Finding Floyd (8 page)

Special agent Constanza Rodriguez picked her
way slowly down the rutted gravel road, her eyes darting glances
into the shadows under the trees. The coal black, glittering eyes
were what drew attention first, but her entire demeanor was that of
a hunting wolf. Her tight black jeans looked like a second skin
over her rear and down her long lean legs. A dark blue and yellow
FBI wind breaker just barely hid the holstered automatic on her
hip. Rodriguez rarely smiled and she certainly wasn't smiling now.
They'd had a fruitless day waiting for a suspect who hadn't
materialized.

Chris rose from his vantage point at the side
of the road and walked stiffly to meet Rodriguez. He was cold and
tired after an entire day of waiting and watching. As the sun sank,
casting dusky shadows, he stopped before Rodriguez and they
scrutinized the road and woods one last time.

Owen shot a questioning glance at his
partner. He looked at her impassive face and saw there the cold
cruel features of her Conquistador and Aztec ancestors. She
perpetually wore an expression that looked as though she were
perfectly capable of committing murder and was about to do just
that. His boss had sent her down to Virginia, in spite of his
repeated protestations that he didn't want to work with her
anymore. Rodriguez was intense, abrupt, and too often unorthodox in
her methods. Owen was more the good cop, persuasive and easy
going.

"So, what do you think?" he asked.

"Maybe a phony tip? Maybe he made us?" she
said, shrugging. "Who the hell knows? But I know somebody's been
living in that cabin."

"You went in? We weren't supposed to unless
he was in there. We've got an arrest warrant, but no search
warrant."

"Back door was open," she said, shrugging
again.

"It was unlocked, or it was open after you
picked the lock?"

In answer to his question, she simply stared
unsmiling, with those deep onyx eyes. He sighed, looked away and
ran a hand through his short blond hair.

"Tomorrow, how about you flash his picture
around the local businesses? See if anyone recognizes him. He has
to buy food. Maybe he's gone all the way to Roanoke or some other
place."

"Yeah, I'm gonna do that. He's been shopping
all right. There's wine, a little fruit and other stuff inside.
Found a couple of receipts for local stores too. He paid cash," she
said, pausing. "The guy's a slob. There's trash everywhere in
there."

"Well, that's something. It's a start. Let's
get out of here. I need a shower and a bite to eat," he said,
heading down toward the road and their cars.

Becky clung to Ethan like a
drowning person tossed on the flood. The ground heaved beneath
them. A tremendous series of thunderclaps came out of the west and
washed over them. Although they’d experienced the first quake just
five weeks before, they were no less frightened by this one. It
seemed as though the whole world was coming apart. Ethan thought
that this second quake was at least as violent as the first. The
girl held onto him, face buried on his chest and whimpering with
terror.

Eventually the motion of
the earth subsided. Ethan couldn’t have told how long the violence
continued. It hadn’t collapsed their lean-to shelter of pine
boughs, but shook needles in a fragrant stickiness upon them. They
lay in one another’s arms, the comforting scent of pine filling the
narrow space. Finally, they lifted their heads. Becky’s blue eyes
were misted with tears, and her blond hair, shaken loose, fell over
her shoulders and across Ethan. For a long moment, the couple
stared into each other’s eyes, their fear slowly subsiding. At
least they weren’t alone, in a world gone eerily silent and still.
He softly whispered her name and their lips met in a kiss so
passionate, it took them both by surprise.'

From Reelfoot Legacy, by
Melinda Peters

"Sure, I know all about them earthquakes,"
said Jeremiah. The old man shifted his weight in the porch rocker,
leaned back, and squinted at the distant blue-green hills as if
what he wanted to say was written there. "Reason is, my
great-great-granddaddy settled out there, right near the
Mississippi, about two-hundred years ago. It was the Territory
then, but now it's Tennessee." He stopped his rocking, leaned over
the arm of his chair, and gave her a curious frown. "What you want
to know about all that for, young lady? Most folks nowadays just
aren't interested in them old stories."

