Killertrust (18 page)

Randolph loaded the last of
their bags and a cooler under the hinged lid on his pickup truck’s bed cover
next to two very small bags belonging to Billy Dan and Ricky. “Good grief,
we’re only going to be gone a couple of days. Did you pack for a week?” Rhetta
blessed him with a look. Randolph continued, “Look at Billy Dan and Ricky’s
bags. They could have put all their stuff into half of one of your suitcases.
Why do you need two?” She narrowed her eyes and hoped she looked suitably
irritated. Randolph seemed to have decided to push her buttons this morning.

“We have two, because there’s
one for each of us. They aren’t full,” Rhetta said, clenching her jaw. “I
figured we’d need our laptop and my iPad, too, so I packed them. Besides I
needed room for boots.”

“Uh-huh,” Randolph said. The
corners of his mouth were tugging upward into a smile. “Why do you need boots?”

“In case it snows.”

Randolph grinned. Rhetta knew
that grin. He was pulling her chain. The weather forecast called for mild but
overcast skies. She was sure he was thinking that it was too warm to snow, but
this time, he was apparently smart enough not to comment further.

Randolph climbed into the
back seat with Billy Dan while Rhetta joined Ricky up front. Everyone had their
coffee in travel mugs.

“This truck is awesome,”
Ricky said, after negotiating the truck and aluminum flatbed car hauler down
the lane to the road, stopping near the mailbox. “I barely know the trailer is
behind us.”

Randolph beamed like a proud
parent who just got told his child won the spelling bee. “It pulls really well.
At least it does when I pull the fully loaded art trailer. We’ll be able to
judge better on the trip home after the car is loaded.”

As they made the turn onto
the county road, Rhetta waved to Mrs. Koblyk. It was barely seven o’clock.

“Are we still stopping at
Mabel’s Cuisine in Sainte Genevieve for breakfast?” Billy Dan asked. Rhetta
thought she heard someone’s stomach growl. She did. Hers.

“This coffee will barely last
me to Sainte Gen, so absolutely,” she answered. “I snacked on a piece of poppy
seed bread, but that’s beginning to disappear, too.”

“My stomach is growling,”
Billy Dan said. “My stale donut is long gone. We got up at five.”

“If Mabel’s isn’t too packed
this morning, we should make Kansas City by this afternoon,” Randolph said,
laying out a Missouri map. “You know how packed the place can get.” The locals
loved the place, famous for “hubcaps,” or very large cinnamon rolls. Getting a
meal there during tourist season was almost out of the question without a very
long wait. Today’s breakfast would be a special treat. Rhetta groaned thinking
about how those hubcaps turned into spare tires around her middle.

“Can you park this rig in
that cramped downtown?” Randolph asked. Rhetta cringed and stole a glance at
her friend. Now it was Ricky’s turn to bless Randolph with a look.

Rhetta jumped in before the
sparks could fly. “So, do you think you can find the Cave Storage place on
Google maps?” she twisted around to ask Randolph.

“I’ll use your iPad. Should
be a good test for the Google map application.”

In her best “told you so”
tone Rhetta said, “See, I knew we’d need it. That’s why I made sure to pack it.
I’ll get it out when we stop.” Rhetta glanced out the side window as they
pulled on to the interstate just north of Cape Girardeau. She sat up as a dark
pickup truck merged into traffic behind them. She craned her neck to see past
the air dam, the large vertical spoiler in front of the aluminum trailer. The
air dam acted like a shield, designed to keep rocks and road gravel that spewed
from the truck tires from reaching whatever was on the trailer. It also blocked
her view of the side lanes. She couldn’t quite make out the make and model of
the truck. The truck pulled out into the passing lane and breezed past them.
Rhetta leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes
.
I’m
definitely being paranoid. I’m seeing bad guys in pickup trucks everywhere.
The once-suspicious truck gobbled up the miles as it
disappeared ahead of them.

