The Blue Coyote (The Frannie Shoemaker Campground Mysteries Book 2)

by Karen Musser Nortman

  Finally, Larry stopped and they stood for a minute listening. There seemed to be noises coming from the other side of the junkyard but the westerly wind played tricks on the ears. He motioned for them to follow and crouch-walked across the dirt road.

  “The fence!” Frannie whispered when they got to the other ditch. “We forgot about the fence.”

  Larry nodded. “We could get over it—it’s not that high.”

  “But not quietly,” Mickey said. “There’s barbed wire on top.”

  “Let’s go back down this ditch to the gate,” Frannie said. She didn’t wait for agreement but started wading through the weeds as quickly as she could. She felt a panic—that they didn’t have much time. She glanced back over her shoulder to confirm the rest were following and plodded on. With the chill of the night air, she was certainly glad she had her old parka but wished she’d had the foresight to stick some gloves in her pocket. Fortunately, the cloud cover had gotten heavier and the moon wasn’t giving them away to anyone watching, but they also couldn’t see very far ahead.

  She reached the drive and the gate, which stood open. When she stopped, Jane Ann ran into her.

  “Sorry! I was watching my feet.”

  Larry moved up beside her. They could now definitely see a light coming from the northeast corner and hear voices.

  “What are they saying, can you tell?” Mickey whispered.

  Larry shook his head. “Can’t tell. I don’t think they can see us. I’m going to run for that old motorhome.” He pointed at a hulking shape across the entrance area. “Frannie, stay behind me. Mickey and Jane Ann, why don’t you wait until we get across. Make sure there’s no reception committee. On second thought, Frannie, you wait with them.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m going with you.”

  He started to argue but she nudged him and said, “Go!”

  He dodged across the open space and Frannie was right at his heels. Just as they reached the side of the motorhome, they heard an engine start. Frannie’s stomach flipped and she whispered, “We’re too late!”

  “Not yet,” Larry said and waved his arms to signal Mickey and Jane Ann to stay where they were. Frannie looked around the corner of the RV and could see the reflection of headlights on a pile of junk near the corner. She spotted the rusty prongs of an old harrow, laying upside down by the gate. Without explaining to Larry, she darted back across the open space and grabbed one end of the harrow. On the periphery of her vision, the headlight beams were bouncing, and the engine noise was getting nearer. The vehicle, whether van or pickup she didn’t know, was on the move along the far east side of the junkyard.

  Larry caught up with her, breathing hard. “What are you doing?”

  “Drag this...in front of...the gate,” she gasped, barely budging the unwieldy scrap. Jane Ann and Mickey rushed up from the ditch and each grabbed a side. As they frantically tugged the harrow over to the gate opening, the headlights of the white van coming around the corner caught them.

  “Go!” Larry shouted. “Close enough!” They scattered to the ditches, Frannie and Mickey on the east side of the drive, Larry and Jane Ann on the west. The van bounced toward the entrance over the rough ground and jolted to a halt in front of the harrow. Frannie could hear Mickey's heavy, ragged breathing behind her. She peered over the edge of the ditch through the shrubs along the fence as the driver leaned forward over the wheel.

  A woman, she thought, but just in silhouette. And apparently no one in the passenger side. What happened to Reid, if he was involved? Had Maddie Sloan driven them off the road with the pickup? Frannie was confused. She could see the woman talking on a cell phone, gesturing and shaking her head. The woman was wearing a headscarf so it was difficult to identify her.

  Crouching in the ditch, Frannie’s knees started to cramp up. More than anything she wanted to straighten them but didn’t dare. It was an odd standoff. Whoever the woman was, she was slouched down and looking around as if she was afraid to get out of the van. On the other hand, if any of Frannie’s group stood up or tried to move, they would be sitting ducks, so to speak.

  “What d’ya think, Frannie?” Mickey whispered. “Is she in this alone?”

  “There’s your answer,” Frannie said, nodding back toward the east fence. More headlights reflecting off the side fence and abandoned cars signaled the approach of another vehicle from the back of the junkyard.

