The Yellow Packard (28 page)

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 house.

“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

C
arole’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

I
t 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.

“McGrew, this is your last chance. Come out with your hands up, or we set the place on fire.”

It was nearing the end. With the firepower the FBI had brought, the outcome was inevitable. The sooner the better! Now she just hoped that no one would be taken out in a hearse.

“Miss Meeker.”

She’d almost forgotten about Strickland. Spinning on her muddy pumps, she waltzed back to where the trooper was standing.

“It looks like it’s almost over,” she noted as she approached.

“Not yet,” a voice she didn’t recognize announced. Stepping out of the darkness, his gun drawn and ready, was a man with a very crooked nose.

“Sorry, Miss Meeker,” Strickland said, “he came out of that cornfield and surprised me.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” the stranger warned.

“I think I already have,” she quipped.

“Listen, lady,” McGrew snarled, “the trooper here tells me that car is yours. Get in. You’re driving me out of here. I’m getting in the backseat. If you try anything, I’ll shoot you. And don’t think I’ve got anything to lose.”

“I’m sure you don’t, McGrew.” Her voice was calm. “But what if I don’t get in the car?”

“Then I cut this trooper in half right here.”

She saw the grimace on the officer’s face, and thought of the wife and two kids he’d told her about earlier in the day. Shrugging her shoulders, she ambled to the driver’s door and got in. She watched in the rearview mirror as the public enemy the FBI thought they had cornered brought the butt of his gun down onto the back of Strickland’s head, causing the trooper to fall to the ground. Meeker gasped. Satisfied that his victim was out cold, McGrew opened the back door, tossed in a bag, and joined her.

“I’m right behind you, lady, and my gun is aimed at the back of your pretty little head.”

As she turned the key and hit the starter, she laughed. “It’s a pretty hard head, so you might need to fire twice.”

“Stop with the jokes and drive!”

Backing out onto the road, she spun around and drove up to the trooper manning the roadblock. As she pulled to a stop, she saw McGrew slide down in the seat.

“Bob,” she announced, “nature calls. I’m running into town. Can I bring you anything?”

“No,” he said, “I’m fine.”

Slowly giving the car some gas, she eased down the gravel road toward Highway 49. A few moments later McGrew’s ugly face again filled the rearview mirror.

“You did just fine,” the hood slyly noted.

She didn’t dignify the compliment with a response. Pulling up to the highway, she eased to a stop at the sign and waited for McGrew to give her directions.

“Go left. When you get to Ogden, turn left again on 150. I’ll give you more directions after we get a few miles down the road. I wouldn’t want to overload your brain with too much information.”

“Yeah,” she noted sarcastically, “you are a whole lot brighter than me.”

Meeker made the turn and slowly pushed the Packard up to fifty. At that point she relaxed and casually watched where her headlight beams met the darkness. After a mile, she broke the silence with a question.

“How’d you get away?”

“While the guys were trying to fix the car, I walked out into the cornfield. I must have beaten the G-men by about two minutes. Then I hid out there until the shooting started.”

All she could see in her rearview mirror was the shape of his head. It was too dark to make out anything else.

“So you deserted your partners?” she noted.

“They’re the hired help, not my partners,” he quipped. “They’re paid well to take risks. When they signed up, they knew the score. Life expectancy is limited in our line of work. Okay, lady, we’re coming up to Ogden; make a left at the stop sign onto the U.S. highway.”

Meeker did as he instructed, pointing the Packard east. She followed the familiar pattern through the car’s three forward gears and again climbed to fifty. But this time she didn’t allow the car’s speed to level out. Little by little, at a pace she was sure her passenger wouldn’t notice, she pushed the car harder. Within a mile it was doing sixty. A half mile later she’d gained another ten. As the car hit seventy-five, she glanced into the rearview mirror. He was looking out the side glass, watching the landscape. Sensing she had him where she wanted him, she punched the gas pedal and watched the sudden burst of power push him back into the seat cushion.