Ransom of Brownie

by Bevill, C. L.

  “WHO ARE YOU?” boomed a voice. It sounded like what Bubba imagined an infuriated fiend whose tail had just been yanked sounded like.

  Miz Demetrice and Bubba both winced at once. Bubba said, “Ifin they arrest her, will they have a spot for that sort of thing?”

  “What sort of thing?” Willodean asked.

  “I’m Special Agent Richard Billbee,” came the answer from the area of the dining room.

  “SPECIAL AGENT OF WHAT?”

  “Ma’am, you’ll have to calm down,” Billbee said.

  Miz Demetrice and Bubba winced again.

  “YOU’RE GOIN’ TO TELL ME TO CALM DOWN? HOW DARE YOU! I’M THAT POOR BOY’S MOTHER, AND I DEMAND THAT YOU FIND HIM…RIGHT…FRICKIN’…NOW!”

  “It’s Virtna,” Bubba confirmed. “She found out. She’s seven months pregnant and profoundly hormonal. She’ll probably kill us all.”

  Miz Demetrice nodded. “I should get out the good bourbon. We should pray for a quick release.”

  “BUBBA SNODDY! DEMETRICE SNODDY! I know you’re in here somewhere!”

  * * *

  Brownie suddenly shuddered. It was as if the spectral figure of death had walked over his grave. The feeling quickly dissipated, and he very briefly wondered what it meant. “‘I felt a great disturbance in the Force,’” he muttered.

  Regardless, he had been busy during the day. He had used cream cheese, food coloring, baking soda, and chicken bouillon. Then he had played on his smart phone and updated his Facebook page. (He wasn’t supposed to be on Facebook since he was under the age of thirteen, but Ma overlooked it. She hadn’t been too interested in it of late, so he figured it was all right.) He checked the news and discovered he hadn’t been officially kidnapped yet.

  Laz and Tom had said something about warning the Snoddys not to call the police, but Brownie wasn’t sure if that was something they could get away with doing. After all, Bubba’s girlfriend was a sheriff’s deputy, and she had some kind of legal duty to report crimes. Brownie considered. Willodean didn’t report on Miz Demetrice when she had her crazy poker games, and they played for high stakes. In fact, Willodean sometimes played.

  Brownie shook his head and headed outside. The door was locked with a cheap deadbolt, but it was a cruddy lock and a butter knife took care of it. He was cautious and said, “Here, doggy, doggy, doggy.” He held out a hot dog he had appropriated from the refrigerator. “Brownie’s got a weenie. Well, Brownie’s got two weenies, but one’s a hot dog, and it’s just for you. Just don’t bite me.”

  He looked around. He was at the edge of the white picket fence, cautiously surveying the landscape. He had been out before, at least two times while the two kidnappers slept like the damned, and he hadn’t seen a single animal. (Seriously, they slept so hard, they would have been perfect for Sharpie retribution, if only Brownie had had a Sharpie available. Alas, a Sharpie was about the only thing he couldn’t find.) He also hadn’t seen a single bomb or a bear trap. He had seen something that looked like an expired smoke bomb, but it could have been dog poop. He didn’t examine it that closely.

  Brownie hadn’t seen anything that the two men had sworn was there, but Brownie hadn’t wandered too far off the beaten path either. He had gone to the truck they’d used and he had had a good look around the junkyard.

  “It’s Oscar Meyer,” he called. “Everyone loves Oscar Meyer. I couldn’t find the bologna, but the hot dogs are purty tasty, too. I kin get something else ifin you want.” He had looked inside for dog food but suspiciously hadn’t found any.

  Brownie made a moue. He had come to the conclusion that there weren’t any dogs, much less Doberman pinschers. That meant there probably wasn’t any snakes or bears either or bombs or bear traps. And if there wasn’t any Doberman pinschers, then they hadn’t eaten part of the UPS deliveryman either. That was just sad, telling such a tall tale to a kid in order to get him to behave.

  There was a growling noise, and Brownie stood up straight. There was a dog. It snarled at him from the pile of bumpers it had just circled. It looked at him and stared with beady black eyes. (Not red.) It snarled again.

  It was…not sleek and deadly and trained and there was only one.

  It was a mutt. One single mutt.

