Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  “No.”

  “It is good to listen,” she said. “I pushed it open when he stopped and got out to smoke. We were ready to leave then.”

  “Oh, you got that right. So ready.”

  “I’m thinking.” She put an index finger on her chin and looked up. “It’s good the back door of the van didn’t fly open. Those buckets would have made a terrible noise. But, then, maybe that would have been good. It would have been another means of escape when he stopped to investigate.”

  Good lord. Blanche put her head against the wall of sand and let out a huge sigh. She turned to Haasi. “Thanks.”

  “No thanks is ever needed.”

  They dozed in the warm autumn sun. Blanche couldn’t tell how long they sat there. Time didn’t seem to have any edges. It just flowed out around her, like the bay.

  Haasi sat upright with her hands raised to shoulder level, like she was praying. Blanche watched the concentration on Haasi’s face, smooth and peaceful, completely removed from the disaster they had both escaped. She opened her eyes and smiled at Blanche.

  “Are you rested? We must go.”

  “Go?” Where? How? Blanche stared out across the bay. But she had to go—get up and put one foot in front of the other, get on with it. It seemed like everywhere she stepped was disaster.

  “We walk.”

  She dragged herself up and followed Haasi. She was dying of thirst, surrounded by salt water. It drove her mad, her vision blurry with fatigue and anxiety.

  “How far?” She could see the bridge but the path was hidden, and it was difficult to determine distance.

  “Do not worry.”

  Blanche’s shoulders slumped. She felt near to falling down, but she fought it and picked her way along the trail. She had been all over the island and surrounding mainland up and down the coast. But the area looked different from a boat or car as compared to looking at it while trudging through the mangrove and swimming along the remote shore. After being kidnapped.

  Haasi reminded Blanche of a tiger, creeping through the grass. Deliberate and sure. They had left behind a wide patch of thick growth, not only mangrove but scrub palms, dune grass and sprouting pines and live oak. It was so overgrown that light seemed to die within the wall of the dark green jungle.

  Haasi nodded. “I think our trail is cold. We are not followed.” She signaled Blanche, and the two trekked along the beach hugging a cliff of sand.

  The Buccaneer Pass Bridge rose up in the distance. It connected the north end of the island with the bay side at the mainland.

  “We are going there. It is the fastest way back. Let us be quick, and quiet.”

  It was the only way. They had to make it to that bridge. Swimming to the island was out of the question. The current and sharks would get them before the white van caught up.

  Blanche could see freedom ahead—the bridge a link to safety—and it exhilarated her. But the van was out there. It wouldn’t have turned around and gone back to wherever it came from, leaving them to run free through the mangrove. Her mind raced with the unknown possibilities. They were still in deep, even when, and if, they made it back.

  “It’s good the bridge is not so well-traveled at this hour. That’s a consideration,” said Blanche.

  “This could be good, or it could be bad,” said Haasi. “It is nice to get help. But for now, the plan is to stay together.” Blanche did not question that. She longed to get back to the island, get dry, drink a large bottle of water, and about a gallon of hot coffee.

  Haasi hardly seemed bothered at all. She blended with the dune grass. She even looked comfortable in her scant, faded clothes, despite their harrowing escape. Blanche drew a deep breath.

  They picked their way over broken shell and driftwood. Blanche stumbled, but Haasi was light as a gull, barely leaving a track in the sand.

  They arrived near the base of the bridge. Except for two cars off in the distance, there was no traffic. And, best of all, no van. The sun climbed higher.

  Her thirst was huge, but they trudged on. Neither one wore shoes. Blanche’s feet warmed to the concrete pathway approaching the bridge, but soon her soles were burning. Haasi reached the bridge, signaled, and started to dash over the span. It was hard to keep up. The girl was fast as a deer.

  “Hurry. We should get out of view.” Haasi called over her shoulder. She was nearing the other side.

  Blanche was in the middle of the bridge when she heard the unmistakable rumble. She didn’t want to believe it. It can’t be. The white van pulled up alongside her.

