ArcheBooks Publishing
Robert E. Gelinas—DEAD MAN’S RUN
DEAD MAN’S RUN
By
Robert E. Gelinas
Copyright  1999 by Robert E. Gelinas.
First eBook edition © 1999 published by Virtuabooks Publishing.
Revised eBook edition © 2003 published by ArcheBooks Publishing.
ISBN: 1-59507-000-1
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All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information about this book,
please contact ArcheBooks at [email protected].
This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, places,
and incidents depicted herein are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Robert E. Gelinas—DEAD MAN’S RUN
DEDICATION
To my dad, Robert E. Gelinas, Sr.—19351998, a man unafraid to do with his life what
he wanted to do, regardless of what others
thought. I’ll always love him because he’s
my father; yet for his courage and good humor in the face of life’s greatest adversities,
I will always admire him.
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THE OVERTURE
Everett Manning died tragically.
He was just about to say something to the busy ticket
agent at the gate, when out of the corner of his eye, not fifty
yards from where he stood, he witnessed the Boeing 737
out on the tarmac magically morph into a supernova—a
massive fireball, eclipsing and hungrily consuming the outline of the aircraft, crumpling it wings, bowing its nose, and
tucking its tail. The wide plate glass window before him
was instantly filled with a vicious, blinding white welder’s
light, chased by fluid plumes of red, yellow, orange, blue
and black. The low-pile carpet beneath his feet shifted from
side to side. The air pressure of the ferocious concussion
squeezed Ev’s face in a harsh startling slap.
Everything in Ev’s field of vision bleached white in that
first instant, as over a hundred bodies were simultaneously
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dismembered, crushed, torn, or vaporized—all a mere fraction of a second before the amber tinted floor-to-ceiling
concourse windows exploded inward, sending a wall of
searing heat roaring over him, propelling cruel blades of
glass and razor sharp projectiles of twisted and burning
metal, ripping and shredding, claiming yet more victims on
the crowded terminal concourse.
The final NTSB report, issued months later, officially
listed the death toll at 159. Everett Manning’s name was on
that list. The cause of the explosion was attributed to mechanical failure. Of course, that was a lie, an official lie.
But then, the FBI had good reason to conceal one of the
worst terrorist acts on US soil.
Nevertheless, on that fateful day, the same day Everett
Manning was pronounced dead—naturally, after the initial
shock and horror of it passed—Ev began to wonder if, at
long last, this cataclysmic event might be his very own prepaid, non-stop, first-class ticket to paradise. He wanted it to
be. At least it certainly looked that way to him at first, as he
sat in an orange vinyl booth at Denny’s, staring with quiet
envy at Bill the Painter.
Confused?
Yes, he was. Confused, bewildered, and afraid. But if
he was right about what began so horrifically at the airport,
then very soon, and very easily, he might actually escape
and be free—free, at long last, to spend the rest of his existence on a warm, white, tropical beach, lounging beneath a
cloudless blue sky; sipping sweet umbrella drinks among
beautiful, bronzed, coconut-oiled bodies; feeling the hot
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kiss of the sun against his skin; savoring the salty scents of
the sea, an intoxicating aroma; and all the while, watching
the translucent white-capped apple-green waves roll in,
crashing softly against the shore; laughing and singing to
the carefree refrains of Jimmy Buffett songs.
If he was right…it would be so easy to finally get to
Margaritaville.
He was wrong, of course.
Dead wrong.
Prior to that horrible day at the airport, Everett Manning
had led a fairly routine and uneventful life. He had never
committed a felony. He had never had assassins, federal
agents, crazed killers, airborne gunships, or war ships chasing him. He had never witnessed a murder. He had never
been shot. He had never been covered with blood. He had
never put himself in harm’s way to save those he loved. He
had never had to kill.
No, on the day Everett Manning died things got really
complicated.
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MOVEMENT I
The Dilemma
Duty then is the sublimest word in
our language. Do your duty in all
things. You cannot do more. You
should never wish to do less.
Gen. Robert E. Lee
What is it that every man seeks? To
be secure, to be happy, to do what he
pleases without restraint and without
compulsion.
Epictetus
nd
Discourses, 2 century
If you are willing to forget that there
is an element of duty in love and of
love in duty, then it’s easy to choose
between the two.
Jean Giraudoux
Siegfried, 1928
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CHAPTER 1
Dallas / Fort Worth IAP, Texas
As Everett Manning recalled much later, the day of his
death was a typical, long, tedious workday of phones and
FAXes, spreadsheets and E-mail. It began and progressed
like so many others before it, and found him late that afternoon at the airport, waiting for a flight, standing before a
bank of stainless steel pay phones with a black plastic receiver glued to his ear.
“Well, is she cute?” Ev asked Jeff, earnestly trying to
hear his seventeen year-old son’s reply over the loud, frenzied terminal noise.
Nine-hundred and seventy-five miles away, in Atlanta,
Georgia, a scratchy teenage voice replied, “Oh, man, dad,
she’s an absolute babe. And real smart too. She’s like in the
Latin and math club, and plays the flute in the band... and I
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mean like, we talk and all... all the time... you know, like in
third period Biology, cause, you see, like, she sits at the
same table I do and everything... and, like as long as, like,
we’re talking about class and stuff, everything’s cool...”
“Uh, huh,” Ev prompted. He was grinning.
His son continued, the young man’s voice an emotional
mixture of excitement and frustration, “But, like, I really
want to ask her out and everything, but every time I get up
the guts to try, it’s like I can’t breathe or anything. Dad, I
don’t know what to say. It’s like I get a total case of the
brain farts.”
Ev sniffed, doing his best not to laugh. “Hey, tiger,
that’s OK. I did that too when I was your age. It’s nothing
to worry about.”
“So what did you do about it?” his son asked.
Ev thought back to the bygone years, remembering episodes of his own heart palpitations, risking a fragile ego in
pursuit of many a fair maiden’s heart. A few ideas came to
mind. “You might consider trying a softer, more indirect
approach.”
“What do you mean?” Jeff fumbled with the phone.
“Like what?”
“I mean,” Ev advised, “When you just put it all on the
line, as in ‘Do you want to go out with me?’ that’s a pretty
hard-sell proposition. You force the girl to have to make an
all or nothing decision. Sometimes that’s OK. Sometimes
it’s too much. Go easy. Try talking about a new movie you
want to go see, or a nice restaurant you’d like to take her to.
Get a conversation going about the event, not the decision.
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Then, if she shows some interest, you can suggest going
there together sometime. If she seems up for it, then you’re
down to scheduling a time. It’s less confrontational than
throwing the formal notion of ‘a date’ in someone’s face.”
There was obvious enthusiasm in the boy’s voice,
“Wow, dad, that’s great. I’ll try that. Thanks!”
“Well, let me know how it goes,” Ev added, as he heard
a sharp click on the line.
“Jeffy?” interrupted the irritated voice of Tanya,
Everett’s ex-wife, on another extension, “It’s time you got
off the phone. I need to use it.”
“MOM!” came Jeff’s mournful protest, “I’m talking to
dad. Get off the line. This is private!”
“There’s nothing that goes on regarding you that’s private from me, young man,” Tanya spat back, “And besides,
I need to speak with your father anyway.”
Ev’s ire rose as he heard Jeff slam down the receiver
without even getting a chance to say good-bye. His voice
was stern, “You didn’t need to do that.”
“I’ll do whatever I please,” Tanya fired back. “That boy
has some things he needs to do for me right now, and besides... we need to talk.”
Ev cringed. “Look, I don’t have time to talk to you right
now. Maybe later.” His knuckles whitened around the
heavy black plastic receiver. “I…I gotta go now.”
“No! You’re going to talk to me right now!” she blared,
just warming up for one of her usual belligerent tirades.
“Not now,” he shot back, “Later!”
“When later?”
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“I don’t know when later.” That familiar clench in his
gut was squeezing tighter.
“Well, I want to know now,” she seethed, pouncing on
at least one word in each phrase like a cruel schoolmaster
with a lash in hand, “And I have a right to know. You have
an obligation to talk to me when I want to talk. And we
need to talk!”
Ev glanced at his watch. It was 4:37. He still had a few
minutes before boarding time, but no desire whatsoever to
talk to Tanya. “Look, I don’t care. I’m about to miss my
flight.”
“DON’T CARE!—WHY YOU SORRY…” By reflex the
receiver jerked away from Ev’s ear a full ten inches.
Tanya’s acid invectives blasted from the starburst of plastic
pinholes.
Using the phrase “don’t care” was always more than
enough to trigger Tanya’s standard nickel tour tirade of
Everett’s more noteworthy personal and social deficiencies,
highlighted by his occasionally tardy child support and alimony payments and his alleged “secular” and “materialistic” priorities in life.
Ev held the phone down at his side for a moment, looking down the long, curving airport concourse at the busy ant
colony of humanity: scurrying couples, herds of families,
hurried business people, uniformed flight crews leading
luggage strollers, an elderly woman toddling behind a
walker, maintenance people scurrying about with their
brooms and mops and trash bins, handicapped carts beeping
and chirping, and countless others milling around waiting
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for their flights. They came in every size, shape, color,
clothing style, nationality, and aroma.
Shifting the phone from one hand to the other, Everett
let the twenty pounds of dead-weight, his black nylon laptop case, slip from his aching shoulder to the low pile gray
carpet by his feet. He noted his black wingtips could use a
shine. His left hand wiped the growing beads of perspiration from his brow, combing his fingers back through his
short, black, baby-fine hair. A tense forefinger tugged at his
starched button-down collar in a vain attempt to ease the
bitter choking sensation.
When Everett put the receiver back to his ear Tanya’s
barrage was still in full gear. “And I’ll tell you what, mister,
I’ve already spoken with the IRS this week about your alimony payment—which is a week late…”
Ev took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and
without a wasted breath of rebuttal, softly returned the receiver to its stainless steel cradle. There was the briefest
moment of joy in that act, loosening the wrench in his gut a
half turn, and letting his molars relax a few hundred pounds
per square inch.
Oh, blessed silence, thou art my friend.
OK, it had been a mistake to even say one word to her.
He knew that. All he had wanted to do was talk to Jeff and
see how he was doing. It had been almost a week since they
had spoken—too long, as far as Ev was concerned. It was
so good to hear his voice again, right up until the moment
Tanya butted in, all five-foot-four 190 pounds of her these
days—the “bitch-sow” as Ev disaffectionately dubbed her
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long ago.
We need to talk.
In the fourteen years they were married, just the mere
thought of that phrase, which always precipitated the same
old brutal daily routine had made Ev’s stomach sour the
instant he pulled his car into the garage each evening after
work—knowing what lay in wait for him. That was one of
the many reasons Everett Manning could no longer live
with Tanya, and often questioned his sanity on how it was
possible he ever did. Somewhere, buried deep in his memory banks, Everett thought, once upon a time, there had actually been an attractive, intelligent, pleasantly
dispositioned, emotionally intact young woman he had once
loved and married and made love to with no symptoms of
nausea whatsoever. Of course that was long before the
bitch-sow showed up one day and ate her.
Tanya and Jeff still lived in the beautiful home Ev had
built for them in Atlanta. Shortly after the divorce was final
four years ago, Ev had deliberately sought a corporate
transfer and moved to Dallas. That at least stopped the daily
tongue floggings. Unfortunately, it wasn’t far enough away
to escape the long-taloned Harpy that had his phone number, pager number, and the ear of his son. Yet, despite the
situation with Tanya, Jeff was never very far from Ev’s
thoughts.
Everett Manning fished the torn boarding stub out of his
shirt pocket and looked at it again. He’d already checked
his bag out front at the ticket counter, and had turned in his
ticket at the gate. Yep, nothing left but the airport waiting
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game, almost identical to the elevator version, but with lots
more people milling around to annoy you—swarming
masses of them, in fact. He huffed, looking at the tiny
boarding stub, as if the little bimbo behind the ticket
counter could vouch for every form of photo ID that existed. He noted his seat assignment: 21E. Damn, a center
seat. The Corporate Travel Trolls strike again. His eyes
rolled up to the harsh wash of the florescent lights of the
terminal concourse at the DFW International Airport.
What can you do?
Departure time for his flight to Washington DC was
5:10 PM. He looked down at his watch again. It was now
4:42. Almost a half an hour to spare. No sense hurrying to
sit between the lady coughing up a lung bouncing a crying
baby with a dirty diaper in her lap, and the overweight guy
with the hygiene problem who wanted to gab about his
scrap metal business for the next three hours.
Ergo, Miller time.
The edge of a smile crept from the corners of his mouth.
Yep, there was still time to squeeze in a beer. Hell, in Ev’s
book there was always time for a good cold one. With the
laptop case freshly slung over his right shoulder and the
straps of his soft-side briefcase clutched in his left hand,
with a renewed sense of mission, Everett Manning took a
deep breath and threaded his way through the teeming
throng of transient unwashed humanity, down the crescent
concourse to his beloved “Premium Cocktails” sign.
The bar was crowded and buzzing with travelers, but he
managed to find an empty seat at a small, round table for
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two near the entryway, just as a couple was leaving. The
sounds of a thousand voices within earshot melded into a
dull roar, interspersed with the beeping and chirping carts,
overlaid with the public address announcements calling
flights and paging an endless list of awkwardly pronounceable names to meet their parties by the baggage claim.
Thankfully, the service in the bar was good. In less than
five minutes Ev had an ice cold twenty-two ounce beer and
a red and white paper boat of hot popcorn before him.
Life’s little pleasures.
Everett let out a long, weary sigh, but felt no sense of
relief. Life didn’t seem to have an abundant supply of little
pleasures for him these days. Sales had been slow. He was
sincerely wondering how he was going to close enough
business in the remaining months of the year to make his
annual sales quota. In fact, if the new prospect he was about
to go see in Washington wasn’t interested in at least an
evaluation test of his company’s new software system, it
was going to be hell to get over the top this year. Yet,
somehow he always managed to find a way to make it.
Nevertheless, Mike Henderson, Ev’s sales manager, had
been yelling more than usual at all the salesmen in the office to bring in the numbers. Sales were slow all over the
company. A thin white line of fresh nail growth was showing on the end of Ev’s right ring finger. It was quickly
chewed off in strict conformity to the other nine.
He chased a mouthful of popcorn down with a sip of his
beer.
At thirty-eight years of age, Everett Manning earnestly
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believed he was still in his prime, a scrappy and resilient
street fighter, with many good selling years left under his
belt. Selling was something he liked. He was good at it, a
great negotiator, especially in hardball situations, the more
stressful the better. Stress seemed to stimulate his creativity
and resolve. He presented himself well, and possessed a
natural charm and good humor which opened a lot of doors
for him. He’d always been bright and resourceful from
childhood, and had a decent résumé. Oh yes, you put all
that together and it was easy to see why Everett Manning
had successfully moved a lot of products for several major
companies over the last fifteen years, helping several small
companies become major ones. And, yes, he even made a
handsome dollar or two in the process.
But lately…it all just…didn’t feel right.
It was getting harder and harder to roll out of bed in the
morning and get after it. It wasn’t so much a matter of
growing older and slower, as it was more the case of getting
bored and disenchanted. That little voice in the back of his
mind was getting ever more insistent that there was something else out there in life he was missing, something worth
getting out of bed for again. And the longer he kept doing
what he was doing, the greater the chance that this particular “something he was missing” would pass him by. Yes,
when you put your finger on it, despite making a decent living in a reasonably productive career, Everett Manning still
had no earthly idea what he really wanted to be when he
grew up.
Who did?
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He shook his head in dismay, crunching a fresh handful
of popcorn, while he asked himself: Why am I even doing
this? How did this “career,” if you could call it that, happen in the first place? Sure, I’ve done OK, but it certainly
wasn’t planned. It all just happened. Why am I knocking
myself out day after day, week after week, living in Marriott
Courtyards and airports and rental cars, eating all the
shitty food and popping antacids like candy, going from
meeting to meeting, standing up day after day preaching to
a bunch of disinterested semi-catatonic corporate zombies,
getting telephone-ear and a peptic ulcer? Why? Just to
generate enough cash to pay the child support, the rent and
utilities, and all the charge accounts? Just to keep one step
ahead of the tax man?
