Oklahoma City wasn’t very
far from Norman—far enough, though, that walking or even biking weren’t good
enough to get you there. The Andersons
needed a car, and unfortunately for them, their parents weren’t around. Mr. Anderson was in Oklahoma City (where he
served on the police force), and Mrs. Anderson had gone to the mall to do some
shopping. Ashley’s parents were
similarly occupied, and with Stephanie missing, none of the parties present had
a driver’s license.
Fortunately, the
Andersons had a good friend who did: Zach Green. Four years older than Frank, Zach had met the
Andersons in Gainesville, Texas, when the family had travelled down there to
see a car show. Not long afterwards, his
car had been stolen, and the Andersons had helped him get it back.[1] Since then, they always had a ride when they
needed one—a pretty nice ride, at that!
“What car are we supposed
to be looking for again?” Ashley asked, staring out the window.
“A 1957 Chevrolet Bel
Air,” Frank said. “Classic red and white
paint scheme, spotless chrome—”
“If you see a red ‘50’s
car that looks like it could be in a show, that’ll be him,” Nancy explained to
her friend.
Ashley whistled. “That’s a pretty nice ride!”
“That’s why it got
stolen,” Nancy said. “Crooks aren’t
interested in clunkers.”
“Actually, they often
are,” replied Frank. “A lot of stolen
cars are broken up and sold as parts. It
makes them very difficult to trace—impossible to spot. The most commonplace car can be a prime
target, because you can use the parts in so many vehicles. In Zach’s case, though, the thieves were
after something a little more catchy.”
It took the Andersons’
friend less than ten minutes to get to Ashley’s house, where he was happy to
give the kids a ride. Had his car been
forty years newer or so, Ashley and the four Andersons never would have fit in
it with him. Since it was from the
fifties, though, the front seat ran all the way across the cab, enabling three
(including the driver) to sit up front.
Six was crowded, but it was acceptable, and the group was soon headed
towards the Interstate.
“Where do I go?” Zach
asked. “I hope someone knows how to get
there.”
“Just take 35 to 235,
then get off at Exit 1E,” Frank told his friend. “I can take you the rest of the way from
there—blindfolded.”
“Blindfolded?” Ashley
laughed. “I doubt that—”
“You’d be surprised,”
Nancy said. “Frank and Louis have been
to that store a lot.”
“It’s not the one we
usually go to—just ‘cause it’s further away,” Frank observed, “but we’ve been
there a lot, and we’ve met the owner at shows before as well. He’s a great guy—can tell you anything about
the Texas Rangers.”
“Anything?” said
Ashley. “Like, who was their backup
catcher was the first time they went to the playoffs?”
“Dave Valle,” Frank said,
“but yes, he’d know that.”
Ashley was stunned. “Are you making that up?”
“Frank’s a baseball
expert,” Nancy remarked. “He knows those
things.”
“So does she,” Frank said,
modestly. “If you ever want to know the
name of a minor league baseball stadium, just ask Nancy.”
“They were just talking
about the Rangers on the way over here,” Zach said, switching on the
radio. “I’m glad 1340’s an AM station,
because this radio was built before FM was a thing.”
“Oh, cool!” Ashley sat up in the backseat and stared at
the radio dial. “I can’t wait to hear
it.”
“Oh, noooooo!” screamed a
voice that was practically higher than Susan’s.
The Andersons let out a collective groan, even as Ashley glanced around.
“What—” she started to
say, but the radio soon answered the question.
“Hello, everyone! This is Bob from Bob’s Auto Sales, and I have
toooooooo many cars! I’m overswamped with inventory, which means,
I have to cut my prices! That means—”
“That means we have to
hear you run your mouth off again and wonder just what happened to your voice,”
Frank muttered, prompting a laugh from Ashley.
“It sounds like he took
helium before he made the commercial!” she chortled. “Is that what his voice sounds like in real
life?”
“I don’t know,” Frank
said, “but it’s exactly what you hear in all the commercials—and there are a
lot of them.”
“Mom turns the radio off
every time they come on,” Nancy said. “I
don’t blame her.”
