Killerfind (28 page)

Barn
: noun, a large outbuilding on a
farm used to store grain or shelter livestock

Find
: noun, a discovery

Barnfind
: noun,
“In the auto realm, it
is the near mythical, all original, parked-for   decades and all but forgotten,
much prized and potentially very valuable, collector car.” Malcom Griffith

KILLERFIND
: noun, a barnfind turned deadly

s Ricky
topped a
hill, the
serene blue of Whispering Pines Lake sprawled over several acres in the valley
below them. Ricky slowed at a gravel drive. Two square columns, built from
cemented creek rocks much like the boulders they’d just driven over, stood like
sentries, one on each side of the entrance. A wrought iron arch connected
across the top of the two pillars. The name
Griffith
was welded into the
crown of the arch, although the “h” in the sign had come loose from the welds
and listed to the right. Definitely a rustic effect. The driveway looked in
better shape than the gravel road they’d just traveled. Ricky had pointed out
they had come in the back way. The road going away from the cabin was in much
better shape. At least, the boulders were smaller.

Ricky turned and drove through the gateway and down
the hill. As the driveway curled around a century old oak, a log cabin
appeared. Ricky pulled up in front. There was no sign of Billy Dan or Randolph.
The yard needed tending. What was left of a lawn was overgrown with dandelions
and crabgrass at least a foot high. A wild climbing rose vine battled with
morning glory and blackberry brambles for space on a tattered trellis leaning
against the front of the cabin porch. A piece of plywood nailed over the glass
in the front door displayed a “No Trespassing” sign. The oversize hasp and
padlock would’ve stood little chance against a couple of hammer blows.

Ricky pulled a Baggie out of her purse and slid out
of the truck.

“Come on. Let’s do this before the guys get here.”
She began loping around back toward a metal shed that stood about thirty feet
directly behind the cabin, hidden from the drive. Rhetta scrambled after her.
Luckily she’d worn jeans and tennis shoes.

“Do you always keep empty Baggies in your purse?”
Rhetta asked as she caught up with Ricky.

“What?” Ricky glanced at the Baggie. “Of course.”

“Why?” By now they’d reached the side of the garage,
and Ricky was evaluating the window.

“In case I have the dogs with me, and I have to walk
them in town. You know, to pick up doggie stuff.”

“Oh. Right.” Cat owners never worried about outdoor
droppings. Mainly because cats like to hide their messes.

Ricky had already hoisted herself up to the sill and
was kneeling sideways on its narrow ledge, tugging at the window, trying to
raise it. “I bet this crummy window hasn’t been opened in years.” The window
held fast. She grunted and pushed up as hard as she could on the double hung
window. Painting over the trim had probably sealed the window forever. It
remained stubbornly unyielding.

Rhetta said, “Move over, I’ll climb up there too and
maybe we can open it together.” Ricky reached down and clasped one of Rhetta’s
hands and pulled while Rhetta boosted herself up next to Ricky. The two of them
squeezed together on the sill and tried pushing up on the window frame. It
still didn’t budge.

“I’m not sure how we’re going to get this window
open, short of breaking it.” Rhetta said, her forehead sweating and her hands
filthy from the window dirt. She wiped her hands across her thigh to remove the
dirt. Then she wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“I guess that’s why the term is called breaking and
entering. Ya gotta break it before you can enter.” Ricky giggled.

“We better not do that. Randolph will have a stroke.
Let’s get down and try the door. With any luck, it’s unlocked.” Rhetta began
peering over her shoulder to see where she could drop without landing on the
rocky gravel below.

“It’s not. Billy Dan and I tried it the other day.”

Before Rhetta could drop safely to the ground, a
gunshot exploded, shattering the window, sending glass and wood shards in every
direction. Ricky pitched forward and, with a loud thud, toppled through the
window to the inside of the building. Rhetta screamed and fell backward to the
gravel below.

efore
the echoing reverberation
of the first shot had died away, another shot rang out. Rhetta had the wind
knocked out of her when she landed on her back, but the bullet whizzing past
her head and slamming into the side of the garage fueled her adrenalin. She
rolled over and scrabbled for cover.