  Larry poked his head up over the drive that separated them. “Mickey!” he whispered loudly. “You and Frannie head that way—try and get around the side. We’ll go this direction, “ he pointed back the way they had come, “—help should be here soon.”

  Mickey nodded and pushed Frannie ahead of him through the ditch. As they clambered through the ditch—kind of like racing turtles, Frannie thought—she glanced through the base of the fence shrubs to see the black pickup rounding the corner.

  “Is that Reid?” Mickey asked, trying to catch his breath.

  “I couldn’t tell,” Frannie whispered. She had reached the corner where the perimeter fence turned north. The first stretch was in full view of the vehicles about 75 feet away—if the drivers happened to be looking. Frannie scrambled along the fence, trying to keep down, until the abandoned vehicles blocked her sightline to the entrance. Mickey caught up, his breathing very labored. Frannie kept edging along the fence, looking for a way in.

  Mickey crept back to where he could just see around the junk to the entrance. “It is Reid,” he said hoarsely. “He’s trying to move the harrow.”

  “Here,” Frannie said. The fence had broken down along a short stretch and not been repaired. Mickey hurried to catch up. They picked their way through the fence and headed back toward the entrance. The yard was organized, if you could call it that, with an access dirt road around the perimeter and scrubby grass lanes crisscrossing at right angles. Frannie looked around the corner of an old pickup where the road turned. She caught her breath as Reid looked up from trying to drag the rake and saw her.

  “Hey!” he yelled and started toward them. She turned toward the back of the yard and pushed Mickey ahead of her. He ducked around the other end of the truck and Frannie followed. She banged her shin on a hitch protruding from an old grain wagon and groaned but kept going.

  They dodged in and out of rows of derelict equipment, circling, they hoped, the entrance. When they stopped to catch their breath, they could hear muffled noises on either side of them. The sounds coming from the west could be Larry and Jane Ann? She hoped. On the other hand, it could be Maddie Sloan. Or whoever had been driving the van. She hadn’t heard a car door close, but also couldn’t remember if the woman had already been out of the van when she saw Reid.

  She looked at Mickey. He nodded toward the rear of the yard and she followed him. If they could just stay clear of Reid until help arrived. Where was Sanchez? She had no idea how long it had been since Larry called for help. Ahead of her, Mickey grunted as he caught his shoulder on a suspended part of a piece of hulking farm equipment. They stopped again when they neared the back fence and turned toward the front, crouched behind an old trailer, listening.

  At first there was nothing other than the night sounds. Frannie’s knees ached and her fingers were numb from the cold. She blew on them, trying to warm them. Mickey rubbed his sore shoulder. A crash came from their right—the west side. They looked at each other.

  “Larry?” Mickey mouthed.

  Frannie shrugged. “Could be—or the woman who was driving the van,” she whispered. The equipment in front of them was silhouetted against the glow coming from the vehicle headlights near the entrance.

  Immediately to their right was a huge old combine. Frannie motioned for Mickey to follow and moved to the side steps. The door of the cab hung askew, and the light reflected off the windshield that fronted the whole cab. She hoisted herself up the steps, listening carefully and glancing around for any movement. They got inside, and Mickey whispered, “We’re pretty visible up here.”

  �
�Not unless you look up,” she said, taking the driver’s seat. “Did you look up while we were running through this junk?” He shook his head. They had a better view of the yard from this perch, although still blocked in places by other large equipment and limited by the darkness. The entrance of the junkyard, illuminated by headlights, was visible. Frannie could only see the rear of the van—no way to tell if the driver was still in it.

  “Look over there,” Mickey whispered, pointing to the right. “Someone just ducked behind that tractor.”

  “Was it one person or two?”

  “Couldn’t tell.” Their attention was caught by lights breaking up the night off to the left. Headlights came over the hill out on the road. Several cars following each other, light bars flashing. Relief poured over Frannie and she squeezed Mickey’s hand.

