Finding Floyd (28 page)

Diane knelt, tugging at the ropes that bound
Owen. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she moaned, "Chris, oh
Chris," over and over.

Chris lay helpless, staring up at the
Sheriff.

"Looks like we've got us an FBI Agent here.
Unless I'm greatly mistaken. That what it looks like to you,
Sam?"

The tall dark man stepped over to get a
better look. "Yup, looks like our Special Agent Chris Owen, but
I've never seen him in this position before." He grinned at Chris,
the huge mustaches twitching with amusement.

"Hurry!" Diane insisted. "You've got to help
him."

Sure," said Boone, reaching down and taking
hold of one end of the duct tape. With an obvious effort, he
quickly tore the tape from Chris's face.

"Agh," Chris growled as the tape pulled hair
out by the roots.

"You've got to do that fast, like removing a
band aid, other wise it really hurts. Now, let's get you untied so
we can find out exactly what's happened here.

Isaiah watched the oaken
bucket descend into the well. It disappeared from view in the inky
blackness and he heard it splash into the water near the well’s
bottom. He waited for the bucket to fill, listening to the morning
songs of the birds. The rising sun was an angry red ball, poking
its rim above the eastern horizon. This day would prove to be hot,
humid, and miserable. With both hands, he turned the crank,
winching the heavy bucket upwards. Finally, he pulled it out and
poured the clear water into his own bucket, and set it on the edge
of the well.

He stopped to listen.
Something was different. The birds had ceased their singing.
Everything was silent. Moisture dripped noiselessly from the trees
in the woods, from the well and from his bucket, and his bare feet
were wet with the dew on the grass. To the west, the broad reaches
of the Mississippi were serene, with no hint of the tremendous
strength of current beneath the surface. Here and there, rose hued
gems sparkled on the water reflecting the first light of morning.
The world was wrapped in silence.

He looked around at the
woods, their cabins, and blockhouse. At the open door of the
latter, Ethan stood, watching him. They smiled and greeted one
another wordlessly, across the intervening ground. Again, Isaiah
pondered the stillness. The only movement was the distant flow of
the big river.

His reverie was broken by
the sight of a buck, bounding from the woods. It raced past,
prancing, tossing its head, and giving him a sidelong glance as it
passed him. He wondered what had brought the animal so boldly into
the clearing. Ethan saw the deer too and Isaiah waved, thinking his
brother-in-law might grab his rifle for a quick kill. The buck was
making it too easy for him. Their eyes met for a second. What had
driven the deer headlong from the woods? In an instant, it became
clear.

Without warning, the woods
behind Isaiah erupted with a chorus of savage screams. He turned
and saw dark figures running toward him, boiling out from under the
trees. Isaiah dropped his bucket, water splashing over his legs,
and sprinted for the blockhouse. He ran as fast as his young legs
could carry him. Terrified, the war whooping and musket fire
pounding in his ears, he saw the blockhouse door slam shut before
him. That sanctuary was closed and he cast about for another place
of safety. He opened his mouth to yell for help and at that
instant, he felt a sledgehammer blow to his back. He was thrown to
the ground rolling, and then lay still. He lay on his back in the
center of the clearing between the cabins and blockhouse. Yells and
gunshots came from every direction. His final vision in this life
was the painted face of the Indian grinning at him with the first
rays of dawn glinting on the bright steel blade in the savage’s
hand.'

From Reelfoot Legacy, by
Melinda Peters

Jeremiah and Kyle waved from the back porch
as Jack and Vicky's SUV pulled away from the B & B. Nearby,
Colby-Jack was stretched full length across a cushioned glider. The
big cat took in everything through half closed eyes. Obviously
bored, he gave a tremendous yawn, and settled down to finish a well
deserved nap.

"Now where are those two going off to so
early this morning? They're gonna miss breakfast."

"Grandpa, I told you, they're headed to
Tennessee. Vicky's got something she needs to do there."

Jeremiah nodded and scratched his head. "Now
I wonder...? Why did that little gal want to write down all them
stories I told her? There's enough of them old stories to fill a
book. In particular, she got real interested in my grand daddy's
story about them Shawnee Indian attacks."

