by Diane Noble
He threw back his head and laughed. “You underestimate our town. Those few bad apples who’ve slandered you are in the minority. I think we’ll have as many as we need. No more. No less.”
When we finished eating, Max put away our picnic things while I retrieved my laptop from my office and placed it on the kitchen table. We brainstormed the flyer content and finally settled with:
Phone one of the numbers below if you spot a Coast to Coast truck with an exterior picture of Yosemite or another national park.
Do not contact the people in vehicle if you see them. Do not let them see you.
Cooperate fully with law enforcement if confronted.
Contact phone numbers: (Sheriff’s office, Enrique’s cell, and both of ours)
I chose a large, easy-to-read font and typed in the information. I searched my laptop’s photo folder for the right shot of Hyacinth, cropped it, and dropped it into the top right-hand corner of the sheet. I stared at her beaming face, remembering that I’d taken the picture last Christmas. Before cropping, Hyacinth was pictured with Katie and Chloe Grace on either side of her. Katie had just given Cinth her bangle bracelet and, with arms wrapped around each other, all three wore smiles as bright as the Christmas lights behind them. I closed my eyes for a moment, whispered a prayer, and then tapped the Print button to send the document to my wireless printer.
Chapter Thirty
Mrs. Littlefield
Before sunrise the next morning, I headed to the Encore parking lot, the meeting place for the group of volunteers. I’d hoped for a dozen, or two dozen at the most, but when I turned onto University Avenue, I slowed the Ghia and gaped. The lot was filled to overflowing.
Some two hundred motorcycles and twice as many other vehicles revved, idled, or rumbled their engines. The cacophony was the sweetest music I’d ever heard. I pulled over to watch the action in the predawn light. Enrique and the other volunteers threaded their way through the vehicles, handing out stacks of flyers that seemed to multiply like loaves and fishes as they were passed along.
I spotted Max halfway up the stairway of the Encore. He had the rapt attention of a dozen or more helmeted cyclists. It struck me that he might have started a phone tree of his own after he left my house. The thought warmed me to my toes.
After a few more minutes, the group dispersed, a veritable caravan winding along University Avenue. Each carried a map with a marked section assigned to him or her, and the plan was to fan out when they reached the interstate, keeping in touch via cell phone. As they drove by, I noticed some had tied fuchsia kerchiefs to their antennas—Hyacinth’s favorite color. Many of the volunteers were university students or alumni who likely remembered her with warm thoughts.
She would have loved this. Deciding to come down on the side of hope today, I shot a video with my phone to show her later. The sight I’d just beheld—and this parade in her honor—called for it.
Just as the taillights of the last vehicle faded into the distance, Max spotted me and crossed the street. “How do you like them apples?” he said, his grin stretching nearly to his ears.
“You’ve gone Southern on me.” I laughed. “And I like them apples very much, thank you very much.” I didn’t want to consider that we were still looking for a needle in a haystack.
As volunteers in our own impromptu army, Max and I headed for the interstate toward Possum Grove. Our earlier plans to go there had been interrupted by the mailbox explosion.
As soon as I revved the engine and started up the incline to get on the interstate, the traffic came to a dead stop.
I glanced across at Max. The night before, he’d read me the letter from William MacDonald to his father, and we’d talked about where it might lead us. “Any more thoughts about your dad’s letter?”
He chuckled. “I did another search online last night, and tried some ancestry sites and census bureau lists. Nothing popped up.” Then he narrowed his eyes in thought. “If my father is wrong and William MacDonald was a survivor, it follows that he or his descendant might have been searching for the figurehead all these years.”
“Or,” I added, “if your father is right, could this William MacDonald have been a cover for someone else?”
“You mean the Nazis—if they got someone in the French Resistance to confess?”
“I can see how that might account for the international interest. It’s also a strong motive all wrapped up in a nice not-so-small package.”
The traffic moved forward a few feet and then came to a dead stop again. The foot I used for the clutch was going numb.
My cell phone rang, and since the traffic was at a standstill, I picked up. Enrique’s excitement caused him to use a mix of Spanish and English.
“Whoa, slow down. I can’t understand you.”
Max met my gaze and leaned over so he could hear. I pulled the phone away from my ear and put it in speaker mode.
“Two sightings so far,” Enrique shouted into the phone. “Same truck, two sightings—one by a cyclist, the other by someone on a Hog. Both saw two men in the cab. They were just getting off the Blue Ridge Parkway onto Sweeten Creek Road heading east—maybe toward Charlotte or Raleigh. I don’t know yet.”
“Tell them to stay on their tail, but to keep their distance. We still don’t know whether that truck is the right one.”
“It’s Coast to Coast with Yosemite on the side.”
“That’s the right description, but let’s wait until we know for sure.”
“Better yet, I put the word out and everyone in the area is headed their way now. I’m on my way too. I can catch up with the truck in five minutes.”
My hair nearly stood on end. “Enrique,” I said, forcing my voice to remain calm, but of course, it didn’t. “Call everyone back. If they descend on the truck, and it’s really the thieves, they may figure it out and panic. Remind everyone they are to notify the sheriff. Did you call the sheriff?”
