The Gun Also Rises

by Sherry Harris

  With all that had been going on with Miss Belle, I hadn’t given much thought to the sale since the last time James and I had talked about it. Fortunately, almost everything was in place already. “I still have a few listings to put online, but I think everything else is set to go.”

  James nodded. “The permits to use the town common are done?”

  “Yes. The vendors are all lined up too.” This sale wasn’t going to be as big as New England’s Largest Yard Sale, which I’d run last fall, or the one in the works for this fall. I tapped a note into my phone to double-check to make sure there were no last-minute cancellations or additions. There was one particular vendor coming from the Berkshires I was really excited about. It was a husband and wife who had a small antique business they ran out of their barn near Pittsfield. They found the coolest stuff and resold them at great prices. I’d met them a few weeks ago at the new flea market on the west side of Ellington. They’d had an oak bookcase that folded flat. I’d been kicking myself ever since that I hadn’t bought it. The practical side of me knew I didn’t have much room for it. But at two hundred dollars, it had been a great price, and I’m sure I could have talked them down a bit.

  “Everyone was really excited to be able to help out. How’s Eric doing? We didn’t really talk about him the other day.”

  “The idea of the sale seems to have taken him off the brink of self-destruction.” James frowned. “I just hope we can raise enough money to bring King home.”

  I nodded.

  “How’s the entertainment lineup going?” I asked. James and his PTSD group had volunteered to take care of that aspect of the event, which was running from nine a.m. until three p.m.

  “Getting the group involved was a great idea. Some of them formed a band.”

  I must have wrinkled my nose, picturing the boys who lived next door to me growing up and trying to be like Bon Jovi with disastrous results.

  James laughed. “I wish you could see your face. Don’t worry, they’re good. Scott Pellner’s daughter is going to open with a few patriotic songs. Midday, we’ll have rock, and we’re ending with a blues singer who used to live in Bedford but moved to Nashville. He’s going to be in the area and said he’d be happy to help out.”

  “That sounds great, James. I’m glad you took that on.”

  “It’s been good for all of us.”

  “Do you think Eric will show up? He seemed reluctant the last time we spoke. A face to the cause will really help out,” I said.

  “He plans to be. Although he feels a little self-conscious. We’re going to use the photos of King Eric showed you the other day. I had them blown up to posters we can place around.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. “Should we meet at the town common tomorrow morning to finalize everything?”

  “Sure. Did you have a chance to talk to Tracy?” James asked.

  “I did, for a little while.” I didn’t want to give away any confidences we’d shared. “Being a military spouse can be difficult. It’s never about you and your wishes.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  I looked up at a man who stood beside our table. He had on a summer-weight tweed jacket with brown elbow patches, a white shirt with a bow tie, and heavy-framed dark glasses. He wore a tweed hat with the sides folded up. He looked out of place here, even though he was a nicely dressed man with waxed eyebrows and manicured nails.

  “Are you Ms. Winston?”

  I nodded reluctantly. “If you’re a reporter, I have no comment.”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that.” He pulled out the chair next to me and sat, casting a wary look at James, who, in his uniform, looked tough and muscular. “I’m a literary treasure hunter.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I stared at him for a moment. “A what?” I must have misheard him.

  “I track down literary treasures, everything from rarities to oddities. Some have been stolen, some just lost. I seek them out with the relentlessness of a bloodhound. As soon as I heard about the lost Hemingway manuscripts, I flew in from Illinois.”

  I glanced over at James, who looked as mystified as I felt.

  The man pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to me. It said Trevor Hunter, and beneath his name, it actually said Literary Treasure Hunter, followed by a phone number, email address, and Twitter handle.

  “You’re on Twitter?” I asked. I’m pretty sure I didn’t disguise my incredulousness.

  “It’s where I get some of my best tips. My last name is Hunter. I was born to do this and I’m good at it. Better than the others who are going to show up.”

  “Others?” My face felt a little flushed. I didn’t like where this was going.

  “Yes. We’re an international organization.”

  I squinted at him. “How come I’ve never heard of you?”

  “We keep a low profile, doing a service to the world without expecting thanks or fame.”

  I looked over at James. He’d leaned back in his chair and had his hand resting on his mouth. I’m pretty sure it was to hide a grin.

  “But I got to you first? Right?” Trevor asked. “Don’t tell me Bull Hardwick found you.”

  “I’ve never heard of anyone named Bull Hardwick.”

  “Oh, good. You can’t trust him. I blocked him on my Twitter account, so he shouldn’t be able to see who my tipsters are. I can help you.”

  “Help me what?” He didn’t look as if he could track down a flea, much less a murderer.

  “Show the manuscripts to the world. It would be selfish to keep them to yourself.”

  James scooted his chair back a bit. I did the same thing.

  “I don’t have them. They were stolen.”

  “Listen. No one would let them out of their sight once they had them. No one.” His voice had risen.

  I looked around and saw one of the reporters who’d been outside my house this morning holding up her cell phone, taping this.

