Forgotten Boxes (19 page)
Authors: Becki Willis
“And Debarge and Galano just got away, scot-free?”
“We heard that Debarge died a few years back, but they say Galano
is still around, still cranking out bogus bills. When things get too hot here, he
crosses over into Canada. Few years later, he’s back down in the States.”
Tarn listened to the exchange with interest, the gears turning
in his mind. “Those people that come sniffing around from time to time. You always
said they were reporters. But they aren’t, are they?” His low voice was just short
of accusing.
His father grumbled. “You always were too smart for your own
good.”
“What are they looking for?” His eyes shifted to the package
on the table. His voice was sharp. Wary. “What’s in the box?”
Lynnie had been content to let her husband do the talking, allowing
her to conserve her breath. She chimed in now. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing but
a stolen carburetor. I picked a box at random. Beecher or Dunn, it didn’t matter.”
“Beecher? I think that’s the name on the other package,” Charity
recalled. “I’ll go get it.”
As she slipped from the room, Tarn fretted over the obvious.
“They wouldn’t care about a stolen carburetor. They wouldn’t even care about old
counterfeit bills.”
His mother’s words were quiet. “They never found the press.”
By themselves, the words were disturbing enough. Spoken in a voice short with air,
they came out with an ominous hiss.
A sick feeling settled into Tarn’s belly. “A man followed Charity
the other day…”
“What man?’ Gavin asked sharply.
“We don’t know. But he had a gun.”
“A gun!” When Lynnie gasped, her lungs squeaked from lack of
air.
TWENTY-S
EVEN
“I believe I’ll take that.”
The gruff voice spoke from behind her. Startled, Charity banged
her head against the frame of the car door. She cried out first in pain, then in
fright. Rough hands pushed her aside to grab the package from her hands.
“Wh-Who are you? What do you want?” she asked the stranger.
The man appeared to be in his late sixties. With his French complexion
and lean features, he was still a handsome man, even though the years had turned
his once-black hair to gray. One rough shove from him proved he was still strong
and sure.
He ignored her questions. “I knew the old lady had it,” he gloated,
his dark eyes lighting with greed. “Tillman wasn’t smart enough to hide it on his
own.”
“Hide-Hide what?”
“The old hag hardly ever left the house,” the man lamented,
already stripping the brown paper from the package. “We searched the place
twice and never found the boxes. When I heard she died, we came back to look
again, once and for all. But apparently you had already found them by the time
I got there.” He added the last with a snarl.
Charity thought of the letter she had seen, the ominous one-liner
with its silent threat. “You’re the one who sent my aunt threatening notes, aren’t
you?”
“For all the good it did. I’ve had to wait over thirty years
to get my hands on this.” With a final rip of paper, he grumbled, “I knew I should
have secured the package before getting rid of Tillman.”
Charity’s gasp was loud and ragged, but her voice came out on
a shocked whisper. “So Harold
was
murdered.”
The man glanced up long enough to flash a grin. “The police called
it suicide. His prints were on the gun. He was distraught, thinking his mistress
might not live. His company was going down faster than the Titanic. Murder never
crossed their minds.”
“You set him up!”
He shrugged off her accusation. “A few well-placed dominoes,”
he conceded. “A nice little ripple effect. A signature here, an accusation there.
Harry Tillman loved taking credit for Kingdom’s success. Why not let him take blame
for the fall? It was almost too easy. Besides, the damned fool was drinking my best
liquor.”
The box was all but open. Rather belatedly, O’Reilly bounded
into the yard, barking wildly at the stranger. The man whipped a pistol from his
jacket and turned with wide eyes to face the dog.
“Don’t shoot him,” Charity begged.
“Call him off!” Fear made his voice edgy.
“Shh, O’Reilly. Good boy. It’s-It’s okay,” she lied to the dog,
trying to speak calmly. She darted her eyes toward the house, wondering if Tarn
would hear the commotion and come to investigate.
“He’s still growling!” the man hissed.
“I’m trying, but he’s not my dog.”
“You’ve got thirty seconds before he’s nobody’s dog.”
“Then move out of my way.” Charity tried to move forward to reach
for O’Reilly’s collar.
“Try anything funny, and I have a bullet for you, too,” the man
warned, but he moved aside enough that Charity could calm the dog and stop his barking.
“Damn mutt,” the man grumbled. No longer worried about being
bitten, he ripped the box open. “Where is it?’ he demanded. He jerked out a handful
of counterfeit bills, carelessly tossing them over his shoulder.