“It’s too late,” he shouted. “They’re already on their way. And, Mrs. Littlefield, I forgot to call the sheriff.” He ended the call.
I looked at Max. “They were supposed to watch and report only.”
“We don’t know if it’s the right truck.” He patted my hand, which did nothing to slow my heart rate. “Let’s not worry till we know more.” He raised his brows. “You want me to follow up with the sheriff?”
I let out a sigh of appreciation. “Yes, please do. He’ll respond better if you contact him, I think.”
The opposite side of the interstate was moving slowly, though it hadn’t come to a complete stop. We crept along at a snail’s pace while Max phoned the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Doyle wasn’t in, so he spoke with a deputy and told him the situation, including the location where the truck had been spotted.
“There’s a ramp up ahead,” Max said. “I say we get off and take back roads—”
“—to Blue Ridge Parkway and Sweeten Creek Road?”
He grinned. “My thoughts exactly. Plus, I’d do anything to get off the interstate right now.”
“Can you see how far it is to the next off-ramp?”
He craned out the window, and I rested my clutch foot, thinking it would have been nice if Herb, God rest his soul, had considered an automatic transmission.
“No, can’t even see a sign.”
I made a snap decision, pressed hard on the accelerator, and signaled to get onto the right shoulder. Max held on with a white-knuckled grasp as I revved the engine, leaving a cloud of dust floating over the cars in my rearview mirror.
“Oh dear,” he said quietly. “This could earn you a ticket.”
I flicked on my hazard lights. “I consider this an emergency.” I spotted an off-ramp a couple of miles ahead. We reached it without mishap, though Max looked pale as I zoomed off the highway.
My cell rang again. “Mrs. Littlefield,” Enrique said. “They
’re on to us. Now they’re playing cat and mouse. They’ve doubled back to lose us. Heading toward Interstate 40 I think. I’m following with the others and will report.”
“Who’s with you?”
“Some of the motorcyclists have joined in the chase.”
“How many?” I felt my face grow warm.
“A couple dozen,” Enrique said.
“Holy cannoli,” I said, glancing at Max. “Did any of these guys consider they might be seen?”
“Maybe they want to intimidate the thieves.”
“So much is at stake. If the thieves get scared, Hyacinth’s life may be in danger.”
“Okay, just got another report. This time from a bicyclist on Sweeten Creek Road. The truck is heading west.”
“That’s where we are.”
“Then you’re about to run into them, Mrs. Littlefield.” He was again yelling into the phone. He let out a whistle.
“Enrique,” I said sternly. “Tell everyone to back off. This may get dangerous.”
But Enrique ended the call. I dialed him back, but the call went to voice mail. In his excitement, there was no telling what he was passing along to our “eyes on the road.” I left a voice message asking him to call back. I wanted to arrange to meet him, so he could accompany us.
I headed off road toward a stand of trees. “This baby doesn’t have four-wheel drive, but she’s a tiger when we get in tight spots.”
Max’s eyebrows went up. He was doing the white-knuckle thing again.
I grinned. “These used to be called gutless wonders … but this one isn’t, at least not when I’m driving.” I patted her dash. Hidden in her innards someplace was some sort of supercharger that Herb had put on her. That plus a little lift gave her the extra oomph she needed.
I had just pulled behind some spindly pines when a cloud of dust approached at a high speed a mile or so down the road. A wave of apprehension swept over me. What if it was the right truck? What if it wasn’t? Should we give chase? Or should we do as we had cautioned the others, call the sheriff and report?
I grabbed my binoculars from the glove box, held them to my eyes, and then handed them to Max. “That’s the right color rental,” I said. “And it’s got a painting of Half Dome.” I moved the binocs to the license plate. N8724H. For some reason that number rang a bell.
“Wait,” I shouted. “It’s them; I know it is.” I pounded the steering wheel. “Josie Mae relayed an odd message from Hyacinth—Nancy ate 724 hamburgers.” I handed the binoculars to him. “Look at the license plate.”
“How did you figure that out?”
“It’s a game we played as kids. Making up weird sentences from license plates. I’d forgotten until just now. It’s N8724H. Yes!” I did an air punch and then dialed the sheriff to tell him. He was out, so I left the information on his voice mail, and then I called Enrique to spread the word about the license plate.
As the truck moved closer, three motorcyclists appeared in the distance. I hoped the men in the truck were so busy worrying about the Hogs that they wouldn’t look in our direction. Even a glint of sunlight on chrome might give us away.
The vehicle passed our copse of trees, soon followed by the motorcycle gang, now consisting of another half-dozen riders. They continued in the direction of Interstate 40. I waited a minute and then followed.
The traffic on the interstate going toward Eden’s Bridge now moved at a nice even pace. I drove up the ramp and spotted the truck, flanked by the cyclists, about one hundred yards ahead. I threaded in and out of traffic, trying to catch them. The truck’s tall profile helped me keep track of it. Not to mention the motorcycle escort.
Max picked up my phone and dialed Enrique again. This time he answered. “I don’t know how you can do it,” he said, “but you’ve got to call off the gang. Someone’s going to get hurt. This isn’t a game. We’ve now got the truck in our sight and will contact authorities.”
