Switcheroo (10 page)

Chapter
17

I was slowly waking up.  There was
a tugging on my arm, which was hanging off the edge of the futon.  Coming out
of slumber, I looked through the slits of my puffy old eyelids at the clearest
blue eyes I have seen.  Hannah’s eyes belonged in magazine ads, they were so
huge and beautiful.

Hannah looked at me and I
remembered what was happening.  Tammy and her family were here and I was on the
futon in the den.  A firm sleep, the futon was quite comfortable to me.

“Pooh-Pooh,” said Hannah, smiling.
She was holding a disposable diaper with pictures of cartoon characters on it.

“Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Stover.”
Grandma Tuttle came to retrieve the baby.

“Please call me Rust,” I said.  A
seventy-year-old woman did not have to call me mister.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rust.”

“It’s okay. I needed to get up
early.”  I was to pick up Wendy at eleven. I glanced at my plastic sports
watch, 6:30. “Yeah, I can handle this.” I took the diaper from Hannah and
looked at her with mock seriousness.

I picked her up and put her down
on the rug beside the futon. I found the diaper bag, got the box of baby-wipes
out and sat down next to Hannah on the floor.   She was very still until I got
the diaper open and then she twisted and wiggled and tried to get poop on the
rug and on me.  I held her down while I worked, careful not to breathe through
my nose.  Pretty gross. This stuff looked like about half a cup of peanut
butter with some corn stirred into it.  I buttoned her back up and took the
foul diaper, put it inside two plastic grocery bags, knotted the bags and threw
the whole package out the back door, where it joined a couple friends from
yesterday.  Glad that’s over.

            The beige truck was one I had never seen before.  This was not the
kind of pretty boy truck you parked at Cotton Eyed Joes to help you pick up
chicks. There would be no mini-truck mullet sported by its driver.  It looked
like about a ‘78 model Jeep Comanche pickup truck, with oversize wheels and
tires, and a lift kit. It had more than a little surface rust on the door
panels and bed, giving it the look of a paint horse.  Even several car lengths
back, when it accelerated you noticed the glasspack mufflers or maybe no
mufflers at all. With a 360 V-eight, it sounded like a NASCAR racer had somehow
gotten loose on Middlebrook Pike.  It was a terrible choice of vehicles to use
to tail somebody, but after several turns I became convinced it was following
me.

The morning had been an effective
one for me. I had cleaned up and gotten my remaining field reports e-mailed in
to LISA. That would keep my steady pay check coming. Tammy was long on mascara,
but short on cash. I would need my job with LISA after this was all over. I
finished packing and headed over to Wendy’s, after a brief stop at the gas
station.

After spotting the Jeep truck in
my mirror, I quickly turned right onto a side street and made several turns
inside Hurley Mill subdivision, just to make sure that I wasn’t imagining
things.   The truck slowed way down, but even when he was out of sight, I could
still hear him.  He fell back trying, not to be too obvious, but it wasn’t
working. If I couldn’t see him, I could still hear him. This truck was about as
subtle as Ray Lewis in a ballet.  The bad guys were not being very bright about
their human resource selections.

I went on my way down Middlebrook;
nothing I could do. I kept an eye on the guy.  He seemed content to follow for
now. On the cell phone I called the Holiday Inn on Cedar Bluff and made a
reservation for Tammy and her family, my house was no longer safe for them. 
Then I called Tammy at the house and told her to move to the hotel because they
had figured out where I lived and though they were following quietly now, that
didn’t mean they wouldn’t resort to violence again.  Better to hide.   She was
not happy about another move, but not too scared either, and that was good.   I
tried convincing her to go by telling her Hannah would like the indoor pool.  I
would come back from Pigeon Forge and meet them at the hotel for lunch Sunday.
I told her to go straight to the police station if she thought she was being
followed on their way to the hotel. All that settled, I still had to deal with
my red-neck friend, who was now tailing me without even trying to hide, as if
he could.

The key to losing a tail like this
is simple. It just takes one sudden, blind turn.  You know what I mean. This is
how you end up accidentally losing a friend who you are trying to follow you to
a party. You get stuck at a red light and they keep going, or they get away
from you in traffic and next thing you know they aren’t there.

The red light was out; this guy
would not be stopped by a traffic signal.  I could not beat his big motor on a
straightaway so I headed out toward Ball Camp where I knew there were a few
blind curves.

Around a couple twists in the road
I used all of the grip my car’s cheap tires had to get ahead of my stalker’s
monster Jeep truck.  When I could no longer see him in my mirror I veered to
the right into a neighborhood, drove a short way and took a left behind a line
of trees.  I glanced to the left but could not see the truck through the trees.
I could not see the Jeep in any direction, but I could hear it warble on around
the bend and fade away.  I was feeling pretty proud of myself when I looked up
and saw I was headed straight for a ditch. The rapidly disappearing shoulder
received my car softly at first, letting me slide through high grass, bumping
lightly over its moguls until I got down to the  drainage ditch, which
unfortunately was lined with huge limestone chunks (to prevent erosion during
flash floods and to badly damage errant LeBarons).