“He must do well,” Zach
commented, “to be able to afford all his advertisements.”
“Maybe so,” said Frank,
“but that voice—that horrible, squeaky-sounding voice—it’s enough to drive
somebody mad! Can you imagine being
locked in a room by yourself, having to listen to that whine for hours on end—”
“Ugh, don’t ask me that,”
Nancy said. “It’s too horrible to
imagine.”
“I guess they’d annoy me
if I heard them all the time, too,” Ashley said. “We listen to a lot of stations online,
though. It’s kind of a hobby. I like finding music stations in obscure
parts of the country and listening to them.”
“Like where?” Frank
asked.
“Oh, any state that
doesn’t get mentioned much. I’ve
listened to Delaware stations, Rhode Island networks, New Hampshire, Wyoming,
Idaho...”
Traffic was never bad
driving from Norman to Oklahoma City, and in just a half hour, Zach was heading
down the block the store was on. It was
right in the middle of the downtown, on the first floor of a multi-story office
building (not one of the skyscrapers, but still a good size). A parallel space was available out front, but
Zach stopped next to it, making no attempt to go in.
“I’m pretty sure you have
to pay for parking here,” he said. “Tell
you what. Why don’t I drop you off, and
then I’ll go around the block a few times.
When you’re ready, just wait out front, and I’ll come pick you up. Sounds good?”
“Great idea, Zach,” Frank
said. “I don’t think this will take very
long. Louis and I didn’t come here to
shop—”
“You’ll probably buy
something anyway, though,” Nancy said.
“I know you!”
Laughing, Ashley shoved
the backdoor open, even as Frank pushed open the one in front. The five kids got out, then waved goodbye to
Zach, whose 1957 Chevy sped gently up the block. Frank watched it go, a dreamy expression on
his face.
“I’d love to own a car
like that, someday,” he said.
“I wouldn’t,” said
Ashley.
“Why not?” Frank asked.
Ashley just smiled. “No need to wait for someday—have you ever
seen the inside of our garage?” she asked.
“No? Well—oh, come on, let’s find
out what the letter was about.” And with
that, they wandered into the store.
It was a pretty
good-sized location, about as large as a regular-sized store at a mall, though
thankfully not full of clothes. Oh,
no. There were—well, there were a few
clothes in the building, but mostly jerseys—Texas Ranger jerseys, Dallas Cowboy
jerseys, Oklahoma City Thunder jerseys, and a few others from local
colleges. Most of the area, though, was
filled with boxes. Rowed boxes, packed
end to end with cards, all sorted in different ways. Here by the door, there was a box of Major League
Baseball superstar cards—Trout, Bryant, Stanton, and other great current
players could be found here. Over there
was a box with NFL quarterbacks—Rodgers and Brady were locked in a display
case, but Joe Flacco, Eli Manning, Drew Brees—even no-names like Blaine Gabbert
and Robert Griffin, III—these could be found in here. Along one wall, the hockey boxes. Along another wall, the basketball
boxes. At the edge of an aisle, Topps
baseball cards from the 1970s.
It was a little
haphazard, but the owner, Johnny Nichols, could tell you exactly where
everything was. Like a lot of baseball
fans, he had an incredible memory. This
extended from his inventory to the game itself, to faces, and to whatever other
facts he happened to stumble across. He
could easily be recognized by his athletic 6’4” frame, his booming voice, and
his echoing laugh which echoed around the walls of his shop frequently—but not
too often.
“Hi, Frank!” he called,
upon seeing one of his favorite customers.
“Who was the only player to be the last batter in the World Series
twice?”
Ah, a formidable
question. It was hard enough to get to
the World Series once, let alone twice.
The answer obviously was someone who’d been a lot, presumably a New York
Yankee—but Frank didn’t have to guess.
“Edgar Renteria,” he
said. “1997 when he had the game-winning
hit for the Florida Marlins, and 2004 when he made the last out for the St.
Louis Cardinals.”