Vicky swept her dark auburn hair over her
shoulder and leaned toward the old man, excited at the thought of a
personal story to further her research. "Oh, but I'm interested Mr.
Evans. I'd love to hear them all. I'm fascinated by the past."
Since deciding on the historical setting for the next book, she'd
taken to asking people what they knew about the New Madrid
earthquakes. Until now, the only responses she'd received were
blank looks.

Jeremiah looked at her suspiciously. "Are you
now?" Shrugging, he tugged on the legs of his overalls, and settled
into the cushions. The chair began to gently rock again.

"Did your ancestors ever write anything down
about the earthquakes, Mr. Evans?" she asked hopefully.

"Nah. Nothing like that." He waved a hand
towards her dismissing the idea. "Leastways, not here in Virginia.
My granddaddy said once he thought his kinfolk out in Tennessee
wrote it all down, but I don't know for sure." He rocked for a
moment before continuing, "There's a passel of stories handed down
over the years though. There's things my daddy told me, that his
daddy and granddad told him. Some of it fearsome enough to make you
go all over gooseflesh, and that's a fact."

"So your family lived there before it was
part of Tennessee?" she asked encouraging him.

"It was the first Jeremiah settled out there
with his folks. I'm named for him, don't ya know." Warming to his
story, he turned to Vicky and continued, "The Evans's were one of
the first white families to settle there. Lived with the Indians,
Chickasaw if I remember correctly, or maybe it was the Choctaw.
Worked hard, clearing the land themselves and living in a little
ol' log cabin."

"That's amazing. Tell me more," she
enthused.

"Well now. If I recollect, Jeremiah, he and
his folks survived them earthquakes." He frowned, remembering. "But
their home and everything they'd worked so hard for was destroyed,
and they had to rebuild. Then, it wasn't hardly any time at all; he
marched off to war with Old Hickory and fought in the Second War of
Independence. War of 1812, they call it now. They say he was nearly
killed in an Indian attack. Had a brother was killed by the
Indians, though. Or in the war somehow." The old man reached down,
took up a mason jar by his side, deftly spun the lid off, and took
a long swallow. He sighed deeply with satisfaction and set it down
beside his rocking chair.

"I'd like to spend more time with you and
hear more of your stories. They shouldn't ever be lost and
forgotten. Would you mind if I took notes?" she asked eagerly.

"Well now. I reckon that's not a bad idea, if
you've a mind to, young lady. Daddy and Granddaddy told me lots of
stories." Nodding thoughtfully, he admitted, "I'd like for them to
be writ down. Probably should've done it myself long ago."

Her curls bouncing with every step, a pretty
little girl in a pink dress trotted past the musicians as they
tuned their instruments, and stopped in front of Vicky and
Jeremiah. She cradled a baby doll on one hip, a miniature baby
bottle pressed firmly into its tiny mouth. There was a smug, self
possessed expression on her alert little face.

"Hi. I'm Lina," she announced, eyeing Vicky
with curiosity.

"Is that your baby?" Vicky asked.

Lina smiled indulgently at the doll and
sighed. "Yes. My baby's name is Cassandra. I'm taking her inside
now. She has to have her nap."

"I see," said Vicky, her eyes twinkling with
amusement.

"Yes, it's nap time," she said reaching up to
open the kitchen door. "Good-bye." The screen door slammed behind
her.

"That sweet little thing is just cute as a
button. Reminds me of my own youngsters, a good many years ago,"
said Jeremiah.

He glanced away to watch the quartet of
musicians begin playing on the other end of the spacious porch, his
foot keeping time with the lively tune. He picked up his jar and
took another drink before tucking it safely back beside his
chair.

Vicky vaguely wondered why the old man was
drinking water from a dusty mason jar. "All this talking has made
you thirsty!" She leaned towards him and raised her voice to be
heard over the music. "Here I've been asking you all these
questions and I never offered to get you an iced tea or lemonade.
Maybe you'd like some coffee?"

"That won't be necessary sweet thing. He
grinned and winked at her. "I've brought along my own jar." He
turned to watch the men playing guitar, mandolin, fiddle, and base
as the volume increased. "Lord have mercy," he shouted. "That
Hardwick boy is one fine fiddle player for one so young. My own
daddy was right handy with the fiddle, but I never had the
gift."

