Switcheroo (8 page)

Chapter
13

After Randall Kendrick finished
telling me he was an accessory to murder and grand theft auto, there was an
awkward silence that lasted maybe thirty seconds, but felt like an hour.

“Those are nice shoes,” he was
looking at my loafers. A strange comment after confessing to crimes of this
magnitude. He seemed to be a trance now.

“Yes, thank you, I’ve always
wanted a pair of Cole-Hahn’s,” I said.

“Ah, they’re Cole-Hahn’s?”

“No, I’m just saying I’ve always
wanted some.  These are Bostonians,” I admitted.

Perhaps now would be a good time
to call the police, but I didn’t know what I would say.  ‘Officer, I just
figured out that the security guard who works for this mad scientist had my
client’s dead-beat husband killed so he could steal their truck that teleports.
Now he’s really sorry. He didn’t mean to have anyone killed at all.’

I decided just to try to collect
the truck and then let this guy self-destruct by himself.  Maybe I could get
him to call the cops and tell his own story.

“Mr. Kendrick, can you take me to
the truck so I can recover it?” I said calmly, speaking as if to a child.

“Uh, do you have a gun, Mr.
Stover?”  He said, dazed.

“Oh, yes, definitely,” I said,
lying.

“I see,” Kendrick stood up
abruptly from behind his desk, ready to leave.

His athletic physique was totally
gone since he had stopped playing baseball thirty years ago.  I followed him
down the hallway, hoping to get Tammy’s truck back.  He was tall, pear shaped
with a large circle of scalp showing classic male pattern baldness. His
previously aggressive attitude had been replaced by a quiet, apologetic manner.
The change seemed scary crazy.  We walked down a hall lined doors without
windows.  Each door had card scanner for entry. We left the Kendrick’s office
building and walked through a breezeway to another institutional building.  We
took an elevator to the basement.  All this time Kendrick walked like a
condemned man on his way to see ‘Ole Sparky.’  My phone vibrated in my pocket.
I did not answer it.

Kendrick walked to the back of the
basement-parking garage and up to one of several garage bays there.  Each bay
had a rolling metal door, like a stock and lock.

“Uh oh,” Kendrick said.

He had knelt down to open one of
the bay doors.  There was a shattered lock on the floor at his knees.  The
whole area around the latch on the door was blackened, apparently by the powder
blast of a gun.

He glanced around the garage,
flustered. “Darin is supposed to be watching this bay.”

Kendrick rolled the garage door
up. There was no truck inside, but it was not empty.  A man was lying on the
floor inside in a very relaxed position.  I was willing to bet the area of dark
pavement around his head was not an oil stain.

“That’s Mosley, I take it?”  I
asked, not entering the garage bay.

“Yes, that’s Mosley.”

Kendrick worked his fingers
against his temples, hissing out a sigh. Now what?

I quickly excused myself, calling
the police on my cell phone as I walked away.  As I left, Kendrick was in a
serious funk.  By the look in his tired eyes I’m sure he was considering Mexico or possibly suicide as equally attractive options.  My first thought was to make my
call anonymous, but instead I gave my name and said I would sign a statement
later.  By way of an excuse for not waiting at the scene, I told the dispatcher
that Kendrick was insane and that I feared for my life. Half true. I gave my office
number and hung up.

While I waited in line to exit
Oakridge National Lab’s complex through a gate with a security kiosk, I checked
my voice mail.  There was a message from Joel Axeman at LISA saying I was two
days behind on my reports, please call in.  Dammit!

The other message was even more
disturbing.

“Rust, please come to the house
right now.  There was a different note in the truck today. It just says ‘1684
Old Rutledge Pike, see you soon.’  That’s Grandma’s house!  They got the
address somehow.  This note is handwritten, too. And another thing the tuck
smells funny. Like barbecue? Come over right now plea…”

The message cut off.

Probably just a dropped call, I
told myself.  I couldn’t believe anyone would harm Tammy and baby Hannah.  My
gut tightened as I remembered the pool of dark blood around Darin Mosley’s
body.

I had done a pretty good job of
detecting and still come up dry.  Now I remembered why I enjoyed working for
LISA so much.  Boring, boring, boring, but it paid the bills.  Now I was about
to start over with a whole new set of crooks. Totally stressed, I needed a
beer.