I heard metal and stone smash with
a sound that struck fear into my heart and turned my bowels to water.  I shot
forward and sideways on impact, coming out of my shoulder belt.   Finally, the
car stopped moving. I was lying on my side looking up at the blue October sky,
mostly okay.  My hips ached from the sudden jerk of the seatbelt, but other
than that I had survived an accident in a convertible.  God had smiled on me,
for whatever reason.  Steam rose from the LeBaron’s wrinkled hood. The man
upstairs didn’t like Chrysler products, but at least he had spared me.

I stepped out of the car and
checked my watch, 10:45.  There was still time to keep from looking like an
idiot with Wendy.  I got out my book and looked up the number for my favorite
towing company and called the number on my cell phone.  I sat down on the
grassy hill and looked at my steaming car. There wasn’t much body damage but
both the wheels on the driver’s side were twisted at odd angles and some
drive-train parts were hanging down. All I could think was what a waste of
gasoline. I had just filled the tank yesterday.

Chapter
18

It was eleven fifteen in the
morning when the tow-truck driver dropped me off in front of Wendy’s modest,
neatly-kept house. It was a small three-bedroom ranch on a street of small
three-bedroom ranches.  You could have any color house you wanted in her
neighborhood, as long as it was beige, yellow or slate blue.  The houses were
all fairly new and nicely landscaped.

You never know what someone else
is seeing, but I hoped she liked what she saw.  An okay-looking guy with a tidy
devil beard and a touch of grey in his short brown hair. Tall, a little more
than six feet and only a slight beer gut hidden under a nice tweed sports
jacket. A trace of a grin on his face. A man you would not expect to be
standing in your yard with a huge flat-bed diesel truck behind him, and the
steaming remains of the car that was supposed to take you to Gatlinburg lying
in a heap on the truck’s bed.

I know I liked what I saw.  Wendy
was looking good, as usual. She had on a light sweater and slacks and was
carrying a casual leather jacket. She smiled as she walked toward me.

“What happened? Are you okay?” She
hugged me and looked at the bandage on my neck.

“Oh, my neck?” I said touching the
bandage. “That happened earlier in the week, I was tilting at windmills. 
Today, I had an accident on the way over. No injuries other than general
stiffness. I think the motor on that old car was about to give out anyway. ”

“Well, I’m glad you are okay. We
can take my Toyota. Too bad, I was looking forward to riding up in the
convertible. I even packed a wool blanket.”

The tow truck driver handed me my
credit card receipt and was about to leave.

“Well, why don’t we rent one?
Insurance will cover part of it.” The tow truck driver gave us a lift to the
car rental agency and got a green Chrysler Sebring convertible, sort of a
modern day equivalent of the old LeBaron. I threw our stuff in the trunk and
opened the door for Wendy. I handed her the blanket.

I’ve never been to Boston in the fall and I may never get there.  Fall in Appalachian Tennessee is fine with
me.   Wendy and I took the Sebring down Alcoa Highway toward the Great Smokey Mountains and turned toward Gatlinburg on Wears Valley Road.  This road is
the ultimate for a convertible and today was the ultimate day.  It was bright
and sunny and sixty-five degrees.  The giant oaks and smaller round maples were
showing yellows, oranges, reds and russet browns.  Leaves were floating down
slowly in a light breeze.

The Chrysler was more boulevard
cruiser than sports car, but it handled the curvy mountain roads well enough. 
I took it easy, checking my mirror every now and then for suspicious cars.

Wendy and I discussed her job and
a few of my interesting cases. Somehow the talk got around to which local
restaurants had been on the news last night for flunking their health
inspection.  She named the ones she remembered and some of the cited
violations.  Most of these involved dirt and grease, cleaning supplies near
exposed food and food stored at unsafe temperatures.

I was doing okay until she mentioned
my favorite Japanese place.  They had failed health inspection, scoring a
sixty- four. Inspectors had found a container of bleach near exposed food, mold
on the walls in the kitchen and roaches in the kitchen.  That place was way too
pricy for Clorox to end up in food. It was at least twenty bucks a plate and
food was prepared for you at your table by a guy who did a chop-chop show.  He
was always setting the table on fire, or trying to throw a shrimp tail in
someone’s shirt pocket.  I always proposed a toast and gave the cook sake.  The
hostess would get angry about her cook getting drunk and it was fun to watch
her unravel.  When you left, you were fat, happy and smelling of garlic. I’ll
miss that place.  I can’t have mold and Clorox in my food, dammit.