It all made no sense. The plastic beer cup came to his
lips again. More than ever, Ev felt the hamster wheel he
was in was getting rusty, and each day a little harder to turn.
But how do you get out of the wheel?
Ev fished his wallet out of his back pocket and checked
his cash reserves, revealing a little over three hundred dollars. That was enough for a quick overnight trip.
He mused: So what can you do? Just keep plugging,
right? Salute and do your duty? Do what you gotta do to
survive and hope for the best? Save a little cash here and
there and one day hope you have enough to retire so you
can sit around with the all the rest of the old farts playing
Gin Rummy and an occasional round of golf, bitching
about reductions in Medicare? Then again, there was always the French Foreign Legion or the Power Ball Lottery.
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Hey, now there’s a couple of attractive options.
He laughed out loud at himself.
“What’s so funny?” a nearby voice asked.
Ev looked up at an older gentleman standing next to his
table with a saddle-leather briefcase in one hand and a
ticket folder in the other. The man was impeccably attired
in a finely tailored gray wool, double-breasted suit and an
expensive looking burgundy silk tie. Beneath his silver precision-trimmed locks, his face glowed with a perfectly
even, deep bronze, rich-man’s tan, obviously from many
days on the fairways and lounging by the pool sipping umbrella drinks. His eyes were steel gray, confident and
steady, definitely CEO or Board of Directors material. Ev
was momentarily confused, not quite sure if it was he who
was being addressed by the gentleman standing before him.
“I’m sorry?” he stammered.
The older man smiled, “You were laughing about something just then. I was just curious. Thought you might have
a good joke. Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Oh,” Ev waved his hand. “No. It was nothing.”
The man glanced around the crowded pub, “Don’t see
any tables left. Mind if I join you?”
“Sure.” Ev tossed a few more kernels of popcorn in his
mouth and gestured at the empty chair opposite himself.
“Help yourself.”
The stranger placed his briefcase behind the empty
chair, then neatly removed his jacket and laid it over the
chair’s back and took his seat. The initials WJC were embroidered on his shirt pocket and cuffs in royal blue thread.
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He crossed his legs with a smooth scissor motion, placing
his green and blue ExecuAir ticket folder on the table in
front of him, nodding politely, and offering a distinguished,
“Thank you. Appreciate your indulgence.”
“No problem.” Ev checked the time. 4:50. Still plenty
of time to finish his beer, and perhaps luck into a new sales
prospect. “How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain.” Ev’s new companion extended his
hand, “The name’s Clark. Walter Clark.”
Ev took the outstretched hand, professionally pumping
the man’s firm grip twice and producing his award-winning
salesman’s smile right on cue, “Pleased to meet you, Walter. Everett Manning, but everybody calls me Ev.”
Walter Clark’s porcelain-veneered, perfectly white Hollywood smile emerged, “So where’re you headed, Ev?”
“Up to Washington,” he replied with no real emotion.
“The ExecuAir 5:10 flight.”
“Really? Me too,” Walter tapped the half exposed
boarding pass from the slit in his ticket folder. “So, are you
going up on business or for pleasure?” The waitress strolled
by with an empty but wet beer tray folded across her forearm. Walter pointed at Ev’s tall plastic beer cup. “One of
those please, as quick as you can, if you’d be so kind, my
dear. Bit of a hurry.”
“Coming right up.” The girl smiled and flipped her
pony tail out straight as she spun on one heel to go fill the
order.
“Business, I hope,” Ev answered. “How about yourself?”
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Clark fished a business card out of his shirt pocket. “A
bit of business as well, I’m afraid. Just in and out. Wish I
had time to stay and take in some of the sights.”
Ev took the man’s card and read it, then slipped it in the
side pocket of his suit jacket. Walter Clark was identified
on the card as a consultant for a company called Wainright
Enterprises out of Phoenix, Arizona. “Wainright. I’m not
familiar with Wainright. So what do you do for them?”
The older man hesitated before answering, catching his
bottom lip in that dazzling even row of bleached white
teeth. The body English said he was choosing his words as
carefully as he chose his handkerchief to match his tie. “Oh,
I do my best to help solve…business problems. Nothing
very glamorous, mind you. So what’s your line?”
“Sales. For Incom Corporation.” Ev emphasized the
word corporation to make his small Texas-based software
firm sound important. It worked a little over half of the
time. He offered Walter one of his own business cards from
a small imitation leather card case in his trouser pocket, and
fell naturally into his pitch, “We make premium productivity enhancement software. It combines PC desktop programs into one common interface. Cuts down on training,
administration…business problems, like you said…stuff
like that.”
“I see. Computers and such. Yes, yes.” Clark frowned at
the card, holding it at arm’s length and squinting at it, then
slipped it into his shirt pocket and then patted it twice for
safekeeping. “Sorry, can’t say I’ve ever heard of your company either. But if you don’t mind, I’ll hang onto your card
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in case I ever need any products like that.”
Ev smiled with a trace of weary resignation, “Thanks.
Please do.”
The banter was a nice distraction. A minute later the
waitress brought Mr. Walter Clark’s beer, whereupon he
proceeded to down-it in three long swallows, never taking
the edge of the cup from his lips.
Ev was noticeably impressed, “Wow! You are the
king.”
As the bottom of the empty plastic cup hit the table,
Walter Clark caught Ev’s awestruck eye and winked, pressing the tips of his fingers to the center of his chest as his
cheeks did a momentary Dizzy Gillespie. He glanced at his
own watch, a polished gold Rolex, “Old habit from college
days. The sum total of my education, I’m afraid. Life’s too
short to sip good beer, as we used to say.” His forefinger
tapped the dial of his watch. “But if you’ll forgive me, I
sincerely hate to drink and dash, but regrettably I must. And
I dare say, if you’re on my flight, my new young friend,
you’ll need to get moving soon as well. Flight’s leaving any
time now.”
Ev glanced at his own watch. 5:04. Six minutes to go.
That center seat was just as unappealing now as it was a
few minutes ago. “Oh, it’s just barely five past the hour.
Still got another minute or two. Nothing ever leaves from
this place on time anyway. And I still need to make a quick
phone call and check my messages. I’ll catch you later.”
Clark laughed, his eyes narrowing, “Phone call, you
say? Messages? Well, suit yourself. Very pleased to meet
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you, Manning. If I don’t see you again on the plane, then do
have a safe journey.”
“You too.” Ev returned a friendly comrade-in-arms
smile as the older man stood from the table and scooped up
his ticket, his eyes intent on the information printed on the
exposed portion.
The older man’s squinting foretold a pair of forgotten
reading glasses, which Ev surmised would probably be 18k
gold or designer tortoise shell. Still intent on deciphering
the cryptic gibberish on the boarding stub, Walter Clark
reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a thick wad of
bills, neatly folded in a gold money clip. He peeled off a
crisp twenty and tossed it down on the table.
Clark’s eyes stole back to Ev’s for a bright second,
“This one’s on me.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that, Mr. Clark.” Ev nodded and
sipped his beer, shaking Walter Clark’s hand firmly once
again.
“Walter,” the older man corrected as he hurried away.
Ev fired a forefinger at him, “Right. Walter. Been a
pleasure.”
Wow that was nice of him.
Ev reached down and plucked his cell phone off his
belt, and hit the voice mail speed-dial number. After a brief
ring, the automated voice greeted him and advised him he
had twelve unheard messages. His hands moved by rote to
extract his daily planner from his soft-side briefcase, open it
up to the current date, and prepare to transcribe notes. As it
came out of the case, a sprinkling of bells jingled.
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“…for you, Daddy…”
Ev looked down. There lying on the floor next to his
foot was his good luck charm. It was two large decorative
Christmas jingle-bells, each about an inch in diameter, one
red, the other green. They were connected by about two feet
of thick white yarn. It was meant to hang on the back of a
doorknob and jingle when someone came or went. His son
Jeff had made it as an art class project in the second
grade—ten years ago, in another decade, another time. Ev
carried it with him in his briefcase always. The familiar
sight of it made him smile, notwithstanding that familiar
little pang he felt in his heart. He gathered it up and stuffed
it back down inside his briefcase as the voice messages began to play, promising himself to call Jeff again as soon as
he got to Washington.
The first call was from Mike Henderson, his boss. It
was bad. One of Ev’s customers had called in complaining
that he had been promised a trade-in and free upgrade for
some older version of their software. That was a lie. Ev
knew he’d promised the bastard no such thing. But would
Mike believe that? Not likely. Mike demanded to be called
immediately.
The rest of the messages went downhill from there. The
next one was from one of Ev’s software support engineers
announcing that an on-site test of their products had
crashed a prospect’s computer system—they were pissed,
and after blood. Two of the calls were from the bitch-sow.
Thank God for the voice mail DELETE command. A few
others were bullshit administrative stuff that could wait.
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One was a cryptically disturbing message from the IRS, not
stating exactly what they wanted to talk to him about, per
se, but just giving him an 800 number and advising that he
had twenty-four hours to respond before any action was going to be taken. The next one was an automated voice telling him to please remain on the line for an “important call,”
which was followed by bad elevator music— DELETE.
The last message was the coup de grace. It was the new
prospect in Washington DC.
The polite and apologetic voice said, “Ev, hey, this is
Charlie DeBerg. Look, man, I’m really sorry, but I’m not
going to be able to make our appointment tomorrow morning. We’re going to have to reschedule or cancel for now or
something. Maybe in the next month or two would be better
for us to take a look at your stuff. We’re just about to start
an evaluation test on ProDesk tomorrow and I have to be
down there in the data center to oversee that. I know you
said your stuff was supposed to be a lot better than
ProDesk, but they are the leader in the industry. But hey,
man, I promise you, if their stuff doesn’t do what we want,
then we’d still like to take a look at yours. You can send me
some more brochures and white papers if you want, and I’ll
have my technical people look at them. Anyway, I’ll call
you later and let you know if we’re still interested. Thanks
anyway. Have a nice day.”
Shit! Oh, that’s just wonderful. Just wonderful.
Ev angrily stabbed the red END button and returned the
small digital phone to his belt. He took a long Walter Clark
sized chug of his own beer, belched out loud, half in dis25
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gust, not really giving a shit who heard it, and let the warm
effervescence resonate in his sinuses and ooze out his nose.
No one around him appeared to acknowledge his lapse of
etiquette. Ev just stared at his half empty beer cup for the
next several minutes, nibbling on the frayed edge of a finger nail.
“Well, that’s a fine how do you do, now isn’t it,” he
whispered to himself, glancing down at his watch again, not
that it mattered anymore. It read 5:11. Bye-bye plane. A
cloud of stunned, disengaged shock settled over him. He
suddenly felt very tired. His eyes mutely glanced left and
right at the flood of bodies flowing by until something
across the table suddenly caught his eye. Walter Clark’s
gray suit coat was still draped over the back of the chair.
His briefcase was still standing behind it.
“Aw, shit!” Ev jumped up and grabbed the jacket and
the light brown Hartman case, along with his own burdens.
He zigzagged through the obstacle course of bodies down
the terminal concourse toward his former gate. When he got
there, as he feared, it now stood vacant, except for the uniformed gate agent typing the last few tickets into the computer. He could see out the plate glass window to the end of
the umbilical jetway. It too was empty. With the late afternoon Texas sun glinting off the light blue and green skin of
the Boeing 737, ExecuAir’s Flight 1125 had just been
pushed down the yellow line and was being unhitched from
the tug.
What to do? What to do?
There wasn’t anything he could do, he realized. Lost26
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and-Found would have to handle it. He looked at the gate
agent. She was still busy in head-down keyboard mode,
oblivious to his presence. He waved. Nothing. Cleared his
throat twice. Zip. He could have been on fire. She was
oblivious. Nope, this one was “in the zone.” Yes, we all
have our priorities, and as far as Miss Clickity-click was
concerned, administration always comes before customer
service. Ev was just about to point this fact out to her
when— FLASH!
It happened.
The tortured instant of fiery death.
Out of the corner of his eye, Everett Manning witnessed
the thunderous concussion of the exploding Boeing 737...
the supernova... the massive expanding fireball...... the
blinding white welder’s light filling the concourse window... the raging plumes of red, yellow, orange, blue and
black... the floor sliding from side to side... the amber tinted
floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows shattering... the
screaming glass exploding inward... the wall of searing heat
roaring over...
And then the painful silence.
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CHAPTER 2
Steele, Alabama
The distinct deep-throated growl of the muffler on the
’82 Thunderbird caused Dexter, the Davis’ 120 pound,
black-and-tan German Shepherd, to jump up on the
weather-worn, plank-board porch of the two-bedroom shotgun house and start barking in excitement, bounding down
the front steps in one jump. He ran to the length of his
chain, standing on his hind legs, pawing the air with his
forelegs. Dexter was excited, as he was every day about this
time: mouth open wide, long pink tongue hanging out,
panting hard. This also was the time every day when Jenny
Davis’ stomach began to twist into a knot.
He was home.
Jenny’s knuckles went white around the dishrag in her
hand. The familiar sound of tires grinding to a halt over the
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pea-gravel drive was followed by a motor coughing and
farting for several seconds after the ignition was shut off.
That was followed by a heavy mechanical shudder and a
final sputtering sigh, then hissing quiet, interspersed with a
few pinging ticks and whispers of cooling metal.
Jenny’s eyes glanced nervously around the kitchen.
Everything looked neat, clean, and in order. The chicken
was frying nicely on the stove, bubbling along in an inch of
Crisco. The snap beans were simmering with a strip of bacon. The potatoes were tender and just needed to be
mashed. The small cast-iron skillet of corn bread was in the
oven staying warm. Slices of fresh onion and tomato were
on the cutting board. A fresh stick of butter sat on the
counter, already soft.
Everything was ready—she hoped.
The car door slammed shut, followed by the sound of
uneven footfalls, heavy work boots crunching on the pea
gravel, clumping up the creaking back steps, stumbling
only once this time. Dexter was still barking.
Jenny took a deep breath and swallowed the knot of apprehension in her throat.
Randy Davis, as was his custom as the Lord of Davis
Manor, pulled the warped screen door wide with a whine of
rusty metal. He lumbered through the kitchen doorway, listing against the frame for support, barely able to stand. Out
came his usual belch of salutation, long, deep and resonant.
The screen door slapped shut behind him with a bang, announcing the King had entered the building.
Jenny took one look at him and cringed.
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Randy’s eyes were as blood red as she’d ever seen
them, watery and shiny, lids at half-staff, rimmed in blotchy
rings of pink and purple. The hair sticking out from under
his green Alabama Power ball-cap was matted to his forehead with sweat and grime. Dislodged by a jerking hick-up,
the empty long-neck beer bottle slipped from his hand to
the floor and broke next to the muddy steel toe of his right
boot, scattering cruel shards of brown glass across the floor.
He never even paid it a moment’s notice, just laughed, wiping a thin tendril of saliva from the corner of his mouth
with the back of a grease-stained hand.
“Huuuney…” he chuckled, his shoulders hitching up
beneath his dusty denim jacket. “I’m home. Give us a kiss.”
She swallowed hard, “Hey there, baby. Your dinner is
almost ready. Why don’t you go get washed up and I’ll…”
“Ah-most ready!” Instantly, a black switch was thrown
inside the creature standing before her. The watery smile
vanished. His eyes bulged forward, the thick tendons on his
neck stretched taut with quaking fury.
Jenny didn’t even realize her mistake until it was too
late. She shrank against the sink, praying it would be quick
this time.
Sometimes she got lucky and he just passed out before
it got too bad. Of course, the apologies and “never-again”
promises always sounded sincere on the mornings-after; but
once Randy got started she never knew how far he’d go.
Each time it got a little worse. She still had a cracked rib
from the last time, not quite mended, to prove it. That was
the frightening part, the “not knowing how bad it was going
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to be this time.”
But maybe she’d get lucky this time.
A voice inside her head, an all-too-familiar one that
sounded an awful lot like her mother, the shrill scolding
voice that made her left eye hurt like eating ice-cream too
fast, chastised her that if she had just been able to give
Randy babies, like the litter of brats her two older sisters
pumped out for their husbands over the last ten years, it
wouldn’t be this way. Consciously, she knew that was
fool’s talk, but the chastising voice in her head didn’t care a
whit about her feelings on the subject. From birth she had
been taught that it was not her place to question the tenets
of right and wrong or a woman’s place, but just to shut her
mouth and do what she was supposed to do.