  It snarled again. It was a domestic short hair that looked half-terrier and half-Chihuahua. It was a blended version of a Jack Russell except in black and white. It wore a spiked collar with shiny tags connected at the buckle. A broken chain trailed behind the animal.

  Brownie wondered where it had been when he had gone out before. Probably tied up somewhere. He held up the hot dog. “I’ve got a weenie,” he said.

  The dog immediately stopped snarling and sniffed. Obviously, it knew what a hot dog was and what it meant in relation to it.

  “It ain’t roasted over a grill, but it’s still right tasty,” Brownie said.

  The dog took three steps forward.

  “You ain’t goin’ to eat me, right, boy?” Brownie could see that the dog was, in fact, a boy then.

  The dog whined hopefully and danced sideways. His tail wagged in a hopeful manner. Clearly, he knew a good thing when he saw it.

  Three minutes and one hot dog later, the two were best friends forever, and the dog followed Brownie around while he proceeded with Step Three.

  “Bwahaha!” The mad scientist laughter echoed around the junkyard.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday, November 13th

  How Many Brownies er, Kidnappers Does

  it Take to Change a Light Bulb?

  Laz and Tom arrived at the trailer home several hours later. Brownie was cheerfully reading another exhilarating edition of Latch Hook Today. There was a particularly intriguing article concerning types of yarns used in the latch hook process. There was also a how-to article on achieving a more realistic look in one’s latch hooking by using a blown-up digital photograph. Brownie contemplated how gore-covered zombies would look in latch hook artistry.

  “Hey, boy,” Laz called as they walked through the front door. “We got supper. Sorry we forgot about lunch.”

  That’s okay. I had hot dogs, he thought. They don’t taste as good out of the microwave, but I ain’t that picky. Except when it comes to cinnamon rolls.

  Brownie took Laz’s call as an invitation to come out of the little room. Tom organized some paper plates on the aluminum table and fiddled with some brown paper bags with oversized golden M’s on them. “I got a Big Mac,” he said. “I got the large fries, too. The kid’s got the regular cheese burger and small fries.”

  Laz went to the fridge and retrieved two beers. He stopped to wash his hands and said, “This newfangled hand soap’s got red dye in it. What was Ma thinking when she bought it?”

  Brownie helped with the bags. “I already washed,” he said.

  “Where’s the ketchup?” Tom asked, peeking into the brown bag he held.

  Brownie looked in the bag he was holding. He pulled out a large wad of napkins, held them in the air like a pack of cards, and shrugged. There were packets of ketchup in the bottom of the bag, but he didn’t want Tom to know that.

  “Laz, get that bottle of ketchup from the fridge,” Tom called.

  Laz said, “Ma’s bin buying that generic stuff again. Ma is cheap with the condiments. This store brand stuff don’t taste as good. Kind of like tomato-flavored cardboard.”

  “She lives on a pension and what she makes from the junkyard,” Tom said, “and you shouldn’t talk bad about your ma.”

  “You talk bad about yours,” Laz said as he came to the table with the ketchup bottle.

  “On account that she was the one who taught me how to steal and she lies about her lumbago and she once took money from the collection plate at the church,” Tom said. “Hey, boy, did you practice with the bells and the pockets?”

  Brownie held up Laz’s wallet in response. Laz’s eyes opened wide, and he patted the back pocket of his jeans. Brownie handed the wallet back, and Laz sat down with only a minor grumbl
e.

  Tom nodded approvingly at Brownie.

  Brownie held up Tom’s wallet in his other hand.

  Tom said, “You have become wise in the ways of the Force.”

  Brownie traded the wallet for the cheeseburger.

  Tom opened up his Big Mac and put it on the paper plate. He poured his fries on the plate and over the Big Mac. Then he picked up the ketchup bottle and shook it hard. He used a double grip on the upside-down bottle and shook it so that all the contents went down to the opening. Then he smartly reversed the bottle with a practiced flip and positioned his thumb on the plastic lid.

  Laz sat down and was reaching for his chicken wrap when Tom opened the ketchup bottle. It was like Mount St. Helens had popped her cork all over again. Of course, half of the mountain didn’t slide down the hill in a display of Mother Nature’s infinite glory, but the contents of the bottle burst into the air and splattered a long arc that started at the bottle’s opening and ended across the table. It was a supreme curvature of red splendor that exploded in sideways forays into unknown territories. Brownie adroitly moved his chair aside, taking his cheeseburger with him. The cheeseburger shall NOT die in vain.

