Finding Floyd (16 page)

Slapping at the buzzing insects that circled
his head, Bruno Toricello stopped to consider the best way to get
safely across the stream before him. Pulling a handkerchief from
his pocket, he took several deep breaths as he mopped his face. He
wasn't used to marching straight up and down hills through the
woods. Grimacing he saw that the muddy stream banks were lined with
tangled brush that he'd have to traverse. Carefully lifting a leg
over, he awkwardly straddled the vegetation. Leaning in to grip
some small branches, he started to bring his other leg over, when
he noticed a large paw print in the mud.

Jeez! That had to be some big ass animal.
After he disentangled himself from the thorny vines that clung to
his clothes, he felt for the automatic and extra clip in his coat
pocket. Reassured, he adjusted the weight of his duffle and slung
it over his other shoulder. The damn thing is heavy, but I can't
afford to throw anything else away. God knows when I'll be able to
get more shit. Damn that FBI asshole for ruining the truck. How the
hell did the feds find me?

Glancing around, he took a few cautious steps
to the side and found another big print. What the hell did that?
Seems kinda big for a deer. Maybe a bear? His eyes searched the
woods about him. Cold, damp, and silent, they revealed nothing.

Bruno Toricello wasn't really afraid. He
wasn't afraid of anything, but he was out of his element and this
made him uneasy. From the streets of New York or Philadelphia, to
the trash strewn back alleys of less desirable neighborhoods, he
was at home. Alone in the quiet woods of Virginia, he was unsure of
himself.

Something skittered noisily through the
underbrush behind him. "Shit! What the hell was that?" Heart
pounding, he spun around and drew his gun, expecting to find that
one of the federal agents had tracked him down. Relieved to see no
one there, he relaxed until he realized he'd lost his footing in
the soft mud and was sliding towards the stream. Struggling to keep
his balance, Bruno did a complicated dance down the slippery bank
into the cold creek and found himself sitting in water up to his
chest. The decision of how to cross the stream had been made for
him.

"Damn it all to hell!" he yelled, as the ice
cold water instantly soaked through his clothes. He's wrenched one
ankle and it felt as if he'd sprained it. Slipping and splashing,
he clambered up onto the opposite bank. Muddy water streamed from
his clothes as he gingerly stood and tested his ankle. It hurt, but
he could walk. Shaking water from the gun, he was tempted to toss
it away, but decided to keep it. Muttering curses, he limped uphill
through the trees as low hanging branches whipped his face and
thorny brambles grabbed at his clothes. The wet duffle bag seemed
twice as heavy as it dug into his shoulder, draining more cold
water down his back.

The patches of sky he glimpsed through the
branches overhead were cloud covered, promising rain. He needed to
find another place to hide out, and soon.

The Feds are after me. Somehow those bastards
found out where I was. That place hadn't been lived in for months.
How the hell did they find me? Maybe I better head back to Jersey.
At least in Jersey I got people. People who know better than to
cross me. And I don't gotta wade through streams and climb
mountains!

At the edge of the trees, a long slope
planted with shrubs stretched down to an overgrown lawn and a
rambling weather beaten farmhouse. He sat on a fallen tree and
watched, but the house and dirt road leading to it looked
deserted.

Fishing his cell phone from a jacket pocket,
he tried to turn it on, but it was soaked. Where the hell am I? How
long did I hike through the woods, trying to get away from those
lousy freakin' FBI assholes? He glanced at his Rolex. At least that
still worked. I took off around noon and it's now four. I'm
beat.

Hunting around in his jacket pocket, Bruno
found his last cigar and unwrapped the cellophane. He dried off his
lighter, and after a few clicks, it flickered to life. Puffing
gently he expertly lit the cigar. There was another box of Arturo
Fuente Gran Reservas in the duffle, but god only knew what shape
they were in. He was soaking wet, cold, and had no food, except for
a few chocolate bars.

"Damn the FBI! When I find out who ratted on
me, the bastard will wish he'd never been born." He sat smoking and
watching the house. It was a weathered gray, badly in need of a
coat of paint. Off to one side an ancient barn was standing at a
precarious angle, looking as though it might come apart with the
next strong storm. On the other side of the house was a two bay
garage. A staircase led up at the back of the structure to the
second floor. If the place was deserted, maybe he could hide out up
there. Cautiously, he rose and picked his way down the slope.

