Tuesday, November 12th
Brownie and the Business of Being Kidnapped
and
Bubba and the Business of Brownie Being Kidnapped
In what was pretty much the center of the junkyard sat a trailer home. It wasn’t a bad looking trailer, and it wasn’t a bad looking home. It was a double-wide the color of sand with neat white shutters outlining each window. The door was brilliant white with a round crackled-glass insert. There was a bright red welcome flag hanging on a pole mounted next to the door. A white picket fence went all the way around the yard and made it look cozy and welcoming. The grass in the front yard was still green, and expertly trimmed boxwoods lined the picket fence. The leaves of a Japanese maple planted alongside the front steps had turned the color of hottest flames.
It definitely looked out of place as it sat in the middle of a huge junkyard.
Kidnapper One parked the panel van beside the picket fence. Two carried Brownie inside and put him in a small room onto a twin-sized bed with a checkered comforter. One trailed along and asked, “Shouldn’t we untie him?”
Two thought about it. He gazed at Brownie. “You ain’t goin’ to escape, boy?”
Brownie shook his head solemnly. This was looking to be great fun. Why would he escape?
So One untied Brownie’s wrists, and Two untied Brownie’s legs. One helped Brownie remove the duct tape. That didn’t feel that great, but it wasn’t as wretched as television shows had led Brownie to believe. At the very least, he’d expected to lose some flesh. (Perhaps if he had facial hair like Pa. Brownie wondered if his father would be amenable to a little experimentation but decided Pa wouldn’t like his stubble ripped off the hard way in the name of scientific curiosity.)
“So what’s next in the kidnapping?” Brownie asked cheerfully.
Two frowned, probably because a victim wasn’t supposed to be eager. He scratched his head through the pantyhose and glanced at One. “I reckon we have to wait until we’re sure your folks have got the note.”
Brownie didn’t want to tell the two men that he was fairly certain there wasn’t any Civil War gold. After all, he’d spent an inordinate amount of time looking for it himself, and Bubba wouldn’t have been selling plasma three times a month if there had been. (Brownie had overheard Miz Demetrice and Miz Adelia talking about it. Bubba was trying to pay back bills for wrecked cars, hospitals, and fines from the city of Dallas. There was something else about a boot on his Chevy truck, but Brownie didn’t really understand what footwear had to do with the vehicle. Apparently, Bubba could get cash for someone sticking a needle in his arm and removing stuff from him, then returning the rest of it to him. Brownie had tried to give Bubba some money because he was getting regular checks from a stun gun company for saying theirs was better than his, although it wasn’t. However, Bubba didn’t take it well. He didn’t take it at all.) Brownie knew that if he told the two kidnappers that there wasn’t any gold, there wouldn’t be any ransom, and therefore, there wouldn’t be any need to keep Brownie kidnapped. It would be a lose/lose situation, and Brownie was ever so looking forward to the business of being shanghaied.
Not one other boy scout in his troop could claim to have been kidnapped, and Brownie was always ready for new experiences.
“Probably this afternoon then,” Brownie said. “Can we have tacos now?”
“Uh, shore, as soon as Taco Bell opens for lunch, right, T-uh, T?” Two said.
“Shore. Soft or crunchy?”
“Both,” Brownie said. “Oh, and be sure to get a lot of them sauce packets. Fire is best from the Bell. I mean lots and lots. Them’s tasty.”
Two chuckled and ruffled Brownie’s hair. “The boy has a taste for the spicy.”
Then they locked him in the little room, and Brownie took account of his situation. I have my Swiss Army knife. It had a cork screw AND a toothpick on it. I have three pieces of Bubblicious gum. One was Sour Cherry Burst, and the other two were Savage Sour Apple. I have a package of Mentos. A boy never knew when he might need to freshen his breath. I have five Geek a Week Trading Cards. A boy never knew when he would have to barter for points and having the coveted Tech Hostess/Goddess of War card was preparatory for many things.
And I’ve got my cell phone.