It took what seemed like two weeks
for me to get through the routine security line and allowed to leave the ORNL
complex.  News of Morley’s murder had not made it to the security officer on
duty yet. I wasn’t about to mention it.

I headed down Illinois Avenue out
of Oakridge taking Pellissippi Parkway to Interstate 40.  About every three
minutes I called Tammy’s number but each time there was no answer.  I kept the
needle right at eighty for about twenty minutes until I hit Rutledge Pike,
Tammy’s exit.  As the farmhouse came into view, I saw a red Camaro I had never
seen before parked in the driveway.  It was a mid-nineties model with a faded
hood and roof and Knox County license plates. In front of the Camaro was
Grandma Tuttle’s old Pontiac. She hadn’t answered the phone because they were
having friends over for tea, right?

I kept driving, pulling beyond the
tree line past the house and parked out of sight on the shoulder. I moved to
get out, thought twice and opened the glove box and grabbed the first gun I
saw, the nickel-plated Colt. Then I hopped out quickly and began wading through
the knee-high grass going to seed on the shoulder.  I kept my eye on the house,
but was thinking of possible slithering rattlers in the tall grass.  I hate
reptiles, I’m no Crocodile Hunter and don’t pretend to be.  Seeing nothing
around the house, I quietly passed the driveway and up to the front door, which
was standing wide open.  I walked down the hallway toward the rear door, also
sitting wide open. Two doors open = two intruders? I thought of calling out,
but I didn’t dare.  There was no way to anyone could miss my approach with the
old pine floorboards creaking to announce each step.

Behind me I heard a nervous
‘pssst.’

I turned to see Tammy’s
grandmother peeking out of the closet under the stairs.

“Two men,” she whispered, pointing
a knotty finger toward the back door.

She held her wadded up apron
nervously in both hands in front of her, as though for protection.  I glanced
out the rear door to see two red necks with shotguns slung low, headed toward
the garage building.

“Where’s Tammy?” I whispered.

“The garage,” She pointed,
worried. “She and Hannah were outside when those men pulled in.”

I shoved Grandma Tuttle
apologetically back into the closet. I was outside on the rear porch before she
even closed the closet door.

“Drop the guns right now and raise
your hands. I’m a detective!” I yelled in my best drill sergeant voice,
pointing the Colt at one of the thugs.

Just as I finished this sentence,
the door behind me and the window next to me disintegrated in flurry of shot
gun pellets.  I leapt over the porch railing like a prize buck and slammed down
into the prickly hedge below. I rolled onto the ground and hugged the side of
the house. My neck blazed with pain. I grabbed a garden shovel that was leaning
against the side of the house and jumped behind the chimney on the north side
of the house.  To avoid detection, I spent several seconds trying to quiet my
panting breath.  I managed to stay hidden. When I was calm again, I began
listening intently for any sound beyond the blood pounding in my ears.

I heard the crunching of quick
steps on dry grass.  I pulled the shovel over my right shoulder and when the
steps were very close I let lose like it was a Louisville Slugger.  I hit the
ugly white dude right in the temple with the wooden handle of the shovel. The
second assailant was not far behind. I swung my body back behind the chimney
just as another shotgun blast torn a chunk of brick and mortar out of the
hundred-year-old chimney.  I didn’t want him to get too close so I went right
then.  I drew the Colt and threw myself on the ground just behind the
unconscious redneck.  He stank of beer and pot smoke. I quickly leveled the gun
and shot his buddy in the knee. My arm jumped with the recoil. The shotgun flew
out of my attacker’s hands as he collapsed, screaming and holding his knee. The
fact that I had been aiming at his shoulder didn’t really matter now.

I picked up both shotguns and
threw them up onto the porch.  Then I ran into the house and asked Grandma
Tuttle for some duct tape.  She got a ball of twine, which would have to do.  I
tied up my pal with the bum knee first.  I kicked him in the head for good
measure and to stop the screaming.  Then I tied up the unconscious thug.  Both
these dudes had on Wolverine boots and faded tee-shirts with flannel shirts on
over them.  Both were equal to my six feet, sort of big hairy Beavis and Butthead
types, only with shotguns instead of slingshots.