"I don't know. I got no idea Grandpa."
Restless, Kyle began to pace. "I sure wish we'd a caught that
kidnapper last night." He turned to face his grandfather. "He was
right there in town! We just about had him, but then he took off
through Lineberry Park and we lost him. He's still running around
loose somewheres, but he can't have gone very far!" he let out a
long breath. "Boone ain't found him yet."

"Kidnapper, you say?" asked the old man,
giving his grandson a quizzical look.

Colby-Jack lifted his head, his eyes opening
wide in alarm.

"Grandpa, don't you listen to a word I say?"
I told you about the bad guy who took Sandy's friend, Diane, back
to his hideout and tied her up. You know, the girl I rescued? Well,
I told you, after that he captured that FBI agent. Remember?"

"FBI! What the hell is the FBI doing 'round
here?" Jeremiah settled back into his rocking chair, leaned back
and considered the boy. "I reckon I do recall you telling me
something or other about the girl having some trouble." He leaned
back and reached for the Mason jar at his side. As he spun the lid,
he gave his grandson a thoughtful look. "Real fine young lady. You
might could give her a try. Yes sir." The old man raised the jar
and sipped.

Colby-Jack gathered his feet under him and
leaned forward, listening. Kyle looked at his feet, shifting
uneasily.

Jeremiah swirled the liquid in his jar,
suggesting, "You ought to take notice of that gal, Son. Good-looker
she is, and with a little practice, could be a good cook too."

"I know, Grandpa." Eager to change the
subject he added, "You know I'm kinda seeing that Spencer
girl."

"Foolin' round with one gal ain't never
stopped you from spending a little time with another. A man's got
to look around and see what's out there. That's how I found your
granny, don't ya' know. Back in her day, she was a looker!" The old
man settled back into the rocker and began to sway gently. With a
wistful look he said, "And a hell of a good cook."

"I remember, Grandpa."

He closed his eyes. "I reckon I'll set a
spell and wait for breakfast. Pres and the boys ought to be along
directly."

Kyle shook his head and went inside to look
for Diane. Colby-Jack slipped in deftly around his feet.

In the kitchen Ralph and Julia were putting
the finishing touches on a massive breakfast buffet. Ralph was
systematically forming round sausage patties and dropping them in
sizzling rows on the big griddle, while Julia whipped a large bowl
of eggs.

"Smells great in here!" Kyle grinned,
anticipating a great feed. "I'm starving." He eyed the baked goods
on the counter.

"Take an old cold tater and wait," mumbled
Mr. Evans senior, without looking up from his newspaper."

Kyle backed away from the food and helped
himself to a cup of coffee from the big urn. He sat down at the
kitchen table near his father, who was dividing his attention
between his own steaming mug and the Floyd Press. Published every
Thursday, it held all the news of the county.

"Sure, I know, Dad," he whispered. "I was
only just saying."

Looking over his reading glasses at his son
he remarked, "You rescuing that Diane girl made the paper." He
tapped the table with a forefinger. "Yes-sir-eee, the whole story
is right here. How, right there in the library parking lot, that
kidnapper forced her at gunpoint to drive out to..." He squinted at
the fine print. "Says here, an undisclosed location, pending
investigation by the Sheriff, blah, blah, blah. Makes you out to be
the hero, the article does."

Kyle looked pleased with himself. "Yup, the
lady at the press interviewed me and I told her all about how I
rescued Diane."

"That feller is still on the loose
somewheres. I reckon Boone will catch him in a day or two though."
His father sipped noisily and turned a page.

Kyle added sugar and cream to his coffee and
rattled the spoon in the cup. "We should've caught him last
night."

"Sounds like you might have stretched the
truth about how important your part was, just a tad, but then
again, you got to toot your own horn. Ain't no one going to toot it
for you."

"Ralph, you need any help?" Kyle studied the
buffet counter. "Those buns look real tasty."

"Julia knows what she's doing in that
department." Ralph winked at her. She smiled, looking pleased.

"That sausage from Slaughters market in town?
They got some real good breakfast sausage there."