The worthless strips of paper caught on a breeze and scattered
into the wind. O’Reilly thought it was a game. The dog jumped and twisted, trying
to catch the bills that fluttered above his head. He barked with excitement, even
as the man upended the box. “Where are the plates, damn it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man looked from Charity to the farmhouse. “What are you doing
here?” he asked abruptly. “How do you know the Danburys?”
With a gulp, Charity tried looking innocent. “The who?”
“The people who live here!”
“Is-Is that their name?”
“I asked you why you were here, and you’d better tell me the
truth.” He started to reach for her, then eyed the dog. Training the gun in her
direction was much more effective, and it did not upset the dog.
“I-I just came to buy syrup.”
He faltered, looking for a moment as if he might believe her.
Too soon, the moment passed. “Then how do you know the dog’s name?”
“He’s Irish,” she said lamely.
“You came out to get this box,” the man reasoned. “You were taking
it back in, to them. So let’s go. Let’s take the box in.”
“This-This has nothing to do with them. I hardly even know them.”
This much was true.
“Then you’re about to become better acquainted,” the man informed
her. “Move. We’re going up to the house, nice and slow.”
Charity’s mind raced ahead of her sluggish feet. She could run,
but to where? With no place to hide, he would shoot before she got three feet away.
If not a diversion, she needed a weapon. Her eyes scanned the
area. Scattered along the path for color, flowers sprang up in old cast iron wash
tubs and antique farm implements; all were too heavy to lift, much less hurl in
his direction. Not even a stick littered the neatly swept brick trail.
The closer they came to the door, the heavier her feet became.
How could she bring danger to this family? She already loved them like her own.
“Move it,” the man barked, shoving her with the barrel of the
gun.
Charity stumbled forward, formulating a plan in her mind. She
would run. Even if he shot her, the sound of gunfire would alert Tarn to danger.
He and his parents might have some chance of escape.
Charity jerked hard to the left, ready to take flight. The man
was quicker than she was, grabbing her arm and yanking her back in line. “Don’t
even try it. I’ll go in shooting,” he threatened.
“Don’t hurt them,” Charity begged.
“Then lead me inside, nice and slow.”
He kept a painful grip on her arm as she opened the side door
and entered the long hallway. “Keep going,” the man insisted, pushing her inside.
When she stumbled, he showed no mercy. “Faster!”
Her hands were clumsy as she opened the kitchen door. Stepping
into the heart of the Danbury home, she breathed her apology to the empty room.
“I’m so sorry.” Even though it was not her doing, she felt responsible for this
evil man’s presence.
Whoever he might be, Charity found satisfaction in knowing the
gunman’s big moment of arrival was anti-climactic. No one acknowledged their presence
when they stepped into the room. Gavin hovered over Lynnie, speaking to her in a
smooth, calming voice. Tarn was not in the room, gone to fetch his mother’s oxygen.
Her satisfaction evaporated with one touch of the gun. As the
man shoved the barrel into her back, pushing her forward, Charity cleared her throat.
“Good, you’re back,” Gavin said over his shoulder. “The sooner
we –” He stopped mid-sentence, turning around and catching sight of the man behind
her. “What is the meaning of this?” He thundered. His eyes filled with suspicion.
“Tarn was wrong. You can’t be trusted! You brought him here,” he accused coldly.
“H-He-He has a g-gun.” Nerves tapped out the words in Morse code.
“Mr. Galano!” Lynnie gasped. Even after thirty-one years, she
had no trouble recognizing her former boss.
“Evelyn,” he acknowledged coolly. His eyes trailed over her,
taking in her damaged body and scarred face. His eyes filled with contempt. There
was no trace of regret in his cold gaze, no look of guilt.
“What are you doing here?” Gavin demanded. He moved to shield
his wife with his big body.
Galano looked almost bored. “I’m tired of waiting. And I’m tired
of sending underlings who can’t follow instructions. If I want it done right, I’ll
have to do it myself.” The boredom in his voice turned to granite. “Where are they,
Evelyn? Where are the printing plates?”
“I-I don’t know what-”
“Stop it!” he demanded. He jerked Charity and twisted her to
him, one arm crooked around her throat as he pointed the pistol directly against
her temple. She rasped out a startled cry. “No more lies, no more pretending not
to know what I’m talking about. She didn’t come here to buy syrup like she claimed.
She came here to bring you the plates. But they’re mine. I need them back.”
“They’re over thirty years old,” Gavin reminded him. “What good
are they now? Money has changed since then.”
“The technique has improved,” Pascal Galano allowed, “but we
can still use the same plates. These are straight from the US Mint, after all.”
His smile was pure evil.