Reaching the house, he stepped carefully onto
the porch, making as little noise as possible. He inched along
until he came to a window and heard the sound of voices. Pushing
his sunglasses up onto his head, he leaned over to peer through the
dirty window. The flickering glow of a television illuminated the
face of an old woman slumped in an easy chair. Her eyes were
closed, head canted at an uncomfortable looking angle, and a few
strands of wispy white hair had come loose and fallen across her
face. As he watched her lips parted slightly and her exhalation
fluttered the stray lock of hair. He thought he heard a faint
snore. The old lady was asleep and maybe half deaf and blind.

Sensing an opportunity, he walked quietly
around the porch to the other side of the house. Finding a door, he
tried the knob and found it unlocked. Pushing it open a few inches
he waited for squealing hinges to give him away, but there was
nothing. Opening the door farther, he stepped into the farmhouse
kitchen.

The icebox and gas stove looked ancient. He
saw no dishwasher, or microwave. Touching the counter beside him he
detected a patina of dusty grime. Maybe he could steal something to
eat, just to tide him over a day or two. His empty stomach growled
in response to the thought. He clamped the cigar firmly between his
teeth and eased open the refrigerator door. It squeaked. He bent to
peer inside at the contents. There was the usual, milk, eggs a
plastic bag containing a few last slices of bread and some scant
remains of deli counter cold cuts and cheese. On the bottom shelf
was something that looked much better. It was a blue flowered plate
containing three or four pieces of fried chicken. His guts rumbled
again. Reaching in, he plucked a drumstick from the plate,
straightened and pulled the cigar from his mouth. Leaning on the
refrigerator door he opened his mouth to take a bite.

"Henry! Henry Shackleford! I knew you'd come
back to me some day. I never did believe you drowned in that lake
like they told me. Never believed it for a minute. You old dog. You
run off, but I knew you'd come home one day." She advanced slowly
into the room on her cane."

Bruno took a long draw on the cigar and
studied the old woman. Casually, he took a bite of chicken and
slowly chewed.

"Put that damn thing out this minute. You
hear me, Henry? I told you! You can't go smoking them stinky cigars
in my house."

Holding the chicken leg in one hand, and his
cigar in the other, he grinned at the old lady who clutched the
door frame and pointed at him with a rubber tipped cane. He made
some mental calculations. The crazy old coot thinks I'm somebody
named Henry. I wonder... The cigar returned to his lips and his
free hand strayed toward the pistol in his pocket.

Ralph proudly placed an enormous platter of
barbecued chicken on the big dining room table and took a step
back. His masterpiece was surrounded by serving dishes mounded with
green beans, glazed carrots, baked beans, and coleslaw. A steaming
casserole of Virginia spoon bread, too hot to pass, was at Julia's
side where she could serve everyone.

Bella wagged her tail and optimistically
sniffed the air. After being ignored by the hungry crowd, she gave
up and settled on the floor in the corner with a long sigh of
resignation.

"Dinner looks absolutely wonderful, Ralph,"
breathed Vicky.

"Hey, I just fixed the chicken. Julia gets
the credit for everything else."

Julia Blake shot him a twinkly smile as he
took a seat across from her.

"Now Ralph, you know you did most of the
work. I just bossed you around and showed you where to find things
in Sandy's kitchen."

John looked up in surprise at the flirtatious
exchange. He nudged Theresa and murmured under his breath. "Whatta
ya' know! The old seadog still has it."

"Cooking with her was a pleasure," rumbled
Ralph. "Julia and I had a pretty good time getting to know each
other. Her husband was a Navy man too." Pointing down the table he
said, "You gotta try that spoon bread she made. It smells
incredible. I've never had it before, and I thought I'd seen all
the food there was to see."

"The chicken is perfect. Nice and crispy with
just the right amount of sauce," said Theresa.

"Oh man! Is that your tavern's famous
barbeque sauce?" Jack asked.