That booming laugh filled
the room. “Right again—that’s your sixth
time in a row. Here,” and he pulled a
box of the latest Topps set out from behind the counter. “Pick any pack you’d like.”
“Aw, thanks, Mr.
Nichols,” Frank said.
“See, I told you he’d buy
something,” Nancy said.
“I’m not buying it; it’s
a gift,” Frank said.
Mr. Nichols grinned at
Ashley, who he’d never seen before.
“Want your chance at a Scoreboard Stumper?” he said.
“Maybe later,” Ashley
said. “Actually, we came in here today to
ask you a question”
“Me?” said Nichols. “Ah, it takes a pretty tough one to knock me
off the plate—unless it’s a hockey one.
I’m not too good at hockey ones—except for records. Then, I just say Wayne Gretzky, and I’m
usually right.”
“He holds every record,”
laughed Frank. “This isn’t a sports one,
but you’ll get it. Did someone come in
here and leave something for a friend of Brittany McPherson’s?”
The grin faded on
Nichols’ face. “Brittany McPherson?” he
said. “You know her?”
“Not personally,” said
Ashley, “but my sister, Stephanie Dale, is pen pals with her—”
“Go ahead, show him the
letter,” Frank instructed. Nodding,
Ashley pulled the paper out of her pocket and handed it to the card store
owner. He read it quickly, brow
furrowing as he looked.
“Doggone it, there was
something up with that girl. Do you know
if she’s alright?”
Ashley shook her
head. “Like I said, we’ve never met her,
but my sister disappeared last night—”
“Disappeared? Then this must be serious!” Nichols bent down and again reached under the
counter. This time, he pulled out not a
box, but a padded bubble mailer envelope, which he slid across to Ashley.
“She came running in here
two days ago. It was raining, and I
remember she looked like she was going to fall when she came through the
door. She swung it shut behind her, then
glanced out the window, like she was worried about someone following her.
“Then, she hustled up to
my counter. ‘Please, mister,’ she
said. ‘Could you take care of this
envelope for me?’
“‘What’s in it?’ I asked.
“She shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you that, and I’ll probably be
back to pick them up. If someone comes
in and tells you they’re a friend of Brittany McPherson, though, please give it
to them.’
“‘Are you in trouble?’ I
asked her. She glanced at the window,
then shook her head.
“‘Not now, and I won’t be
if you’ll watch this package. If I can’t
trust you with it, though, I don’t know who else I can give it to. Promise me you’ll watch it—and don’t worry,
it’s nothing illegal.’
“There was something
sincere about that last part, so I told her I’d do as she asked. Her shoulders fell as if she’d relaxed, she
promptly left the store, and that was the last I saw of her. Nothing happened the next couple of days, and
I told myself it must just be some sort of game. If only I realized something had been going
on—oh, I feel terrible about not saying anything.”
“So far as we know,
nothing’s happened to her,” Frank reassured the owner. He’d noticed an interesting detail about Mr.
Nelson’s story which he wanted to ask about.
“Did she actually tell you she was Brittany McPherson? You just said she was leaving it for a friend
of Brittany’s.”
“Yes, you’re right. Come to think of it, I don’t think she ever
actually said she was…”
“What’d she look like,
then?” Frank pulled out his notebook and prepared to write down a description.
“Well, she looked to be
about seventeen. Shoulder-length brown
hair, freckled face…”
Frank wrote furiously as
he heard the description. He was paying
a lot of attention—much more than Nancy.
She’d been browsing through the display cases, and one of the items had
caught her eye.
It was a card with a
picture of a Chicago Cubs hitter batting right-handed. The lower-left corner of
the card featured a circular head shot of the player, and a rectangular blue
border ran around the batting picture, curving up in a semicircle to get over
the head shot. The bottom of the head
shot border was purple, and it thickened out at the bottom of the card to
contain four white letters: CUBS. In
blue above was the name of the player.
“Ryne Sandberg’s rookie
card!” Nancy exclaimed. “Dad’s favorite
player growing up!”
