“They’ll probably call today with their demands.”
Billbee waved his hand around, indicating the mansion at large. “Hey, you can give them your whole $150 and 3¢. Your entire life savings plus all the shovels that have been left on the property. Me? I’m going back to Dallas. At least they have more than one cell phone tower there. And a Starbucks. Who knew there was a town in this country that doesn’t have a Starbucks? Jeez.”
Bubba tried to decide whether or not to go for the man’s kneecap or to simply let it go. It was a difficult decision. Bubba still had the athletic shoe. He knew every person in town or close to it. He could find Brownie. Furthermore, if he thought about it, Brownie would probably tire of the kidnapping and escape. Bubba let it go.
He was holding the big mug of coffee in his hand when Billbee drove off in a black Suburban. Miz Demetrice appeared beside him and said, “What’s his rush, dearest?”
“The FBI gave up,” Bubba said.
“Oh dear,” his mother said.
“We don’t need them,” Bubba said.
“We don’t?”
“Ma, you know what to do when the kidnappers call,” Bubba said.
“I do?”
“Do what you do best,” he advised.
Miz Demetrice had a thoughtful expression on her face.
* * *
Brownie busied himself during the day while the two kidnappers were gone. Not only did he get to use a MIG welder, but he got to play with Oscar and an old tennis ball he’d found. Oscar was deliriously happy with his playtime. Also, Brownie found a package of Oscar Meyer weenies in the freezer. The microwave unthawed them, although it partially burned some of them and made the entire trailer home smell like electronically fried hot dogs. (Brownie was learning how to cook and bake, but thus far, the lessons had not included the unthawing of meat in a microwave oven.) Brownie tried using some Febreze but all it did was make the crispy hot dog aroma smell like Summer Fruit Bouquet-tinted electronically fried hot dog aroma.
Oscar didn’t seem to mind that the weenies were half-thawed and half-cooked. He kind of inhaled them so taste wasn’t an issue.
Brownie basked in a warm November day as he worked. He stopped to drink Gatorade and made himself unwrap four slices of American cheese. He layered the cheese with peanut butter. He crushed a handful of Cheez-Its over the top of the slices and then ate it like a sandwich. Oscar got a piece of cheese and a bowl of kibble that Brownie had located in the tiny pantry inside Tayla Berryhill’s kitchen. After he watched Headline News on CNN, he was mildly disappointed that his kidnapping hadn’t been at the top of the hour. He shrugged and got back to the business of Step Three.
Brownie was almost done when the gates at the front rattled ominously. Oscar’s little pinched head came up, and he sniffed three times. Then he whined piteously and ran like his furry little tushie had caught on fire. Brownie decided that it was a sign and hi-tailed it back to the trailer.
He was peeking out the curtains when he saw a Chevy Trailblazer park in the spot where the kidnapper’s truck usually parked. A woman stumbled out of the Chevy and lurched her way to the trailer.
Brownie assumed it was a woman. It kind of looked like a woman, although its face was swollen up like a tick, and it had red patches over every inch of exposed flesh. He retreated to the little bedroom and thought about it. He heard the woman talking on a cell phone as she came through the door. “Yes, I came home early,” she said. Brownie couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but he leapt to a new conclusion. This was Laz’s mother, the one Laz didn’t want to know about the kidnapping. Yes, he had seen the latch hook convention t-shirt the woman had been wearing. (It said “HOOK-ers in Houston!” Brownie figured it out.)
“Yes, I went to Julup’s doctor in Austin,” the woman said. “He said I had a severe allergic reaction to seafood. I’ve bin eating seafood for years and ain’t nothing like this happened before. He gave me a shot and told me to see the doctor here. He said I cain’t eat anything with a shell on it. Ain’t no shells on shrimp, am I right?”
Brownie considered his circumstances. If Tayla found him, the gig would be up, and he only had a little more to do. He eyed the window. He might be able to get out and go into the junkyard. He could drink from the tap where they got water for Oscar. He could finish his masterpiece.