  “Thank God,” she said. At the same time, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. A figure walked stealthily through the equipment following the lane they had just come down and was about to cross in front of the combine. It was Reid. Frannie clutched Mickey’s sleeve and shushed him. She pointed down at Reid just as the light from the front of the lot caught and glinted off of something in his hand. It was a knife.

  They held their breaths, and as Frannie gambled, Reid did not look up and see them. Holding the knife in front of him, he passed in front of them and continued down the row. They strained to see where he might be headed. He must be after Jane Ann or Larry. Or maybe themselves.

  Frannie couldn’t see anyone in front of Reid. When he turned and dodged down a side lane, she scrambled back down the steps of the cab and Mickey followed. She went back the way they had come to the first turn, a wider lane that led to the front.

  “Frannie!” Mickey whispered behind her. “Where are you going?”

  Frannie pointed ahead at a familiar figure headed toward the back of the white van. It was Larry and he had had the same idea as she. He tried the cargo doors but couldn’t open them. As he ducked around to the driver’s side, presumably to get the keys, the cruisers pulled up across from the entrance. Frannie and Mickey were still seventy-five feet or so from the van when they heard a scream somewhere behind them.

  “That’s Jane Ann!” Mickey yelled. Frannie stopped and turned in time to see Mickey head back the way they had come. She was torn for a moment, but realized quickly that Larry had plenty of help whereas Mickey was headed to face perhaps two bad guys by himself. No need for stealth now. She yelled, “Larry!” pointed toward Mickey when he looked up, and took off after her brother-in-law. He zig zagged between machinery, headed generally toward the source of the sounds.

  She couldn’t believe Mickey could move that fast—he was a much better cook and musician than athlete. But she could not catch up to him. As she rushed past, the grotesque shapes of the derelict machinery brought to mind the cartoon trees that stalked humans with grasping branches in some movie she had seen as a child. She stumbled several times over ruts or unknown debris, and the dread of a crippling break almost stopped her in her tracks several times.

  Toward the west edge of the lot, she saw Mickey stop abruptly and raise his hands. She halted a ways back and although she couldn’t see what had put him in the frozen stance, she surmised that Reid held Jane Ann in a life-threatening situation. She moved more slowly and quietly into the next lane over and continued toward the lane Mickey was in. As she got closer, a low, menacing voice reached her.

  “I’m not kidding. I’m getting out of here and she’s just become my ticket.”

  “No, please.” This was Mickey, his voice almost breaking. “Don’t hurt her. Turn yourself in before it’s too late.” And Frannie thought of the Lone Ranger and Roy Rogers Westerns of her childhood, when those illustrious heroes could usually talk the bad guy down.

  “Ha!” Reid was scornful. “It’s way too late for that.”

  Frannie’s heart sank for Taylor Trats and her mother—and even her deadbeat dad. She edged forward. Mickey, Reid and Jane Ann were on the other side of the next old van. Frannie crouched down, looking under the van to check out their actual locations and relationship to each other. Judging from their feet, Reid was behind Jane Ann and Mickey faced them from eight or ten feet away. Frannie assumed that Reid was using his knife to threaten and control Jane Ann.

  She straightened partially and crept around the end of the van behind Reid. Peering around the corner, she could see Reid’s back, his left arm around Jane Ann’s waist and his right arm raised and cocked, probably holding the knife at Jane Ann’s throat. Mickey still stood with his hands raised, his face infused with panic.

  Frannie could see that he noticed her but fortunately seemed too frightened to either register her presence or give her away. She was sure that she was every bit as panicked as Mickey. How to distract Reid? She could hit him behind the knees with something but if he was holding the knife on Jane Ann, the results couldn’t be good.

  Reid said to Mickey, “I’m walking out of here. Don’t try anything and she’ll be okay. You walk ahead of us.” His voice was flat but firm. Mickey still stared at him, unable to function.

  Frannie remembered Reid’s effective use of misdirection in his act. Time! There just wasn’t any time to think or plan!

  Reid grabbed Jane Ann’s left arm, twisted it behind her, and started frog walking her toward Mickey and the entrance. Mickey still didn’t budge. Frannie tried signaling him to talk, make noise, anything—but she was afraid she wasn’t getting through.