Brownie studied the phone. His mother had insisted. His father had balked but couldn’t say no to Virtna in her condition. He pushed the button on the top of the smart phone, and the screen came to life. Then he unlocked it. He looked at the wallpaper that was the Death Star doing battle with the USS Enterprise. He could call home. He could call the Snoddy Mansion. He could call the news media and get another fifteen minutes of fame. He could call Sheriff John. He could call the FBI because they were in charge of kidnappings. He could—
Brownie powered the phone all the way off. He didn’t want anyone tracing the GPS device in it and finding him before he was ready to be found.
Replacing everything in his pockets, Brownie checked out the room. Like the rest of the house, it looked like old lady décor. Specifically, it reminded him of Mammaw Derryberry’s house. There were paint-by-number clowns on the walls next to framed latch hook rugs of flowers, puppies, and kittens, not necessarily in that order. There was a dipping bird, replete with blue top hat that stood in the window and would occasionally duck its head to dive into the glass of water next to it.
Outside Brownie heard the van start up and looked out to see the two men driving off into the junkyard. Brownie smiled hugely and discovered that the door didn’t really lock. He had the whole run of the house. He could go outside and explore the junkyard if he had a mind. After all, he hadn’t seen a single dog, snake, trap, or bear.
But he knew he would get to the outside a little later.
* * *
Bubba looked at the well masticated piece of leather with a mere two inches remaining of well-chewed lace hanging off. “This ain’t my shoe,” he announced. It was a size 11 ½. His feet were a size 12. He hadn’t gotten into something smaller since he was 9 years old.
“It looks like your size,” Miz Demetrice said.
They were dressed and striding compulsively around the dining room table. Bubba had called Gideon Culpepper and told him he wouldn’t be coming in. Gideon didn’t ask silly questions of Bubba anymore like, for example, why he wouldn’t be coming to work. The garage owner simply took it in stride as one of the drawbacks of having an infamous employee such as Bubba Snoddy. Bubba knew that Gideon felt that if some “sit-ee-a-shun” was occurring and that if Bubba was involved, it was better to have Bubba AWAY from the garage where terrible things could happen to the tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of tools around. For example, exploding dynamite did not endear itself to sensitive computer equipment that was designed to diagnose faulty car parts. Furthermore, the insurance company wasn’t happy about paying to replace said equipment because it no longer worked properly on account of nearby explosions. Therefore, since Bubba didn’t fart around with fake excuses and such, his absence was A-OK with Gideon. Gideon might even have said a relieved prayer.
Miz Demetrice had blown off her weekly meeting of the Pegramville Order of the Velvet Garter Belt. Bubba did not know what was discussed or observed at these meetings and had decided long before that he did not want to know.
Miz Adelia brought coffee in and plunked it down, automatically pouring some for all three people. She momentarily glared at the gnawed-up athletic shoe sitting upon an antique and highly polished piece of furniture. “That don’t go on that nice table, Bubba,” she said sternly.
“Sorry, Miz Adelia,” Bubba said automatically. He took it by the shoelace and put it on the floor. It was still a mystery in that location. He wiped his drool-covered hand on his jeans.
“Have you looked everywhere?”
“In the new house,” Bubba said. “In the outbuildings.” He sighed. “In the swamp.” He sighed again. “In the koi pond.” He sighed a third time. “In the cemetery. In the potato cellar. In all the vehicles. Th
e attic. The shack out behind the barn. In the priest’s hole, which smells like foot fungus by the way, the old outhouse, which has more black widows and poison ivy than I care to be about, and in the tractor that’s sat in the back forty since 1940. He ain’t there, there, or there. I don’t believe he’s hiding on the estate.”
Miz Demetrice stabbed a finger at the Piggly Wiggly flyer which Bubba had thoughtfully placed on the tabletop next to the well-gnawed backpack. “Someone with an old pile of newspapers and a size 11 ½ shoe took the boy. They left the backpack on the road. He didn’t make it to school. I think this is serious. I’m not certain if I should laugh or cry.”
“Where are we going to get a $1,000,000?” Miz Adelia asked. “It ain’t like there’s some loot lying about ready to be carted off to the pawn shop.”
“Should we call Fudge and Virtna?” Bubba asked.