"Nope, it's my own recipe," answered Ralph.
"Got the butcher down there to grind me some nice fresh pork
shoulder, but it's my own mixture of seasonings. I think you'll
like it."

John bustled in through the back door with
Bella, bringing with them a gust of cool air. "Morning everybody!
Damn! Sure smells good in here." The dog pranced enthusiastically
in circles as John stroked her head. "Bella and I had a good long
walk, didn't we girl?" She harrumphed and sat, her tail
thumping.

"Morning, John. Get yourself a cup of coffee.
Eggs and sausage will be ready soon," announced Ralph. The
comforting sizzle of browning meat and the clatter of utensils came
from where he and Julia were working. Kyle rubbed his hands
together eagerly and his father pushed aside his empty cup and
folded his newspaper, anticipating breakfast. It didn't look as
though they were inclined to give up their front row seats for this
event.

Footsteps sounded in the front hall as Diane
and Theresa appeared looking beautiful in sweaters and jeans,
prepared for the chillier than usual morning. Kyle turned to admire
the two women. Diane wore a dark blue wool sweater and tight jeans
that showed off her long shapely legs. Theresa's tight red sweater
conformed to her full breasts, accentuating them nicely. Kyle
temporarily forgot about breakfast.

Colby-Jack strolled in behind them and looked
about him wide-eyed, perturbed by the crowd in the kitchen. He
threaded his way through the people and stopped at the back door.
Looking over his shoulder he produced his, "want-to-go-out", meow.
John opened the door and Colby took two steps, halted, and sniffed
the air. He hurried the cat along with one foot and shut the door
behind him.

Out in the drive, vehicles pulled in and car
doors slammed, signaling the arrival of the musicians, family
members and friends.

It was a gorgeous day. The mornings chill
breeze had carried on it the recollection of winter, but now the
warm sunlight on her cheek promised spring and new life. Diane sat
alone on the far end of the porch, around the corner from the
music. She could hear laughter and the buzz of conversation from
inside the kitchen behind her.

Ralph had brought her out a carafe of coffee
and a mountain of breakfast that she hadn't yet sampled. Everyone
had been so nice and kind to her, but in spite of everything, she
was depressed. She'd survived a kidnapping, Chris had been rescued,
and Sheriff Boone had promised her that Toricello would be
apprehended soon.

She should be happy, but she had no idea what
had become of Chris. The events of the previous night had convinced
her that she was in love with him. Not a good thing. The Sheriff
had hustled him off somewhere and she hadn't heard from him. She
sighed.

From around the corner came the opening notes
of a haunting, mournful song that perfectly suited her mood. The
murmur of the crowd grew silent, as the band members plunked and
strummed on banjo and guitar. She listened carefully to the lyrics
as Preston Hardwick drew the sad notes from his fiddle, like the
sobbing of a love sick girl. The sound tugged at her heart.

One of the white and gold Sheriff's
department cars pulled into the driveway. The passenger door opened
and Chris climbed out looking tired and disheveled. He leaned in
and said something to the deputy at the wheel. Turning slowly he
strode toward her. Halfway to the porch he looked up, saw her and
quickened his pace, taking the steps two at a time.

He looked thoughtfully at her and smiled.
"Hey. Are you okay?"

"I'm good." She turned her head towards the
source of the music. "That song is so sad. Do you know what it
is?"

He listened for a moment. "It's called
Lorena. Yes, it's a very sad song. Diane, I really want to know how
you are."

"Oh, I'm fine. Just a little tired. How about
you?"

"Mind if I join you? That food looks
fantastic." He sank down into the seat next to her. "I've been
spending a lot of time with Sheriff McAndrew. I think he's finally
forgiven me, but he's still holding my car and a lot of my stuff as
evidence. They've got half the police in Virginia out looking for
Toricello."

"I hope they get him soon."

"You and me both." He gestured at the food on
the table next to her and lifted a brow.

Diane looked up and frowned. "Oh, I'm sorry.
You must be hungry."

"Starving, actually. The Sheriff's deputies
didn't seem inclined to stop for food, or anything else for that
matter. Last thing I remember is eating a couple of ham biscuits
yesterday afternoon."