  Stick together. It was about the only rule Gran had for Jack and Blanche, and now she remembered it. My God, Haasi had just repeated it.

  “Keep going, Blanche. Run. Keep up.” Too late. Haasie was still shouting back at Blanche. She could hear her, but she couldn’t see her. The van blocked her view, and so did desperation. She was caught. Again. The door of the van opened on the passenger’s side. An arm reached out and grabbed Blanche, immobile with fear, gasping for breath.

  Damn, this dude is strong!

  She last saw a glimpse of Haasi on the other side, but it might as well have been the other side of the moon. Haasi’s expression froze and her mouth formed an O, her arms outstretched.

  Either the driver didn’t know Haasi was close by, or he didn’t care. Apparently, it was Blanche he was after.

  The van sped off. It passed Haasi, ripping down the two-lane road before making a U-turn. Blanche hit a pile of buckets heaped on the carpet and tried to steady herself while the van rocked and shimmied.

  She was fed up with this mode of transportation, tossed on to the oily old floor, but she tried not to think about it. The world would end soon enough. Surely this guy was heading off to some remote area to finish the job.

  Haasi hid in plain sight behind pilings as she watched the van speed away. She managed to get a clear shot at the license plate number. And as it turned out, she had a very good memory.

  Thirty-Three —

  Blanche-napped!

  Chief Duncan was sitting at his desk in his office on Santa Maria. It wasn’t a large desk, in fact, it barely accommodated all six foot four inches of him and 300 pounds. He filled the space, and he more than adequately filled the job of policing Santa Maria. Aloysius Duncan worked overtime to keep the peace and get along with his neighbors. He had once been an “island boy” himself, and he knew the value of keeping the kids off the streets and on the playing field. He coached, refereed when he could, and donated toward the cost of uniforms on behalf of the Manatee County Benevolent Association.

  He was part of the fabric of the island and part of the county network, and Santa Maria was considered a plum outpost where nothing ever happened. Except when Blanche was concerned. First, those stories about the drug drops at Conchita. She’d stirred up a hornet’s nest at the meeting, and later at the newspaper office with that reporting. Duncan wiped his forehead. Then this business with the murder. She was out for blood.

  He sighed, and wondered about all that. Life on the island had changed. The drug drops were as yet unsolved. The murder of Bob Blankenship was the leading cause of his heartburn and of local concern. And the furor over the supposed impending land development added to his consternation. In the past week, he’d gotten a flood (along with the deluge of Hurricane Wilma) of threats, complaints from residents, calls about “right of eminent domain.” Blanche had made it clear in the meeting that this right referred to the right of the rich to get richer. Even with the offer of “large sums” (undetermined, so far), most islanders wanted the Chicago folks gone and peace restored.

  The state agency in Tallahassee called him about the hurricane damage, and he was getting a storm of calls about permitting for old and new construction. Most of the calls did not even involve the police chief, but people were upset, and when they were angry and upset, they went to the law. They knew they’d have the ear of Aloysius Duncan.

  Of the seven piles of papers on the edge of his desk, he dunked most of
it closest to the waste basket into the circular file. He chewed a Tums. The mushroom omelet at Peaches had been delicious but it wasn’t sitting well. He couldn’t do tomatoes any more, but he also couldn’t drink coffee without frequent roiling pain and gaseous explosions. His wife, Emma, told him to knock off the coffee, that the dozen or so cups with double cream and four sugars he drank a day were causing the problem, but he couldn’t do it. He needed his coffee. So he would suffer and buy more Tums.

  Duncan made a few more phone calls to county about the murder. Nothing was shaking on that front with so little to go on. Blanche had her theory, but Blanche could find mischief in a box of cereal.

  They were united on one front for sure. Bob had been a good friend, and they were bent on finding out who did it and why. Blanche had given him a couple of leads—all of them pretty weak. But he needed to follow up. The piece of cellophane and that white van were intriguing. Yet, how could that go anywhere? The emails he’d picked up from Liza caused a glaze over his eyes that rivaled the indigestion from coffee and the omelet. He needed to get after Buzz for help deciphering those emails and get back to Liza. Soon.