  The explosion of ketchupy fury abruptly stopped as if a little Dutch boy had stuck a finger in the dyke, and the three of them stared at the mess for a long moment. Ketchup dripped from Tom’s nose and had sprayed over his shirt like a series of blood stains. The Big Mac had taken the biggest hit and would likely need an EMT. If it had had arms and legs, it would have been wriggling them in throes of agony while doing the big death scene. (“It’s getting colder! I can see the light in the distance! Tell Ma I love her!”)

  “Jeez,” Laz said, “I reckon you shouldn’t have shaken it so hard, Tom.” He looked around. “You goin’ to clean this up?”

  “Generic ketchup,” Tom said with utter disdain. He looked at the bottle in his hands soaked with ketchup. There was a rough circle of about five feet in diameter that the ketchup hadn’t missed much, except, of course, Brownie and his cheeseburger. “It don’t look ketchupy to me.”

  “Generic ketchup,” Brownie agreed with the right note of condescension. He passed the wad of napkins to Tom and then said to Laz, “You calling Auntie D and Bubba today?”

  “I shore am,” Laz said. “I got a disposable phone.” He patted his front breast pocket. “We use it once and then we stick in the back of a truck headed for California or Canada, whichever. Ifin your folks talked to the po-lice, even though we tole them not to, them idjits will be tracking a bogus trail.”

  Brownie nodded.

  “Shishkabob McCandless tole me that, although I don’t reckon he had disposable phones when he went in the joint. As a matter of fact, he said he used telephone booths at 7/Elevens. Nevertheless, I gotta good plan. I’ll just drive around while using the phone and ain’t no way they kin lock on my signal.” Laz appeared confused for a moment, but he brightened up at the thought of his own plan.

  “Mebe Shishkabob’s keeping up to date for when he gets released,” Brownie suggested. It sounded good to him. “I suspect he ain’t done being a criminal and all.”

  Laz nodded.

  Brownie ate all his French fries as Tom cleaned up. Tom grumbled that it wasn’t his ketchup bottle, and it didn’t seem fair that he had to clean up the mess, but Laz made a do-I-care? movement with his shoulders.

  When it was all done, and everyone had a full tummy, Laz brought out the disposable cell phone. “Now, boy, I’m calling the Snoddys, and I want you to be quiet unless I tell you otherwise. You think you can do that?”

  “Shore,” Brownie said. If I say something, then they might have a clue where I’m at and then the fun would be over and I’ve just started on Step Three. And ain’t Laz supposed to be driving a car around so that the po-lice won’t lock on his signal?

  Laz consulted a sticky note pulled from a breast pocket for the number and dialed. “It’s ringing now,” he said.

  There was silence while Tom mopped up an errant patch of ketchup.

  “Still ringing,” Laz said. “They home, boy?”

  “Should be.”

  “Still ringing,” he said. “Well, fudgie pops on a short stick. I’m goin’ to—” Laz sat up straight in his chair. “This is the kidnappers,” he said in his best Donald Duck voice. Brownie almost snorted.

  Laz listened.

  “No, it ain’t really Donald Duck,” he said, forgetting to use the Donald Duck voice.

  He listened again.

  “We want a million bucks,” he said firmly. “No negotiation. No ifs, buts, or mebes. We want it all in twenties and tens and mebe some ones ifin you cain’t find enough of the others.”

  Tom motioned wildly with one hand.

  “And some rolls of quarters,” Laz added reluctantly.

  He listened again.

  “He’s fine and dandy,” Laz said and handed the phone to Brownie. “You talk to them.”

  “Hey,” Brownie said to the phone.

  It was Bubba on the other end. Bubba said, “Hey, boy. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Hey, Bubba. How’s my dog?”

  “Your dog is out in the front yard eating whiptails and chasing Precious,” Bubba said. “You okay?”

  There was a wealth of information in the “You okay” question. Clearly Bubba and the others were more than a little worried about Brownie, and it made Brownie feel a little guilty. But he was in the middle of a grand kidnapping, and he desperately wanted to take advantage of the situation. Brownie finally answered, “Shore. We had Mickey D’s today and Taco Bell yesterday.”

