Some Like It Hawk (3 page)

“Cool.” Eric perked up a bit at the thought. “There is one thing I don’t understand, though.”

“What’s that?”

“My mom said you and Michael were worried that the Evil Lender might take your house,” he said. “Does this have something to do with that? And how can they do that, anyway?”

My stomach tightened, as it always did when the subject came up.

“It’s complicated,” I said. And then I realized that if Eric was almost old enough to drive, he was also old enough to deal with a few complications. “The short version is that they can’t. But the county might be able to seize our land if they needed it for some public purpose. And right now the county owes the Evil Lender a lot of money. What if the Evil Lender told the county board ‘We won’t sue you, and we won’t make you pay back those millions of dollars—all you have to do is use your power to seize these people’s land and sell it to us’?”

“But the county board won’t do that—right?”

“I hope not. They don’t want to, but what if the Evil Lender backs them into a corner where they can’t refuse?”

“What does this have to do with Mr. Throckmorton?”

“Cousin Festus thinks having him there helps the county’s case.” Festus Hollingsworth, part of Mother’s vast extended family, was representing the county in all of these legal matters. I found myself wishing, not for the first time, that Festus would explain why he thought Mr. Throckmorton’s presence was so useful. Was it only for the PR value, or was there some obscure legal reason? But Festus hadn’t become a respected litigator and one of the top property law experts in Virginia by sharing his strategies with the immediate world.

Or maybe Festus might have enlightened us if he’d had time. For the past six weeks, he and the team of attorneys and paralegals he’d installed on the third floor of our house had been putting in twenty-hour days sorting through the boxes and boxes of papers and diskettes the lender had delivered. “It’s called document dump,” Festus had explained. “In discovery, they’re required to give me all relevant documents. But there’s no rule to prevent them from hiding them in several tons of useless garbage.” Festus was a veteran of many battles against slimy corporations. He knew how to deal with all this—didn’t he?

“Festus is the expert,” Eric said, echoing my thoughts.

“So until he tells us otherwise, we protect the secret of the tunnel,” I said. “And help Mr. Throckmorton stay in place.”

Eric tried to draw himself up to his full height, whacking not just his head, but even his shoulders on the low ceiling—when had he suddenly grown taller than me? He nodded with enthusiasm.

“You can trust me!” he said.

“Of course, protecting it doesn’t mean we have to sit here staring at it,” I replied. “Let’s go out and keep watch. Always peek out before you reenter the tent; never leave the tent unguarded until the junk’s on top of the trapdoor; and if someone catches you going in or out of the crawl space, there’s your excuse.”

I pointed to a mini-refrigerator tucked just inside the entry. I popped the door open to show its contents: sodas, water bottles, juice, fruit, and neatly stacked jars of the organic baby food Rose Noire still made for the boys.

“Our cover story is that I keep this back here because people were eating the boys’ food,” I said. “And drinking my sodas.”

I peeked out and saw only Rose Noire in the tent, so I lifted the flap and we scrambled out.

“Just one more thing,” Eric said. “What if—Oh my God!”

Chapter 3

My heart leapt as I looked to see where Eric was pointing. It seemed a harmless enough tableau. Apparently Eric had failed to notice that we were putting the boys down in Spike’s pen. Spike was licking Jamie’s face. Jamie was lying on his back, kicking his feet in the air, giggling happily. Then I realized what had alarmed Eric. Josh was waddling toward the two—in fact, as we watched, he reached down, grabbed a handful of Spike’s fluffy black-and-white fur, and yanked. Hard. So hard he fell down, still holding a few tufts of fur.

Spike yelped and whirled toward Josh. Eric belatedly realized that as babysitter he should be doing something and scrambled to grab Josh. But Spike was faster. By the time Eric reached them, Spike was happily licking Josh’s face. Jamie started crying.

“It’s okay,” I said, as I picked up the abandoned one.

“‘Pike!” Jamie said. “Want ‘Pike!”

“Aren’t they cute?” Rose Noire cooed.

“Wow, Spike really has mellowed,” Eric said.

“Only where the boys are concerned,” I said. “To the rest of the world he’s as fierce as ever—maybe fiercer if he thinks you’re a threat to the twins.”

Eric nodded. I was relieved to see that he was still eyeing Spike warily, as if not sure how far to trust him.