“It will never work. People are too smart these days.”
“That is my problem, not yours,” Galano informed him coldly.
“Your problem is being too stupid to do as I say. Tell me where the plates are,
or this little lady is going to die. And then I’m going to kill your wife.” Galano
moved the barrel of his gun to point in Lynnie’s direction. “And this time, I’ll
see it through.”
Gavin plunged forward, rage in his eyes. “Why you bas-” Before
he could finish his curse, the gun went off, slinging a bullet into his arm. Blood
blossomed on his flannel shirt but the big man remained on his feet.
Lynnie shrieked. Charity stifled a whimper. Galano turned the
gun back toward her temple. Heat radiated off the barrel, singeing the fine hairs
that danced around her face.
“Tell me where the plates are,” Galano snarled, “or she’s next.”
“I don’t have them! I never did!” Lynnie insisted. She tried
to get to her feet to help her husband, but her damaged leg refused to cooperate.
“You and Tillman had to stick your noses in where they didn’t
belong,” Galano sneered. “Once we knew you were onto us, we moved the press.
One more day, and it would have all been set up. One more day, and we might
have let the fool live. One more day, and you might still be a whole woman. But
you had to go and steal the plates.” His voice was cold and flat. “I want them
back. Now.”
“We didn’t steal them.”
“Then say goodbye to the pretty lady.”
There was no time for her life to flash before her eyes. Charity
squeezed her eyes shut and thought only one thing:
Tarn.
His beautiful voice
would be the last sound she ever heard. Even now, she thought she heard his voice,
but it hardly sounded dark and delicious. It sounded deadly.
Her eyes popped open and she stared across the room, directly
into the gray eyes that had stolen her soul. Tarn held her gaze for a fraction of
a second, just long enough to see the love and fierce protection within their depths.
“Are these the plates you’re looking for?” Dark as pitch and
twice as dangerous, Tarn’s voice drew the man’s attention away from Charity. Toward
himself.
The moment Galano faltered, Tarn hurled the first plate. His
mother’s prized fall pottery sailed through the air like a ceramic Frisbee, striking
Galano in the throat. As the man sputtered for air, another missile launched, knocking
the gun from his hand.
Free from Galano’s grasp, Charity dropped to her knees and grappled
for the pistol as it skittered across the floor. Tarn’s huge body advanced, continuing
to hurl dishes. The third plate struck the gasping Frenchman in his temple, causing
him to stagger backwards and crash against the wall. Tarn kept coming, angrily flinging
plate after plate, hitting Galano in his gut, his face, his shin. The older man
crumbled as the giant towered over him and raised his size-twelve boot.
“No one hurts the people I love!” Tarn thundered, bringing his
heel down directly into Galano’s groin. The man screeched in agony. His wail stretched
into a high-pitched keen, echoing into a sound that hardly seemed human. Blood and
urine soiled the front of his pants as his cries — now decidedly more feminine —
faded into a whimper. Before Charity could hand the gun off to Tarn’s more steady
hold, Galano succumbed to the pain and fainted.
Tarn glanced across at his parents. Gunshot or no, Gavin had
things under control. He had fashioned a tourniquet from the edge of the tablecloth
to stop his bleeding, already more concerned about his wife. Assured his father’s
life was not in danger, Tarn scooped Charity off the ground and hauled her into
his arms. Her feet dangled inches above the floor as he clutched her close.
“You okay?” he demanded, his voice a blend of rough fear and
tender concern.
“Yes, yes. Are you?” She tried to wriggle free, enough to look
up at him, but he had her crushed against his massive chest.
“Never been so scared in my life,” he said.
“Not-not so tight,” she managed to peep.
“What?” He looked down, realized how tightly he held her, and
immediately loosened his grip. “Sorry,” he mumbled, setting her feet back on the
ground. He often forgot his own strength.
Her legs like jelly, she slumped against him. “No,” she protested
weakly. “Don’t let me go.”
“Never,” he said fiercely, pressing the promise into the golden
red locks of her hair. After a long moment, Tarn looked over the top of her head
and spoke to his parents. “You two okay?”
“Been better,” his father acknowledged. “Need to call 9-1-1.”
“I-I’ll do it,” Charity offered. She glanced down at the man
on the floor, curled into a fetal position.
“He’s not going anywhere,” Tarn assured her. He gave her a hard
kiss and finally set her free.
As Charity stepped away to find her cell phone, a piece of shattered
pottery crumbled beneath her shoe, prompting Tarn to say, “Sorry about your dishes,
Ma. They were your favorite.”
“I don’t care about the dishes, son,” she managed between sobs.