“Yes, I’m home I said. I stopped at the hospital to talk to Doc Goodjoint, and they got a fella over there with a case of poison ivy like you wouldn’t believe. He tried to use a leaf rake to scratch his back. Can you bring one of them fish tacos I like so much? Shore, it’s got shrimp on it, but I reckon it won’t matter much.” Tayla stopped and said, “Dangit. Call must have dropped.”
Of course, Brownie thought, there are always other things I could do.
Chapter 9
Thursday, November 14th
Brownie and the Joy of Doing Bad Stuff
and
All Them Other Folks Do Stuff, Too
Slamming the front door open, the two kidnappers plunged inside the trailer home as if they expected something horrible to be waiting for them. It was likely worse than they could have ever imagined. It was as if Satan had come forth from his fiery dominion and taken over the trailer and was sitting in their kitchen drinking a Yoo-hoo and eating a Devil Dog. In fact, Satan looked them in the eye and asked, “What’s ya’ll’s hurry?” Then Satan wiped a little cream filling away from the corner of his mouth and covered it when he burped a tiny little burp.
The two kidnappers turned their gaze to Tayla Berryhill with her swollen features and red splotches. She stood at the kitchen counter making herself a cup of Almond Perfection Herbal Tea, looking calmly at them, then at Brownie, and then back to them. “Good Lord, ya’ll dint break my front door?” Tayla demanded.
“Uh,” Laz said.
“Hawww,” Tom said. He patted his front breast pocket for his inhaler, didn’t find it, and went on to pat the remainder of his pockets. “Hawww! Hawww! Hawww!”
Brownie held the inhaler up in his right hand. Tom blinked. Brownie grinned as Tom snatched it out of his hand and quickly used it.
“Ma,” Laz said tentatively, “you said you had an allergic reaction to something.” He pointed at her face. “It looks like you got cotton balls stuffed everywhere. I cain’t even see your eyes.”
“I know it don’t look good,” Tayla said, “but the swelling will go away.” She got out two Star Wars glasses and got an ice tray out of the freezer. She quickly put cubes in both glasses and poured Diet Coke on top. Then she handed the two glasses to Laz and Tom. “I would have used co-cola, but it looks like we’re all out.” The last part was mildly accusatory, and Brownie knew that what she meant was “Why dint ya’ll buy some more co-cola while I was gone?” The co-cola wasn’t really gone. It was hidden in the back of the linen closet under some Smurfs beach towels. Diet Coke works best with Mentos, he thought.
Laz and Tom stood frozen in place. All they needed to be a decent statue was a flock of pigeons to be perched on them and pooping their tiny little brains out on their shoulders.
“Um,” Laz said, “this here is um, my, um, your, um, it’s, um.”
“Boy, what’s wrong with you?” Tayla demanded. Her slit eyes stared at her son. “You haven’t been hitting those drugs again, have you? You know what happens when you do that. The parole officer pee tests you once a month, and you don’t want to go back inside. That man, what was his name? Bertrand Doolittle, wasn’t it? That man said he wanted to marry up with you, and well, you don’t swing that way. Did you bring them tacos?”
“I’m, uh, Tom, a little help?”
“Miz Berryhill,” Tom said helpfully, “we just wanted you to know that…” he gestured at Brownie, “he’s…”
“Your nephew,” Tayla finished. “Yes, I know. Rumford done tole me all them sorry details. Oh, the indignity. The thankless happenings that bedevil our pitiful lives. It’s very sad.”
Brownie pushed some more Devil Dog in
to his mouth. Dang, I love these things. I could et the whole box and have room for chips.
“Sorry details,” Tom said dumbly.
“About your sister,” Tayla interjected. She turned back to her tea. “Poor woman. Having to take care of your ailing mother. You know the last time we discussed your mother, I thought you said she was living in California with her third husband.”
“Fourth,” Tom said.
“Who divorced her cruelly when she was diagnosed with that peculiar ailment from the deepest darkest depths of Africa. She lost three fingers already to the dread disease.” Tayla frowned, but it was hard to tell on account of all the swelling. Brownie watched avidly. “When did she go to Africa?”
“Um?” Tom said.
“Two years ago on a religious mission,” Brownie said helpfully.
“Don’t speak with your mouth full, dear,” Tayla said.