  Suddenly he started to blubber. “Please don’t do this. Take me and let her go!”

  Reid’s laugh was harsh. “Even with feminism, a damsel in distress is still a damsel in distress. Now move!” Frannie already had headed around to the other end of the van.

  “I can get you money,” Mickey was pleading.

  “Won’t do me much good if I can’t get out of here.” Footsteps scuffed as Reid pushed Jane Ann ahead of him. Frannie rounded the front end of the van at a crouch and could again see Mickey with his hands in the air, just beginning to turn to walk ahead of Reid.

  Frannie had been mulling options, none of them good, and knew she simply had to act. She rushed out from the protection of the van, head down, and tackled Mickey around the midsection, tumbling down with him.

  ******************

  Happy Camper Tip #15

  Checklists, part II: It is also useful to have checklists of staples, emergency items, and other needs. During the camping season, we try to keep the camper stocked with basic spices, small containers of sugar and flour, oil, Ziploc bags, foil, etc. Our first trip of the season always reveals a few forgotten items. Then, during the season, one of two things happens. 1)We run out of something and forget to restock, or even more often, 2)we run out of something at home and I think “There’s olive oil (or soy sauce or toilet paper or....) in the camper,” go out and ‘borrow it,’ and forget to put it back. A magnetic backed notepad on the oven door is useful to note items that have been used up or temporarily removed. If I remember to write it down. AND check the list before the next trip.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Late Sunday Evening

  Reid was so startled that he swung his knife around to counter this unexpected event, leaving Jane Ann just the opportunity she needed. Reid still held her left arm behind her back, but she was able to swing her right elbow back hard and catch his nose, then straighten her arm back out and grab his wrist and twist.

  Frannie had scrambled back up and lunged to grasp Reid’s wrist with both hands. Together, she and Jane Ann forced him to drop the knife. Mickey, who had lumbered back to his feet after Frannie’s tackle, picked up the knife, and pushed Reid to the ground, half kneeling on his chest.

  “Get off, you oaf!” Reid gasped. Mickey just shook his head, a little smirk on his face. He had no wish to discuss it and besides, couldn’t get his breath to talk anyway. Frannie was bent over hands on knees, panting. Jane Ann had collapsed on the ground, leaning against the front wheel well of the truck.
Her head was back and her face as pale as Frannie had ever seen it.

  Mickey looked over at her, concern on his usually jovial face.

  “You okay, honey?”

  She nodded but still couldn’t speak. Shouts came from the other end of the lane as Larry and Agent Sanchez rounded the corner at a run. Sanchez came up to Reid, gun trained on him, and nodded to Mickey.

  “You can let him up now, Mr. Ferraro.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Mickey said barely above a whisper, “that I can get up.” Larry arrived right behind Sanchez and bent over to give his brother-in-law a hand.

  Still holding the gun on Reid, Sanchez handed Larry a set of handcuffs, saying, “Would you do the honors?”

  “Did he jump you?” Larry asked Mickey, as he cuffed Reid’s hands behind his back.

  “No...,” Mickey arched and rubbed his back. “Your wife did.”

  “What?” Larry asked, looking at Frannie.

  Frannie shrugged. “It was you or Jane Ann’s neck, Mick.” Mickey had hobbled over to his wife and gingerly helped her up. Jane Ann, who was always so cool and collected, who hadn’t hesitated to bloody Reid’s nose, now stood shaking, with her head on Mickey’s shoulder.

  “Sorry,” Frannie said looking at the rest of them.

  “I’ll decide if you have anything to be sorry about when I hear the whole story later,” Larry told her.

  “Larry,” Frannie grabbed his arm. “Is Taylor—?”

  “She’s okay,” Sanchez said. “She was being kept in the back of that van. The sheriff has Maddie Sloan, or whoever she is, in cuffs, and as soon as we deliver this guy, he will take them to their new accommodations. Let’s go so we can get Taylor back to her mother as soon as possible.”

  Frannie felt a huge wave a relief. “She’s okay?” she repeated.