I thanked him with an appreciative glance and then cut around an 18-wheeler. When I cut over to the rental truck, I must have alarmed the semitruck driver. He blew his air horn, long and loud. At about the same time, the gang of motorcycles peeled off and zoomed ahead of the rental.
The Coast to Coast truck took off like a rocket.
My heart thudded wildly. Was that really the truck? Was Hyacinth inside? Was she alive and well?
I didn’t want to consider anything else right now. I had to keep moving toward my number-one goal—getting to my friend.
I practically stood on the Ghia’s accelerator, tires screeching as I changed lanes each time the truck attempted to lose me.
Chapter Thirty-one
Hyacinth
Things had definitely taken a turn for the worse. Hyacinth was now handcuffed to a steel loop in the cargo space behind the window that opened into the cab. Luckily, the two thieves usually forgot to close the small sliding window, which gave her plenty of opportunity to eavesdrop on their conversations … and to figure out what made them tick.
Lagasse was obviously in charge, with the younger and milder Child following his lead. Neither was the brightest crayon in the box, but they seemed compatible.
Her plan of action—which included getting them to understand the historic value of the figurehead and return the piece to the library—had been going well until several hours earlier when she realized her intentions had backfired.
“We’ll keep it, then,” Lagasse had shouted and then pounded the steering wheel. “If it’s that valuable, we’ll fence it ourselves and keep the proceeds. Maybe hold it hostage. I like that idea.” He pounded the steering wheel harder.
“Can’t do it.” Child spoke with a slight lisp because of his missing front tooth. He had an especially difficult time with s’s. “The boss’s got people who’ll come after us, and make us pay. Big time. They’re prob’ly already on their way. We were supposed to be in Wilmington yesterday. He’s not one to mess with.”
Now after arguing, exploring their options, putting in calls to folks who might fence the figurehead for them, arguing some more—and at the same time dealing by speakerphone with the boss and his growing impatience and anger—they still couldn’t decide what to do.
They’d driven north on Interstate 40 as far as Possum Grove twice. Mostly, she thought, because they liked the pancakes at the Cracker Barrel. They’d started toward the coast twice, only to change their minds and turn back. Once they spent the night in the parking lot of Trinity Oaks Lutheran Home in Salisbury, because Lagasse had a contact in a biker bar across the street.
His contact never showed, so they started back to Possum Grove for breakfast. That’s where they’d been this morning, when Lagasse made the decision.
“This is an impossible item to fence,” he growled. “Whose idea was it to keep it anyway?” He glared at Child, who lifted his eyebrows.
“Yours, bro. I ain’t takin’ the credit for any of this. All we’ve done is make the boss mad enough to spit nails.”
“We blamed the woman, the trouble we had with the fire and all, him makin’ us go back and get her. He can’t blame us for stuff that’s not our fault, can he?”
Two hours earlier, before sunrise, the boss called. As soon as Child picked up, the boss let loose a string of expletives that carried through the truck. Apparently he’d flown into Charlotte during the night and driven from there to the meeting place. “Two hours,” he said at the end of the conversation. “Be there, or you’ll regret it. You know what that means.”
When they reached the interstate, traffic came to a standstill, so Lagasse took an alternate route, now following directions to a new meeting place.
All was proceeding as planned until they ran into the swarm of motorcyclists.
“The boss sent ’em, I just know he did,” Child said as the Hogs surrounded the truck, forcing it back to the interstate.
Hyacinth
sat back and closed her eyes, feeling a headache coming on. And this one wasn’t from a blow to the head. There aren’t many things worse, she decided, than getting yourself kidnapped on purpose and then having the tables turned on you. It was time to implement Plan B (aka, the O. Henry story). If that didn’t work, she would move on to Plan C (act like a cute grandma).
The truck jerked to the right, knocking Hyacinth off her pile of quilts.
“Whoa,” Child said. “That was close. I told you. The boss sent ’em. No telling what they’ll do once they catch us. Buzzin’ around us like a swarm of hornets.”
“You’re paranoid,” Lagasse said. “They’re just bikers sowin’ their oats. They think they’re macho or somethin’. The boss didn’t send ’em.”
The phone rang again. “I gave you two hours, so you should’ve been here by now.”
Lagasse and Child both started talking at once about the traffic on the interstate, getting lost near the Blue Ridge Parkway, and how they thought they were being tailed by bikers.
“Imbeciles,” the boss spit. “Do what you have to do. Guard the figurehead with your life. You’ve got weapons. Use them. But get to our meeting place ASAP. Got it?”
Hyacinth leaned closer to the window, holding her breath. She listened to his voice, the cadence of its rise and fall. Had she heard it before? He had a Southern drawl, but something else about him chilled her to the bone. Something she recognized. But what was it?
He took a few more minutes to chew them out, then ended the call.
She laid back on the packing quilts, thinking of home, of her family—El, Katie, and Chloe Grace—of the university, of The Butler’s big night. She wondered how that turned out … her breath caught in her throat as the image of ambulances around the Encore came back to her.
The Butler’s big night … Max Haverhill and his prize. His lifetime quest rested here beside her.