By the time they reached Kansas City and Randolph guided
Ricky to the Cave’s address, it was 3:35 in the afternoon. The sign at the
entrance indicated the business was open until six. They had plenty of time to
get to the car and push it out, if they needed to, and load it. Ricky’s flatbed
trailer was equipped with a winch, which they would use if they needed help to
load.

They had stopped twice on the
way for fuel and bathroom breaks. They had all decided to skip lunch and eat at
the Holiday Home Restaurant adjacent to the Holiday Inn where they would spend
the night before leaving early in the morning. They had planned on parking the
trailer in front of their rooms, within earshot if anyone happened to mess
around with the trailer or the car. Ricky had brought along a car cover, too,
to conceal the car and quash any bystander curiosity. Old Camaros had a way of
attracting people, not all of them interested in only looking.

Ricky had handed over the
piloting to Randolph one time at a break, but took her turn again to navigate
up the winding county road to the Cave. Rhetta could tell that her friend was
high on excitement and couldn’t sit still. Driving made her focus and stay
calm.

The weather had been mild
when they left Southeast Missouri, but the temperature had dropped thirty
degrees by the time they got to Kansas City. The wind had also picked up. A
definite change was in the air. “Sure hope it doesn’t snow,” Billy Dan said, as
he stepped away from the truck to smoke. He pulled out a pack from his flannel
shirt pocket, and cupped his hands around the cigarette as he lighted it.
Rhetta caught a whiff of the newly lit cigarette and inhaled sharply. She
pivoted around to catch Randolph watching her. He walked over to her and put
his arms around her.

“I know it’s hard. But you’re
doing great,” he said. Rhetta felt ashamed, remembering the times she’d cheated
lately.
I’m
going to conquer this. I know I can
.
“Thanks, Sweets,” she said and
slipped over to the truck to retrieve her purse. She slung it onto her
shoulder. It weighed a little more than usual.

Inside, lying next to the
title tucked away in the bottom of her purse was her pearl-handled .38 Smith
& Wesson.

After Ricky deftly maneuvered the
truck and trailer into a nearby parking slot, everyone got out and jogged to
the entrance. The temperature had dropped even more and although they had
brought sweatshirts and lightweight jackets, in their rush to see the car,
everyone had left theirs in the truck.

Rhetta stopped so suddenly to
stare at the imposing cliffs that Ricky nearly slammed into her. Alongside the
bricked addition that jutted out from the hill were four oversized garage doors
built into the stone wall. Other than the twelve-foot-tall sign atop the hill
proclaiming, “Cave Storage. Over 200 units. Climate Controlled,” which was
clearly visible from the interstate below, an observer would never guess what
the hill contained.

Rhetta reached for her
husband’s hand. He gave hers a little squeeze, and then smiled. She took a deep
breath and then marched through the door to the office.

She stepped through the
doorway and back into time. The front part of the office couldn’t have been
more than twelve by twelve, but behind the counter was the opening into the
cave, with a concave ceiling soaring at least twenty feet upward. Three of the
walls were lined with filing cabinets of black, grey, green, tan or whatever
color may have been on sale at the time of purchase—soldiers of time, guarding
information and secrets of the storage units within.

Rows of Rolodexes and a
manual cash register sat atop the front service counter. Next to the cash
register, a sheaf of papers was impaled on a lethal-looking chrome pick
sticker. Perpendicular to the end of the counter was a walnut wood desk and
wooden swivel chair. The chair creaked as a white-haired gentleman began to
stand as soon as they entered, finishing the effort by the time they all stood
in front of the counter.

“Yes? Can I help you?” he
asked as he stroked his Santa beard. His matching thick hair glimmered silvery
gold under the glow of three incandescent bulbs overhead. Rhetta recognized his
gravelly voice.

“I called you about picking
up a car. My name is Rhetta McCarter.”

The old man reached for the
stack of kebobbed papers on the giant chrome needle, pulled off a handful, took
one out, then replaced the rest.

“I have you right here. I
suppose you have some identification for me?” His clear blue eyes peered at her
over his wire framed reading glasses.

