Switcheroo

by Robert Lewis Clark

  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 His previously aggressive attitude had been replaced by a quiet, apologetic manner.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 ru
n 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.

  Chapter 15

  “You’re sure you don’t mind, now?” Grandma Tuttle sounded apologetic.

  “Of course I don’t. It’ll be fun, like camping,” I said, really smiling.

  When I volunteered, as Tennesseans will do, to take in my house guests I was thinking of Tammy and me sharing a bedroom, spending some quality time alone. The real reason for moving to my house was to protect Hannah and the pick up truck, so I had to put my base instincts aside and pretend to be a nice guy, dammit.

  Tammy kissed Hannah good-bye and touched my arm lightly and left for work. She drove her Grandma’s ancient Pontiac Parisienne. Business as usual, in spite of brutal shotgun attacks.

  I had removed the baby’s car seat from the Pontiac and put in the back seat of the LeBaron. I loaded Grandma Tuttle’s ancient mauve suitcase into the trunk. It was an old Samsonite that would never wear out, and yet it would never be in style. Hannah put rocks from the gravel driveway into a bucket while we loaded up.

  I put the top up for Hannah and Grandma Tuttle and they waited for me to pull the truck out. The blue pick up without the body damage was here, so it would be a pleasant drive to Knoxville. I drove the truck and Grandma Tuttle followed, driving my car. I drove slowly and thought about my next move on Tammy’s case; glancing back to make sure Grandma Tuttle was still following. One thing I really wanted to do was recover Tammy’s truck before the police did. If the truck somehow became police evidence, it would be impounded and kept until after any trials or legal battles. It was tricky to go it alone, but I was convinced that these were not high level criminals I was dealing with.