To my left there was the wide,
gushing stream that ran down along Wears Valley Road year round, fed by
mountain tributaries.  Wendy was looking at it and I watched her out of the
corner of my eye.  She had her light brown hair pulled back in a pony tail and
was wearing tortoise-shell sunglasses with dark green lenses.  I was hoping for
an enjoyable getaway with no gun fire and no disappearing Ford trucks.           We
pulled into Gatlinburg and went straight up the side of a mountain, pulling up
to one of the two chalets that Wendy and her paralegal cronies had rented for
the night.  It was about 1:30 now.  We had stopped at a small grocery to get
beer, wine and some snacks. We had already missed lunch.  Thanks to my LeBaron
crash, we were late.

“You caused me to miss out on some
quality hot tub time,” Wendy teased.

“Hot tub, huh? I didn’t bring a
swim suit,” I said.

She raised an eyebrow at me.
“Well, we’ll have to improvise.”

Well, improvising turned out to be
me wearing a pair of plaid boxers that I had brought to sleep in. Further
improvising was the safety-pin Wendy insisted on using to fasten the fly closed
so someone wouldn’t make an unwanted appearance.  She did this after I put them
on, inadvertently activating the launch sequence.  Wendy noticed my arousal and
after rolling around on the bed a little she relieved my stress without
intercourse. Use your imagination.  For a moment I forgot that I had a client
who had no money checked into a one hundred dollar a night hotel in Knoxville. I also forgot that I had no real idea of how to finding her trucks and turn
into a paying client.

Our little make-out session made
it easier to do what I did next.  We walked downstairs through a huge open den
with a twenty-foot ceiling. I had still not met anyone in our party, and the
den was empty.

I soon found out why. Everyone was
in the basement.  Only the front side of this basement level was underground.
The back had two sets of French doors, opened on the view of a valley with the Smokey Mountains beyond. There were at least five ladies, accompanied by various husbands
and significant others hanging around two indoor hot tubs and a pool table.
These paralegal people apparently knew how to party.  Okay with me.

“Everybody, this is Rust,” Wendy
said holding my hand. “Rust, this is everybody.”  Immediately I was slapped on
the back several times and shook several hands, instantly forgetting the names
that went with each smiling face.  This bunch had started before noon and was
already buzzed, so I figured I could learn the names later.

It was not a good way to meet a
dozen new friends.  I was wearing a T-shirt and my pinned-together boxers and I
was not drunk like everyone else there.  Wendy grabbed my hand and tugged me
toward one of the hot tubs.  She was dressed in a well-fitting one-piece
swimsuit.  I found myself stealing glances at what I had been trying to grab
earlier.  She hopped in one of the hot tubs that contained one of her paralegal
friends and a blob that I could only assume was the lady’s husband.  I knew as soon
as I got into the hot tub I would need to stay there because my boxers were
going to cling to
me
. So I took three Budweisers out of the cooler and
set them on the shelf behind the hot tub. This would save getting in and out
and in and out.  I sucked in my gut as I tossed my shirt aside and hopped in
the tub.

Once in the hot tub holding an
open beer and a beautiful Wendy sitting next to me I felt more comfortable.  I
was introduced to William J. Lunt (the blob) and his skinny yet unattractive
wife, Blanche.  They turned out to be super-nice people. I spent quite a while
talking to them while my fingers, toes and the rest of me pruned up from the
extended, hot soak.

“You’re a beer man, huh?”  William
said with his friendly drawl. He had the southern drawl of a southern football
coach who has never had a winning season.

“I enjoy a cold one every now and
then,” I was wondering if this guy was a drinker.  He was holding what appeared
to be a glass of ice water.

“I don’t like it, never have.  And
coffee, I never liked coffee either. I like gin with a splash of soda, can’t
beat it.” He nodded, agreeing with himself as he took a swig.  He had a pint
glass with ice cubes and gin; not much soda.  It would take a lot of that to
pickle this fat man. I hid my distaste. In my book, gin was one notch above
drinking mouth-wash or cologne or disinfectant.

“I don’t like beer, it gives you a
gut.  Makes ya’ feel bloated,” He patted his flabby belly. “This is not a beer
gut.”

He didn’t say what it was made of,
but I was guessing probably McDonalds and Taco Bell.

This guy was nice enough, but the
sight of him with no shirt on was going to keep me from enjoying any fast food
for at least a week. Bummer.

I decided now would be a good time
to listen, learn and do what I do best: drink beer.  In a little while, I got
to know Blanche Lunt, who was a friend of Wendy’s worked for a law firm in Sevier County.  William Lunt was a civil engineer in Sevier County. They lived in Seymour, Tennessee.

