Yellow Packard

by Ace Collins

  “Might be a little late for that now.” She let a shaky grin reshape her face. “But if we get out of this mess and solve the Hall case, maybe I’ll let you show me what you do for fun!”

  That brought out a smile. “You are in for it now!”

  The sound of the house’s back door creaking open brought both of them back to reality. Pushing herself to her knees, Meeker joined her partner at the window. With their eyes watching his every move, a tall, thin man walked out, lit a cigarette, and wearily jogged out to the car. Opening the driver’s door, he reached in, retrieved something from inside, then hurried back to the house.

  “What’d he get?” Meeker asked.

  “No clue!” Reese replied. “But I’m guessing they’re getting ready to make their move.”

  She glanced at her wristwatch. Strickland had been gone twenty-four minutes. That wasn’t enough time to get reinforcements in place. They needed at least another half hour to get their forces into position.

  “You believe in God?” Reese’s off-handed question caught the woman by surprise. She considered it for almost a minute, trying to frame it by what was going on at this very moment, before attempting a reply.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I have real problems believing there is a caring God when I see what my parents went through and what the Halls are going through now. This job, dealing with people like McGrew, it doesn’t leave much room for faith. Guess I’m just too cynical.”

  “Makes sense,” he replied. As she slid back down to the floor, he kept his eyes on the house. She had just regained her seat when he added, “But because of what I see in this job, it makes me firmly believe there is evil at loose in this world. And if I believe in evil, then I almost have to believe in good.”

  She’d never thought of it like that. There was no doubt in her mind there was evil. She’d believed that since those who took her sister destroyed her innocence, but what about the good? Could good be a force, too? And if good was alive, did that prove there was a God?

  “Helen, you ever read the Bible?”

  “I did when I was a kid. I was looking for answers and tried everywhere. You wouldn’t believe the books I read looking for answers in college.”

  His eyes never leaving the house, Reese quipped, “Did you know Gates went to seminary before he became an agent?”

  Helen shook her head. “Stanley? The palooka at the Chicago office that kept bringing in those tips generated by the newsreel?”

  “Yeah, he believes that he is in law enforcement to touch others the way Jesus did.”

  “I don’t follow you,” she admitted. “I just thought Gates was a clown who liked to tease us.”

  “I’m not sure I get him either,” he declared, “but he says it’s about people like the Halls. They have been injured, and it is our job to solve the crime so they can experience healing. Gates claims doing that allows them to have some hope again. And he says that each of us who are involved in bringing that hope is doing something noble. In his mind, bringing a lost child home or bringing resolution to a family is like we are carrying a bit of God around in us.”

  She’d never considered that God could be inside her. It was an interesting perspective and one she’d like to discuss with Gates at some point. But if God was really good and He was all-powerful, as she’d been told so many years before in church, then why did He allow Rose Hall to be taken from her family? Try as she could, Meeker could not reconcile the two.

  “We’ve got movement,” Reese announced.

  “Are they heading to the car?” she asked, pulling herself back up to the window and watching as an armed man stole out onto the porch. Just then a car pulled into the drive.

  “No,” he said. “They’ve got company.”

  The rain had stopped and the deep maroon Sharknose Graham coupe was pulling to a stop in front of the Buick. A lone man got out of the coupe, pulled a large duffel bag from behind the car’s front seat, and walked casually to the back of the house. The car and his hat shielded them from seeing much of him as he opened the back door and disappeared inside.

  “What do you make of that?” she asked.

  “The fact that they didn’t hightail it out of here when they discovered Schwatzy makes sense now,” he grimly explained. “They were waiting on a delivery that was so important it was worth the risk.”

  “What could be worth that kind of wait?”

  “Maybe cash,” Reese suggested. “McGrew has to have it to buy his path to freedom.”

  If it was cash or something else, Meeker understood one thing very clearly. The waiting was over. With the delivery made, the gang would be hitting the road in just a few minutes. So even if their reinforcements had not arrived, it would be her and Reese’s job to stop McGrew before he got away. That meant they were actually going to have to fire their guns at real people. And as they were going to be outgunned and outmanned, it likely meant she’d never live to have that theological discussion with Gates or let Reese show her how to have a good time.

  Chapter 51

  Wish there was some way we could buy some time.” Reese sighed. He checked his watch and frowned. “The visitor just carried two Thompson submachine guns to the Buick. We can’t fight that kind of firepower and win. They’ll blow us to kingdom come in a matter of seconds.”

  Meeker looked as her partner, who quickly bowed his head, closed his eyes, and mumbled a few words. He was praying. It was beginning to look like that was about their only way out of this mess.

  “Maybe we should just let them drive off,” Reese whispered as he opened his eyes and once more studied the house. Shaking his head he added, “You need to get out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone,” she snapped.

  “It’s not about that,” he argued. “One of us needs to survive to tell Hoover what happened.”

  “He doesn’t like me,” she shot back. “You leave. He likes you.”

  “You’re so darn stubborn,” Reese whispered.

  “Thought you’d be used to that by now,” she jabbed. “So now that we’ve established we are both too stupid to leave, tell me what’s going on.”