  Trevor leaned in. “I just want to help you.” He grabbed my arm. I yanked it away and stood so abruptly, my chair fell over. Memories of my stalker flooded back through me, and I froze. James moved in one swift motion and had Trevor by the collar, propelling him to the door. Angelo appeared by the reporter, blocking her view of me.

  Trevor looked back at me. “Tweet me. I can help.”

  James escorted him out and made sure the reporter was out too.

  Angelo locked the door. “Nothing to see here, folks. I’ll let you out as you need to go.” The people still in the restaurant were a mix of locals and military, just trying to eat their lunch.

  “You’d better head out while you can,” Angelo said, tilting his head toward the window.

  There were more people dressed in tweed standing around. Trevor hadn’t been kidding about others being here. Some of them were talking to Trevor. They seemed to smell a story, or maybe it was the aroma of Angelo’s marinara sauce that had drawn them over.

  “They’ll see me go out the back,” I said, gesturing to the growing crowd.

  Rosalie came over. She clapped her hands. “Listen up. Would everyone please move to the windows? We’ll block them, so the people gathered outside can’t see Sarah go out the back.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” James said. “Just in case someone is already out there.”

  A couple of other military people said they would too.

  No one grumbled about helping out. They seemed to enjoy thwarting those outside. Seconds later, they stood in groups, blocking the windows.

  “Thank you. All of you. So much,” I said to the crowd. I heard some thanks and we take care of our own comments as I walked toward the rear. My eyes filled with tears at the acceptance. These people had my back. It was why I loved living here.

  Angelo held the back door open for me. “Go. Before they figure it out.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I sat in my Suburban in the parking lot behind the hockey rink on the west side of Ellington. An out-of-the-way p
lace where no one should be looking for me. I’d done my new normal of driving a circuitous route around town after thanking James and the other military folks who’d escorted me out to my car. In my rearview mirror as I’d pulled away, I’d seen them blocking the alley when a group of people dressed in tweed swarmed around the corner. I sent a quick thank-you text to James. He wrote back telling me to get hold of him if I needed further help.

  I rolled down the windows to let some air in my already warm Suburban. The breeze coming in felt like the heat from flames on a grill, but I didn’t want to keep the car running. I used my phone to post some ads on various sites to promote the fund-raising event for Eric. Then I typed literary treasure hunters into a search engine. What I was really hoping was nothing would pop up. No such luck. Literary treasure hunters were a thing, not unlike people who looked for stolen art. There was even an actual League of Literary Treasure Hunters. I looked through their list of members and found Trevor, but there was no sign of anyone named Bull Hardwick. I’d never seen so many photos of men and women dressed in tweed and bow ties. Sadly, not one of them looked like Indiana Jones. No whips, leather hats, or rugged good looks in this bunch.

  I clicked the About statement. Their founder had been a fan of tweed and bow ties, which, after his death, the group had adopted. I read their Mission Statement: To scour the world for lost and stolen literary treasures. Then I noticed an urgent Alert button flashing on the upper-right corner of the website, so I clicked it. There was the story of the lost manuscripts and a picture of me. I sank down in the seat as I closed the website. What now?

  Frieda called. “Don’t come back. We’ve been overrun.”

  “What do you mean?” I gripped my phone. “Is Miss Belle okay? Has she been arrested?”

  “Miss Belle’s fine, and no, she hasn’t been arrested. Although we could use some cops around here.”

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “The back deck.”

  I heard a thunk, as if Frieda had dropped her phone. Then the distant sound of her voice.

  “Get out of here. Don’t make me use this.”

  A few seconds later, she got back on the line. “Sorry about that. These weirdos in tweed have swarmed the place. Fortunately, most of them can be scared off with a mop. Bunch of wimps.”

  “They’re literary treasure hunters.”

  “I don’t care who they are. They’re disturbing Miss Belle and she has enough going on.”

  “Thank you, Frieda. You’ve gone above any call of duty. I’ll come over in a little while.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why?” I asked. Some sweat trickled down my back.

  “No offense, but you’ll just attract more of these wackos and reporters. Haven’t you seen the news?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Take a look. You’ll understand. I’ll call you when things calm down.”

  * * *

  I did a quick search and found all kinds of stories: stories about me. Some factual and some fringe. The fringe ones accused Roger, Miss Belle, and me of killing Kay, who they reported was trying to protect the manuscripts. Others said I’d stolen them and planned to sell them on the black market. There were photos of me looking angrily at the reporters this morning. Making the crazy stories a bit more believable. My mood sunk faster than a stone in a well.

  A car door slamming made me look up. I hoped it was someone coming to skate but realized quickly the man standing by the beat-up gray sedan was looking right at me. How had this man found me? It wasn’t as if this was somewhere I usually hung out. The guy was massive: Hercules come to life. His muscles bulged in his cargo shorts and T-shirt. His thick neck was almost nonexistent between his massive shoulders and shaved head. He wasn’t wearing any tweed and he looked angry, like a bull going after a matador. Bull? Was this the Bull Hardwick Trevor had warned me about?