The voice relentlessly quoted chapter and verse of the
laws of their land, the sacred tribal code of the immutable
ways of what’s fittn’ and proper for a woman, just as those
ways had been known and passed down from mother to
daughter, generation after generation before her. Day after
day the voice righteously insisted that every time he
slapped her, pushed her, kicked her, spit on her, bruised
her, broke a bone, blackened an eye, loosened a tooth, tore
her clothes off and painfully violated her—it was somehow
all her own fault, that she brought it all on her own head,
yea verily, as due punishment for her failure as a wife and
as a woman.
You do what’s right, girl, the old matriarchal voice of
her elders commanded.
Of course, that was all just fool’s talk, damn fool talk,
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Jenny often reminded herself. She knew that. But knowing
didn’t make it any easier. It didn’t silence the voice—
though one day she prayed the voice would be silenced,
burned to ashes, if she could help it.
Jenny didn’t care two cents that both her sisters, Ellen
and Beth, were champion brood mares. Was that all a
woman was for? Jenny didn’t think so. But according to her
mother, and Ellen, and Beth, and Randy, and the voice—
birthing babies certainly was the top priority of life. And it
wasn’t as though she and Randy never tried. Lord knows
they’d tried for years to get pregnant, but with no luck, not
even a false start.
Nothing.
Barren, the voice condemned.
Nevertheless, a part of her—a secret part, a quiet part—
was relieved that it never happened, and yes, even hopeful
that it would never happen. Ever.
Naturally, that notion was contrary to all her upbringing, and she’d never dare say so out loud, especially in front
of her mother, who would surely backhand her in the next
second for blasphemy. But the thought of being a mother
with four or five drooling knee-biters in orbit around her,
keeping house, cooking, scrubbing toilets, growing tomatoes and squash in the garden, doing laundry, and watching
The Price is Right, General Hospital, and Oprah every day,
day after day, for the rest of her life wasn’t Jenny’s own
idea of what life was supposed to be all about. Her gut told
her there had to be more out there in the world. She didn’t
know exactly what it was she really wanted out of life, but
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she sure as hell knew one thing in particular she didn’t
want. It was staring at her—ten feet away, with no signs of
passing out.
No…this wasn’t going to be one of the lucky times.
Randy crunched through the broken brown glass of the
dropped long-neck beer bottle and stormed over to her. The
sick sour smell arrived before he did. He grabbed her by the
neck with his powerful right hand, roughly lifting her chin
up, his face looming down to meet hers, nose to nose. The
sensation of her tremors only fueled his temper.
“You know that’s not how I like it, Punkin’,” he
growled. A white fleck of cigarette paper clung to his
cracked lower lip.
Jenny held her breath, repulsed by the stench of his
sweat combined with the dirt and grease, mingled with too
much beer and garlic and tobacco, and whatever else he last
puked up on the side of the road on his way home.
Her eyes were stretched wide as she barely got the
words out, “I’m…I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’ll just be a minute to get it on the table. I just kept it hot for you.”
“No,” he bellowed, the inebriation slurring his Southern
drawl even more, “You know it’s goddamn well supposed
to be on the fuckin’ table hot and ready when I walk
through that door each and every night! Them is my rules!
And you know wahappens when you break my rules!”
Jenny’s vision was starting to blur with tears of fear.
The vice-clamp on her throat squeezed tighter and tighter as
her tiny voice rose in pitch, cracking, “But I never know
exactly when you’re coming…”
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He snarled.
Jenny Davis never got to finish her sentence before the
stunning open-handed blow of his strong left hand blasted
into the entire right side of her face. It was like serving a
volleyball, her entire jaw and right ear instantly went numb.
The vicious slap was hard enough to send her blond hair
whipping around in a wide arc to her right as her body went
sprawling wildly to her left, her arms and upper body clearing the counter top behind her. Plates, saucers, cups, and
glasses from the overloaded dish drainer tumbled down to
the floor in a loud clatter, exploding in a sharp shower of
glass, scattering shards across her clean and shiny Mop-nGlow, linoleum tiles. For half a second Jenny fought desperately for her balance, her fingernails scratching across
the Formica, gravity waging war against her equilibrium.
Gravity won.
She tumbled down hard on top of the jagged shards below. The sharp pricks and incisions in her forearms and
right shoulder burned deep. Searing pain drove her jaw
open to its widest extremity in a tortured silent scream, her
eyelids squeezing down so hard she thought they would cut
into her cheeks.
“Don’t you ever backtalk me, you stupid fuckin’ little
whore!” Randy Davis screamed down at her, crouching
over her, his hands gnarled into white-knuckled fists, quaking arms bowed out at his sides. Bile laden spittle from his
mouth showered her bare legs. “You juss better mind me,
shape-up and fly right, or you’ll see what else happens to
you. You hear me, you stupid bitch?” He jabbed a finger
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back toward the kitchen door, more bubbles of spit flying,
“I could bury you so deep out there in them piney woods,
they’d never find your carcass fore the varmints’n bugs
done et you to the bone.”
She was crawling away from the venom of his voice
through the splinters of glass and droplets of her own blood
when she heard him start to chuckle and the sound of his
belt buckle opening and his fly going down.
No. Dear God, not again.
“Now just where’n tarnation you think you’s a’goin’,
Punkin’, with that purdy little ass a’yours?” he taunted.
“You know daddy needs some lovin’ when he gets home,
and with the way you been misbehaving, daddy thinks
maybe you need to learn a little lesson on how take care
your man.”
The nicks and gouges of glass in her palms and knees
were insignificant to her now. Jenny was up on all fours,
crawling away, thinking she actually had a glimmer of a
chance to get away when the strong hand seized her right
ankle and jerked her back.
She screamed.
It made him laugh.
The powerful manacle around her ankle yanked hard,
twisting her over, sending the room into a spinning blur of
vertigo. A bolt of pain shot through her hip as her back
slammed hard into the field of broken glass, knocking the
wind out of her. He towered over her once more, covering
her with his shadow. She watched him push his jeans down
over his hips, the belt buckle jingling back against the metal
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tab on the leather buck-knife case at his side.
Her eyes going wide in terror, she gasped in a strained
breath.
He was already rock hard, grotesquely swollen to a
ghastly shade of purple, which was an amazing feat in and
of itself considering how much alcohol Jenny knew had to
be saturating his system. And mind you, Randy Ethan
Davis, called “RED” by everyone except Jenny, was a big
man in every respect, a full foot taller than Jenny, and outweighed her by almost a hundred pounds.
When he plopped down to his knees and tried to spread
her legs Jenny reacted purely by reflex and instinct. If she’d
had time to think about it, she would have been too terrified
to do what she did. But there was no time to think, just act.
The only thought flooding her mind was the utter refusal to
feel the invasive burning down there again. The revolting
thought of that repulsive thing tearing its way inside her
ever again, taking her, consuming her, defiling her—it was
too much.
With her eyes squeezed tight, her bare left heel thrust
out as hard as she could kick, toes pulled back, thrusting
with all her might like a battering ram, connecting hard
with warm flesh and what felt like bone.
Instantly the grip on her right ankle vanished.
Her legs sprung up to her chest in a defensive cannonball, anticipating a retaliatory volley of vicious bonebreaking blows. More glass shards burned into her back.
Only a choking sound preceded an abrupt silence.
Jenny opened her eyes wide and saw Randy still
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perched on his knees, where his jeans had fallen down,
bunched in a filthy blue pool. His bare, pasty-white upper
thigh muscles stood out, straining taut to the point of snapping. Both of his callused dirty hands were now in his
crotch. His face was so red she thought it was about to explode. Drops of blood leaked from the end of his rapidly
deflating organ. Several of the bright red droplets were already soaking into the bottom hem of his grime-grayed teeshirt. He gagged once more and toppled over on his right
side, retching and coughing, his bloodshot eyes protruding
half out of their sockets.
It wasn’t the pain—rather, it was more a combination of
fear, revulsion, and a sense of pure undiluted selfpreservation which propelled Jenny rolling to her left, out
of the teeth and talons of the broken glass and wide dark
spreading smears of her own blood. She clawed her way up
the kitchen wall as though the linoleum was covered with
water moccasins and copperheads. All the while she never
took her eyes off her tormentor writhing and gagging on his
tongue, lying in a tight fetal ball on the green and white
checkerboard linoleum tiles, paralyzed with agony.
Look what you’ve done to your man! the shrill voice
that sounded like her mother screamed in her head. Just
look what you’ve done!
Go! Just go! another voice firmly commanded, a new
voice rang out. Now!
Only one thought permeated her mind: No turning back.
The line had finally been crossed. As soon as he could
move an inch she was a dead women.
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Go! While you still can, the new voice implored.
Dressed in nothing but a pair of dingy white running
shorts and a faded red “Roll Tide” University of Alabama
tank-top, Jenny Davis jumped over the broken brown
pieces of the fallen beer bottle by the door, lucky not to
have any of the jagged glass slivers stuck in the bottom of
her feet. She hit the screen door and back steps running as
fast as her bare feet would carry her, leaving behind only a
bloody palm print on the door frame and one on the door
handle, plus a dappled trail of crimson drops on the ground
every few paces. Dexter exploded off the front porch once
more in a fit of hellish barking, chasing her full speed till he
hit the end of his chain and stood up straight again, forelegs
pawing frantically.
She ran. With everything left in her, she ran.
Hot tears flew off Jenny’s cheeks and deep sobs
wracked her sides as she fled the only home other than her
parents’ she had ever known, bruised and bleeding, but
alive. Humiliated one last time, but alive. Terrified and terrorized once more, but alive. Fleeing with nothing but her
life, but alive.
Alive!
Jenny ran as fast as she’d ever run in her entire life,
through the hungry clouds of mosquitoes and noseeums,
running down the dusty pea-gravel driveway, her naked feet
spitting pebbles into the air behind her as she flew. She ran
faster still down the hard, hot, cracked blacktop two-lane
road, between the walls of tall pine trees on either side of
her—Alabama pine trees, as tall as the tales she’d been told
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all her life on how to live, trees as narrow as the minds of
far too many people in her life. She ran toward the hot orange sunset beginning to bleed down behind the trees and
purpling the base of the clouds above; leaving nothing behind her save a long, thin black shadow.
Running. Not once looking back.
Not ever looking back.
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CHAPTER 3
Dallas Fort Worth International Airport, Texas
If Everett Manning hadn’t been in the process of falling
down in front of the ticket counter, actually body slammed
by the force of the blast, the long shards of flying glass and
shrapnel from the disintegrated airliner and jetway would
have torn him to pieces, as it did scores of others bustling
down the crowded concourse.
Shrill silence.
There should have been a sound, Ev’s confused mind
kept telling him. There was an explosion. He saw it. But
there was no BOOM. No thundering KA-THOOM like you
hear in the movies with lots of sub-woofer. Only the immense bright light, as bright as looking directly into the
sun, which had left a contagion of large yellow neon-trailed
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spots before his eyes.
My God, what just happened?
His mind raced to grasp the unfathomable, the unbelievable, the utterly unacceptable—sorting a sequence of
instantaneous events contained in a single moment of time
that the rational mind completely rejected, yet painfully
strained to comprehend. Yes, there had been the scorching
light, but no sound. Then the earthquake beneath him, then
the first shriek of bursting glass, and then the painful pound
of his body crashing down against the floor, hard enough to
knock the wind out of him. But no BOOM.
How come?
All Everett Manning could hear at that moment was the
grinding whine of a giant wasp or mosquito in his ear, doing its best to bore a hole into his brain. It made his teeth
hurt. Even the hubbub of the endless flow of humanity was
now gone, obscured by that high-pitched shrill tone oscillating in his ears. He rolled onto his left side and saw people running and waving their arms in panic. Some were
bleeding. Others lay prone as he did on the floor. Their
mouths were moving, some stretched wide, as if to scream,
but there was no sound. Only the piercing squeal of that one
tortured note remained.
It screamed for them all.
With great difficulty, on the third attempt, Ev climbed
back to his feet, his heart thundering in his chest, feeling
slightly drunk and disoriented, and very afraid. He reached
out with his left hand and grasped the ticket counter for
support. His pinkie landed in something wet.
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Just beyond his splayed fingers lay the visage of the
too-busy ticket agent hugging her precious computer terminal, only now with the seven foot high and ten foot wide
backboard tilted over on top of her. A thick splatter of red
stained the ticket counter in a V-shaped spray from her
mouth and nose, trickling over the edge of the counter. One
of the woman’s eyes had burst, laying deflated on her cheek
like a squashed grape. Ev spun violently away, feeling the
need to vomit well up thick in the back of his throat.
Get away from this!
Ev managed to grab his clutter of baggage and the kind
stranger Walter Clark’s jacket. Staggering a few feet away,
stumbling toward a carpeted wall, he stopped and cowered
there for a moment, shaking violently from head to toe,
desperate to feel something solid and real and familiar. The
ringing in his ears was now diminishing into a dissonant
mixture of confused tones and noises. There came intermitted bursts of garbled echoes, frightened voices, sirens, angry voices, terrified screams, urgent voices, running
footsteps, shouts, klaxons, bells, and anything and everything that falls under the banners of utter bedlam and confusion.
The black laptop computer bag still hung from his
shoulder, digging deep into his collar bone. In his sweating
and trembling left hand were the straps to his own soft-side
briefcase and the supple handle of the tan Hartman. The
gray suit jacket of his brief bar companion was still slung
over his right forearm. It wasn’t even wrinkled. As he
stared at it, through a cloud of intensifying disbelief and
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disorientation, the pain of realization thundered a heavyweight body-blow into his stomach, then reached up and
seized his lungs:…this coat’s owner was dead, along with
over a hundred other people.
Good God, no…it couldn’t have…
Suddenly unable to breathe and more nauseous than
ever, Everett Manning slowly struggled back to his feet and
trudged down the concourse, taking little baby-steps like a
ninety year old man, lucky not to be trampled between the
opposing crowds of those fleeing the scene of carnage and
those racing in to gawk. He found a seat a few gates down
the concourse and sat down before he fell down. The seat
was away from the vortex of the bedlam, over by the windows, which were now filled with a spider web of cracks,
but still intact.
Everett’s lungs were burning. But no matter how hard
he tried to suck in air, they just didn’t seem to be able to get
enough. A fresh volley of flashing lights outside the window caught his eye, as a battalion of yellow fire trucks with
blazing emergency lights swarmed across the frenzied tarmac to the incinerating wreckage of what used to be a Boeing 737. Cannons blasted thick beige foam even before the
vehicles reached their destination. A colorful parade of
shrieking ambulances weren’t far behind.
What a nightmare.
Ev turned away as another cruel fist of realization
sucker punched him in the gut once more: he just missed
that flight. The prospect in DC who had canceled, while
infuriating him to no end, had inadvertently just saved his
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life.
He gulped hard fighting back a stinging flood of hot
tears. Hand fumbling, he tore open his shirt collar, yanking
down his tie, desperate to breathe though the adrenaline
rush violently quaking him and racing his heart to a hummingbird’s pace. His gaze returned outside to the mechanized and human carnage. If he hadn’t just checked his
voice mail, he would have been sitting on that plane, now a
raging inferno, torn and shredded, with pieces of it and its
human contents scattered for hundreds of yards in every
direction.
Yep, that would have been it.
It was unbelievable. One second he would have been
sitting there, squeezed uncomfortably into Row 21, center
seat E, with his seatbelt securely fastened, tray table
stowed, not using an electronic device such as laptops, CD
players, Gameboys, or cellular phones, learning once again
where all the emergency exits were located. He would have
had his nose buried in the Sharper Image catalogue looking
at infra-red back-massagers, pocket fold-out lawn chairs,
18k gold nose hair clippers, electric water fountains for
dogs, pocket DVD players, Learn to Speak Japanese/German/French/Russian in Two Minutes Tapes, and
environmentally friendly golf ball polishers. And in the
next second—oblivion. The Debt of Debts paid in full.
Dead.
What a concept.