"Yes it is," said Ralph, pleased with the
compliments.

"I'm just glad I didn't have to cook today,"
said Diane shaking out her napkin.

"If I'd known you needed help, I'd surely
have come by earlier. With all those boys stopping by to help with
the tree, you did have your hands full," said Julia.

Diane smiled as she passed the coleslaw down
the table. "That's all right. In the end, we managed, but I did run
out of food. I never thought to look in that big pantry
though."

"So, that FBI Agent Owen is down here? What's
with that?" John shot the question across the table at Diane.

"What?" She frowned. "Don't look at me. I had
nothing to do with him coming to Virginia."

John grinned at her. "You know that guy's got
the hots for you."

"Leave her alone, Babe." Theresa jabbed him
with her elbow.

Ignoring her, John continued, "Do you think
he still suspects us of something? Is that why he's here?"

"He did actually save Diane's life when he
got here," said Vicky. "She could have frozen to death out there,
all alone in the ice storm."

"That's right." Diane lifted her chin. "I
thought for sure I was going to freeze to death and he came along
and rescued me in the nick of time."

"Seriously?' John looked skeptical. "The guy
came to Floyd and got here right when you did, for no reason?" He
raised his eyebrows and gave her a significant look. "Maybe he was
already watching the place and just happened to see you slip down
that icy hill."

"Well." Diane toyed with the food on her
plate, turning the slaw over and over with her fork. Then she
looked up and said in Chris's defense, "He told me it's all a big
coincidence."

"Coincidence my ass," murmured John.

"Be nice!" hissed Theresa, elbowing him
sharply in the ribs.

John shrugged. Looking around the table, he
asked pleasantly, "Who would like some wine?" Collecting a bottle
each of red and white, he began to circle the table filling
glasses.

"Oh my god!" moaned Theresa. "Mrs. Blake,
this spoon bread is to die for. How do you make it? I've got to
have this recipe."

"Why thank you," said Julia, pleased that
Theresa was enjoying her cooking. "Before I go, I'll be sure and
write it down for you."

"Please! My family has several restaurants up
in Jersey. We're always interested in new food."

"That's wonderful! Now then. John, the
Christopher Owen you all are talking about. Isn't he that nice
young man who stays here occasionally to work on the house he's
building? Sandy mentioned that he's with the government. Wasn't it
the Parks Department or something like that?"

Everyone but Diane laughed at this.

"Parks Department! That's a good one,"
scoffed Jack.

"He's an FBI agent," announced John. "His
crazy partner, Agent Rodriguez, actually arrested Diane last year.
This Rodriguez woman dragged Diane down to the police station in
handcuffs and was very abusive. I don't trust anyone from the Feds.
Doesn't matter, EPA, FBI, IRS, or whatever! They're all out to
screw us and they're always sticking their greedy hands into our
pockets."

"You don't mean that," said Julia looking
shocked. "Chris is such a nice man, and very helpful. He's always
doing something nice for us when he stays here. Such a considerate
young man."

"Owen is an okay guy," opined Ralph, as he
spooned more slaw and beans onto his plate and reached for the
chicken. "You all just got caught in the wrong place at the wrong
time with that business last year." Gesturing with his fork for
emphasis he continued, "I don't blame the FBI for being suspicious.
It was all a big mistake, and wasn't anyone's fault."

"But Ralph, that's what I'm talking about,"
said John, putting his wine glass down with a thump. "Owen tells
the people down here that he works for the Parks Department.
They're all a bunch of liars."

Julia looked distressed, saying softly, "He
never actually told me that he worked for the Parks Department. I
just heard it somewhere, I think. I couldn't say who told me."

"John's right," chimed in Theresa. She
pointed to Diane. "Don't let him use you, girl."

"No, I think Chris's telling the truth,
Terry," said Vicky. "We talked to him for quite a while last night.
He's here on FBI business and it's got nothing to do with any of
us."

"She's right!" Blinking back tears, Diane
dropped her fork onto her plate. "Chris is very nice, and
he's...well, I kind of like him." her voice trailed off.

"That's just fine, dear." Julia smiled at her
reassuringly. She shot a significant look at Ralph and cleared her
throat.