“Sorry,” Brownie said around a mouthful of Devil Dog. He washed it down with a generous gulp of Yoo-hoo.
“Hey,” Tayla said, looking into the fridge. “You made Jell-O.” She took it out of the fridge. “Used the mold and everything.” She pulled it out. “I reckon I ought to et some of that instead of a fish taco. I don’t really want another shot to my poor derriere.” She set it on the corner and looked at it carefully. “It was right nice of you to take your nephew in for the school year, Tom, but you should have asked me about it first. I know I was busy with the latch hook convention and all, but I would have surely said yes, of course.” She paused and looked closer at the Jell-O. “What did you put inside of it?”
In unison Laz and Tom looked at Brownie. Brownie grinned broadly.
“Is that my best latch hook? The one with the pearl handle?” Tayla poked at the Jell-O.
“Uh?” Tom said.
Brownie held up Tayla’s pocketbook. It wasn’t as easy to pickpocket because it was larger than a wallet, but he had done it with the skill that Tom had bestowed upon him.
“That ain’t funny, boys,” Tayla pronounced darkly.
Tom started to point at Brownie, but Laz slapped his hand down.
“We figured you would…uh…win at the con,” Laz said. “Yeah, that’s it! The Jell-O would be to celebrate. Right.”
That was when the Diet Coke in the Star Wars glasses exploded upward in a creamy fountain of pop. Tom and Laz didn’t move, and Brownie had to bite his lip at the expressions on their faces. He put the pocketbook on the table before Tayla could notice that he had possession of it. It hadn’t taken the ice that long to melt, and when the Mentos inside the cubes were exposed to the Diet Coke, it caused a chemical reaction resulting in the cola bursting into the air. (Scout Leader Marlon Tarterhouse had taught the scouts that trick while pursuing a chemical/biology badge.)
“What the hey-hey was that?” Tayla asked. She glanced at the half-empty bottle of Diet Coke on the counter. “Did ya’ll buy from Bufford’s Gas and Grocery again? I tole you that man sells stuff he gets out of dumpsters in Tyler.”
Laz and Tom still stood in place with remnants of cola dripping from their faces.
“Don’t just stand there,” Tayla said. “Get a paper towel and clean this mess up. And someone best retrieve my latch hook from the Jell-O. It would behoove you to wash it thoroughly, too.”
Tayla roamed into the living room while Tom muttered, “I’m afraid to move. Something else might happen.”
Laz stared at Brownie. “I think we brought the spawn of hell back with us, Tom.”
Brownie grinned broadly and finished the Devil Dog.
* * *
Miz Demetrice had just finishing cleaning up the mess left by the FBI special agents when the phone rang. And I thought the po-lice liked donuts. Don’t they use napkins for anything? She looked around, but Bubba had left to track down Brownie, saying he would be home with the boy “come hell or high water.”
The Lord Above knew that there was a lot of hell and high water to be found in the county of Pegram. She looked at the ringing phone thoughtfully. She had already cancelled the Pegramville Women’s Club activities for the evening, which was a dang shame, but there were still a few people who liked to call and confirm. She was dreadfully tired of talking to everyone, especially when she told them that Brownie had been kidnapped and they cheered with joy. She had probably smiled when she had first heard the news, but it wasn’t done to yell out their happiness at the disappearance of a young child, no matter who the child was.
Finally, she picked up the telephone receiver and said, “Snoddy Mansion.”
“It’s the kidnappers,” someone said. He had a raspy voice as if he was trying to imitate a cartoon character. It didn’t really sound like Donald Duck but then it didn’t sound exactly like Goofy either. There might have been some Elmer Fudd thrown in for good measure. Whatever it was trying to be, the tone still came across as bordering on desperation. Utter hopelessness, with a note of anxious misery thrown in.
“How is my great nephew?” Miz Demetrice asked carefully.
There was a pause and then the man said, “The boy’s fine. He just finished a snack. Yoo-hoo and a Devil Dog. He’s pert dang good. How about that money? We’re in a hurry.” The word hurry came out as if he had just turned his head to make certain someone wasn’t listening over his shoulder.