  “I feel like Jim Bowie.”

  “That makes me Davy Crockett, and that makes this barn our Alamo,” she solemnly added. “If I’m going to die, at least it will be with someone I respect.”

  “It goes both ways,” he replied. “By the way, the thin guy has been joined by a guy who could be the heavyweight champion of the world. They’re tossing bags into the Buick’s trunk. Meanwhile the deliveryman just strolled out, shook the skinny guy’s hand, and is moving toward the Graham. Looks like he’s leaving now. The others are heading back into the house, probably to get the rest of their stuff.”

  “Sounds about right,” the woman noted while pushing herself up from the floor. She glanced through the glass and observed the coupe start, drive around an old stone well, and head back out to the road. She then looked back to the one remaining vehicle. “How far would you say it is to the Buick from here?”

  Reese shrugged. “Forty feet, maybe a little more.”

  She patted his arm and grinned. “That’s about perfect. You might want to say a quick prayer for strings.”

  “What?”

  His question was not answered.

  Meeker quickly made her way back toward the door where they’d come in. Moving past the wagons and over to where the corn sheller had been placed, she reached up to the shelf. She grabbed a bow, pulled back its string, but it snapped. Tossing it to one side, she retrieved the other one. This was no child’s toy. It was a nice bow, well balanced and crafted from quality materials. At one time it had probably been used for hunting. Saying a quick prayer of her own, she pulled back the string. It was tight. She repeated the action a few more times before chuckling.

  Reaching back to the shelf she grabbed the quiver, counted a dozen arrows, and retraced her steps. She leaned over her partner’s shoulder and studied the scene. No one was outside the h
ouse.

  “Where are our friends?” she asked.

  “Still inside.”

  “Good, you keep your eye on things. I’m going to open that corner door.”

  “Why?” he asked. “You don’t need to be a martyr.”

  “Not going to be. I’m going to play cowboys and Indians, and I’m hoping and praying it’s the team with the bow and arrows that wins.”

  She quickly covered the thirty feet to the small, four-foot-wide door at the corner of the barn. A four-by-four set across braces bolted in place on each side of the entry kept the door locked. Setting her bow and arrows on the floor, she lifted the heavy piece of lumber, carefully placing it on the ground. Before attempting to open the door, she studied the three hinges. They were rusty. Turning, she hurried back to the shelf to retrieve something else she’d spied there—a single can of motor oil.

  When she returned to the door, she used one of the arrows to poke two holes into the thin tin top. She then generously poured the can’s entire contents over the hinges. Taking a deep breath, she tossed the now empty can to one side, grabbed the handle, and slowly pulled on the heavy door. It groaned slightly, one of the hinges protesting, before the oil did its job. When she had the door slightly open, she eased up to the opening and looked outside. Everyone was still in the house.

  Grabbing the bow and arrow, she threaded the latter into the string, leaned against the doorframe, and slowly pulled back. Using the bow’s site, she aimed at the left, rear passenger-side tire and let go. The arrow sped through the damp air landing ten feet short of its target and skidding under the car.

  Undaunted, she picked up a second. Repeating the routine, she adjusted her aim and let go a second time. This time the arrow flew a bit farther, sticking in the ground just a foot short of the car.

  As no one had appeared on the porch, she still had time for at least one more attempt. Picking up a third arrow, she brought the sharp tip to her lips and gave it a quick kiss. Setting it in place, she pulled back the bowstring and adjusted her aim for the third shot. Pulling back, she let the arrow fly and watched as it sped through the air with a hiss. A second later the hiss was coming from a tire that was quickly losing air.

  Smiling, she picked up a fourth arrow. She leaned again into the doorjamb and aimed at the front tire. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves and slow her heart rate, she again made like Robin Hood. Her aim was true once more. Within a minute, both tires were completely flat.

  Putting the bow and quiver over her shoulder, she closed the door, replaced the four-by-four brace, and hurried back to her partner. Reaching down, she picked up her gun and took another look out the window. The tires were now completely useless.

  “That was amazing!” he quietly exclaimed.

  “And it’s not in the FBI manual either,” she bragged. “I’m sure they’ve only got one spare, so we’ve bought time for our backups to arrive. Now let’s get back to the Packard. When they discover what’s happened, the first place they’re going to look is this barn.”

  With Meeker leading the way, the pair raced out the back door and into the cornfield. They jogged through the muddy field, crossed the fence, and ran across the second cornfield. Jumping into the Packard, the all-but-breathless woman inserted the key, turned it, hit the starter, and tossed the sedan into reverse. Pulling back onto the road, she hurried to the corner. Leaving the motor idling, she shifted into neutral and checked the car’s dashboard clock. It had been fifty minutes.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” Reese asked, his wind just now returning.

  “Minnitotoo Camp. I was the archery champion three years running. I did have some fun when I was a kid.”

  “When you asked for prayer,” he said, “I gave it a try. I think what just happened qualifies as a miracle.”

  “Maybe.” She laughed. “But a part of the credit should go to Penny Watkins.”

  “Who was she?” he asked.

  “My archery instructor.”