Everett lurched over the arm of his chair and threw up
the remnants of beer and popcorn, and a little bit of the
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chicken-Caesar salad from lunch.
Get away from here! Now!
But something within him stopped him cold. He
couldn’t just go, no matter how grotesque the scene was.
There were people hurt just up the concourse. Perhaps there
was something he could do to help, render first aid, CPR,
something. He looked back up the hallway toward the gate
of flight 1125. It was sheer unadulterated pandemonium.
Uniformed individuals were yelling and screaming, but no
one was paying much attention to them.
At that very moment, one of the uniformed personnel,
wearing a red airline jacket, standing at a gate station,
spoke into a microphone, his voice coming out over the
Public Address system above the clamor, “Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen! Please try to remain calm!
Do not panic! For safety sake, please, do not panic! Please
exit the terminal building in an orderly manner. Please exit
in a safe and orderly manner!”
Just go. You have to. You’re only in the way here.
Everett obeyed, both the voice in his head and the official on the public address system, struggling again to his
feet, gathering his load, and wading into the flood of frenzied bodies once more. He lumbered along in a state of
numbed shock, flowing with the crowd pressing in tight
around him. He wasn’t thinking very clearly; but he was at
least coherent enough to realize that just walking “safely
and in an orderly manner” out to his car in the parking lot
wasn’t likely to be physically possible at the moment. His
only hope to get away from the frightened press of bodies
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was to go downstairs and take the kiddie train over to one
of the terminals on the other side of the airport and try to
catch a cab from there. He’d come back for his car some
other time.
It worked. Five minutes later, as Ev climbed into the
first available taxi, the driver asked, “Where to, sir?”
“Just drive,” Ev commanded as he slammed the door.

Shortly before midnight that evening, Everett Manning
sat alone in an orange vinyl padded booth in the back of a
near-empty Denny’s 24-hour diner, somewhere in Irving,
Texas, not too far from Texas Stadium. He wasn’t quite
sure why he was there, or anywhere for that matter. The
only thing he was sure of is where he wasn’t.
Texas Stadium was where Ev had instructed the cab
driver to stop and let him out almost six hours ago. No reason to go there. It was just something familiar he saw from
the backseat of the cab. For the first two hours he had just
walked aimlessly along the side of the highway, his mind
floating in that same numb, gray fog of disbelief and shock,
still unable to fully accept the reality of what had happened
that day. He staggered like a drunk, clinging tight to his
bags and Walter Clark’s jacket like Linus’ blue blanket,
until he didn’t think he could continue to walk any further,
or stand for that matter. The small diner, just off the Loop
12 and Highway 183 interchange was a welcome sight.
He had ordered a bowl of tomato soup around nine
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o’clock, but the bowl still lay untouched and cold on the
table before him. He stared down at the brown ring of residue at the bottom of an empty coffee cup surrounded by his
fingers. His hands were shaking badly, but not from the caffeine. The near scalding brew had done little to ward off the
bone-chattering chill which wracked through him.
“Nuther cup?” asked the smiling waitress, identified as
Sissy on her blue plastic name badge. She stood there with
a full pot in one hand. Sissy had come on shift at around ten
o’clock and been sharp enough to realize that the man sitting in the back booth was someone with troubling things
on his mind, and she was prudent enough to leave him be,
checking back every half hour or so for coffee refills. She
had a pleasant face, round and plump like the rest of her,
with eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled. Her
black hair was knotted up into a bun on the back of her
head.
“Sure,” Ev whispered and leaned back, allowing her to
refill his cup to the brim once more. He figured that was at
least cup number eight. “Thanks.”
The horror of that very afternoon was almost too much
to cope with—what Ev had seen, what he’d heard, what
he’d felt. Nothing of that magnitude had ever happened to
him before. Airplane crashes or terrorist bombings were
just bad news stories and background noise on TV about
other people in other places. They weren’t “real.” This was
too real. From out of nowhere a morbid laugh bubbled out
of his throat before he had time to catch it, promulgated by
the return of the unfathomable notion of his own fragile
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mortality, and how close it had come to being realized that
afternoon. It was an utterly new and foreign concept.
What would it be like if his life had been literally
snuffed out in an instant?
Well let’s see, he considered: to start, for sure, Tanya
would be popping the champagne corks, until she realized
no more (albeit sometimes late) child support and alimony
checks would be coming in and she’d actually have to get a
real job. Jeff would be sad.
Jeff.
Ev’s heart pinched uncomfortably for a moment as he
thought about the green and red Christmas bells tied to a
length of white yarn in his briefcase. His throat was tightening again, so much so, he didn’t know if he could get another sip of coffee down.
Leaving Jeff behind with Tanya was what hurt most.
But there was really no choice in the matter, not in the
sense of keeping his sanity. He couldn’t stay with Tanya,
and she was quite vocal about wanting him gone. And
Tanya wasn’t about to give up custody of Jeff as long as she
was still breathing—and collecting monthly payments. Ev
forcibly choked down another harsh bitter sip of his coffee,
then sat back in the booth and raised his eyes.
A man walked in the entrance of the diner. He was a
disheveled-looking fellow with long gray hair pulled back
into a tight ponytail and a full gray beard, dressed in faded
blue jeans and a black Harley-Davidson tee shirt. He lumbered into the diner with a large flat object under his arm,
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ance. Ev glanced out the front window of the diner, but
didn’t see the chrome stallion he imagined the biker-dude
rode in on.
“Hey there, Bill!” Sissy the waitress called to the man
who just came in, going over to give him a big bear hug and
showing him a seat at the far end of the breakfast bar, then
made her way around behind it to serve him.
Ev’s eyes returned to the steaming swirls rising from
his own coffee cup, as his thoughts returned to his son. He
was reluctant to admit it, but as awkward as the situation
was for him with Jeff, he would be wrong to try and change
it. As much as the bitch-sow could be contrary and vindictive toward himself, she loved their son as much as a
mother could love a child. He knew that. Yes, despite her
faults as a wife, Tanya had certainly been a devoted mother.
And though he would never give Tanya the satisfaction of
admitting it to her, he also knew she was right about his
lack of talent as a husband and father. He wasn’t Ward
Cleaver or Mike Brady or Howard Cunningham or Bill
Cosby like she wanted him to be. Hell, if he was to be
compared to a TV dad, he figured his aptitude for the job
would probably rate somewhere between Al Bundy and and
Homer Simpson. So who knows, Ev wondered, perhaps if
he really was dead, Jeff wouldn’t have to endure the emotional tug-of-war that raged between himself and Tanya.
“So what’cha got for me today?” Everett heard Sissy
ask the gray-haired biker, as she poured him a cup of coffee. She called back over her shoulder to the fry-cook,
“Hey, Tommy, Bill’s out here. Get him up a Grand Slam,
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eggs over-easy.”
A voice came from the pass-through, “Coming right
up!”
The burly man seated at the far end of the counter
pulled what appeared to be a 24x18 picture wrapped in
newsprint from under his arm and presented it with a flourish, “I got you a new masterpiece! Just like you wanted.”
Sissy took the package, peeled away the paper, and revealed an unframed canvass. From Ev’s vantage point in
the back booth, all he could see was that something very
colorful was painted on it.
“Oh!” Sissy exclaimed, “Bill, I think it’s your best one
yet. I absolutely love it!”
“Do you really?” the grizzled road warrior asked eagerly, his grin beaming from between his bristle-brush mustache and Brillo-pad beard.
“Well, tell me what do you think, Sara?” Sissy called
down the length of the diner’s counter, turning the painting
around to show it to a slender black woman dressed in hospital-whites, sitting at the opposite end of the counter, near
Ev’s booth. The painting was now in Ev’s direct line of
sight. He could see it was a breathtaking seascape, looking
over a white sand beach to gently rolling waves, which
were silhouetted against a crimson sunset.
“Very nice,” the woman responded with approval, popping a hunk of her cinnamon roll in her mouth, then wiping
her hands on a napkin as Sissy approached to give her a
better look. As the waitress drew closer Ev could see the
painting was very vivid and detailed. If the biker had
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painted it, as opposed to stealing it, which Ev considered
more likely of the two possibilities, it was amazing. He figured it had to be worth hundreds of dollars if not over a
thousand.
The biker called after Sissy, “If you really like it, it’s
going to cost you twenty-five this time.”
Sissy spun back in mock appall, “Twenty-five dollars!”
then huffed, “Well, if that’s what you want for it, then
that’s what you’ll get. You know it’s what I like.”
Twenty-five bucks? Ev was floored. Yep, had to be stolen. The old guy was probably some heroin hound in need
of a little cash to chase the dragon. Wonderful, he mused,
you stop in for a cup of coffee after you were almost blown
to bits and you discover you’ve wandered into a stolen art
ring. But all that seemed trivial at the moment, and Ev
pushed it from his mind, returning to his introspective
commiseration over his recent potential demise.
So who else in his life would give a damn if he really
had been incinerated in flight 1125 with all those other passengers? Both his parents were gone. What few relatives he
had didn’t really bother to stay in touch. Although he knew
dozens of people across the country, now that he thought
about it, from the day he graduated college sixteen years
ago, he’d never taken the time to develop any real lasting
and/or meaningful friendships. Not a one. He was still divorced and available. Not even a steady girlfriend at the
moment.
Who had time these days for such things?
Conclusion: No one would care, Ev. You’re pretty
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damn irrelevant.
Despite a single tear carving a rivulet through the fine
sheen of sweat down his left cheek, Ev’s half-laugh
chugged quietly again at the absurdity of the entire notion.
But it was true. No one would care. Well, a few of his
creditors might be pissed. Then again, maybe not. Now that
he thought about it, with the $250,000 life insurance policy
his company provided, all his debts would be completely
retired; and, as his beneficiary, Jeff would get the rest for
his college.
And that would be that.
With his elbows perched on the harvest-gold Formica
table top, Ev leaned over and wrung his head in his hands
like Job. A pounding throb was marching from the distance
into his temples, field drums thundering a battle cadence.
The tips of his fingers pressed against the pain, rotating in
little backward circles. This had to stop. Wallowing in this
death-spiral of tar baby fatalism was only making him all
the more depressed.
He looked up again.
His eyes returned to the painting in the waitress’ hands.
It was such a serene scene. Whoever did paint that picture
was someone who understood peace and tranquility. The
laid-back, no-worries, Jimmy Buffett music almost seemed
to come drifting out of the painter’s rich tints and hues. He
was half tempted to outbid the waitress and offer the biker
thirty dollars for picture.
The slender black woman, Sara, took the painting in her
hands and examined it carefully, asking the question Ev
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was wondering himself, “Sissy, this is really good. Did he
really do it?”
Sissy moved her body to the side, turning her back to
the biker, and now directly facing toward Ev, discretely
lowering her voice, but still within Ev’s earshot. Her eyes
crinkled, “Oh, yeah. He comes in here two or three times a
month to bring me a new one. I’ve got a whole box of them
at the house. Don’t know what I’m going to do with ‘em
all. I’ll probably give ‘em away this Christmas.”
Sara was shaking her head back and forth slowly in
amazement, “Well, he’s a fine painter. He should try to sell
them for more than twenty-five dollars. Girl, you’re stealing from him.”
“I most certainly am not. I’m paying him exactly what
he wants for them. And I know it makes him very happy.
Besides, he eats here for free. I take care of his tab out of
my tips. And that makes me happy.” Sissy’s voice dropped
to a level of the best gossip, “Don’t you even know who
that is?”
Sara peered down the bar. So did Ev.
“No. Who is he?” Sara lifted her own coffee cup to her
lips.
Sissy lifted the painting to shield her words, “That’s
William Clay.”
Ev’s eyes shot down to the Hell’s Angel nursing his cup
of Java. That name was very familiar. But the only William
Clay he knew of was supposed to be either dead or in some
insane asylum somewhere.
Sara shrugged, “Am I supposed to know who William
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Clay is?”
“Do you put Texas Oil Company gas in your car?”
Sissy prompted.
Ev was already shaking his head back and forth, his lips
parting in flabbergasted awe. It couldn’t be.
“Sometimes,” Sara replied.
“Well, that man sitting down there used to own most of
it.” Sissy set the painting down on the counter.
“What happened?” asked Sara. “Did he get fired?”
“No,” Sissy shrugged, “He was a multimillionaire. It
seems about seven or eight years ago he just got sick of it
all. So one day he just up and walked away. He told me he
hated the oil business. He hated big business in general.
Don’t get him started on that one unless you have time to
sit a while and hear about his daddy making him go to this
fancy school and that one, and pushing him along every
step of the way, whether he wanted to go or not. Poor thing.
He’d always wanted to be an artist. So one day he just up
and decides to do what he wants to do for a change. So he
quit his job.”
“No,” Sara pursed her lips.
Sissy’s eyebrows went up, “And then his snooty-bitch
wife up and leaves him and takes all the money. And you
know what? He didn’t even care. His family had a court
officially declare him mentally incompetent and took all the
rest. They said he had some kind of a breakdown, and then
they turned around and left him with nothing, literally living off the streets.”
“I can’t believe that,” Sara protested.
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“It’s true, swear to God on a stack of bibles,” Sissy
went on. “So he went and got himself a little apartment
down on lower Greenville, near SMU. He drives around
town in an ugly little red Toyota pickup truck with a couple
of hundred-thousand miles on it. He just paints all day long
and sells his paintings for just enough to cover his rent and
food and art supplies. He told me he doesn’t want any more
than that. Hell, he probably doesn’t have two nickels in his
pocket to rub together half the time.”
“That’s terrible,” Sara whispered, “Bless his heart.”
Sissy grinned, “No, it’s not terrible. It’s a miracle. I’m
telling you, I have never known a happier human being. He
lives like he wants. He comes and goes as he pleases. He’s
doing what he always wanted to do. And you’ll never find
that man without a smile on his face, a hug for your neck,
or the funniest stories. I’m telling you, he’s got more
friends now than Carter has pills. Believe me, girl, that man
will outlive us all.”
The voice from the pass-through bellowed, “Order’s
up!”
Sara laughed, “Well, then tell him to paint one for me.”
“I’ll do that,” Sissy returned the laugh, moving down
the counter to fetch the hot plate sliding up on the stainless
steel deck.
Ev wasn’t laughing. He was staring at the old man at
the end of the counter. Was that really William Clay, the
ex-chairman and CEO of the Texas Oil Company? That
man had everything. Ev could still remember seeing his
picture on the covers of Forbes and Time magazine, leaning
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up against his Rolls Royce in front of his Highland Park
mansion, right down the street from Ross Perot’s. And look
at him now, practically a street bum. He certainly didn’t
have all that long hair or bushy beard back then either. Oh,
no. He was groomed almost identical to the man named
Walter Clark he’d shared a beer with earlier that very afternoon.
Walter Clark.
Ev grimaced. His eyes glanced at the Hartman briefcase
and gray suit coat piled in the bench seat across from him.
Walter Clark was dead. So were a lot of other people. The
queasy feeling in his stomach was coming back. He looked
back at the elderly hippie biker. The man who once had
everything. The man who walked away from it all. The man
disowned by his family and publicly ridiculed and scorned.
The man who lost both his fortune and his good name. And
yet the more he stared at him, the more Ev started to see
something entirely different.
The waitress’ words echoed back: “I have never in all
my years known a happier human being. He lives like he
wants. He comes and goes as he pleases. He’s doing what
he always wanted to do…that man will outlive us all.”
William Clay, millionaire, was dead. Bill the happy
painter, sat at the end of an all-night diner counter scarfing
up eggs and bacon without a care in the world. My God, Ev
realized, now he has it all, with the hamster wheel nowhere
in sight.
How wonderful that might be, Ev mused, to just chuck
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ster wheel. That must have taken a great deal of courage for
that man sitting down there. Ev watched the biker-artist
laugh and begin telling an amusing story to Sissy, gesturing
quite a bit with his hands to illustrate his tale. That man
was going to go home to his apartment, sleep like a saint
with a clear conscience, wake up in the morning, pick up
his palette and brushes and create more beauty, then go
hang out with his friends, sell a painting here and there, tell
a joke, have a simple meal, and then happily do it over and
over again for the rest of his days.
