Page 27 of After 5

“I believe that’s a fair price,” Mr. Raney stroked his beard.

Caiyan pulled a wad of money from his pants pocket, peeled off the bills, and handed them to Mr. Raney. I was curious to know who he stole the money from. There was no way he could transport that amount between his cheek and gum. Of course, there were other ways one could use to bring small present-day items to the past, but not any I would participate in.

The roar of a car engine sounded in the distance, and I turned in time to catch a four-door sedan turning into the long driveway. I pulled Ace quickly back into our hidey hole.

Footsteps moved above us, and I caught the tip of a finger as it pulled the curtain aside to view the driveway.

“I trust you will do as you say, young man,” Mr. Raney said.

“You have my word.” Caiyan promised he’d return in a day with his tape recorder, batteries installed, to make a full recording of the rebel yell.

I heard movement above me like young Caiyan was gathering up his tape recorder. He thanked the men and made a hasty good-bye. The screen door slammed as he left out the back.

From my viewpoint between the Photinia bushes, the Cadillac came to a full stop in the driveway with Mortas behind the wheel.

“Uh oh,” Ace said. “The bad guy’s here.”

We hunkered down to avoid our arch enemy’s evil gaze.

I couldn’t see Caiyan’s car parked behind the house at the end of the drive, but I assumed, based on his speedy exit, he knew a brigand was arriving. I prayed they didn’t have a meet cute. If something happened to the young Caiyan, our meet cute would never take place.

I let out the breath I was holding when Mortas cut the engine, exited the car, and took the steps up to the front porch.

His dark hair was slicked back and tucked under a cowboy hat. The corners of his eyes showed a few lines probably caused from his constant evil glares. He rapped on the door. This was the Mortas I knew and despised. The Mafuso from my time.

George opened the screen door and stood in the doorway.

“It’s been a spell since we had this many out-of-town visitors,” George said after Mortas introduced himself as a collector from New York City.

Mr. Raney shuffled to the doorway. “Who’s this feller?”

“He’s from New York, says he’s a collector.”

“Ain’t never been to New York,” Mr. Raney said.

George didn’t invite Mortas into the house. Both men stepped out onto the porch, inches away from our hiding place.

“Can’t say I ever have the notion to go up thataways,” Mr. Raney gave Mortas the once over.

“It’s quite spectacular,” Mortas said.

“Not sure if I can do the rebel yell for ya, havin’ been I just did it,” he said.

“The rebel yell?” Mortas questioned.

“Why yes, Papa’s the last man alive can do the yell. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Uhm, no.” Mortas seemed confused, “I’d like to know if you have any Civil War relics?”

The sound of a car’s motor engaging rumbled at the side of the house.

Mr. Raney shook his head. “Sorry son, just sold the only souvenir I had from them awful days. Proud to have served alongside my friends, but the reminder of the ones who died, I reckon, would be better displayed in a museum.”

“You sold it? To who?” Mortas asked.

“A reporter from Dallas. He’s going to give it to a museum and put my name underneath as the donator.” The old man puffed his chest out. “Mighty proud to be donating to a museum.”

As Mr. Raney finished his sentence, Caiyan zoomed past in his Buick, window down, flipping Mortas the bird, and crowing out his version of the rebel yell. The anonymous donator from the information in the yellowed newspaper clipping wasn’t being very anonymous.

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