Oh shit, Tammy!  This was my next
thought as I ran toward the small barn that Tammy’s grandma called the garage.
I found no sign of Tammy or Hannah anywhere in the garage, just a blue Ford
truck with the distinct aroma of delicious, smoked barbecue.  I called
nine-one-one, my brain screaming; my heart numb.

Chapter
14

I was standing in Grandma Tuttle’s
driveway in my undershirt and with my tassel loafers badly in need of a shine. 
For reasons I would explain later to Tammy’s grandmother, I had just run down
to my car, hidden the nickel-plate pistol in my trunk and fired one shot into
the air from my own gun. Sticking that gun into my belt I ran back up to the
house, knowing the cops were on the way. I was going to admit to shooting one
of these guys, so the police probably wouldn’t do any ballistic tests on my
gun.

I gave my white oxford shirt with
its blood-soaked collar to Tammy’s grandmother who had promised to bleach it
and return it to me.  I had several scratches on my face from my fall into the
hedge; the worst one ran from my jaw down my neck had bloodied my shirt collar.

At my request, the local police
had also called in Detective Stratton from the KPD.  I liked his style and I
thought I might need his help later in Knoxville.  Turning over these two thugs
could help get me some brownie points.  Three collars in one week, not bad for
a private field investigator.

I was standing there, dazed, with
a glass of water Grandma Tuttle had given me.  She was sitting slumped forward
on the back porch steps looking at me with sad eyes.  She was so worried about
Hannah and Tammy; she did not know what to do.  Tammy was on my mind too, but I
had an idea about what had happened.

I was mopping the blood off my face
with a damp cloth thinking devious thoughts when I heard a faint, familiar
sound, a crackling electrical sound. The garage door was closed, muffling the
teleporting truck’s sizzle. I ran to the garage, flung open the side door and
ran inside.

Baby Hannah had just climbed out
of the truck cab and Tammy was right behind her.  I picked up the baby and
hugged Tammy.

“Grandma?” Tammy asked hopefully.

“She’s okay, Are you okay?”

“Well, I was scared when I got to
the other end, more than I was when it was happening,” she said with her head
on my chest.

“Ouchy,” Hannah pointed to my
bloody jaw.

“Oh, your face. Did they hit you?”
Tammy touched my chin.

“No, I cut myself shaving.
Actually, I fell into your Grandmother’s hedge.  Don’t worry, the hedge will be
just fine and my face looks worse than it is,” I said, not really knowing how
it looked. This is just one of the things I say.  In reality, I felt as if I
had a hole in my neck with a hornets’ nest stuffed into it.

“How did you do it?” I was
laughing with relief and amazement.  I didn’t know what time it was, but it was
daylight, and not anywhere near 3:17 a.m.

“You gave me the idea. You said
‘Why 3:17 a.m?’  And I was thinking, how does the car know when it’s 3:17? 
When I saw that Camaro pull in, I got scared. I grabbed Hannah and ran into the
garage to hide.  She got so scared and started crying when we heard the shots
being fired that I had to get us out of there. So I pushed an ink pen into
those little buttons on the digital clock and moved the time to 3:17 and off we
went. Everything went white and then we came out on the other side. Are those
men still here?”

“Yes, I really need to go watch
them until the police get here. Come on.”

I put Hannah down and we headed
out into the sunny afternoon.  As I was leaving the garage, I noticed the faint
smoky smell of real pit barbeque was there again.  It is the kind of smell that
makes you think of a family reunion with bright sunshine.  Sides of slaw,
barbeque beans and Texas toast on picnic tables covered with red and white
checked tablecloths.  Sweet tea, lemonade, potato salad and everything that is
good about America and the people that live in it.  That must be some damn fine
barbeque.

Tammy’s grandmother could have
given herself a heart attack scurrying down the path to the garage.  She hugged
Hannah and patted Tammy on the arm. My prisoners were still where I had left
them, both limp, neither conscious of much.

The police and paramedics arrived
and I spent the next hour and a half making a statement and having my face and
neck cleaned with antiseptic.  The pain this caused gave a nice edge to my
comments that did not endear me to any of the uniforms on the scene.  This gun
battle rated three squad cars and two ambulances, four officers and a KPD unit
with two plain-clothes detectives, one of whom was Stratton.  Detective
Stratton was professional but still seemed friendly.  Of course, he remembered
my citizen’s arrest from earlier that week.