Conversely, for Ev, when he got his head together, he
would go back to his own apartment, chug a few stiff drinks
to counteract all the caffeine and try to sleep (as if that were
even a possibility that night), only to get up tomorrow, to
start smilin’-and-dialin’ for dollars all over again. Then
there awaited the unending routine of running down the old
prospect lists, vetting the lead sheets, and setting up appointments and presentations. Then there was always the
internal wrestling matches with the engineers and the marketing pukes to actually make anything happen on the odd
chance a customer demonstrated the slightest inclination to
buy something. Oh, happy day. And many more days just
like it awaited their turn, leading all the way over the horizon as far as the mind’s eye could see.
The voice of self pity promptly spoke up, “Hey, stupid.
Remember back in High School English class? Remember
Arthur Miller’s play ‘Death of a Salesman’? Remember
that loser burn-out Willy Loman who killed himself after he
got fired? You two guys have an awful lot in common.
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Don’t you? Are you just going to run faster and faster in
your hamster wheel for years and years until your skills
grow dull and they fire you too, or until you can’t take it
anymore and you put yourself out of your misery like Willy
did? Say…you could have saved everyone a shit-load of
trouble by not missing your flight today.”
For the hundredth time Ev instantly recalled the searing
image branded into his brain of the tangled inferno on the
DFW tarmac, as towering tongues of red, white, yellow,
blue, and orange had climbed up the plumes of black and
gray, racing each other up over a hundred feet to be the first
to lick the sky. With no nails left to chew, he went to work
on his cuticles, remembering the mechanized cavalry of fire
fighters attacking the conflagration on three flanks. It had
been a valiant effort, but as useless as three guys trying to
piss out a forest fire. They’d be lucky to match dental records and DNA to anything left of those poor people, assuming they could find anything viable enough to test.
Nausea was welling up in his throat again.
So many dead.
Everett Manning’s head popped up as a sharp new chill
of realization suddenly ran up and down his spine and
slapped him cold in the face. He lifted his head and blinked
hard, twice in rapid succession. A blinding searchlight of
revelation poured in. His heart was pounding again.
It was crazy. It was utterly insane.
But it was true: Officially, he didn’t miss that flight.
He’d checked in. He’d watched the girl type his ticket into
the system. That meant his name was officially on the pas58
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senger manifest, which meant he would be counted among
the dead. Yes, as far as anyone else in the world knew,
Everett Manning was as dead as Walter Clark.
Everett Manning was still staring at Bill the happy
painter when he made a very important decision.
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CHAPTER 4
Steele, Alabama
Loretta Charles was sound asleep when she heard the
urgent banging on the front door of her mobile home. Their
basset hound, Blue, heard it first and jumped off the end of
the bed, which was just a box springs and mattress stacked
with no frame on the dark green shag carpet. The dog ran to
the door and started baying.
Danny, Loretta’s husband, felt the dog’s sudden movement and sat bolt upright, snapping on the small lamp next
to the bed, which was perched on a wooden produce crate
serving as a nightstand. “What’s wrong, Blue?”
Blue kept on baying, his claws tapping and scratching
across the vinyl flooring in the adjacent kitchen as he ran in
excited circles.
Loretta made it up on one arm, wiping sleep out of her
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weary eyes, trying to focus on Danny. “What is it, baby?”
More insistent bangs rang out against the door.
Danny Charles was already out of bed, wearing only his
boxers, fishing his thirty-eight revolver out of his top
dresser drawer, “I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to
go find out. Sounds like somebody’s out there. You stay
here.”
Loretta watched him disappear from the room. She
squinted at the alarm clock, reaching for her glasses. It was
just past midnight. She saw the glow of the kitchen light
coming on, then heard the front door swing open with a metallic shriek.
“Shit!” Her husband’s voice rang out, “Loretta, get out
here. Now!”
Loretta Charles sprang from the bed, dressed only in her
panties and a long orange sleep shirt with Garfield on the
front. She ran through the narrow bedroom/kitchen doorway, totally unprepared for what she saw. “Oh, my dear
gracious, God!”
There in the doorway, Loretta saw Danny struggling to
support Jenny Davis, where she had collapsed in his arms.
Blood ran down her right arm and dripped from her fingertips. The right side of her face was glowing red and swelling from what could only be a fierce blow. Her eyes were
glassy, the lids barely able to flutter open. Her feet were
bare, almost black with grime.
“Get her in,” Loretta fanned one hand as fast as it would
go, “Get her in!”
Blue continued to dance around everyone’s feet, want61
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ing to be part of the excitement, barking and wagging his
tail, piddling little drops as he ran in circles underfoot,
threatening to topple the entire group with one misstep.
They helped Jenny over to the dinette table and sat her
in a chair. It was then Loretta saw the chips of glass protruding from Jenny’s back. She snapped at Danny, “Hurry.
Go get me the alcohol, some cotton balls, and my sewing
box next to the washer. And be sure and grab the tweezers
out of the medicine cabinet.”
Danny looked pale, “Honey, she looks bad. Let me go
call the doctor.”
“No,” Jenny chirped, startling both Loretta, Danny, and
Blue into silence.
“Baby, you’re cut up pretty bad,” Loretta said in a calming voice. “You’re probably going to need some stitches
and a tetanus shot.”
“No!” Jenny violently shook her head. “Please! I don’t
want anyone to know where I am. I’ll be all right.”
Both Danny and Loretta exchanges a knowing look of
dismay.
“Go get me what I need,” Loretta commanded Danny
once more. “Bring the gauze, the adhesive tape, and see if
we have any of those butterfly bandages left in the BandAid can. We’ll get her cleaned up as best we can.”
Danny spun around and disappeared back toward the
bathroom/laundry room.
Loretta knelt down in front of Jenny, “What happened,
baby? Did he do this to you? He did, didn’t he.”
Dirty gray tears flowed freely down Jenny’s cheeks as
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she broke down and cried. “It’s real bad this time, Loretta.
Real bad. I can’t go back. Not this time. Not ever. And I
can’t let him find me. No matter what. I didn’t know where
else to go. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Oh, God…”
Loretta nodded, “I know, baby. I know. We’ll figure all
that out later.” She met the young woman’s tortured gaze,
“But it’s going to be OK now. You’re safe here. That bastard won’t ever do this again. I promise. Now come on over
to the sink and let me run some hot water for you.”
Standing by the small, single basin, stainless steel
kitchen sink, Loretta used her good sewing scissors to cut
the faded red “Roll Tide” tee shirt off of Jenny. It was damp
and heavy with her blood. The back of Jenny’s bra looked
like it had been used to clean up in a meat packing plant.
One piece of glass, still imbedded in her right shoulder
blade had severed the bra strap.
Danny politely remained in the bedroom in deference to
Jenny’s modesty, handing supplies through the doorway
onto the kitchen counter without coming into the room. But
on one occasion he got a glance at the petite woman’s back
and hot tears of anger filled his eyes. The lacerations were
mostly superficial, and there had been quite a bit of bleeding—but there were so many of them. It reminded him of
old pirate movies he had seen of men’s backs who had been
whipped with a cat-of-nine-tails, leaving a mesh pattern of
scars.
He returned to the tiny bedroom, lit a cigarette, and sat
on the edge of the bed with the thirty-eight in his hand,
massaging the barrel, trying to decide if he and his brother
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Johnny, and perhaps a friend or two should pay a visit on
Red Davis and explain the proper way to treat a lady.
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CHAPTER 5
Dallas, Texas
Yeah, of course it was a crazy idea, but what the hell.
What did he have to lose by trying? He continued to tell
himself that if he meticulously thought it all through, and
was careful, he just might get away with it. It should be
fairly easy: just slip quietly away, leave no forwarding address, start all over in a new place, start a new life, just like
Bill the painter.
And there you have it.
All night long that one simplistic idea was the most appealing thing Everett Manning had thought about in a long,
long time. It gave him goose-bumps—the very notion of
leaving the old worn out Ev Manning behind, just like Bill
the painter did, and disappearing, going somewhere far
away, somewhere new and exciting, and starting all over
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again, literally being reborn—it was intoxicating.
Could it really be that hard to just slip away?
Under the circumstances, he knew he had to give it a
try.
He had remained in his booth at the Denny’s in Irving
until almost 3:00 AM, only getting up to make a path to the
men’s room, which considering how much coffee he consumed, was now a well-worn path between those two
points in the linoleum. A phone call from a pay-phone by
the bathroom confirmed the first flights out of Love Field,
Dallas’ other major airport, departed shortly after 6:00 AM.
Somehow, he didn’t know exactly how, but somehow, he
planned to be on one of them. Certainly he couldn’t go back
to DFW. Sitting there all night in the café, getting more and
more wired on coffee, adrenaline, and the pure excitement
of new adventure—not only kept him wide awake, but gave
him a lot of time to think about what he was going to do,
and a little bit of how he was going to do it.
A few facts were abundantly clear: If Everett Manning
supposedly died the day before in a plane explosion, then
he couldn’t be seen alive by anyone he knew. Therefore, he
had to stay low. Each step of his exodus had to be meticulously thought through. And the more he thought about his
crazy plan, the more he hungered for it. On the other hand,
as he turned the possibilities over in his mind, the more
problems occurred to him. This wasn’t going to be as easy
as just getting on a different plane at a different airport and
flying to freedom. To buy plane tickets you had to identify
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ence, specifically a presence dated and time-stamped at a
point which proved you had not burned to a crisp or been
blown to bits in the smoldering hull of a Boeing 737 at 5:13
PM the previous afternoon.
And while we’re on the subject, Willy Loman, Jr., exactly where the hell are we going? Good question.
Where was he going specifically? He had no earthly
idea.
All Ev knew for sure was that if he had any hopes of
pulling off this silly stunt, then he had to get far away from
Dallas as quickly and discretely as possible to a place where
he could decide what came next. It had to be a place where
he wouldn’t be recognized or found. So until then, he had
to act as though he didn’t exist.
Time to become the Invisible Man.
The cab he had called picked him up in front of
Denny’s at just before 5:00 AM.
Ev stared out the Chevy Caprice’s rear passenger window as the antiseptic glass towers of North Dallas blurred
by, illuminated by the amber lights along the highway.
Thankfully, at that early hour of the morning, the bulk of
the heavy rush hour drivers were still in bed.
If indeed, Everett Manning was presumed dead, then
Everett Manning could not leave a traceable record of his
presence anywhere. That meant he couldn’t use his credit
cards. He couldn’t even use his corporate credit card. No
ATM card either. All of them left traceable records of the
time it was used. Not even his driver’s license was of any
use. That’s why all of those items, along with his cell phone
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and pager with the batteries removed, were mashed deep
down in a garbage dumpster behind Denny’s. He began to
nervously wring his hands, then nibble on a thumbnail.
More logistical problems surfaced in his mind. How
was he going to be able to rent a car? How could he even
check into a hotel? What was he going to do for money?
And assuming he solved all those puzzles, then what? His
eyes went to Walter’s gray wool suit jacket laying on the
car seat next to him.
Get lucky.
Yes, it was there, in the breast pocket: Walter Clark’s
long, black, eel-skin leather dress wallet.
Inside the wallet was Walter’s driver’s license, a Gold
Visa card from Citibank, an American Express Corporate
Card, and almost three-thousand dollars in cash, all in hundred dollar bills.
“Jackpot!” he exclaimed, as a warm rush of adrenaline
washed over him.
“Wot-iss-zat, sur?” the barely English-speaking noxiously aromatic driver piped up, glancing with bushy eyebrows arched high in the rearview mirror.
“Nothing,” Ev waved, amazed the driver could see the
road over the abundant stack of books, pamphlets, and religious artifacts mounted across the dash and hanging from
the rearview mirror. He closed the wallet, slipping it inside
the breast pocket of his own coat.
Fool’s gold, his mind told him, as the moment of elation faded. Yes, it might help for a short time, but not for
long. As soon as the late Walter Clark was officially
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counted among the dead, just as he himself would be from
the passenger manifest, and Walter’s family was notified,
then all his accounts would be frozen. However, that would
take time. It wouldn’t happen immediately, a few days at
the least. But what would happen if they received record at
a later date that his cards had been used shortly after his
death? Ev scratched his chin thoughtfully.
How would that work?
He speculated that logically they’d figure he’d either
missed the plane and wait at least twenty-four hours for him
to turn up; or more likely, they’d assume he’d had his wallet stolen prior to his demise, cancel the cards, and that
would be that. Or worst case, they might even suspect Walter Clark was running off to join the Foreign Legion.
Thankfully, none of those scenarios disputed the death of
Everett Manning. Therefore, at least for a day or two, the
cards should work. That’s all the time he reasonably expected to be able to use them. Maybe it would be enough to
help effect his escape. That’s all he wanted. He had no intentions of going on any felonious shopping sprees courtesy
of the late Walter Clark.
The thought did occur to him that using someone else’s
credit cards and cash was technically against the law, but he
rationalized to himself that under the circumstances the
former owner surely wouldn’t miss them, and no real theft
of property was going to occur anyway. If he used them to
buy a plane ticket, the plane was going there anyway.
Right? What did it matter if one more seat was occupied.
He’d already decided to pay cash for food. And Walter’s
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cash was left behind for anyone to find and take, he told
himself, so technically that was finders-keepers fair game.
However, at least for the time being, he needed to borrow
something even more important from Walter’s wallet than
his cash or credit cards.
Ev pulled the wallet out of his coat pocket and opened it
again. He removed Walter Clark’s Arizona driver’s license.
There was Walter’s “Oscar night” looking grin in the picture. Ev shook his head in dismay.
Another problem literally stared him in the face: there
was no way in hell anyone was going to look at that photo
of this distinguished older man and sell Everett Manning a
plane ticket. Nor was there any way to simply add his picture to this card. It wasn’t a laminate. The picture was digitally printed right on the plastic. As the taxi pulled off of I35, and turned left onto Mockingbird Lane, Ev spotted a
24-hour copy shop and he got an idea.
He leaned forward, “Driver, would you please pull over
to that copy place over there on the right for a minute? I
need to take care of a quick errand.”
With barely a nod of acknowledgment, the cab driver
spun the wheel hard and bounced into the parking lot, tires
squealing. Ev was already opening the door before the car
came to a full stop.
Inside the copy shop, with a flurry of new and potentially criminal ideas whirling in his head, Ev set up his laptop computer. With the tools he had at his disposal, it took
less than ten minutes for him to create what he thought
looked like a passable out-of-state driver’s license. It bore
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no major resemblance to Walter’s original one, but that
wasn’t the point. If his theory was right, it didn’t need to be
authentic. It only needed to look like something official and
unfamiliar. This wasn’t U.S. Customs or the Secret Service
he was trying to get by, just some hourly paid ticket clerk in
the middle of the morning rush hour.
OK. Open. New file. Cut. Paste. Resize. Fill. Textured
background. Change line color. Helvetica 10. Bold Font.
Looks good. State of Arizona Department of Public Safety.
Name. Walter Clark. Address. Who cares, make something
up…City. Phoenix. State. AZ. Zip. Whatever. Date of Birth.
OK. Height. Close enough. Weight. In your dreams, or
maybe before you turned thirty. Vision. No restrictions.
OK. Open templates folder. Miscellaneous art. Copy official-looking eagle seal thing. Paste. Center. Shrink. Border? No, too much. Simple is good.. Yeah.
There we go…SAVE.
Thank God for clip-art. Oh, it certainly looked official.
It had to work, he told himself. What’s the chance some
busy ticket agent is going to know what a driver’s license
from every state in the Union looks like? He left a blank
square in the upper right hand corner to insert his picture.
That part of the project was pretty easy. It only took a borrowed artist’s razor knife from a sleepy-eyed, pimple-faced
copy shop clerk, and his Incom employee ID badge.
Amazing even himself, in less than thirty minutes,
Everett Manning had a reasonable facsimile of an official
looking piece of identification printed on a color laser
printer, cut down to business card size, with his picture
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stuck on with a little piece of rolled Scotch-Tape. For good
measure, he ran it through a card lamination machine at the
copy shop that took dollar bills. The laminator’s advertisement showed a Social Security Card being processed “for
protection.” It obviously was there for that very purpose.
The new card was then slipped behind the clear plastic
window in Walter’s eel-skin wallet. It looked very convincing.