  As for Blanche, he had a real soft spot for the girl. Everybody had loved Maeve, but when the accident happened, and Maeve was suddenly mother to that tiny imp, the island also became Mother to Blanche. She couldn’t go anywhere that a cookie or a sucker didn’t appear, along with offers to babysit and promises to visit. Blanche had been an outgoing child, a dancer and singer—all too eager to belt out Que Será and The Tennessee Waltz, Maeve’s favorites. Some of the light went out of Blanche when Maeve died, and her creativity had turned to writing. Blanche could not be consoled for quite some time. Her island family tried. He tried. To Duncan, she was his island daughter.

  His mind was unsettled, and so was his stomach, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes. He was pawing through a stack of notes and messages when he looked up to see a bedraggled, but beautiful, tiny person standing in front of his desk. He didn’t know where she had come from, but here she was. Her hair was shiny black and she wore faded jeans and a shredded t-shirt. At first he thought she was going to ask him for a donation. He was a soft touch for Girl Scout cookies and candy sold at the community center. But then he saw the look in her eyes. There was nothing sweet there. It riled him far more than his stomach.

  “We have to hurry,” she said. Haasi thrust a torn piece of paper at the police chief. “They have Blanche.”

  At first what she said did not register. “What?”

  “I will explain, but we need to hurry. They kidnapped Blanche Murninghan. The hairballs. This is the license number of the white van. Call now.”

  “Now, see here…” But then he stopped. A mountain of urgency five feet tall stood before him. This was no joke. He needed no further coaxing. He pushed his chair back and picked up the radio. The message went out to the cars throughout the county. And then it crossed his mind. Better get it out statewide.

  “…359XJM… Detain white van for questioning… suspect in kidnapping…inspect vehicle for white female, five feet, two inches, black curly hair. Name Blanche Murninghan.”

  Haasi was still standing in front of the chief’s desk. She watched while he alerted officials. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but she didn’t move. “You have to find her. They want to kill her.”

  “All right now.” He was on his feet, sputtering. “Suppose you tell me what exactly happened. You seem to know a lot about this here kidnapping.”

  And Haasi did. She told him. All of it. He had started pacing, and then fallen back into his chair. He was perfectly still, except for his eyebrows that jumped like caterpillars on fire.

  I

  It was almost four o’clock, and Cappy hadn’t seen Blanche all day. The back door had strange scrapings on it, but sometimes Blanche locked herself out and had to jimmy her way back in. Still it didn’t add up. Blanche always left a note. The bed was unmade, and Blanche always kept her space neat. He looked in the garbage can in the kitchen. No coffee grounds or orange peels, and Blanche dearly loved her coffee and fresh Valencias off the tree.

  He called the cabin and her cellphone. They both went to voice mail. Was she inspecting the work, or lack of it? No answer. Cappy scratched his head, sank down in an arm chair. The tiny nerve endings in the back of his neck prickled, telling him this was not right.

  She would have left a note. And she surely wouldn’t move back until Amos gave her the all-clear. They were weeks away from completing the repairs. As the hour ticked on, he thought of the possibilities and none of them were plausible. He called again. She didn’t answer her phone, and the neighbors hadn’t seen her either. He began to worry.

  Cappy didn’t have much longer to think about it. Out the window of his kitchen, a blue light flashed by. A police car turned and cruised back around to his driveway. He got up and stared out the window. His phone rang.

  It was Chief Duncan. “Now, Cap, don’t be alarmed. I want you to come down here. Now. We have a report that Blanche was, well, picked up. Don’t worry.”

  “Picked up?”

  “We have every car in the county looking for her.”

  “Dunc, what are you talking about? What did she do?”

  “Oh, no, no. It’s not like that. Why don’t you come over here and we can talk? We’re on this, believe me. Anyway, as soon as you can. There’s a team on the way over to check out your place. Don’t touch anything.”

  An officer climbed out of the patrol car. It appeared that “the team” had arrived.