  She smiled as her eyes picked up a welcome sight. A line of a half dozen cars was coming down the road single file. The cavalry had finally arrived.

  Chapter 52

  Carole’s head spun around when a voice declaring that a special news bulletin was about to air interrupted the dramatic presentation she’d been listening to on her Philco console. Setting the dish she’d been drying on the shelf, she walked closer to the radio, hoping and praying that the report had something to do with her daughter.

  WDWS reporter, Alfred Jennings, is reporting that the FBI and the Illinois State Police have trapped one of America’s most notorious and elusive public enemies, Jack “Pistolwhip” McGrew in a farmhouse between the small communities of Ogden and Homer. McGrew, who is wanted for a laundry list of major offenses including murder and armed robbery, has so far resisted demands to surrender. At this point law enforcement have not made a move to apprehend McGrew. It seems they are perfectly willing to wait it out. We will break into programming if there are other further developments. Now back to “The Lux Radio Theater.”

  The phone’s ringing drew Carole Hall’s attention from the radio. Turning the volume down, she walked into the kitchen and picked up the receiver. She was surprised when the operator informed her that George was on the line.

  “Hello.” His voice sounded so good to her ears.

  She paused, took a deep breath, and replied, “Hello, George. How are you doing?”

  “Better,” he assured her. “I haven’t had a drink in a couple of weeks. I’m eating and sleeping pretty well again, but it still hurts.”

  She bit her lip. “I know it does. Mr. Mondell called today. He asked about you. Told me he has a place for you when you come back.”

  The line was silent for a few seconds. Finally George asked, “What did that call mean today? You know, the one from Helen Meeker.”

  “She’s got a lead, that’s about all I know.”

  His voice was shaky as he continued, “And the man, Mitchell Burgess, she thinks he was involved?”

  “George, she wasn’t real clear on that point. But I think so. Mr. Johns came by later and told me that the FBI seems to be pretty sure that Burgess was a part of it. I still don’t know why. Maybe we’ll know more when they find him.”

  “If they find him,” George corrected her.

  “If,” she wearily agreed. “You have to admit, it’s a lot more than we had.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Of course, up until now we’ve had nothing.” He paused before asking, “Carole, do you think Mondell was serious about my having a job if I came back?”

  “I know he was,” she assured him. “Do you want to come back?” Her voice was tinged with apprehensive hope.

  “Maybe after Christmas. I don’t think I can face Christmas at home, but maybe I could come back after that. I miss you, sweetheart, much more than you’ll ever know.”

  “I miss you, too,” Carole answered. “And I need you, George. I really do. I really need you at Christmas, too. So please don’t wait that long. I can’t face the holidays alone.”

  He didn’t immediately answer. In fact, the line was silent for so long she thought he might have hung up. But finally his voice came back on. It was so soft she barely heard him.

  “I love you. Good-bye.”

  After she set the receiver back in its cradle, she crossed the kitchen and opened the back door. She made her way out into the cold dampness of the fall evening. Opening the side door to the garage, she switched on the light and looked at the boxes she’d packed away earlier in the year. Walking over to the closest one, she pulled the lid open and looked in. There was a Shirley Temple doll staring up at her. As tears clouded her eyes, she whispered, “I’m sorry that I gave up on you. I’m sorry I tried to close you out of my life. I still love you; I really do, Rose.”

  Closing the lid, she picked up the box and walked back into the house with some of Rose’s most precious things in her arms. She crossed the kitchen to what had been her daughter’s room.
Then, not really understanding why, she flipped on the light and began to unpack the box. There might not be a chance in a million that her little girl would ever come home, but if she did, this room would be ready for her again.

  Chapter 53

  It was almost ten on what had turned out to be a cold, clear night. Sporadic shooting had been going on for about fifty minutes. At least one hundred men were involved in the operation—men being the operative word. The FBI agent in charge, Alvin Lepowitz, had made it obvious that Helen Meeker was not really an FBI agent, had not been through the bureau’s extensive training, and was therefore not prepared to be part of the group that apprehended this public enemy. Meeker didn’t protest; there was no reason to. She was, in a figurative sense, outgunned.

  So, pulling her coat tightly around her, wishing she could change into something other than the torn, muddy suit she’d been wearing all day, she leaned against the Packard as she sipped coffee and listened to the gunplay from a half mile down the road. Meanwhile, while she had been relegated to waiting it out in the cool, damp air with some of the Illinois troopers, her partner in “The Grand Experiment” was on the front lines trying to drive the gang out of the house. It could have been worse—at least Lepowitz hadn’t given her an apron and used her to ferry coffee up to those in the battle.

  “Ma’am.”

  Meeker turned and saw Trooper Strickland’s now familiar face. “What do you need, Murray?”

  “Could you come over here a second?”

  Strickland was standing on the opposite side of the Packard, his arms crossed over his uniform coat. He looked strangely out of sorts. A round of machine-gun fire punctuated the night air causing her attention to drift back down the gravel road to the farmhouse. Then, in a pattern that had become the norm over the past thirty minutes, things were quiet. The strange serenity only lasted a few seconds before it was broken again by her partner’s voice on a bullhorn. Reese had never sounded so good.