God bless modern technology.
The cab driver had graciously waited for an extra ten
dollar tip. In another fifteen minutes, Everett Manning, was
standing in line at Southwest Airlines gate number six, preparing to pick up a boarding pass for a commuter flight to
New Orleans. It didn’t even occur to him that it might be
perceived as odd, standing there still weighed down with
two briefcases, a laptop computer, and an extra suit coat.
His mind was on other things.
In New Orleans he decided he would make a connection
to a two segment flight to Orlando. From Orlando, just to
be safe and cover his tracks, he decided he would fabricate
another ID under a completely different name, switch airlines, and then pay cash for a cheap one-way commuter
flight down to Miami. From there he figured he could perhaps charter a “no questions” boat to take him somewhere
pleasant to hide out till he figured out what came next. It
wasn’t a great escape plan, but it was the best he could
come up with on a Denny’s napkin in the middle of the
night. It would have to do in a pinch.
The first real test was only a few minutes away.
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His Southwest Airlines ticket had been purchased up at
the main lobby at their electronic-ticket kiosk machines,
which didn’t require talking to anyone or showing an ID.
That was perfect. Walter Clark’s Corporate American Express Card had worked just fine, covering the four-hundred
and fifty-two dollar fare all the way to Orlando. The ten
sweaty seconds it took to show the young man at the gate
his newly manufactured out-of-state driver’s license and
retrieve his blue plastic boarding card went just as easy.
Well, almost.
“Have a nice flight, Mr. Clark,” the chipper young man
smiled, looking up from his terminal screen to hand over
the boarding pass, but then furrowed his brow in a knot of
concern just before releasing it. “Mr. Clark, is everything
all right? You sure are sweating. Are you OK?”
Oh, shit. He knows.
Holding the other end of the long flat hunk of blue plastic with the number 57 emblazoned on both ends in large
black block letters, with Walter’s jacket still draped over
his forearm, Ev was instantly paralyzed with felon’s guilt.
He could feel his face burning red, his heart thumping in his
temples. The panicked image of just letting go, dropping
everything, and running like hell ran though his mind until
he realized what the young man had actually asked.
He choked the words out, “Oh…uh…yeah, I’m all
right. But thanks for asking. I don’t know…” He feigned a
convincing sounding cough and patted his chest, “I’ve just
been feeling kind of tired and run down the last couple of
days. Don’t know what it is. Didn’t sleep much last night.”
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The gate agent looked sympathetic, releasing the boarding pass, “Well, I hope you get where you’re going soon,
Mr. Clark, so you can get some rest.”
“Me too,” Ev whispered.
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CHAPTER 6
New York City, New York
Yvette Monroe rolled over on the rumpled pile of sheets
and pointed the TV remote at the television. She found
CNN. A commercial was on. Headline News would start in
a minute or so. She glanced down. The silver champagne
bucket still stood by the side of the bed. An empty bottle of
Cristal stood bottoms up in the melted ice water. Condensation beaded around the exterior of the bucket and dripped
every few seconds to a dark three inch wet spot on the thick
carpet below.
Yvette sat up and stretched. Her hand went to the nightstand, brushed several torn condom wrappers out of the
way, and found her pack of cigarettes and a disposable butane lighter. She lit one, stood, and walked toward the window, loving the feel of the rich pile of the Plaza Hotel’s
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high-grade carpet under her feet. She looked out the tenth
story window, which afforded her a spectacular view of the
treetops of New York’s Central Park. The mid-morning
shadows of the upper east side high-rises had fallen across
half of the imprisoned greenbelt. Beautiful. It was a pity
she’d have to leave the city so soon.
She glanced to her left and noted her reflection in the
tall oval antique dressing mirror in the corner. Her long
fiery red curls were a tangled and telling tale of carnal mischief, a veritable five-alarm Whore of Babylon by Vidal
Sassoon. No problem, that could be combed into a bun and
hidden under a hat before she left. The smeared raccoon
makeup was imminently repairable as well. She stopped
and turned side-to-side, still pleased at the statuesque shape
she kept her body.
Not a speck of cellulite on her long legs or hips. Could
have been a dancer, she smiled. It was a captivating smile,
well used in combination with her dazzling green eyes as
tools of the trade. Her bountiful breasts were real, and still
stood up and announced her arrival whenever she entered a
room. One wouldn’t exactly call her stomach a bodybuilder’s washboard, but it still looked great in a bikini, and
just fine as she stood there nude before the mirror. A glance
down to the auburn splash of silken hair in her crotch reminded her of a need for a trim. Yes, about time for the
bushwhacker again; but other than that, not much tread lost
since she was nineteen. Still got what it takes, babe. Not too
bad for a thirty-six year old broad, she grinned, pulling in a
long drag on her cigarette and blowing a cloud at the thick
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plate glass window.
The TV played CNN’s Headline News theme song,
“Good morning from Atlanta, this is CNN Headline News.
Our top story, investigators are still combing through the
wreckage for clues in yesterday’s apparent bombing at the
Dallas Fort Worth International Airport. Domestic Terrorism experts say…”
Yvette spun toward the television, the violins of alarm
striking a dissonant note within her.
The female talking-head read the TelePrompTer with
the official eyebrows-furrowed, no-smiling, shocked and
saddened, serious-news voice, “…in what authorities are
speculating to potentially be a deliberate terrorist attack. An
apparent massive explosion took the lives of 142 thus far:
132 passengers, six crew members, and four grounds personnel, along with seventy-seven injured airport personnel
and travelers, many of them still listed in critical condition.
At the height of rush hour, in one of the U.S.’s busiest airports, the explosion completely destroyed ExecuAir Flight
1125 scheduled from Dallas/Forth Worth International Airport to Washington, DC. No group has yet claimed responsibility. National Transportation Safety Board personnel are
working in cooperation with FBI, the Department of Homeland Security, and other local authorities…”
The picture of the reporter, with an icon over her left
shoulder depicting an airplane broken in two, with a red
starburst in the middle of it, cut to a frantic scene of smoke
and blackened metal surrounded by fire trucks and ambulances. Hastily edited cutaway shots showed bleeding and
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burned ramp crew members being hauled away on stretchers with thick foam braces on their necks and respirator
masks taped to their faces. It was a war scene—casualties
and triage. As the report segued from the kicked-overanthill frenzy to reaction shots from terrorized travelers being asked inane questions regarding their willingness to
ever fly again and who they suspected was responsible for
this dastardly deed, Yvette turned back to the window.
She blew another thick gray cloud pluming against the
glass. The flood of yellow cabs streamed by on Central
Park South below, dodging the horse drawn carriages, bicycles, skaters, and pedestrians, blaring their horns every few
seconds.
Her hands were trembling.
It couldn’t be. Too much of a coincidence. So who?
It didn’t matter as far as the job was concerned. Yet, if
it was true, it just saved her a trip to Washington that afternoon. This required confirmation. She walked back to the
bedside, her eyes returning to the small color television
screen as she picked up a cell phone and dialed a number
from memory.
A voice answered on the second ring, “Yes?”
“Have you seen the news?” she asked evenly.
“We have,” the voice replied.
“And?” She couldn’t believe they would have done this
behind her back, but considering the stakes, it was understandable that multiple contingencies would be planned.
There was certainly no margin for error here.
“Was this your work?” the voice demanded.
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That question answered the one she was about to ask.
Yvette hesitated before answering, a queer smile pulling up
the edges of her lips, her mind sifting and examining various suspicions and possibilities.
She opted for ambiguity, “Does it matter how it happened?”
There was an edge of irritation in the reply, “All things
considered, probably not. But this method wasn’t what was
agreed. Very messy. Not your usual style.”
She blew out another puff of smoke, “If the job’s done,
and the point made, then don’t complain.”
“We need confirmation that he was even on that plane,”
the voice shot back. “And that was only half the job. What
about the other half?”
Yvette’s eyes stole to the closed bathroom door. “Complete.”
“You have the merchandise?”
“I have it,” she glanced at the metal skinned Halliburton
briefcase sitting across the bedroom suite on the dinette table.
“Good. You know what to do with it. Secondary gone.
Now bring us the primary. You know what’s at stake.”
She sighed, “Do you really think anyone or anything
could have survived that explosion?”
“It doesn’t matter what we think. Just confirm.”
“As you wish,” she hit the END button on her cell
phone. A tingling in her bones, a feeling she trusted implicitly, told her something was indeed amiss. Yes, confirmation was an absolute imperative.
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She grabbed her cigarettes and lighter, along with her
cell phone, and walked over to the dinette table and opened
her own black leather attaché, removing a laptop computer.
She set her cell phone within proximity of the laptop’s Infrared port so the two automatically connected. She then
pulled out a power adapter and plugged it into the phone to
keep its battery charged. In a few minutes, with a freshly lit
cigarette between her lips, she was online and wirelessly
surfing in Cyberspace.
Yvette knew this exercise could take hours, and in all
likelihood not turn up anything. However, there was always
a chance—albeit a slim one, but a chance nonetheless to
find what she was looking for. If the target had indeed suspected something awry and had decided to run, then time
was of the essence.
At that moment everything depended on how levelheaded he was thinking. A nasty brush with death might
mean panic, even for a man with his reputation. And panic
was the mother of bad decisions. Bad decisions inevitably
led to mistakes. And mistakes were almost always traceable. One merely needed to know where to look and what
to look for.
“Let’s start with credit cards,” she whispered to the
color screen.
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CHAPTER 7
Over Louisiana
So far, so good.
Everett Manning sat quietly near the back of the
Southwest Airlines Boeing 737 as it winged its way toward
New Orleans. He kept his nose buried in a magazine he
bought at the airport, reading an article about vacationing in
the Caribbean. It was filled with colorful pictures of applegreen and turquoise-blue waters lapping up in transparent
waves upon white talcum powder beaches, beneath cloudless sapphire blue skies, all for the enjoyment of beautiful,
near-naked, zero-body-fat, tanned gods and goddesses doing happy fun things.
The image made him think of Bill the painter and his
work.
Boy, that looked nice. Once again, he could almost hear
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Jimmy Buffett playing “Margaritaville” in the background.
Oh, such happy fun. He wished he was doing happy fun
things. He wished he was on the beach he was looking at.
But right now the peace and the serenity and the happy and
the fun of the sun-bleached beaches seemed light years
away.
What the hell am I doing? I must have lost my mind.
Despite most of the people on the plane curled up with
blankets, Ev hadn’t stopped sweating since he left DFW the
previous afternoon. His shirt was soaked. His neck and
crotch itched. His feet were swollen. He had no change of
clothes with him, not even a toothbrush. Naturally, the
black Tumi garment bag on wheels he’d bought only a
month ago had been in the cargo hold of Flight 1125. It was
toast. Sure he could buy a new shirt, but then what? He had
cash, which wouldn’t last forever either. So how long did
he have? A week or two at the outside, maybe? A month?
And would this lunatic fantasy end as abruptly as it began?
And then what?
It was obvious. There had to be a new source of income. He couldn’t live off the street. No, Everett Manning
was used to earning a comfortable gross income of around
$10,000 a month—even if Uncle Sam got almost $4,000 a
month of it, and Tanya got $2,000, leaving him with less
than $400 a month in discretionary cash after he paid rent,
utilities, bills, etc. That wasn’t a great margin of error, especially when the car insurance came due, or something
needed repair. He didn’t relish the idea of begging on street
corners with a cardboard sign, “WILL WORK FOR
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GREENS FEES, CART, AND CLUB RENTAL.”
And where would he sleep?
Everett Manning was having a hard time dealing with
the notion that although this new presumption of his death
offered him a strange new-found freedom, said freedom
came in the form of being unemployed and homeless.
But was he entirely unemployable?
Yes, that was the answer. As soon as he got to some
semblance of sanctuary he would have to find a way to get
a job. But as what? While the fantasy of tending bar at
some beachside resort in Barbados had a certain romantic
appeal, he didn’t think he could do that for long, watching
the tourists enjoying life while he stood on the sidelines
washing lipstick and cigarette butts out of glasses.
Now owning a bar in the islands might not be such a
bad idea. Actually, that was quite appealing. He could always hire people to wash glasses while he flirted with the
scantily-clad beach bunnies and romantically-inclined divorcees on holiday. But menial labor and heavy lifting was
definitely out. Too much like real work. Joining the Foreign
Legion was also out. Too hot, too much sand, too much
marching. Besides, he wasn’t a “uniform” kind of guy. He
respected those who wore uniforms, and appreciated the
sacrifices they made, it just wasn’t his cup of chamomile, as
they say.
Sorry, but Everett Manning was far too used to earning
good money and enjoying the niceties of what good money
afforded in terms of a fine quality of life, especially at corporate expense. You couldn’t get a fine cigar or a glass of
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vintage Cognac on foodstamps. But he was bright and resourceful, dammit. He was talented. He would just have to
find a way to discretely market those talents. But as what?
A smile crept across his face.
Answer: As pretty much anything, really. Death meant
no baggage from the past. Have laptop computer, will
travel. He pulled his laptop case out from under his feet,
unzipped it, pulled out the notebook-sized machine, lifted
the screen, and hit the On button. With it sitting on his tray
table, after it came to life, he launched his word processor
and stared at a blank page. The emptiness of the white
screen before him was both frightening and exhilarating.
Talk about writing your own ticket!
He was getting giddy again. OK, admittedly, he realized
he would have to be careful about selecting a new firm, but
the risk seemed acceptable. He knew damn good and well
when he got his last job they never really checked any of
his references. In fact, in most high-dollar jobs employers
figure any references you bother to put down are only going
to say nice things about you, or you wouldn’t have listed
them. They’re typically just looking for familiar company
names and executive titles to demonstrate you’re well connected. So why bother to call? In fact, the only way his present company even knew who he really was at all was when
they made a photocopy of his driver’s license and Social
Security Card for the Federal I-9 form. And hey, all it takes
is a good color laser printer down at the local copy shop to
produce those. Right?
A cold shiver rippled though him.
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Staring at the blank page before him, he realized he was
about to invent a new soul, a new character in his strange
new play, starring himself naturally. So who did he want to
be? And what did he want to be? It couldn’t be a profession
like a brain surgeon that would actually require him to
know specific details and skills of a specialty field. No, it
had to be something very general, yet lucrative. But it
couldn’t be anything too high profile, or that might attract
unwanted attention.
His smile returned. He thought of the late Walter
Clark’s business card. It was still in his jacket pocket. He
pulled it out and looked at it. No, he couldn’t be the late
Walter Clark much longer, but he could certainly give Walter’s profession a shot.
He slipped the card back in his jacket side pocket and
typed neatly across the top of the page “David Albright,
Consultant.”
What could be more vague and potentially lucrative
than consulting?
He looked at the name he just typed. David Albright. It
just flew off the tips of his fingers for no real reason other
than he thought it sounded cool—conservative, businesslike, and all-American to be sure—but still cool.
“The name’s Albright. David Albright,” he grinned at
the screen, doing his best Sean Connery impression, teeth
clenched, chin jutting forward. “Vodka martini, please,
shaken not stirred.”
“Sorry, Mr. Albright, don’t have any vermouth on
board. How about a vodka tonic?” the flight attendant at
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this elbow asked.
Ev nearly screamed, bouncing his laptop in the air as
his knees collided with the underside of his tray table. He
grabbed it, pulling the screen down. He was drowning in
red-faced embarrassment as he managing to stammer, “Oh!
I’m sorry,” then choked out an embarrassed laugh, “Oh,
yeah. OK. A VT will be just fine.”
The flight attendant gave him a queer glare.
Oh that was good, buddy boy. Why not just hang a sign
around your neck: LIAR, FELON, IMPOSTER, RIGHT
HERE! PLEASE ARREST ME BEFORE I HURT SOMEONE OR POKE AN EYE OUT!
It wasn’t physically possible for him to slink any lower
in his seat. His cheeks were blushing scarlet as he took the
small clear plastic cup with too much ice in it and the little
plastic miniature bottle of cheap vodka from the flight attendant’s hand. The formerly half-asleep gentleman sitting
next to him, now wide-eyed and looking uncomfortably
nervous, took a Coke. The elderly black woman by the
window reading her Bible requested a coffee with non-dairy
creamer and Sweet-N-Low. Ev dutifully handed the drinks
down the row with little bags of peanuts. After he handed
the attendant four dollars, he shut off his laptop and decided
that this particular creative writing exercise could wait until
he was safely alone.