Vicky was about to steer Mr. Evans back to
the subject of the earthquakes, when she felt Jack's hand on her
shoulder.

"Got a minute?" her husband asked, motioning
for her to follow him into the kitchen."

"Excuse me, Mr. Evans." Vicky stood up and
leaned down so the old man could hear. "I'm looking forward to
visiting with you soon to hear more about your family history.
Perhaps later?"

"I ain't going anywhere, leastways not 'til
the good Lord calls me home," he yelled. "Be happy to tell you
everything I can recollect darlin'." He began rocking again, his
attention already focused on the music.

Jack put his arm around his wife's waist,
pulling her to him as they stepped inside. Just like the back
porch, the kitchen was humming with activity. Diane was slicing
cakes and brownies that the women had brought. Several of the
chainsaw jockeys were seated around the table, plowing their way
through the desserts. Two women were at the sink rinsing and
stacking dirty dishes. On the floor, Lina and her sister, Callie,
played under the work island with their dolls.

Gesturing towards the crowd, Jack said close
to her ear, "I thought I'd go to the store for Diane. With all
these unexpected guests, she's running out of groceries. You want
to come? We could check out Floyd and find The Country Store. I
want to go there on Friday night for the music."

Vicky grinned at him. "Absolutely! I'm so
going with you. Friday night there's a lot of activity in Floyd. I
read about it on the web site. Ask Diane what she needs while I get
ready. I won't be long." She slipped through the crowd and out of
the kitchen."

"Jack?" He turned to see Diane at his side.
She looked frazzled in the midst of the barely controlled
chaos.

Pushing damp tendrils of hair off her
forehead with the back of her hand, she said, "Thanks for offering
to buy some groceries. I sent a list to your phone. Just a few
things to last me until I have a chance to go on Monday. Make sure
you get a lot of coffee."

"No problem. We came here to help, not just
to relax."

"Thanks." She glanced around and said, "It
seems like everyone is either bringing in food, serving food,
eating food, or cleaning up the mess from food. I don't know how
Sandy can afford to feed all these people! And I don't know how I'm
going to pay those men for all that work. Sandy never mentioned an
emergency fund, or said anything about people coming for breakfast.
She told me there were no guests booked for the rest of the month
and I just had to take care of the animals. They all just started
showing up. Everybody's real nice and friendly, but...I wasn't
ready for all this."

Carol Anne, Beau Shackleford's wife, was
loading the big commercial dishwasher. Frowning she called over her
shoulder, "Hey Diane. I think there's something wrong here. The
handle on this faucet is loose and it's started to leak some."

"Let me take a look," said Jack, stepping up
to the sink. After examining the fixture, he said, "This faucet
needs to be replaced. It's just plain worn out."

"Oh no!" moaned Diane. "What else can go
wrong?"

"Just be careful with it. I'll get a new
faucet while we're out and tomorrow I'll replace it. No
problem."

"Thanks, Jack," Diane said gratefully. "I'm
really glad you and Vicky could come."

Out on the porch, the music stopped and the
men began packing up their instruments. The people at the table
pushed back their chairs and began to carry their plates to the
dishwasher. The women hung up their dishtowels and gathered their
things.

Diane smiled weakly as they all stopped to
thank her.

Kyle hung back from the crowd as they filed
out, and then approached Diane. "It was mighty nice of you, Miss
Diane, to take over for Sandy like this." He winked as he slipped
another brownie from the plate. "Usually there's more music, but
today we wanted to get that tree out of your way. I'm fixing to
head into town. Why don't you come along with me? I could show you
around and then we could get us a bite to eat."

More food? Seriously? Diane's mind reeled.
Except when they were cutting up the fallen tree or playing their
instruments on the back porch, they'd been eating all day long!
"Thank you, Kyle. I really appreciate your thinking of me, but I'm
pooped. Maybe another time?"

"I understand, but I'd sure feel privileged
if you'd let me take you to lunch, maybe tomorrow? There's a couple
of nice places to eat in town. Be happy to show you round." He
smiled and gave a tug on the bill of his baseball cap before
slipping past Vicky as she returned to the kitchen with her jacket
and purse.