Not daring to stand and run, besides being unable
to, she scuttled on her hands and knees around to the edge of the garage. She
propped her back against the building, gasping for air. Her heart slammed
against her ribs and she felt like her lungs had seized. She panted, desperate
to replenish her lungs and kick start them. Fear made it harder for her to gasp
for air. Blackness accompanied by dancing points of light edged inward from her
peripheral vision. She was on the verge of passing out. Her head spun and she
slumped sideways, yielding to the nothingness. Then her lungs began working,
the reflexive breathing pushing oxygen to her starved brain. The darkness
around her eyes gave way to light again. She could breathe!

“Ricky,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?” No
answer.

Rhetta gulped a few more breaths and crawled around
to the side of the shed opposite from where they had perched on the sill. No
doors. She flopped over and continued until she came to the end of the garage
where there was a single rollup door held in place by a locked padlock. She edged
away from the garage and crouched behind a dense wild olive bush. There were no
more shots. Instead, she heard the distinct crunch of gravel from footsteps as
someone slowly walked around the building. She flattened herself to the ground
and prayed that her raspy breathing wasn’t so loud as to alert the intruder to
her position. She dared a peek upward through the brush, but could only see a slim
form in jeans and wearing boots, a black T-shirt and matching ball cap.
Although his back was to her, she clearly saw the handgun he clutched, muzzle
up, like they do in cop shows. When he reached the window, he was too short to
see into the shed. After a couple of attempts to jump up and peer in, he gave
up and moved on away. Rhetta failed to get a glimpse of his face.

He walked toward the cabin, his back to her the
whole time. She lost sight of him as he rounded to the front of the cabin. A
motor turned over followed by the crunch of gravel and squealing tires. Then,
quiet.

With her breathing coming more regularly, Rhetta
dared to stand. Her heart was still jackhammering in her chest, but she managed
to sprint to the garage window and shout to Ricky. “Are you okay? Ricky, please
answer me.”

A muffled sound answered her from somewhere inside.

Rhetta shouted, “He’s gone, Ricky. Are you hurt?”

Ricky answered a little louder this time. “I think I
broke my arm.”

“Hang on, I’ll try to break the padlock and get you
out.”

“Go to the toolbox in the back of my truck. I have a
big pair of cutters in there.”

“I’m on my way. Don’t go anywhere,” and bolted for
the bolt cutters.

She scrambled into the bed of the pickup and popped
open the lid of the unlocked toolbox. She quickly spotted a pair of bolt
cutters suitable for busting bolts on an elephant’s leash. She picked them up
and lugged them to the end of the truck, rolled over and let herself down and dragged
them back to the padlocked door. It took all her strength to spread the cutter
arms apart. Still weak and gasping for breath, she dropped the cutters. She
made a second attempt, and this time, took a deep breath and pressed the two
handles together. The padlock snapped and fell to the ground. Rhetta dropped
the cutters, and pushed as hard as she could until the door finally managed to
slide about two feet open. She squeezed through and into the dark interior.

Ricky was standing near a dusty seventies-model
pickup truck. She supported one arm with her opposite hand, and called Rhetta
over. “Come over here, and pull this Baggie out of my pocket.” She twisted
sideways to present her right pocket.

Rhetta removed the Baggie. “Are you okay?”

Ricky limped over to the front of the truck. “Like I
said, I think I may have broken my arm when I fell.” She hopped a few more
steps. “I think I twisted my ankle, too.” She stopped at the front end of the
truck, which had been backed into the garage. Rhetta saw now how Ricky had been
able to see the front of the truck from the window.

 “Look right there,” Ricky said, pointing to two
unmistakable dents and paint scrapings. “See if you can gather those paint
scrapings into the Baggie.” Rhetta bent to examine the scrapings. Sure enough,
they were definitely white, or off-white. They couldn’t have been from the
truck, which was the same shade of green as goose poo. The top of the old truck
was covered in bird droppings and bits of nest material and feathers.
Evidently, the starlings had no trouble finding a way in to the locked garage.

Using her fingernails, Rhetta scraped the bits of
paint into the plastic bag and carefully folded the top. She turned to Ricky.
“Can you walk enough to get out of here?” She stuffed the Baggie into her jeans
pocket. “Here, lean on me.” She slipped an arm around Ricky’s waist.

Ricky accepted the help, then limped toward the
door, shinnying through the small opening. Rhetta followed. Where they emerged
they were met by a glowering Randolph, arms folded, looking like he was about
to explode.