Miz Demetrice very nearly gasped. “That baby will probably fire out of her womb just like one of those ballistic missiles,” she said. “The doctor’s only letting her up to go to the bathroom.”
Bubba stared at the shoe. Then he looked at the note. He spared a brief glance at the backpack. “It’s someone around here who knows Brownie came last week. It’s someone who knows about the gold, but they haven’t been listening to the rest of the story. It’s someone who’s real stupid-like.” Unfortunately, that didn’t narrow down the pool of suspects.
“I hate to say it, but we should prolly call the po-lice,” Miz Adelia said.
“Have ‘em put out one of them alerts,” Bubba added.
“But Virtna and Fudge will hear about it, ifin they do that,” Miz Demetrice protested.
“Danged if we do and danged ifin we don’t,” Bubba muttered. “This best not be one of the boy’s tricks.”
“Brownie would write the note,” Miz Demetrice said, “but he wouldn’t leave his pack. It’s got his stuff in it. There’s a little tool kit, his notebook, a camera, and some other things I don’t care to speculate about. It’s his bestest and most valuable things. He showed them to me one day last week. He wouldn’t leave home without them on account that he might need them.”
The three thought about it.
It was at that moment that someone came through the front door without knocking. It wasn’t as though the person needed permission because they were nearly like family. At least Miz Demetrice would like the person to be like family. After all, Bubba’s mother had been pushing, no shoving him with all of the force of an avalanche careening down the side of a tall mountain, toward the person. His mother had all the subtlety of a charging bull elephant on crack.
Sheriff Deputy Willodean Gray called out, “Hey Bubba, you in here? I stopped at Culpeppers and you weren’t there and no one’s answering the phone…” she came around the corner of the dining room and stopped, almost instantly aware that something was amiss.
Bubba’s breath hitched in. It never failed to do that when first he glimpsed Willodean Gray. Even when she was tired, dirty, and bringing a set of manacles down upon his head, he had a little catch in his chest. She was a compact package of all the right stuff. Her sleek black hair and green eyes and wondrous figure would put every single one of those astronauts to shame. Although her hair was up in a neat chignon, little curls framed her lovely face and emphasized those green, green, green eyes. And her uniform that was intended to be masculine didn’t detract from her femininity in the least. Honestly, it kind of made Bubba feel like a caveman.
“I’ll check the phone,” Miz Adelia said. “And I’ll get another cup for Willodean.”
Willodean watched Miz Adelia scurry out and glanced at Bubba and then at Miz Demetrice. “So what’s going on?” she asked suspiciously. Her eyes shot to the semi-devoured athletic shoe and then to the flyer on the dining room table. She then saw the backpack, and her shoulders settled into a state of something-bad-is-about-to-happen-and-I-should-brace-myself.
“It’s Brownie,” Bubba said.
Willodean put her arms akimbo. Her beautifully red lips quirked into an irritated line. “I’ve had complaints already. Herb at the five and dime said something about the boy buying certain chemically inclined products. He thought Brownie might be making…something, although he couldn’t tell me what.”
Bubba started to say something, but Willodean went on, “And there’s more. Lloyd Goshorn is certain that Brownie came into his dreams and turned into Beelzebub who then attempted to tempt him into going over to the dark side. Princess Leia in a gold bikini might have been used as an enticement. Then she turned into Jabba the Hutt, and Lloyd woke up screaming. A family a mile away heard it and called us.”
“Lloyd’s bin messing around with the Durley brothers’ stills again,” Bubba said. “They should stop using them lead-lined pipes before they kill someone.”
“I did discount that one,” Willodean said. “But then Mr. Yutu said Brownie asked for a bag of leftover acorns from his acorn farm, and it’s a pretty sure thing that Brownie’s been using a slingshot to put them through Joella Donoto’s windows.”
“He was aiming for one of her boys,” Bubba said. “Personal vendetta and all. I’ll be sure and talk to Brownie about not ruining folks’ windows on account that his foot got stepped upon.”
“Didn’t break anything at the Donotos, did he?” Miz Demetrice asked.