  I started the car, shoved it into Drive, and peeled out, not wanting to find out what the heck his problem was. I heard a roar that sounded like a monster and then a thunk that rocked my car. I looked in my rearview mirror, startled to see the man clinging to the back of my Suburban. Out of instinct, I slammed on my brakes. It shook him off. I paused long enough to see him get up. I swear, he swiped his feet like a bull and charged toward the car. I tore off again, sliding around his car and bumping down the driveway.

  I careened onto the street and took off.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I pulled into Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord at one o’clock. I parked and walked toward my favorite spot, Authors Ridge. It’s where Louisa May Alcott, Henry Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Nathanial Hawthorne were buried. All within feet of each other. It was one of my favorite thinking places. And Lord knows I needed a thinking spot right now. Trees towered over the spot as I climbed the hill to their graves. The shade provided a bit of relief from the heat. My knees shook a little after my encounter with Bull.

  The name suited him for a number of reasons; not only his size but his personality seemed to fit. Who named their kid Bull? I crested the hill near Thoreau’s grave before I realized my mistake. There were clusters of people all over the place. Some in tweed, some in bow ties, some in knee-length tweed shorts and knee-high socks. What was I thinking? Of course literary treasure hunters would stop here while they were in town.

  While every part of me screamed run, I listened to the voice that said blend in. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize me. I had on big sunglasses, and the photo of me on their website wasn’t that great. Although somehow both Trevor and Bull had tracked me down. I kept my head down and looked at Thoreau’s modest grave stone. People had left rocks, pens, pencils, and notes around the flat stone that simply said Thoreau. I chanted don’t notice me in my head.

  I worked my way toward Louisa’s family plot. Hoping I looked like a mourner in my black dress, and that I didn’t stand out too much. My plan was to continue on beyond the Alcotts’ plot and then cut through the cemetery and eventually back to my car. All went well until I plowed into someone.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Lovely day.” I crossed my fingers, hoping my casual act would fool her.

  The woman looked perplexed. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and a large khaki hat that looked like something a zookeeper would wear. She blinked a couple of times. “I know you. One of the conventions?”

  Oh, dear God, they had conventions? I nodded. “You look familiar to me too. Last year’s?”

  Her brow wrinkled, then smoothed. “In Maine?” she asked.

  I smiled. “Yes, that must be it.”

  “The convention wasn’t in Maine last year, it was in Indianapolis. You’re Sarah—”

  I didn’t wait for her to finish before I took off. I dodged around gravestones, silently apologizing to the folks whose graves I passed so irreverently. Shouts sounded behind me, but I had a decent lead until I tripped over a root. I somersaulted down the hill, stopping just before my head slammed into a marble monument with an angel on top. I pushed myself up and hid behind the monument to catch my breath and assess the damage. None of it seemed permanent, just some cuts and scrapes. My dress had some lovely new grass stains, but they didn’t show much on the black knit. The good news was somehow, I’d seemed to shake those chasing me. I hurried to my car and drove off once again for destinations unknown.

  * * *

  I realized I was spending the afternoon on the run, much as Roger had yesterday. At least so far, no one had tried to break my fingers or hold a gun to my head. Where was that gunman? The crazy literary treasure hunters weren’t the only ones after the manuscripts. And it was only a matter of time until they found out about the limited-edition Hemingway book. If I wanted any peace in my life, I needed to find out what had happened to both.

  I checked my rearview mirror constantly as I drove. I parked on a side street in West Concord. This street seemed to be as far from any literary spots as I could get for the moment. At least when the treasure hunters realized the
y weren’t going to get any information from me, they could visit Walden Pond, Orchard House, and the Old Manse, among many other literary sites in the area. Their trip wouldn’t be a complete waste. I called Stella.

  “Is it clear to come home?” I asked when she answered.

  “No.” Stella almost shouted it. “It looks like most of the reporters are gone, but there’s a bunch of odd-looking people outside.”

  “Are they wearing tweed? Hats?”

  “Yes. How did you know?” Stella asked.

  I quickly explained my encounters with the League of Literary Treasure Hunters. “They seem to fancy themselves the book world’s answer to Indiana Jones.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if some Harrison Ford–type showed up.”

  “Stella! I thought you were happy with Awesome.”

  “I am. But you know, whips and leather. Be still, my heart.”

  “I really don’t want to hear this,” I said. “I’m sorry the house is surrounded.”

  “Never a dull moment with you, Sarah. But it’s fine. As long as you don’t show up, they’re bound to get bored and leave eventually.”

  We hung up, and I wondered when that eventually would be.

  * * *

  I looked Trevor Hunter up on Twitter. He’d already sent me his phone number via a direct message, along with several apologies about coming on too strong. He explained that his passion for finding treasures occasionally made everything come out wrong, and that he didn’t mean to scare me. I decided to call him. Maybe Trevor could call off his group of treasure hunters. Send them in another direction and give me more information about Bull. I blocked my number before dialing because I certainly didn’t want someone like him having my phone number.

  “I think I ran into your friend Bull,” I said when Trevor picked up. I described what he looked like.

  “That’s him. What’d he do?”

  I told him about the incident at the hockey rink. “Who is this guy anyway?”

  “He used to be a member of the League of Literary Treasure Hunters. But he’s a little crazy.”