In these conversations I said
things like ‘And what do you do?’ or ‘Tell me about that’.  Sometimes it all it
takes a simple ‘I see’ or ‘you don’t say’ to keep someone talking for ten more
minutes, especially if they are drunk.

I was surprised when the subject
got around to me.

“You know Rust is a private
detective,” Wendy said, nodding slyly at me. I flashed on her brown eyes, eyed
her floating cleavage eagerly, and then looked up. Everyone in the hot tub
looked at me inquiringly.

“Well, I’m really more what you
would call a field investigator.  It’s not as exciting as it sounds.”

“It’s a hell of a lot more
exciting than paralegal work.  Tell me some stuff,” Blanche wanted some good
chat I guess.  Her mascara on one eye had started to run and she was definitely
drunk.

“Well, what I do mostly is report
on collateral for lenders who are going to foreclose or repossess their loan
security.  I do get a chance every now and then to do some real detecting.”

I told them the story of how I
hurt my neck on Monday.  I added in a couple extra redneck thugs and more
shotgun blasts.  It was an interesting story to begin with, but I exaggerated
the details.  When I got to the end there were two more party-goers listening. 
So I had no trouble getting a young lady to pass me another cold Bud from the
cooler.  I glanced at my sports-watch. I had been in the hot tub two and a half
hours. Wasn’t there a thirty minute limit?

“Wow, you’re a regular Magnum
P.I.   What is it these cowboys are trying to take from your client?”

“I can’t really say; it’s
confidential.  Perhaps when it’s all over and in the newspapers, I’ll share
it,” I said, sounding matter-of-fact.

I was starting to really prune up
and I needed to go to the men’s room.  Now I felt that everyone was
sufficiently drunk enough not to notice a man with wet clinging boxers walking
through the room.

I told Wendy this and she said,
“Oh, let me get you a towel.”

“You’re an angel,” I said,
wrapping up.

“That’s what you think,” she
leered at me over her shoulder as she sauntered toward the stairs.

It took us another twenty minutes
to leave the downstairs area.  I met several more of Wendy’s friends.  I was
standing there talking to people in my towel, thinking seriously about pissing
myself.  Finally we broke away for a moment and went up to our bedroom in the
loft.

There are all kinds of no-money
fun and I think one of the best ones is taking a piss when you have been
holding it forever.  The intense relief is a feeling of pleasure that can only
be topped by sex.

I flushed the john and came out of
the bathroom to find that Wendy had dimmed the lights and hopped under the
covers of the bed. Her wet swimsuit was on the floor.  I dropped my towel and
joined her for more no-money fun.

While Wendy freshened up in the
bathroom, I grabbed my cell phone, called the Holiday Inn on Cedar Bluff and
asked if Tammy McHenry had checked in.  The front desk informed me she had and
I was patched through to her room.

Grandma Tuttle sounded a bit worn
when she answered the phone.  She told me that things were as normal as could
be expected.  Hannah was enjoying jumping on the beds and Tammy had played with
her in the indoor pool before going to work.   Grandma Tuttle complained that
she was unable to do laundry and she was concerned about her mail piling up at
the house.  She wanted to know when it would be safe to go home.

“Give me until Monday night to try
to figure this out. There are a few things I need to check that I can’t do on
the weekend. Why don’t you try the room service?  I know you’re probably afraid
and this is inconvenient, but it’s for your own safety and for Hannah’s, too. ”

“I’m not scared; I just want to do
some laundry.  And I want some mashed potatoes. All they have here is potato
skins. Most people don’t even like the skins. It’s the inside that tastes
good.  And what do they do with the part they take out of the skins, when they
don’t even sell mashed potatoes?”

“Grandma Tuttle, I just don’t
know.  I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I hung up.

She had a damn good point. Do they
throw out the best part of a perfectly good potato just to sell you the part
that was touching the dirt with some sour cream and bacon on top?

Sitting on the corner of the bed
in this hulking chalet, I felt strangely disconnected. In spite of the party
going on downstairs, I really wanted to go home and spend tomorrow raking
leaves and not talking to anyone.  Then maybe a ‘calmer’ over at Union Jack’s
Pub tomorrow evening.

What I did was call Tammy at
Orby’s while I waited for Wendy to come out of the bathroom.  It took a minute
for her to get to the phone and I could hear the jukebox blaring in the
background.  When she picked up the phone, I told her about the car accident
and the man in the Jeep-truck who had followed me.   I told Tammy she had to
stay at the motel through Monday night. Even if I had not found her truck by
then, she would have to take her chances staying at the farmhouse.  I told her
I would keep trying after that but after Monday I would not be able to protect
her any more. I would stay on the case, but I would need to start working my other
jobs so my other clients would not get upset.