“Yes, of course.” Rhetta
reached into her purse and after only a minute of digging, located her wallet.
She fished through it for her driver license, and pulled it out. She handed it
to him. He reached into a drawer and withdrew a manila filing card crisscrossed
with lines and boxes containing numbers and dates.

He painstakingly wrote down
all the information, adding it to a Rolodex card that was paper-clipped to the
filing card.

“Why don’t you just make a
copy of my license?” she asked. Randolph, Ricky and Billy Dan all turned to
stare at her. “Oh, right. Never mind.”

The proprietor smiled. “Never
found the need to get one of those copy machine things.” He pulled a check off
the bottom side of the file card, and handed it to her. “Thirty-three hundred
dollars. I don’t split up a month. The unit is paid until the end of the month,
so you picking up early doesn’t warrant a refund. This here’s a refund for the
rest of the months that were paid ahead, like I told you on the phone.”

Just as he said, “phone,” a
bell that could both wake the dead and bring the fire department rang out. The
old man’s gnarled fingers punched a button on the black desk phone. The
instrument was probably fifty years old, earning its place in the office as the
newest appliance from the twentieth century.

As he chatted, Rhetta glanced
around, wondering where the restroom was located. She decided she found the
doorway to it, against the east wall in a gap between the filing cabinets. She
remembered seeing similar old wood doors with frosted glass on the bathroom
doors at the Scott County, Missouri Courthouse.

The old man finished his
call, hung up, then continued providing her with items that went with the car.
He handed her a brass key with the number 147 stamped on it along with a small
wooden box the size of a matchbox.

“The unit you want is one
forty-seven. Go through the next room, and into the big room, and veer left.
It’s against the back wall.”

Ricky leaned over Rhetta’s
shoulder and peered at the little box. Rhetta couldn’t stop trembling as she
opened it. Inside were two sets of keys attached to a small fob that said,
“Caldwell, 1967 Camaro.”

Was there truly a car here
that was a part of her father’s life? A life that didn’t include her.

She trembled at the thought.
She needed to find a restroom.

Rhetta lurched through the doors
and out of the restroom. The cool air of the storage unit greeted her, helping
her overcome the mixed feelings that were a cross between anger and anxiety.
The bathroom wasn’t the one in the manager’s office. When she asked about a
restroom, the manager directed her through the doorway that led to the main
storage area. She didn’t have time to take in the gaping vast interior rock
walls of the hill. She pushed through the glass windowed door similar to the
door to the bathroom in the manager’s office and headed right to the sink. She
splashed cold water on her face and gulped in several deep breaths. The nausea
passed. She dried her face with gritty paper towels that probably survived from
the Korean War era, then joined her husband and Ricky and Billy Dan who stood outside
the door.

“Are you okay?” Randolph
asked. He slid his hand into hers.

“I’m fine. Just felt dizzy
for a minute there.” She opened her other palm and gazed at the locker number
on the fob. “It should be down this way,” she said, grasping Randolph’s hand
and leading the way down a long corridor between rows of giant cages.

The cages were the storage
units themselves. The entire interior of the hill was hollow. In this room with
elevated rock ceilings, wire cages framed with wood lined the walls and interior,
with separations between them that made rows. Those were the corridors. Each
cage had a door equipped with padlocks and chains. At the back of the giant
cage area, they stepped through another doorway into an even larger hollow room
with walled in cubicles. These larger units afforded total privacy as the boxes
and stored items couldn’t be seen from the outside. She found unit one
forty-seven.

All four of them stopped in
front of the door. Rhetta handed the key to Randolph. “Would you open it,
Sweets?” He nodded solemnly, and walked to the padlock, inserted the key and
turned. To Rhetta, the soft “click” sounded as loud as a cymbal in a marching
band. She winced.

She turned to Ricky, whose
hand was entwined with Billy Dan’s. Both Billy Dan and Ricky nodded to her.
Everyone was solemn, as though participating in a religious ceremony. Randolph
pulled open the door and stepped back. Rhetta hadn’t realized that as soon as
Randolph opened the door, she squeezed her eyes shut. When she heard a muffled
yelp from Ricky, her eyes flew open.