As he sipped his drink with an unsteady hand, he sincerely wondered if that moment would ever come.
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CHAPTER 8
LaGuardia IAP, New York
“I’m on the 11:10 non-stop to Orlando,” Yvette Monroe
spoke evenly into the phone, brushing a stray red lock out
of her field of vision, curling it around the frame of her
dark shades. Her finger returned to plug her left ear so she
could better hear the anxious voice in her right ear over the
busy airport terminal cacophony. “…that’s right. It gets me
in around 2:30 this afternoon, about a half an hour ahead of
him.”
“What did you find out?” the party on the other end inquired.
“Only that early this morning, someone named Walter
Clark purchased a plane ticket to Orlando via New Orleans
with his corporate credit card, and is now headed there.”
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stant vigil, scanning back and forth across the crowded LaGuardia terminal, making sure no one was looking at her
with other than admiration or lust in their eyes.
“Are you sure it’s our Mr. Clark?”
“Negative. That’s what I have to find out,” she replied.
“Chances are it is him he’s running, and will make an attempt to leave the country. I would. And if he wasn’t on
that plane, then he undoubtedly is fully aware that what
happened in Dallas was no accident. Which, considering
his background, makes him especially dangerous.”
“You can’t intercept him in New Orleans?”
“There’s no time,” she reached into her purse for her
cigarettes. Better to get her nicotine fix before sitting on a
plane for the next three hours. “Fortunately the flight he’s
on makes a short milk-run stop in Birmingham, Alabama,
or I’d miss him entirely. But don’t worry. I’ll get there in
plenty of time to meet whomever gets off that plane in Orlando this afternoon.”
“What if it isn’t him?”
“Then I’ll just have to find out who it is that’s using a
dead man’s credit cards. It could be an accomplice. It could
be a decoy. We don’t know. But either way I need to find
out, and then take care of it accordingly.” She glanced
down at her watch. “Look, I’ve got to go. They’re boarding
by now. I’ll call you later with an update.”
Yvette Monroe placed the receiver back in the pay
phone cradle. As she turned and walked away, she kept her
deep emerald eyes hidden behind the black Ray Bans, scanning left and right all the while.
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CHAPTER 9
Birmingham IAP, Alabama
Ev thought it safer to sit by the window in the very last
row on the two remaining flight segments from New Orleans to Orlando. Less conspicuous. Less chance of conversation. Less chance of confrontation. Less chance of
another nosy stewardesses sneaking up on him. His cheeks
still turned red every time he thought about that.
The first half of the journey turned out to be a pleasantly uneventful leg, not too crowded, and thankfully no
tour-guide co-pilot. The layover in Birmingham was only
supposed to be forty-five minutes. When the plane touched
down in Alabama, Ev realized how incredibly hungry he
was. Southwest Airlines didn’t serve meals on the short
segment flights, so the idea of grabbing a quick airport hot
dog—chocked full of lard, nitrates, and bug parts for the
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hearty eater—was suddenly very appealing.
With his laptop safely secured under the seat in front of
his, and his black soft-side, the Hartman, and Walter’s suit
jacket neatly packed in the overhead bin above, Ev clambered into the aisle and deplaned. With a freshly issued red
plastic boarding pass, by virtue of his custom-made Walter
Clark ID card still working fine, he made his way to one of
the fast food concessions in the terminal. He purchased a
“jumbo dog,” an alleged piece of meat the size of a baby’s
arm, wrapped in a loaf of bread, smothered in sauerkraut
and chili, priced similar to a new Chevy. He wolfed it down
with a soda and a bag of Fritos.
His mind was still having trouble accepting all this was
really happening, or that he was really doing it, or that there
was a snowball’s chance in hell he’d get away with it. But
there was no way to stop. It was like a drug. However, he
kept a vigilant watch all around him, as though at any moment a sadistic Gestapo Major dressed in black and silver
would appear out of nowhere and ask him for his papers,
then have him shot on sight when he failed to remember the
Fuhrer’s birthday.
Returning to the gate, Ev saw that there were only about
fifty people waiting to catch the last segment of the flight
from Birmingham to Orlando. Two women sitting together
near the departure door caught his eye—not for being exceptional beauties, for they were both rather averagelooking at first glance—rather, it was something else.
Unlike all the other bored passengers impatiently milling
about, he noticed that both these women looked very upset.
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One woman held what appeared to be a well-used
handkerchief to her nose. She was sniffing, and from the
look of her red and puffy face, she had spent a lot of time
crying. In fact, the right side of her face was so red it
looked sunburned. The woman was somewhat petite and
disheveled, in perhaps her late twenties or early thirties,
with a mane of blond hair cascading down to her intermittently bobbing shoulders. She wore an oversized blue
denim work shirt and blue jeans that appeared overly
baggy. Only the tips of her fingers extended from the shirt
cuffs.
Oh, well, Ev observed, guess it’s the style these days.
Maybe a Seattle grunge thing. However, the long sleeves
themselves appeared oddly out of place, especially in light
of the stifling summer heat and humidity outside, not to
mention their Florida destination. Even her tennis shoes
appeared a little oversized. Ev hoped for her sake she remembered to pack some shorts and tee-shirts.
The blond’s companion was a brunette, of similar age, a
little on the heavy side, but sweet and motherly looking.
Her arm was draped around the blond woman’s shoulders,
obviously doing her best to be comforting. She wore a
bright orange Auburn University tee-shirt and blue jeans of
the same style as her blond companion. However, the brunette’s pants appeared to fit her properly. Though she wore
fairly thick-framed glasses which obscured most of her
face, she looked as though she had been doing a bit of crying herself.
Must have been a death in the family.
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Ev walked over and sat down a few seats away, eager to
just get back on the plane and get moving again. The farther
away from Texas he was, the better he felt.
“It’s going to be all right, Jenny,” the brunette hugged
her forehead against the blond’s left ear, trying to keep her
voice low, but obviously that was a skill completely foreign
to her. “You know it’s for the best.”
The blond, now identified as Jenny, just nodded, crumpling the hankie to her nose again and squeezing her eyes
shut.
“Now you be sure and call Wayne and Cathleen just as
soon as you get there,” Ev heard the Brunette instruct.
Ev concluded the brunette was a woman used to giving
instructions, plain and simple, and often. She was either a
school teacher, had a large brood of her own, a well-trained
dog, or all of the above. Her matriarchal tone was one that,
though assuring and well meaning, left no room for rebuttal.
The woman continued, “They’ll be expecting you. And
Cathleen told me you could stay with them till you get
yourself all settled. So now don’t you worry none a’tall.
You hear?”
Jenny picked her head up, looking into the brunette’s
eyes, “Thank you so much, Loretta. You don’t know what
all this means to me.”
Loretta touched her finger to Jenny’s lips, her voice
compassionate, but grave, “I know, honey. Believe me, I
know. I’m just so glad it’s all getting taken care of now before it got too late.”
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“But what if…” Jenny began to ask.
“It won’t happen,” Loretta cut her off. “I don’t care if he
calls, or your mama, or Beth, or Ellen, or anybody. I know
what to say. You know you’re doing the right thing. There’s
no more discussion. Right? It’s what we decided. It’s what
you have to do. Baby, I’ll call and check on you tomorrow.
Once you have a chance to let everything settle down,
you’ll see you’ve done right.”
Jenny slowly nodded again.
Ev frowned, his curiosity getting the best of him. Obviously, it was none of his business what the problem was
here. And the last thing he needed was to do anything that
would attract undue attention to himself. He had quite
enough of his own problems at the moment, thank you very
much.
Be the Invisible Man.
He had to force himself to look away. As if by divine
providence, a minute later the gate agent came on the loudspeaker and called the flight to board. People stood up and
began collecting their carry-ons and sundries. Passengers
one through thirty were invited to board. Ev returned to his
seat in the last row by the window on the right side of the
plane, seat F, picking up his “Seat Occupied” card. He
checked to make sure his laptop case was still safely tucked
under the seat in front of him.
All was well.
He was staring out the window watching the rampers
load the luggage up the mobile conveyor belt when he
heard, “Is this seat taken?”
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Ev spun his head to his left. Standing in the aisle before
him was the sad-faced blond, pointing to the aisle seat in
his row. She had the biggest blue eyes he’d ever seen on
another human being. Obviously those eyes had looked a
lot better than they did at that moment, ringed with red and
moist with recent tears, but they took his breath away for a
second nonetheless.
He shook his head, his mouth moving of its own accord, “Uh, no. Go right ahead.”
With some obvious physical difficulty, the young
woman shoved a small green gingham tote bag in the overhead compartment above her and took her seat. She picked
up the seat belts on either side of her, holding up two metal
buckles, one in each hand, neither one of them a tab, looking back and forth at each. Ev was about to say something
he thought was incredibly funny to cheer the poor girl up
when the young woman burst into tears, her chin sinking to
her chest.
“Hey, hey there,” Ev raised the armrest and slid to her
aid. “No problem, here let me help. Here you go…” He
found the missing tab stuffed down in the crack between
the aisle and the center seat, “…here, just a little mix-up.
These things always get twisted up. Happens to me all the
time. I hate that.” He gently took the near buckle out of her
hand, exchanged it for the tab and latched it over her lap for
her. “There we go. All fixed. No problem.”
She blushed, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth for a
second, “I’m so sorry, sir…I…I just…and it was all…” and
then looked away with the tips of her fingers covering her
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mouth, chin trembling. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s nothing,” he assured her, sliding back over to his
own seat, giving her some space, settling in, and securely
buckling his own seat belt. “No problem. All fixed.”
An awkward moment of silence passed where Ev felt
the need to say something, yet nothing came to mind that
seemed appropriate. He absolutely hated to see anyone
around him distressed. His job as a salesman was predicated on placating unruly clients, solving problems, and
keeping people happy. He’d do anything within his power
to get a smile out of someone if it was physically possible,
short of knocking them down and tickling them, and normally he was quite adept at the task. He had no idea what
this woman’s story was, but this was obviously someone
who was wound way too tight. It also suddenly occurred to
him that she was the first person he’d had a chance to speak
with since his brief conversation with a well dressed gentleman named Walter Clark. The image of Walter downing
his beer in three big swallows came back to him. That
spawned an idea.
He took a deep breath, “Please don’t take this wrong,
Miss, but you look like someone who could really use a
beer. What do you say? I’m buying.”
She turned back, facing him, touching him with those
deep blue eyes, blinking a fresh tear down the side of her
nose and catching it with her tongue as it reached the corner
of her mouth. She sniffed and did her best to force a smile,
her Southern accent seasoning her words ever so proper and
polite, “Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you.” She
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leaned back in her seat, looking down the length of the aisle
toward the front of the plane, then took a deep breath and
blew it out hard, her eyes stretching wide, “Actually, right
now I think I really could use a beer. Maybe two.”
“Great. We just have to wait for the beverage gal.” Ev’s
thoughts returned to Walter Clark once more. Funny. That
was Walter’s last gesture of generosity, to buy an absolute
stranger a beer. That made Ev smile to himself as he figured Walter Clark would probably be happy to know that
was how some of his money was being spent.
Takeoff was blessedly uneventful. When the beverage
service finally came along, Ev indeed bought two beers,
one for himself, and as promised, one for his damsel-indistress seat-mate.
“I was just teasing. You really didn’t have to…” she
began.
“Please. I want to,” he replied. He lifted his beer can, “I
hate to drink alone. It’s rude. Please join me. To Walter.”
“Who’s Walter?” she asked.
Ev grinned, “The patron saint of new beginnings.”
The young woman blossomed a genuine smile, raising
her can in a little salute, “I like that. OK then, to St. Walter.”
They tinked cans together and drank.
When the flight attendant passed by again, Ev bought a
second round.
Everett Manning genuinely admired a woman who liked
beer. In his book enjoyment of the fruits of the brewmasters art was a sign of noble character, at least the kind
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of character he appreciated. Over the last four years since
his divorce he’d had more than his fill of plastic, stuck-up,
Zinfandel-sipping, salad-eating, convertible-cruising, silicone-implanted, Neiman-Marcus shopping, North Dallas
bitches. Give Ev Manning a real woman who was all
woman, with no artificial additives or preservatives, who
likes the three B’s: beer, baseball, and barbecue, and he was
in paradise. So far, pending further investigation, this young
woman seemed to have serious potential. Besides, talking
to her temporarily took his mind off of his own situation
and helped pass the time. He knew if he continued to stew
in those stressful juices much longer without respite his
head would explode.
After a solid half hour of polite but inconsequential
banter about favorite beer brands, funniest beer commercials, the trials and tribulations of air travel, the Atlanta
Braves’ chances to take the World Series again, the proper
way to smoke a pork shoulder, and the pending weather in
Florida, Ev’s curiosity finally got the best of him. He ventured to ask in hushed tones, “I’m sorry, I…I really don’t
mean to pry, but…I kind of noticed back at the airport, you
looked pretty upset…and then the seatbelt thing and
all…And please don’t hesitate to tell me if I’m way out of
line here, but…uh…did you…uh…just recently lose someone close?”
Hot tears immediately welled up in the girl’s eyes, but
not tears of sadness exactly, rather it was almost a fiery
look of anger. Ev immediately regretted asking the question
and was frantically trying to figure out how to back-peddle.
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Her voice dropped down to a husky whisper, “Yes. I
did.”
Ev nodded as sympathetically as he could, mindful that
some people deal with grief differently than others. “I understand. I’m very sorry. Are the services in Orlando?”
“Services?” She looked puzzled.
He lowered his voice respectfully, “Uh…the funeral
services?”
She frowned for a second and then burst out laughing.
At first Ev thought it was the onslaught of a fresh salvo of
sobs. His face had already started to blush, the apology on
the tip of his tongue. But then he was completely taken
aback when he saw her doubled over in peels of laughter.
Other passengers were turning around in their seats with
looks of annoyance on their faces to see what was so damn
funny. Ev ducked down behind the seat in front of him,
genuinely embarrassed, an uncomfortable sensation he was
growing more and more accustomed to as the day wore on.
She sat up finally, composing herself in a diminishing
ripple of giggles, and sighed, “Thanks, I really needed that.”
He felt relieved to finally see a decent smile out of her,
but felt somewhat awkward not knowing the source of her
amusement. “Obviously, I’m not privy to the joke here.”
She shook her head, “I’m sorry. No. There’s no funeral.” She rolled her eyes and huffed, “I wish,” then
looked back at Ev in wonder, “Is that what you thought?
Somebody I knew died?”
“Well, you said you lost someone…,” he tried to explain, offering one upturned palm, “…and you were, like,
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crying and all, and going somewhere, and uh, these things
happen, and…”
Her blond hair tossed back and forth. “No, sir. No one’s
dead.” The anger in her voice wasn’t masked in any way,
“Let’s just say, not yet, anyway.”
Ev felt an unnatural chill wash over him, “What do you
mean ‘not yet’? Are you planning to kill someone?”
She put a hand to her mouth, stifling a new burst of titters, then cocked her head in mock appall, “Nooo!”
He showed her his palms in mock defense.
Then as quickly as it appeared, her smile poured off her
mouth like a spilled glass, “I meant not yet for me. I’m still
alive. I left him while I still could.”
Him.
Painful silence.
The redness on the right side of the woman’s face now
stood out ridiculously obvious as a large hand print.
Ev felt about two inches tall, his perceptiveness and
sensitivity scoring somewhere between a rock and plant
life. His fingers covered his lips for second, then came
away. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she shrugged, an uncanny hardness tingeing
her voice. “It’s none of your doing.”
“So where are you going?” He was suddenly interested.
“I’m not really sure,” she replied. “Let’s just say for my
own health and well-being, I just couldn’t stay back there
any more. My girlfriend Loretta has a sister who lives down
in Orlando. Actually in Kissimmee, right out there by Disneyland. She fixed it so I could stay with them for a little
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while. Then I’ll move on. Find myself a job. Start over.
How about you? Where you headed?”
Where am I headed?