I handed Jamie to Eric and turned to Rose Noire.

“So what’s taking Rob so long?” I asked her.

“Apparently Mr. Throckmorton is helping him test a new game.”

“New game?” Eric perked up. Not surprising—he was, after all, squarely in the age range targeted by Rob’s phenomenally successful computer and role-playing games.

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to show it to you—on this side of the tunnel, please. Josh and Jamie are too young to become tunnel rats. And can you keep an eye on them while I go get something to eat?”

“I have a better idea.” Michael, my husband, had appeared in the doorway to the tent.

“Look,” I said to Jamie. “Here’s Daddy.”

“‘Pike!” Jamie was unconsoled, and still struggling in Eric’s arms.

“Let me have him.” Michael gave me a kiss, then scooped Jamie out of Eric’s arms and lifted him up as high as he could reach—which, since Michael was six feet four, meant Jamie was flying fairly close to the ceiling at this end of the tent. He squealed with delight.

“Eric, you bring Josh,” Michael said, as he continued to wave the giggling Jamie overhead. “The hay ride’s starting any second now.”

“Cool,” Eric said. He managed to snag Josh without getting bitten by Spike and the four of them were out of the tent before I had the chance to check the boys’ diapers.

Though I did notice that Michael grabbed the diaper bag I routinely kept packed and ready, so I told myself not to worry.

Spike settled down to watch the door through which the boys had disappeared. I congratulated myself, not for the first time, at having found the perfect watchdog for the tunnel’s mouth. If the boys were in the same enclosure as Spike, he would bark furiously when anyone approached and attempt to bite anyone foolhardy enough to disregard his warning and enter the pen—even, at times, Michael or me. If the boys weren’t with him, he sulked, and usually snapped at intruders out of sheer crankiness without even the courtesy of a warning bark. I had no doubt that Spike had contributed more than any of us to ensuring that the existence of the tunnel remained a secret.

Tinkerbell just sighed and curled up to sleep.

“Now that the boys are in safe hands, I’m going for some lunch,” I said to Rose Noire. “If I go now, maybe I can beat the rush. Call me when Rob’s safely out.”

“I have Tofu Surprise in the mini-fridge,” Rose Noire said. “You’re welcome to have some if you want to stay here.”

“Thanks, but I was planning to get some chili at Muriel’s Diner,” I said. “Want me to bring you some? She makes a vegetarian version.” Then a thought hit me. “Of course, if you already have Tofu Surprise, I suppose you won’t want chili. Maybe you can give some to Rob when he gets out.” I was eager to see the Tofu Surprise disappear before Rose Noire could browbeat me into consuming any more. The only surprising thing about it was how a pound or two of spices utterly failed to conceal the taste and texture of the tofu, which was probably my least favorite food.

“No, thanks,” Rose Noire said. “But you go on. I’ll stay here and wait for Rob.”

I nodded my thanks and strolled out.

The calypso band was still playing—with more enthusiasm than skill, but the crowd seemed to be enjoying them. Or maybe they just enjoyed having a place to sit that was out of the sun—the Shiffley Construction Company had installed dozens of new, sturdy wooden benches in a semicircle around the front side of the bandstand, and hung giant tarpaulins over them, turning the whole place into a much more usable event space. Every bench was filled, and there were even a few people standing at the back or along the sides, braving the blistering sun to hear the concert. The Fourth of July decorations had turned out well. The bandstand’s ornate Victorian wooden fretwork had been freshly painted so that it looked more than ever like a giant wedding cake, and it was so festooned with flags and red, white, and blue bunting that even the old-timers who hung out at the VFW hall allowed that the new mayor had done the town proud this year.

I glanced over at the courthouse. Normally it, too, would be decorated for the upcoming holiday with multiple flags and several square miles of bunting, but the new occupant didn’t go in for holiday frills. A tour group was clustered on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse, listening to their leader, who was standing on the third or fourth step of the wide marble stairs leading up the front of the building. And predictably, on the veranda at the top of the stairs stood two uniformed guards—part of the force hired by the lender to patrol the vacant courthouse.

I sighed. I knew the guards would remain there, glaring down at the tour group until it moved on. Did they suspect the tourists of some evil intentions?

