The Blue Coyote (The Frannie Shoemaker Campground Mysteries Book 2) (15 page)

“Watch out!” he yelled. A
sickening crunch and jolt from behind skewed the truck in the road. They were
all thrown against their seats, heads snapping back. The truck shot across the
road to the left and tilted radically forward as it headed down into the steep
ditch and lurched to a halt. Frannie pitched forward against her seat belt,
meeting the expanding airbag. She sat in silence for a minute, trying to grasp
what had happened, as the bag slowly deflated and a smoky substance filled the
air of the cab.

“Everybody okay?” Larry’s
voice was shaky and he quickly shut off the engine.

Frannie took an instant
inventory of her body. Her heart was pounding and she felt a little bruised but
otherwise okay.

“Yeah, I think so,” she said.

“We are too,” Jane Ann said.

“What the hell was that?”
Mickey blurted.

“A deliberate hit,” Larry
said, fishing in his pocket for his cell phone. He punched in 911 and gave the
answering dispatcher the details of the accident. Mickey was straining to look
out the back window.

“Where’d he go?”

The others scanned the area
they could see, which wasn’t much because of the angle of the truck. All was
quiet and there were no lights.

“Should we get out?” Frannie
asked Larry. “Or are we better off here?”

“We’d better get out. I don’t
know what’s up but if the person in that truck is out to get us, we’re sitting
ducks here.” Larry first turned the light selector so the interior lights
wouldn’t come on and then slowly opened his door.

On the ground, he had to brace
himself because of the slope of the ditch and then opened and held the small
crew door to let Jane Ann and Mickey out. Frannie got out her side and worked
her way around the front of the truck to get to the others. Partially hidden in
the ditch, they peered across the road at the junkyard.

“There!” Frannie whispered
hoarsely, pointing. “I saw a light, like maybe a flashlight.”

******************

Happy Camper Tip #14

Checklists, checklists, and
more checklists can save a lot of grief. The most experienced pilot in the
world using a plane he has flown a hundred times will still use a checklist to
do his pre-flight inspection. The most important checklist to have is one that
lists all the necessary steps before you move your camper. This should include unplugging
the electrical (try to find an RVer who has not pulled out at least once
without unplugging), collapsing the TV antenna, securing the awning, locking
doors and compartments, etc. Vehicles have been seen on the move with antennas
up, steps out, and electrical cords flying. There are even stories of a camper
pulling into the dump station with a slide still out. Not good.

Sunday Evening

The others peered through the
gloom to see where Frannie was pointing. The dirt road ran east and west, and
they were in the south ditch. Frannie thought she had seen a light coming from
the north and east side of the junkyard.

“I don’t see anything,”
Mickey said.

“We need to get back into
these woods,” Larry said, indicating the trees behind them to the south. “Seems
likely that the truck that hit us is the kidnapper and he’s got to know that
his hiding place isn’t viable any more. Obviously, he’s not going to let us get
in his way.”

“Larry,” Frannie grabbed his
sleeve, “that also means if he’s got Taylor over there, he’s going to move her.
He has to. This could be our last chance.”

“Help will be here soon,”
Larry assured her.

“But what if it’s not soon
enough? What if he—or they—
decide
Taylor’s
too much of a liability? And to get rid of her now?”

Larry stood, hands on hips,
shaking his head and then looked at her.

“All right,” he told them
all, “here’s the deal. We’re going to work our way down the ditch toward the
west and away from where Frannie saw that light. We’ll cross the road down
there and then try and get close by using the other vehicles as cover. Don’t
take any stupid chances, any of you.”

“Smart chances are okay,”
Mickey mumbled. Larry glared at him.

“Then what?” Jane Ann said.
“What if he’s armed?”

“That’s what I mean about
chances. Hopefully, Sanchez and the sheriff will be here by then.” He grimaced
and headed west around the front of the truck, followed by the other three. The
going was slow through the tall weeds and brush. They tried to stay out of the
deepest part of the ditch where the soft, squishy ground still held some of the
morning’s rain.

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.