“A vase from the Texas State Fair with Big Tex on it,” Willodean said with a completely straight face, “but Joella said it wasn’t anything to be concerned about.” She touched a finger to her lip, and Bubba nearly sighed. He wanted to be touching those lips with his lips, not mucking around with another episode of “What Will Brownie Do Next?” “I think Joella had an idea that her sons were involved. She just doesn’t want Brownie using her windows for target practice. Brownie could stop at the Tredway’s potato farm next.” She shuddered. “And he could teach Janie how to make one of those potato launchers, too.”
Miz Adelia came back with a cup for Willodean. She poured it for the deputy, making it the way she liked it. Willodean took it with a grateful smile and sat in the chair next to Bubba.
Then Willodean asked, “So what about Brownie?” The question was asked with extreme resignation.
“He’s been kidnapped,” Miz Demetrice said just as Willodean took a drink of her coffee and watched as the younger woman choked.
Bubba helpfully patted Willodean on her back.
After she recovered, she said, “You’re not serious, are you?”
Bubba pushed the note over to her.
Willodean studied it and said, “I’ve never seen green beans for 10¢!!! a can.”
“It’s an old flyer.”
“The phone was off the hook,” Miz Adelia said. “Might have been the dogs. Might have been Brownie.”
Willodean looked back up. “You’re really serious?”
“Principal called from the school a while ago,” Bubba said. “Brownie wasn’t on the bus. And his dog dragged his school pack back. It had all his tools in it.”
“But do the kidnappers really know who they have?” Willodean asked inanely.
“It does say his name on it, so I reckon they were gunning for him,” Bubba said. “I don’t believe they did it on the spur of the moment.”
“People are going to riot,” Willodean murmured.
“I don’t think they like Brownie that much,” Miz Demetrice said.
“No, they’ll riot when you get him back,” Willodean said sadly and took a deep breath. “I’m going to have to call Sheriff John. Then we’re going to have to call the FBI.”
“Crap,” Miz Demetrice said. “I mean, carp.” It was not clear whether she was cursing because they would have to ransom Brownie back or because the FBI was going to be involved. It could have been either one.
* * *
Brownie had been busy while his two kidnappers were gone. He got the lay of the trailer home and also scanned the junkyard for interesting items. He learned by the mail left on the kitchen counter that the owner of t
he home was Tayla Berryhill. She was 65 years old and attending a latch hooking convention in Houston, Texas. (There was an expired driver’s license and a flyer with the name of the convention and the dates circled in purple marker. She went to a lot of latch hooking conventions.) She had two sons. (Photographs and letters about with all details written on the reverse.) One lived in Dallas, and the other one lived with her. His name was Lazarus Octavius Berryhill, and he had a parole officer named Rodney Fosdick. Lazarus had attempted to rob three 7-Elevens in one night and ran into the ditch while trying to drive away from a mob of angry clerks. He had clipped the power lines, and the greater Nacogdoches area had been without electricity for nearly 72 hours. (The newspaper article that Tayla Berryhill had neatly clipped out and saved in one of the drawers was very helpful. There was a sticky note on it that said “Save for Laz for when he gets out.” in a very feminine handwriting.)
The other man was Tom Bledsoe. He was living in the trailer home for the time being, and he had the same parole officer as Lazarus. He liked to steal things, particularly watches and wallets. However, he liked to pawn them at the same place every single time, and the owner of the pawn shop had a habit of turning him in. (This was from another newspaper article that Tayla Berryhill had clipped out.) The pawn shop owner was quoted. “That man is the dumbest criminal I ever met, not that I know many, except my brother-in-law, and my cousin, and I’m pretty sure my cousin’s dog is a criminal. Pretty dang sure.”
Brownie’s little black heart nearly crumbled in half. He was hoping for a master villain. He wanted Lex Luther and Keyser Söze and Hannibal Lecter all rolled up into one. With such a maestro of iniquity, extreme mayhem could be committed in a state of ultimate larceny. Instead, he got Beavis and Butthead who told him a tall tale about lions, tigers, and bears, oh my. However, Brownie wasn’t completely dejected. After all, there was lots to work with here, and as he had thought many times already, a kid didn’t get kidnapped every day.
Ransom of Brownie Page 3