“We don’t have a million dollars, dear,” Miz Demetrice said. “You sound like someone who’s just in a spot of trouble for cash, so I’ll be straight with you. There never was any Civil War gold. I drive a ten-year-old Caddy because I can’t afford to buy a new one.”
“What about all the cash that goes through your illegal poker games?” the man demanded. “I done heard all about that. You got all kinds of rich folks coming to those games. I heard Oprah came to your games once.”
“And whatever I’ve won gets poured back into the community,” Miz Demetrice said. Or into the property. I don’t want to admit how much it cost for a retaining wall on part of the swamp that was turning into a sinkhole. And the Good Lord knows how much Bubba has been costing lately. That boy can’t twitch without something breaking or getting sued or getting arrested. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time is unfortuitously expensive. “We’ve funded three charity events since Katrina and rebuilt six houses, repaired three more, and provided fourteen new swamp coolers to the elderly of our county. We made 136 baby caps for the neonatal unit at Tyler.”
There was more silence. Then a hoarser question came. “How much do you have?”
“There’s a trust with about three hundred thousand in it, but it’s irrevocable and I have to wait for the quarterly check. That check is approximately ten thousand, but it might be nine depending on the stock market and such.”
The voice lost all pretentions to Donald, Goofy, and Elmer. It became the quintessence of desolation. “Um, when will you have that check?”
“Two weeks from Tuesday,” Miz Demetrice said. “But I have about five thousand right now.”
“Five thousand,” the man repeated stupidly. “Yeah, go get that. Twenties, tens, and them rolls of quarters, too. I’ll call back about where to put it. Best hurry, ma’am.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I, uh, well, I know you want the boy back and don’t you be fretting about his good health because he’s all of a piece, and we ain’t touched a hair on his head.” Abruptly, the man realized he was meandering and hung up without saying goodbye.
Miz Demetrice nodded firmly. I negotiated from $1,000,000 to $5,000. I got a real bargain.
Miz Adelia walked into the dining room and saw Miz Demetrice fingering the telephone. “Was that the kidnapper again?”
Miz Demetrice nodded. “The boy’s been marked down. I do believe that kidnapper might be getting, oh, shall we say, frantic?”
“Do tell.”
“I suspect he’s getting tired of having the boy. I wonder what Brownie’s been up to.”
“Really. But it’s only been forty-eight hours.”
Miz Demetrice looked at her
watch. “The kidnapper lasted longer than I would have thought.”
* * *
Tayla went to take a nap because the pills for the allergies made her sleepy. She instructed Laz and Tom to go to work. She instructed Brownie to go outside and play and mind that he didn’t get near the compactor. (Compactor. It sounded like such a magical, fun word with tons of joyful connotations to go along with it. Com-pac-tor. He wanted to draw it out and put it in a song and maybe dance to it, too.) Laz and Tom stared lingeringly at Brownie until Laz put his index finger and middle fingers to his eyes and then pointed then at Brownie.
Brownie smiled hugely and watched them slink off. He saw through the window that Laz was making a phone call with his disposable cell. (It was the same disposable phone, and he still wasn’t driving around so that the police couldn’t track the signal down. Bad, bad criminal.) Laz finished his call quickly and glanced back at the trailer with an expression that Brownie could only call desperate. It made him think of something Papa Derryberry used to say on the odd occasion, “It’s only the stuck pig who squeals first.”
Brownie took a moment to bring Tayla an extra pillow. She muttered, “Such a good boy. I’ll be up in a few hours. Don’t mind me ifin I’m hard to wake up. Sometimes it takes dynamite to get my eyes open. You know not to talk to strangers or take candy from creepy people, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Brownie said obediently.
“Ifin there’s an emergency, you dial 9-1-1,” she said as she lay down on the bed completely clothed, and her eyes shut immediately.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Great. Why aren’t you in school?” she asked sleepily.
“Teacher’s holiday today,” he lied baldly. It wasn’t exactly a teacher’s holiday, except the teachers were probably glad he wasn’t there. Since the teachers were having a Brownie-free holiday, it was okay. He would likely be back the next week.
“Right. Them durn teacher’s holidays.” Tayla sighed and then began to snore.
Brownie blinked. He said, “Miz Tayla?”
Ransom of Brownie Page 9