Or were they just hot and cranky about having to wear an outfit more suited to a Chicago winter than a Virginia summer, and taking it out by glaring at the tourists? The dark blue uniforms were long-sleeved, high-necked, and decorated on collar and cuff with a glitzy bright red lightning bolt. We’d thought they were ridiculous even before one of Michael’s film students pointed out the strong resemblance between the guards’ uniforms and those worn by the Flying Monkeys in the movie of
The Wizard of Oz.

Of course, they might not know we’d started referring to them as “the Flying Monkeys.” I wasn’t about to ask.

The guards glared on. Maybe they were afraid the locals would infiltrate the tour groups in the hope of sneaking inside the building to resupply Mr. Throckmorton. I had to smile at the image of a group of tourists, posing in front of the barricade for a group photo, while behind them a rebel sympathizer tried to slip bits of food through the barricade.

Which wouldn’t be all that easy to do—the barricade was pretty formidable. In fact, it was actually two barricades.

Last year, after our creditor had seized the buildings, they hadn’t noticed for two weeks that Mr. Throckmorton had locked himself in the basement. For that matter, it was at least a week before anyone else in town noticed either. But once the lender realized it had a stubborn squatter in residence, its staff took action.

They battered down the basement door, only to find that Mr. Throckmorton had erected an inner barricade of six-by-six-inch landscape timbers. When they took a chainsaw to one of the timbers they discovered that he’d drilled holes in the timbers and threaded inch-thick iron bars through them. At that point they gave up. They covered the outside of his barricade with chicken wire and erected their own external barricade, a flimsy affair of one by sixes nailed in place.

Mr. Throckmorton’s barricade was solid except for a few places where he’d put spacers to leave chinks an inch tall by a few inches wide—I assumed for ventilation. A well-intentioned visitor might be able to slip a few grapes or cherries through the chinks, or maybe a hot dog minus the bun. Anything larger would be impossible.

Not that they were letting tourists into the courthouse, much less down in the basement where the barricade was. The Evil Lender had originally tried to block off all access to the town square, to tourists and locals alike, but Judge Jane Shiffley had ruled that the streets and the town square were public property, and the appeals court in Richmond had upheld her ruling. So all the guards could do was frown menacingly at passersby, in the hope of scaring them away.

Far from scaring anybody away, the guards’ presence had inspired the residents with a keen new interest in enjoying the town’s public spaces. Weather permitting, the sidewalk in front of the courthouse normally teemed with people walking, power walking, dog walking, jogging, carrying on animated conversations with friends, playing musical instruments, singing (either with the instruments or a cappella), sunning themselves on the benches—and, of course, wishing the guards a good morning, afternoon, or evening, and offering them cookies and glasses of iced tea or lemonade.

The original guards had eventually mellowed, and become a little friendlier. And then a few weeks ago, just before Memorial Day, they were fired on suspicion of taking bribes to let townspeople sneak in supplies. It was a bum rap, of course, but we didn’t dare tell the lender that. The Flying Monkeys had come in as replacements.

Maybe the Flying Monkeys would also mellow in time, but so far they tended to stay at the top of the steps, where they could sulk to their hearts’ content without the danger that the locals’ friendly overtures would spoil their fun.

I passed by the area where several dozen potters, quilters, woodworkers, and other craftspeople had booths, and in most cases, demonstration areas in multicolored tents. A little farther on was an area where the 4-H and the Future Farmers of Virginia had set up a series of agricultural displays along with an ongoing farmer’s market.

My stomach rumbled, reminding me that it was time for lunch. I headed in the opposite direction from the courthouse, passing through the section where the food tents were arranged in a semicircle. St. Byblig’s, the local Catholic church, sold Southern fried catfish with hush puppies and slaw. Next door, the New Life Baptist Church served up fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and greens. And beyond them was Trinity Episcopal’s pit barbecue with fresh corn on the cob and hot German potato salad. Add in smaller stands offering cakes, pies, watermelons, funnel cakes, fresh-squeezed lemonade, and ice cream and you could see why the tourists sometimes spent half an hour staggering around in circles before finally deciding what they wanted to eat. And often trying to eat it all. Indigestion was second only to heatstroke at the first aid tent that was my dad’s latest way of avoiding complete retirement from the medical profession.