A cloud of smoke rose from where the bulldozer had been and wafted toward the Gophers.
“What the hell was that?’ asked Mac.
Frank dragged himself up, coughing, and lowered a hand to help pull Mac to his feet.
“What happened?” asked Declan as he helped up Bob.
“T.K. came back from the dead to save his farm,” said Mac.
Certain his friends had survived the explosion, Frank jogged toward the bulldozer. The machine lay on its side next to a smoking black crater.
Frank stared at the black hole until he realized it marked the spot where the silver bomb once stood.
“It wasn’t a dud,” Frank called back to the others as they trudged toward him.
“That’s an understatement,” said Bob.
Tommy raised his phone and filmed as Andrew Hepper, thrown fifteen feet from the bulldozer, sat up, covered in dirt and tomato guts.
“I’m going to sue you all,” he sputtered.
“You ran a tractor over a bomb, idiot,” said Frank, pulling out his phone to call for an ambulance.
“You put the bomb there.”
“I didn’t. T.K. did. Good luck suing a dead man.”
Frank and the others continued past Hepper toward the downed plane, while the curious crowd followed a hundred feet behind. As they approached the crumpled aircraft, the hatch creaked open and a frail, shaking hand reached out.
“You all gonna shhtand there, or you gonna help me out of thish frickin’ plane?”
“Herbert!” Mac grabbed the hand and pulled his friend forward. “You okay?”
The old man clambered out of the crop duster, slapping at his torso and limbs as if he were checking to be sure they remained attached. “You shsee thoshse tomatoesh exshplode? Jussht like being in the war again.” He paused and felt his mouth. “Oh, I think I losshht my teeth, hold on.”
Herbert bent back into the plane and rummaged around the cockpit. After a moment he appeared again, grinning.
“That’s better,” he said, gnashing his dentures for all to see.
Mac clapped him on the back. “Where’d you get the tomatoes?”
“Out of T.K.’s storage house in town. Spent half the night fillin’ this old plane. Can’t you see how swollen my eyes are? Allergic.”
The crowd gathered around Herbert, each taking turns to shake his hand.
Bob leaned toward Frank and spoke in a low tone. “You think T.K. got a letter from Hepper and put that bomb out on purpose?”
Frank shook his head. “No telling this would happen. I don’t think so.” He looked away and tried to push down the smile curling up the sides of his mouth.
It was fun to think the bomb had been placed there on purpose.
As the crowd lifted Herbert to their shoulders and carried him toward T.K.’s house, the voice of a child who’d been told the story of The Great Tomato War hundreds of times echoed everyone’s only thought.
“The tomatoes really did explode!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Charlotte pulled to the curb and stared across the street at the home of the people who’d lost and gained a baby—just not the right baby. She couldn’t imagine their anguish. If someone took Abby from her and replaced her with a Bichon Frise, she’d lose her mind. Not that Bichons weren’t adorable. She wouldn’t be able to think about anything except what’s happening to Abby? Is she scared and confused?
She couldn’t imagine someone putting another person through such torment.
Charlotte felt light pressure on her thigh, as if a tiny forest sprite were strolling across her, and looked down to watch Harley clamber across her lap. The squirrel-sized dog tucked herself between the steering wheel and her bellybutton.
She had someone else’s baby too, but only on loan. Charlotte scooped up little, crazy-haired Harley, stepped outside and lowered the dog to the pavement to clip the tiny princess’ rhinestone-covered pink leash to her collar.
“You’re ridiculously small.”
Harley scolded her with a sharp yip and waddled off to sniff the grass. Charlotte hustled to keep up with her.
She felt as if she were walking a Teddy bear hamster. So much different than Abby. Abby had a neck like a linebacker. That dog could drag her to the end of the block before she could dig heels in deep enough to stop her. Charlotte lamented the lack of dog sleds in Florida—was she keeping Abby from her true calling? Maybe Abby was supposed to be the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer of sled dogs, the Wheaten leading a pack of Huskies.
If Harley was a fish on the end of a line, she’d never even know she had a bite.
“This way,” cajoled Charlotte, easing the pup in the right direction. She wanted to walk by the house of the unhappy parents once, loop around and pass again to see if she saw anything. Siofra could be parked on the block right now, casing the place, watching Charlotte walk her hamster.
She started down the street, Harley trotting along beside her, taking seven hundred steps for each of hers, stopping to sniff every few feet, just like a normal-sized dog. She found it bizarre the doll-like creature acted like a dog, though she didn’t know how she thought it would act.
Charlotte looked up at the sky, a little worried a hawk or osprey might plunge out of the sky and snatch Harley away. She also wasn’t sure what to do when the dog paused, other than let it pause. When Abby paused too long and refused to listen to reason, she pulled the leash until the dog relented. With Harley, she was afraid the tiniest tug might pop the miniature Yorkie’s head right off her tiny body.
The two of them made their stop-and-go way down the street, past the parked cars in which Charlotte hoped to spot someone Siofra-like. No one sat inside any of