  There was silence from Bubba, then he said, “You get the Fire Sauce packets?”

  “That’s right.”

  Laz couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but he consulted his watch for a moment. He motioned across his neck as if he were cutting it.

  “Gotta go, Bubba,” Brownie said.

  “Wait,” Bubba said. “Your parents are here, and they want to talk to you.”

  Brownie frowned. That wasn’t part of his master plan. His mother was a Froot Loop short of a cereal bowl at the moment. She should still be in bed resting and waiting to produce the brother and/or sister that Brownie could torture ad nauseum. However, if she had come over to save Brownie, then things might have gone from bad to worse. Dangit.

  “Breaking up, Bubba,” Brownie said and hit the end button.

  Laz protested. “Why did you do that, boy? I needed to tell them where to take the money.”

  “You should wait until they get the money,” Brownie advised. “Ifin you tell them too far in advance, they’ll have the po-lice or something waiting for you.”

  Laz considered that. “I reckon you’re right. Shishkabob said something about that sort of thing. It ain’t good to give them too much information.”

  “Also they can track you down ifin you stay on the line too long,” Brownie added. He had learned that from Janie.

  “How long?”

  “Sixty seconds,” Brownie guessed but managed to sound informative.

  Laz scratched his head and thought about how long he’d been on the phone. “Think it was okay.”

  “I don’t hear po-lice sirens,” Brownie said, tilting his head to listen.

  “Are you shore?” Tom asked, frantically looking around. “There’s this one fella in the Pegram County Jail that wants to— well, let’s just say he’s eager to make my acquaintance again. Bless his heart.”

  “I’m purty shore,” Laz said. “They’d be here already if they were onto us. We ain’t as stupid as they think we are.”

  Brownie’s eyebrows lifted.

  * * *

  Virtna lay on the couch in the formal living room. Her pregnant belly rose above her like the great hulking iceberg that arose from the North Atlantic Ocean before the approach of the Titanic. Her hands fluttered in the air as she spoke to Doctor George Goodjoint sitting beside her on a dining room chair and attempting to take her blood pressure.
>
  “You need to keep your arms still, dear lady,” Doc advised her. Bubba could have told the doctor that wouldn’t do any good, but Doc had to try.

  Virtna’s speech had disintegrated into nearly unintelligible gibberish. It sounded like, “Brownie mrphgarp. Snoddys brprfraggle murg. Castrate rewquark mrffgal bup. Slice urtaque cut nobo tuttanerd. Big ass knife kudwaffle twepury blu.”

  Bubba, along with Miz Demetrice, Miz Adelia, and the three special agents, had all removed themselves across the room as far as they could go. If they could have moved the oversized sideboard and hidden behind it, Bubba thought they would have already done so. Willodean had snorted and gone back out to further canvas the neighborhood for possible witnesses to the kidnapping. Fudge was hiding outside in the truck ostensibly under the guise of looking around the place for clues of where Brownie could have gotten to.

  “There, there,” Doc said soothingly. “Personally, I favor the method Miz Demetrice used with her late husband, Elgin. She buried him up to his neck in the ground and poured fire ants on him. It took three days for him to die.”

  “Thought huptorilic rewodfrog duct tape irmugzapturk pendulum okjiplax.”

  “Miz Demetrice is a powerfully inventive woman, Virtna dearest,” Doc said. “And Brownie is just the same. I believe if there’s a way that boy can get out of his situation, he will, and he’ll come back to us grinning.”

  Bubba thought about “the situation.” He glanced at the special agents. Monday was scratching madly at his legs and arms. He even took a moment to rub his hands together while surreptitiously rubbing his butt against the sideboard. Miz Demetrice caught the motion, turned her elegant head in his direction, and frowned mightily, which didn’t seem to have an impact. Monday rubbed harder. Hornbuckle was working one of her broken fingernails loose. Her neat suit didn’t look so neat anymore. Her scarf had vanished, and her hose were badly snagged. She had a smudge of dirt on one cheek, and there was a roll of papers stuck in a front pocket that Bubba suspected was the copy of the article from People Magazine about the supposed Snoddy gold. The third agent was the only one who looked halfway presentable, except that he had a red mark on his face that was approximately Virtna hand shape. He was also young enough that Bubba wondered if his mother knew he was playing FBI agents.