“You’re running into a lot a
trouble for a field investigator.” He walked up to me with a trace of a smile.
He did not seem too sorry I’d had my feathers ruffled. “I got a dead body in
Oakridge and two shotgun rednecks in custody here. You are the connecting
thread. You wanna tell me why all these things are happening to you, since I
never heard of you before this week?”

I invited him to sit on the back
porch step with me. He refused saying he had been riding all day, he’d just
stand.

Cool.  I told him the first
scuffle when I stuffed the perp in the trunk had just been a coincidence, but
the shooting here and the body in Oakridge had to do with my client, Tammy
McHenry, and her Ford truck.  I told him pretty much everything, but skirted
the teleportation thing, making vague references about a possible scientific
discovery.

“I guess when we figure out who
they work for we’ll know who is trying to steal the truck.” I shrugged, wanting
him to go away.  Now that I had made my statement, I was anxious to talk to
Tammy and find out where she had gone when she ‘switched.’  With all the police
and paramedics around I had yet to talk to her about what happened on the other
end of her fantastic voyage.

“What about the red Camaro?” I
asked.

“Reported stolen.  Both those guys
you worked on were awake when they left here in the ambulance but neither would
make a statement without an attorney.”

Stratton pulled out a cigarette
and lit it, shifting his weight.

“One of ‘em had a little weed on
him.  Both weapons could easily be hunting rifles, so I don’t think these guys
are pros.  Especially since you were able to dispatch them so easily.” He
chuckled.

“Hey, that wasn’t easy!” I
objected, pointing to my bandaged neck.

“I’m just messing with you.  Don’t
let that scratch go to your head.  Look, Tammy and her family may want to
consider staying with a friend or some family member for a while ‘til we figure
this one out.  If these guys turn out to be cheap hired guns then there could
be more were they came from.”

“She could stay at my house,” I
said, still being dumb.

“Yeah, whatever,” Stratton gave me
a questioning look. “Listen, what is this possible scientific breakthrough,
exactly?”

“Uh, teleportation,” I shrugged.
“That’s what Tammy tells me, anyway.”

“Yeah? A girl from Straw Plains
that probably barely finished high school is going to invent teleportation. 
Well, this is America. I guess anything is possible.”

“True. You know an old pensioner
invented Kentucky Fried Chicken.” Clever me.

“Write your phone number on this
pad. You seem to be full of information and I might need to talk to you again about
this.” With that, Stratton grabbed his partner, who had been comforting Grandma
Tuttle while asking her a few questions.

In a matter of a few minutes, they
were all gone and I was in a heap, sitting on the back porch steps.  Grandma
Tuttle had a tear in her eye, as she stood looking at the splintered backside
of her farm house.  A blown out window and door post, and a lot of damage to
the exterior siding and to plaster inside. I stood up, slowed by pain and
fatigue, and walked Grandma Tuttle over broken glass into her kitchen.

Tammy had put Hannah down for an
afternoon siesta.  Now she sat alone at the kitchen table while I called a
residential contractor from the phone book to come and look at the damage to
the farmhouse. I was on hold to Grandma Tuttle’s insurance company next, while
I listened to Tammy.

“I was in a dark warehouse of some
kind.  There were cases of catsup and mayonnaise and what not, stacked high.
The lights were off, but a little sunlight came in through some high windows. 
It smelled real strong of a smoking barbecue pit.  Like the backside of Buddy’s
Barbecue smells when you go through the drive through.”

“We just hid quietly in the truck
cab.  No one ever came in and I didn’t really hear any noises, it was pretty
quiet.  I got scared that we would be discovered so I decided to come back
here.  I think we were gone about twenty minutes.  I was hoping they would
leave if they thought that I wasn’t there.”  She was drinking a diet coke and
had on her make-up and black work jeans. I was thinking impure thoughts.

“I need you to try to remember any
detail about the surroundings in there that you can. Were there any signs or
papers posted?  Any labels on anything stored there?  Any detail at all?”

“Rust, it was real dim in there
and I just can’t think of anything. Wait, I do remember one thing.  There was
an old football jersey thrown on some of the boxes. It said Bobcats on it with
the number thirteen in lighter colored letters. I remember thinking, who are
the Bobcats anyway?”

She shrugged her pretty little
shoulders. Still on hold for the insurance company, I struggled to remember
what city the ‘Bobcats’ hailed from.