  I

  Duncan, Haasi, and Cappy met up in police headquarters.

  Cappy knew who Haasi was even before she said a word. Blanche had described her perfectly, but he hadn’t the faintest idea why she was standing in the police station. His mind was elsewhere, floating around Florida looking for Blanche. Where can she be?

  Haasi took Cap’s hand while Duncan shouted at Sergeant Reberton: “I don’t care if there are a million white vans out there, you stop every goddamn one of them and check that license number. One of them has Blanche Murninghan captive. These people are dangerous as all hell. Find them.” It was totally uncharacteristic of him, and totally called for.

  Cappy’s face was grey. Haasi guided him to a chair near the chief’s desk. She thought about coffee, then settled for water from the cooler. She offered the cup of water. Cappy took it and felt a bond grip them.

  “Why are you here. What do you know?” Cappy spoke softly. He needed his heart to stop beating so fast, he thought he’d explode.

  “We will talk. Blanche and I are friends.” It calmed him even while the chief shouted and slammed down the phone. He paced from the window and back over to where Cappy and Haasi were sitting.

  “I don’t know,” Duncan muttered. Then he hefted himself onto the edge of the desk, knocking at least a day’s worth of police briefings into the wastebasket. “We have to go over this again. Piece by piece. And, Haasi, you have to tell Cappy exactly what happened. I need to hear it again myself.”

  Cappy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Blanche had insisted on investigating the murder and the people behind the development plans. He’d tried to talk her out of it, and his instinct had been right. He wished it weren’t.

  “Blanche was looking into the murder and that land deal, and writing stories about all of it. Is that what this is all about?” Cappy already knew the answer.

  “We think so. Haasi was on to them, then she saw the van in front of your house.”

  “I wish I’d known what this hairball was doing there. I should yell or call for help. Or something. But it was too late.” She dropped her chin. “The man was quick. He went into your house and put Blanche in the van. In minutes.”

  Once Cappy had heard the story of the kidnapping, the escape, and the second kidnapping of Blanche on the bridge, he marveled at the ingenuity of the small girl, who at one point had saved Blanche—and probably would again with the license number of the van and the details
of the ordeal.

  “Thank you,” said Cappy. But she could see he was near tears. “We have to get her back.”

  Haasi stood up then. “I can’t sit here. I must go. I need to find Blanche.”

  “Now, look,” said Duncan. “I think you’ve done enough.”

  “No.”

  Duncan sputtered. “Where can we find you? What’s your address?”

  “My address? That would be difficult. I don’t have such a thing. But I will see you soon.”

  She was gone before either of the men could stop her. Duncan sat down hard, the chair protesting under his weight.

  “I’m going home to see if your officers found anything.” Cappy took another sip. He looked like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes. “Blanche left a lot of notes, and I think I should turn them over. They might be helpful. I’ll worry about the consequences later, but I’m sure Blanche would agree that it would be best for you to have them.”

  “I’m sorry, Cappers.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Find her. I’ll be back, and then I’m not leaving until you do.”

  The chief picked up the radio again. “Well?” He yelled into the small black holes and broke the eardrum of whomever was on the other end of the line.

  That’s when the station door flew open and Liza Kramer burst in. “What the hell is going on? Peaches heard on the scanner that Blanche was abducted. It could only be Blanche. Who else around here is about five feet with black curly hair?”

  Liza stood in front of the chief’s desk and didn’t seem to care one wit that he was talking to someone on the radio. Her hand kept beating the sequin seahorse stitched to the front of her sweater. She teetered on red patent high heels and put her hands on her hips. She didn’t see Cappy. Her eyes bore a hole in the police chief.

  “What are you doing about it? Should I get in my car and start driving around?” She waved her flame-red manicure in the air.

  The police chief gestured with one stubby finger. “Just a minute. OK?”

  Behind Liza came Peaches carrying a large bag of baked goods, which was evident from the aroma that flooded the office. Duncan had one eye on Liza and another on Peaches and the goodies.