It was indeed. All Cubs fans had rooted for the tremendous
second baseman, whose hitting had been some of the best by any player at the
position. This 1983 Topps card was the
first one that had ever been made of him, which made it more expensive than his
average card. Mr. Anderson didn’t own
it, and Nancy realized it would make a great gift for her father. Pulling back from the case, she wandered over
to where Frank and Ashley were talking to the owner.
She hadn’t noticed a man
behind her rummaging through boxes of cards.
His eyes weren’t on the cards, though—he kept sneaking glances at the
kids in the store. She didn’t see any of
that, nor did she care when he wandered out the door. After all, she’d never seen him before, so she
had no reason to—
“Let’s see what’s
inside,” Frank said, pulling over the envelope.
As he did so, he noticed that the tape wasn’t on very strongly, as if it
had been hastily applied. Even so, some
of the plastic on the mailer tore away as he opened the lid. Reaching in, his hands closed around a cold,
metal object.
“Felt like an oversized
printing plate to me,” Mr. Nichols said.
“The kind that might have been used on those Turkey Red cards from the
1800s.”
“It’s a plate alright,”
said Frank, pulling it out, “but not a card plate. A license plate!”
The other stared
curiously at it. There was nothing
particularly unusual about this plate, considering the area they were in. It was the old standard Oklahoma plate—Oklahoma
was written at the top in red letters, a picture of an Indian took up the left
seventh of the plate, and Native America was written along the bottom.
“212 HRS,” Frank
read. “Ever heard that number before?”
Ashley shook her
head. “You think it’s Brittany’s plate?”
“No idea,” Frank told
her, “but it could be.” He looked up at
Mr. Nichols. “You’ve got a good
memory—ever seen that girl before?”
“Pretty sure I haven’t,”
Nichols said, “but I don’t work every day of the week. She might’ve been here before on one of my
off days.”
“I don’t know,” said
Frank. “If it’s Brittany, she’d be from
Blackwell—”
“That town up by Ponca
City?” Nichols said. “I was there
once—went to go see the baseball stadium.
A team called the Blackwell Maroons played there in the 1950s—they were
part of the—”
“Kansas, Oklahoma, and
Missouri League, or the K-O-M for short,” Nancy finished.
Mr. Nichols stared at
her, then reached under the counter and pulled out the box of packs. “Your turn, Miss Anderson,” he said, holding
it out. “Not many people can get the
name of the Class D Leagues.”
“Not many leagues had
Oklahoma in the name,” Nancy said, taking her pack. “Know anyone in Blackwell?”
“I don’t think so,” said
Mr. Nichols, “though that name does have a familiar ring to it—you know, I
think a family from there came in my shop once.
Husband and wife, and their daughter—it wasn’t this girl, though. The one I saw was too young. I can’t remember their names.”
“Probably not important,”
said Frank. “Well, thanks for holding
onto the envelope. We’ll show this to
the police, and if it’s anything significant, then we’ll have them get in touch
with you.”
“Sounds good,” said
Nichols. “I hope they find your sister
soon,” he told Ashley, handing her the plate.
“If anyone in my family disappeared, I’d be angry about that.”
Ashley nodded. “Thanks,” she said.
Before they left, of
course, Nancy payed for the Sandberg card and put it in her bag. She, Frank, and Ashley walked over to the
window, where they found Louis and Susan making up stories about the cars going
by on the street. “Alright, come along,
you two,” Frank told them. “Zach will be
back any minute.”
“Just was,” Louis said,
as they walked outside. “He literally
drove by a second before you got to the door.”
“Oh. Well, we’ll have to wait then,” Frank
said. “Ah, well. Shouldn’t be too long.”
“Weather’s nice,” said
Nancy, looking up at the sky. “Not a
cloud anywhere to block out the sun—”
The shadow that fell
across her face wasn’t from condensing water droplets. It was that of a man, and as she looked up,
Nancy saw it was the guy who’d been behind her in the store. He wasn’t alone, either. Another man was with him, and there was
something about the two that looked tough—other than the guns in their hands.
“That alley,” the first one
said. “Now, or we shoot. All of you.”
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