back.”

  I opened the barrel at the hinge in front of the stock. It was empty, so I loaded two shells and snapped it shut.

  “Is this the safety here?” I asked her, showing her the switch behind the barrel.

  I hesitated to admit that I had never used a shotgun, but the situation called for it. I’d seen them used on TV many times, so I knew how to load one. Alison showed me how the safety worked, and I told her my plan. Then we sat down in the kitchen to wait for Ricky to return home.

  We didn’t have to wait very long—maybe twenty minutes—till we heard his truck pull up. I peeked out the window through the greasy curtains to make sure that it was him and that he was alone. Check and check. I hid around the corner with Alison right behind me. I had the shotgun. I had to keep wiping my palms on my pants to dry them off. Too late for second thoughts now.

  The front door opened and closed. I waited one second, then eased out into the open with the shotgun leveled at his chest and yelled… probably a little louder than I needed to.

  “Freeze!”

  But it worked. Ricky froze. The look of shock on his face was priceless. This was probably the last place on Earth he expected to find us.

  “Lay down on the floor!” I signaled downward with the barrel of the gun.

  “You ain’t gonna shoot me,” Ricky said through a dirty smattering of teeth.

  “You sure you want to risk it? I’m not too good with guns. I might shoot you by accident. Now, down on the floor.”

  Just then I realized that I still had the safety on. I wasn’t sure if he had noticed that or not. I looked down without lowering the gun from my shoulder and pushed the safety lock to the firing position. I had to squeeze the shotgun hard to keep from shaking, and I could feel sweat coming out of every pore in my body, but the timing of my switching off the safety seemed to work in my favor. Ricky saw what I did, and he eased to his knees and then lay down with his hands behind his back.

  I handed the gun to Alison and picked up the spool of cord. I walked over to Ricky and tied his wrists—pulling them extra tight like he did to me. I used a lot of cord and extra knots so he wouldn’t be able to wear through it like I did. I took his hunting knife from his belt to cut the cord; then for good measure, I looped another piece from his wrists, up around his neck, then back to his wrists. I pushed his wrists up higher than comfortable for him and tied off the cord.

  This was a strong guy, so while I had him down, I tied a hobble between his ankles, too. I made sure he had enough movement to walk up and down stairs, but not enough to run.

  I removed the knife sheath from his belt and put it on mine and secured the knife. I checked his pockets and only found his keys and his wallet. I put his keys in my pocket, and I took his driver’s license out of his wallet. Ricky Whitt was the name on it. I slipped that into my back pocket in case so I could turn that over to the police. When I was satisfied that he couldn’t get away, I propped him up against the wall in a sitting position.

  I stood back up, happy with my work and said, “Okay, where’s the emerald.”

  “Screw you,” he spat.

  I pressed the barrel of the shotgun into his chest hard enough to see him wince. “The emerald. Where is it?”

  “I ain’t got it,” Ricky he wheezed.

  “Bullshit! You took it right out of my hand. Where is it!”

  “I done told you, I ain’t got it. I gave it to somebody to sell.”

  Shit. My mind raced. I hadn’t expected him to do that so quickly. Change of plans.

  “Well then, you’re going to take us to that somebody, and we’re going to get it back. Where’s my camera equipment?”

  “Camera’s in the truck.”

  “And my backpack?”

  “That too.”

  I felt a moment of solace to have my gear back, but I was still pissed about the emerald.

  “Let’s take a walk. Get up.”

  He struggled to get off the floor because of the hobbles I tied, so I grabbed his collar from behind and lifted to help him up.

  He stumbled forward a few steps and complained, “I can’t walk like this.”

  “Yes you can,” I said. “Go.”

  I gave him a small shove forward. He stumbled again and almost went down but found his balance leaning against the kitchen counter. I went around him and opened the front door.

  “Out.”

  There were three steps down to the ground, and I hung on to his collar again to help him walk. Alison followed us from about twelve feet away, as we had discussed. I never wanted her within reach of Ricky. I walked him halfway to his truck and stopped.

  “Wait here,” I said, and I shoved him forward so he fell on his face.