There sat the most beautiful
deep red 1967 Camaro coupe that Rhetta had ever seen.

“Bolero,” Ricky said.

“What?” Rhetta asked.

“Bolero red. That’s the
color. The only year for this particular red.” Ricky touched a front fender
reverently. She walked around the car, which glimmered from the overhead
fluorescent lighting. “This is amazing,” she muttered. “This cave storage unit
is like having it stored inside your house.” She dropped down and wiggled under
the car. She scooted back out, stood, and brushed off her coveralls. “This car
doesn’t look like it’s ever been driven,” she exclaimed. “What’s the mileage?”

Rhetta opened the driver’s
door, and sat gingerly. The seat was pushed all the way back. Her feet didn’t
reach the pedals. She grasped the shifter and rubbed her palm over the shiny
ball handle.

She peered at the odometer,
and blinked. She couldn’t read the numbers. They all looked like zeros to her.
She reached into her purse and located her reading glasses in an internal
pocket. She put them on and tried again. The odometer numbers were indeed all
zeros except the last three, which read 7-8-1
.
Holy Cow. Seven hundred and
eighty-one miles? Or was it one hundred thousand seven hundred eighty-one
miles?
She read the numbers off to
Ricky. Around the other side, Billy Dan had also crawled underneath. He
shimmied out and joined Ricky at the front of the car.

“Even though the tires look
good, they’ll have to be replaced. They dry rot with time, and might blow out
under any stress, like road driving,” Billy Dan said.

Ricky dusted herself off and
came to stand at the driver’s open door. “Let me take a look at the VIN. Do you
have the title with you? We can match it to the VIN tag on the door frame.”
While Rhetta reached inside her purse for the title, Ricky squatted down and
began jotting down the numbers from a metal tag that was attached to the body
between the door hinges.

“The tag’s still attached
with rosette-style rivets. That means it’s never been removed,” she remarked.
Rhetta nodded as though she understood.

Ricky stood and read the
numbers off to Rhetta. After reading the numbers, Ricky unfolded a couple of
sheets of paper and perused them, mumbling, “Oh. Oh, no. This can’t be right.
Holy smokes! According to this,” she tapped her paper, “it’s one of the very
first production cars ever built. I went online and did some research.” She
raced to the front of the car, reached through the grille, pulled the hood
release and quickly popped open the hood. She and Billy Dan disappeared under
it.

Billy Dan peered around the
hood. “Rhetta, this engine compartment is so clean. Everything still looks new.
I bet the odometer is accurate.” Billy Dan said, and disappeared back under it.
Ricky agreed.

Rhetta heard Ricky add
information. “Looks like the only thing here to worry about are the belts and
probably the battery, if they’re the originals.”

Ricky stuck her head out and
shouted at Rhetta. “I’ve just verified the numbers on the plate to the partial numbers
on the firewall. This car was one of the very first Camaros ever built. It’s a
1967, with a 302. In fact, not only is it one of the first ever off the line,
there were fewer than six hundred of these Camaros built. Be still my racing
heart!” She disappeared back under the hood.

Rhetta heard her friend, but
couldn’t grasp all the technical jargon right away. From the sounds Ricky was
making, this car was a unique model. Of that she was sure. She gazed around the
spotless, white interior. She caressed the dash and then the passenger seat.
She twisted around to look into the back seat area. The seat itself looked as
though no one had ever sat in it. The car was immaculate.

She reached over and tugged
the glove box open. A neat package of window pricing stickers along with the
owner’s manual held together with a thick rubber band sat wedged in the glove
compartment atop a white mailing envelope that was tied together with brown
cords, like shoelaces, similarly wrapped like the package Frank had given
Rhetta. As she picked up the package containing the owner’s manual, the rubber
band broke. She set everything down on the passenger seat and reached for the
mailing envelope, which had started out white, and had, with time, discolored
to a pale beige.

She removed the thick
envelope and opened the flap. Then she gasped, stuffing her fist in her mouth

There was so much cash
stuffed into the envelope that she couldn’t begin to pull any out.