  I handed the shotgun to Alison and walked over to the truck. I saw my camera bag in the bed and felt a wave of relief wash over me. I opened the door and saw my camera lying on the floor. I grabbed it and did a quick inspection. Except for a few new scratches, it looked intact.

  The emerald is probably worth a hundred times more-maybe a thousand-than my camera equipment, but I’ve worked with my cameras a long time and they mean a lot to me. The emerald still seemed surreal-too good to be true. But knowing that I had my camera stuff back made me feel so much better. It gave me renewed confidence to go after the priceless stone.

  Alison still had Ricky covered, so I looked through the glove compartment and under the seat for the emerald. He hadn’t been lying. It wasn’t in there. I got my camera bag out of the back and made a quick check that everything was still inside. It looked like Ricky hadn’t even opened it. Why would he when he had a million dollar gem too. I packed my loose camera in it, and slung it over my shoulder. Then I tossed Ricky’s keys into the back of the truck and walked over to Alison.

  I asked her in a whisper if she was okay there while I got the car, and she said yes, so I sprinted around the back and returned with my Subaru. I opened the front passenger door and helped Ricky inside and buckled him in. Alison got in the back on the driver’s side where she could keep the shotgun trained on Ricky. It would be loud in there if she pulled the trigger, but she wouldn’t miss.

  “We’re going to see whoever you gave my emerald to,” I said to Ricky as soon as we got under way. You’re going to tell me how to get there. If you don’t, I’m driving straight to the police in Asheville. You’re guilty of kidnapping and theft, and we have plenty of evidence to corroborate our story. You’ll get locked up for years, and you still won’t get to keep the emerald, so you’d better tell me where to turn and get it right the first time.

  Ricky was silent until we got to the main road. I stopped the car and glared into the rearview mirror at him, and with a grimace he said, “Turn right.”

  In about ten minutes, we stopped in front of a small one-story house with a fresh coat of hideous dark yellow paint. It had a garage on one end and a satellite dish on the roof. Pure suburbia. I backed my car into the driveway in case I had to make a hasty retreat, and shut off the engine.

  “So, who is this guy?” I asked Ricky.

  “I don’t have to tell you, jack-shi-.”

  I interrupted him with an elbow to his face.

  “Geezum crow, man!” he squinted out a few tears as a trickle of blood eased down onto his upper lip.

  “Start talking or it’ll get worse.”

  “His name is Dawson. Blatch Dawson. I’ve set up a few small deals with him before, but that’s all I know.”

  “Good enough.”

  I dragged Ricky out of the car, hoping his putrid smell would come with him. I pushed him to the center of the yard.

  “Sit dow
n facing the house,” I instructed him.

  “You know, I’m gettin’ tired of you—” Ricky started, before I yanked backward on his collar, putting him on the ground.

  “I’m getting tired of you, too, but we’ve got business to attend to,” I told him. “So, shut the hell up.”

  Alison was leaning against the car with the shotgun ready. I smiled at her and walked to the front door of the house. She arched an eyebrow and stifled a grin.

  The front door opened just as I was about to knock.

  “What’s going on here?” the man said. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “Blatch Dawson?”

  “What’s the meaning of this? Why the hell is there a man tied up in the middle of my front yard?”

  I poked a finger into his chest.”

  “Your friend there brought you something this morning that belongs to me, and I’ve come to get it back.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  I stepped past the guy into his house, giving him a shove along the way. I had two inches on him, and he looked like he was in his forties. I could take him if I had to.

  “Yes you do,” I said. “I want my emerald, and I want it now.”

  He stared at me for two seconds, his mouth agape. I could almost see the wheels turning in his brain trying to work out a solution.

  Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “You’re too late. It’s not here.”

  “Bullshit. He was here no more than an hour ago.”

  “No he wasn’t. Ricky came to me last night with what might be an emerald. I have no reason to believe it’s yours. And besides, as I told you, you’re too late. I’ve already taken it somewhere else.”

  “Are you frickin’ kidding me? What is this some kind of emerald selling factory? I don’t believe you.”

  The man huffed and crossed his arms defiantly. “It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not, it’s not here.”

  “Where did you take it?”

  “Hiddenite.”

  Hiddenite is a small town in the North Carolina foothills. I had never been there, but I’d heard of it.

  “What’s in Hiddenite?” I asked him.