“Me?” Ev thought about it for a second and then started
chuckling silently, his belly abruptly squeezing tight, the
laughter percolating small, then boiling up and overflowing
out his nose in rapid staccato puffs.
It was her turn to ask, “What’s so funny?”
“Weeeeell, funny you should ask,” he began like he had
a good joke to tell, and was just waiting for the straight man
to tee it up.
She was starting to chuckle again too, “OK, let me in.
What’s so fucking funny?”
Oh, she’s priceless. She’s cute, likes beer, and says
Fuck.
“What?” she prompted again.
He started to cry, “Stop.” He sucked in a strained
breath, pushing a palm toward her. “Just stop.”
“Well be that way.” She crossed her arms in a huff. “I
told you some of my sad tale. I didn’t realize it was so
damn amusing.”
He sobered, “No, settle down. That’s not it. That’s not
what I was laughing about. It’s about me. Not you. I was
laughing about my situation. Mine. Not yours.” It was his
turn to sit back in the seat and blow a heavy sigh into the
seatback in front of him. “You may find this hard to believe, but by uncanny coincidence, we both appear to be in
the exact same boat. Long story short—you could say I’m
headed out to Florida to look for work too.”
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“Get laid off?” she looked sympathetically concerned.
He let out another long sigh. There was no way to go
into it. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever, with anybody,
as far as he was concerned. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t
intend to bear his soul to anyone at this point. Of course,
not that he knew it, that was about to change a lot sooner
than he could have possibly envisioned, but for now he kept
his cards close to the vest.
The salesman in him knew how to tap dance. “No, I
didn’t get laid off. Though I’d be lying if I said my old job
was something I really wanted to keep on doing long term.
But that isn’t it.” He gestured with an affected flourish of
his fingers, striking a whimsical expression and producing a
half-decent imitation of William F. Buckley, Jr., “You see,
my dear…I merely decided…that it was time for a
change…in my life.”
She was smiling again. He was glad to see it.
His hand fell into his lap, one eyebrow going up, his
voice returning to normal, “Only I just haven’t quite figured
out what the change is going to be yet.”
Ev was inwardly stunned at how perfectly true that
statement was.
She bobbed her head again, “Yeah, I hear ya’.” She
lifted her beer can again, “OK then, to St. Walter and new
beginnings, for both of us, wherever the happy trail leads.”
“To Walter and new beginnings,” he agreed, lifted his
can, and sipped.
After a thoughtful moment she asked, “So, if you don’t
mind my asking, what exactly do you do? Or did you do,
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prior to your decision to make a change?”
Ev set his beer back down in the tray table, using the
little square napkin to dab a spilled drop of condensation
which had trickled down the side. “I was in computer software sales. Just your average, every-day, bag-carryingpeddler. But I’m thinking about trying my hand at a bit of
consulting.”
She looked impressed, “Wow. Does that pay pretty
good?”
He nodded, “It can. It’s supposed to, I think. Doesn’t
always work out that way though I suppose.”
“Oh.” She didn’t press it. “Me, I’m just hoping to get
some waitressing or bartending. And don’t laugh, but even
though you probably think I look like shit right now, I’ve
even thought about dancing.”
Ev brightened, admiration notably in his voice, “You’ve
studied dance?”
She gave him a condescending look, “Not the ballet,
stupid. I mean the kind that pays good money without a degree from Julliard. I know two of my friends, Claudine and
Bernadette from up in Boaz near Gadsden, they went down
to Florida to dance. Some of those girls make $500 a
night.”
“Oh!” Ev felt Lilliputian again. Titty dancer. Got it. He
just couldn’t picture it. Well, actually he could, it just didn’t
seem appropriate at that magical moment. Although, for
some reason the very thought of it made him feel angry.
She just stared at him matter-of-fact.
His face darkened, “No, you don’t want to do that.”
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“Why not?” She sat up straight, grabbing her shirt tail
and stretching the material taut, pulling her shoulders back
to accentuate a generous bust line Southern girls are delightfully known for, “Don’t think I got the talent?”
“Very nice.” Ev was blushing again. Actually, up to that
moment, the baggy blue denim work shirt had concealed
that prominent attribute of hers quite well. His eyes locked
onto hers. “I just think you might want to consider some
other options.”
“Like what?” she challenged, letting go of her shirt tail
and leaning over the armrest toward him, those blue eyes
flashing with an icy fury. “Hey. I gotta be realistic. I’m
thirty-two years old. I got no college. I got no trade skills
other than keeping house for an alcoholic with a bad attitude, bad manners, and who occasionally likes to take out
his frustrations on his wife with his fists, and sometimes
worse. Get the picture? I can cook a little. I can clean. I still
got a little of my looks left which might be worth a dollar
or two. So if you know so damn much, why don’t you tell
me what other great options you think I’ve got.”
“Modeling?” he offered weakly. “You’re attractive.”
She pursed her lips and nodded sarcastically, “And are
you head of modeling agency that wants to hire me? I’m
five foot-two, not five-ten.”
“I’m sorry,” he lowered his eyes, turning back toward
the window, feeling both stupid and ashamed. “You’re
right. Who the hell am I to be telling anyone what they
should be doing with their life? In fact, I’m probably the
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reer advice. I don’t even know what I’m going to do with
myself.”
The awkward silence returned and reigned for a full
minute.
Ev hated that feeling. He swiveled back to face her and
asked with a straight face, “So tell me, can guys make good
money dancing?”
The defiant storm in her eyes passed as she pushed
playfully at his shoulder, “Only if you work out ten hours a
day and look like Mr. Olympia, and don’t mind spending
eight hours a night grinding around in a little jock strap,
occasionally stirring a lady’s drink with your swizzle.”
“Ooo, that sounds cold,” he half mumbled to himself,
but loud enough to be heard. “Hmm. Ten hour workout?
Plus an eight hour shift? That’s a pretty long day. And I go
to bed pretty early. Well, damn, I guess that leaves me out,”
he feigned disappointment. “Then again, maybe they might
have something part-time. But I wouldn’t have to wear any
of those little tassel things, would I?” His fingers made a
little propeller motion over the left and right sides of his
chest.
She was laughing again. He was glad to see it. Things
were getting a little heavy there for a minute. He didn’t
want heavy right now.
“You know, I know more about you than I probably
should,” he wanted to change the subject, “but I don’t even
know your name.”
She politely offered her petite hand, “Jenny. Jenny
Davis.”
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He took it, noticing for the first time the gauze bandage
and adhesive tape across the heel of her palm. There were
dried rust-colored blossoms soaked into the gauze. He
made a concerted effort to look her in the eye with all the
courtesy he had in him. “Hello, Jenny, my name is Ev—”
he caught himself, his heart skipping a beat. “I mean…my
name’s David. David Albright.”
The words tasted sour coming out of his mouth.
Not too good on the first try. You’re going to have to
practice that.
She cast him a strange look of incredulity, her jaw
cocked to one side, “David? You sure about that, stranger?”
The salesman smile came out, “David Everett Albright.
My friends call me Ev.”
“Oh, I see. So can I be your friend, Mr. Albright?” she
asked.
He let go of her hand, slowly, reluctantly, smiling again,
“Sure. You can be my friend, Jenny.”
“Then I’m very pleased to meet you, Ev,” she nodded
with such demure and genteel aplomb it reminded Ev of a
formal curtsey. For a fleeting moment he saw her in a hoop
skirt surrounded by adoring beaus eating barbecue at Ashley Wilkes’ plantation. His face felt hot. Those deep blue
eyes of hers were glistening. The line of her cheek was so
graceful. Those sweet tender lips…
Time out!
As if pushed by an invisible hand, they both quietly sat
back in their seats and looked away. Her movements were a
bit more abrupt than his. Ev was silently thankful. His heart
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was racing again. What was he thinking? This was all
wrong. Yet something inside told him that in the next moment, if he hadn’t sat back and broken the electromagnetic
connection, he would have been leaning over, reaching out,
pulling her toward him, pressing his lips to hers, and savoring the sweet taste of her kiss. Oh, how he wanted to kiss
her.
What? Hello, idiot? Did you check your brain at the
gate?
Another fifteen minutes of uncomfortable silence
passed by between them. The heat around Everett’s face
finally began to subside. The hammering beats of his heart
decelerated to somewhere near their normal pace. The almost overwhelming desire to take this complete stranger in
his arms was slowly fading away. Yet, this Jenny Davis
wasn’t a complete stranger anymore.
Something had happened just a few moments ago.
Yes, something unmistakable had happened. Something
clicked. An unmistakable kismet clicked so hard it was almost audible. He knew that. He felt she knew it too. And
because of it, much of what Jenny Davis had told him disturbed him deeply, though for the life of him he didn’t exactly know why. As soon as he got off this plane he’d never
see her again. Right?
Maybe not.
A dark thought bothered him even more. Staring out the
oval window into the royal blue sky above the cottony rooftop of clouds, he could already imagine seeing her photograph on the six o’clock news while the announcer gravely
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read off, “Today in Orlando, Florida, an Alabama woman
was savagely murdered by her estranged husband…”
He turned to her in the seat, and matter-of-factly blurted
out, “Jenny, do you really think it’s such a great idea to stay
in Orlando?”
“Why not?” she asked. “I told you, it’s a hell of a lot
better than where I was.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it is,” he agreed, twisting around in the
seat to face her directly, without craning his neck, which
was getting sore. “But won’t your husband, or what I can
only assume is soon to be your ex-husband, won’t he think
to call all your friends looking for you?”
A dark cast fell over her face, “Loretta would never
tell…”
“Never?” he prodded. “If he knows she’s your best
friend, and I have to believe she is…”
She nodded.
He went on, “…then when he doesn’t find you there,
you know he’ll call around. Eventually he’ll find her sister.
And if he doesn’t, he could go to the police as early as tomorrow and report you as a missing person. And then
they’ll check the plane records, see your name on this
flight, and then he’ll know you went to Orlando. And then
how long do you think it’ll be before he just shows up on
your doorstep again?”
Her eyes fell. A silvery tear dripped from her nose into
her lap, making a dark spot in the faded blue denim tail of
the work shirt. Her voice trailed down to a whisper, barely
audible, “I’m sorry, Ev, but I don’t know what else I can
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do.”
Considering his present situation, Everett Manning
could hardly believe the words he was hearing coming out
of his mouth, “Well, please don’t think this is as crazy as
I’m sure it’s going to sound, but how would you feel about
maybe traveling a little bit with me for a while? No one
would know where you were. I’m on my way down to
south Florida. I thought about maybe even checking out
some of the islands. We could both look for work together.
Help each other out. Why not tend bar a little closer to the
beach?” He reached over and gently touched the back of her
wrist.
She defensively recoiled as though his hand were a hot
iron.
Ev politely pulled away, but his words didn’t, “It’s another option.”
Her hands curled tightly beneath a quivering chin,
“That’s very sweet, Ev. I’d like to, but I’m sorry. I can’t. I
don’t have hardly any money. Loretta gave me a hundred
dollars, and Lord knows her and Danny didn’t have it to
give. It’s all I have to live on right now.”
“I’ve got a little bit of money. Don’t worry about that.”
He tossed his fingers at her, “Besides, when we’re both rich
and famous we’ll look back on this time and laugh. Right?
And if we get low on cash we can always knock over a liquor store.”
She chuckled, lowering her hands a bit.
He gave her his best close-the-deal smile, “Besides,
what could it hurt? And look at all the great things we’ve
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already got in common.” He counted off his fingers, “We’re
both unemployed, we both have nowhere to live, we have
no solid career objectives, and we have an excellent appreciation for beer. You’ve got to admit, we’ve got all the
really important stuff covered.”
She was giggling again.
He continued his pitch, only bending the truth a little,
“And if we’re not careful, who knows, it might even be fun.
Look, I’m not Daddy Warbucks, but let’s just say I’ve got a
few frequent flier miles to burn, so a plane ticket or two is
no problem. And personally, don’t ask me why, but I really
think I’d enjoy your company. And even though you’re
probably thinking this sounds like some bullshit come-on, it
isn’t. No funny business. Promise. Just a travel buddy.”
She started to say something.
He cut her off, “And wait, K-mart shoppers, that’s not
all. This blue-light-special comes with a money back guarantee. If you change your mind, then when we get to Miami, I swear I’ll buy you a ticket back to Orlando right then
and there, or anywhere else you want to go.” The upbeat
banter of the pitch-man assuaged into a solemn note of concern. “Look, Jenny, all I’m saying is from what you told
me, Orlando might not be the best place in the world for
you to be right now.”
She blinked once and folded her arms protectively,
thinking.
Half of Ev hoped she’d say Yes, the other half was still
calling his sanity and intelligence into question for even
asking.
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“You swear you’re not a psycho?” she asked dead serious. “Or a pervert looking to pick up vulnerable women for
your kinky pleasures and then cut me up and put me in your
freezer?”
“I swear I’m neither a psycho nor a pervert,” he answered her just as serious. “Cross my heart.”
“Hope to die?” She smiled.
“Never, if I can help it,” he whispered.
Her hand reached across the chasm of the empty center
seat and gripped his forearm, initially making him blush
again and his heart speed up, then squeezing tighter to the
point of pain, making him wince slightly. She held his eyes
with hers for a long time, looking, searching, deciding.
“I don’t want to die either.” She released his arm, then
leaned back in her seat for several seconds.
Ev absently massaged his arm, swallowing hard, unsure
of what to say next, which was a most unusual event for
Everett Manning.
At last she grinned, “I’ve never been to Miami.”
“I have,” he brightened, taking that comment as a Yes
to his offer. “But then again, I’ve never had anyone after me
who wanted to do me any bodily harm.” Tanya’s face
flashed before his mind. “But, you never know, I could be
wrong about that.”
“Well then,” she observed, “If it’s a toss up between
bodily harm and Miami, let’s go to Miami.”
Everett Manning boldly proclaimed, “Just let someone
try and stop us.”
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CHAPTER 10
Washington, DC
The wall mounted kitchen phone was answered on the
third ring, “Hello?”
“Donny? Anton Yaeger is dead,” came the familiar
voice.
“What?” FBI Special Agent Donald Mellor exclaimed
in utter disbelief, almost choking on the bite of Canadian
bacon from his Eggs Benedict in his mouth. He stood in the
doorway from his kitchen to his dining room, with the telephone receiver held to his ear with one hand, a paper napkin clutched in the other hand.
Seated across the room, around the claw-foot oak
kitchen table, were his wife Terry and their two daughters,
who all stopped eating their brunch when Donny got up to
answer the phone. A pang of dread always shot through
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Terry and the girls whenever the phone rang. It was almost
never anything good. Three forks clinked down in unison
on the edge of plates at the tone of alarm in Donny’s voice.
Looks of reproach and disappointment spread across three
pairs of brown eyes. They could tell by the way his brows
knit together it wasn’t a good call.
That day was supposed to be a day-off for Donny Mellor, though each of the special ladies in his life knew that
for an FBI agent there was rarely such thing as a day off. It
was summertime. The girls were out of school. And up until that very moment the family had plans to go see a new
exhibit at the Smithsonian and spend the day together. They
all looked in his direction with grave concern for a sign that
this was something that could wait.
Agent Mellor made a few circular motions in the air
with his hand prompting them to continue their meal. The
girls looked to their mother for direction. She nodded her
concurrence. With glum expressions the girls returned to
their meal as Donald Mellor stepped from the tiled kitchen
to the recently re-carpeted dining room, thankful for the
extra long telephone cord.
He lowered his voice, “What happened?”
His partner, Special Agent Martin Peelinar replied in
his no-nonsense New Jersey accent, “His body was discovered at the Plaza Hotel in New York a little over an hour
ago. The maids found his naked ass laying tits-up in a bathtub with a neat little hole in his forehead and another one in
his throat.”
“Find anything else?” Donny was squeezing the phone
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receiver tighter.
“Not much. Nothing that makes any sense anyway,”
Peelinar huffed in disgust. “Was a pro job. The place was
sanitized pretty well. Wiped down good. Pretty much zilch
on hair and fiber. Although the room service staff says they
believe he had a woman in the room with him. There was a
bottle of high-dollar champagne ordered around midnight
last night.”
“Telephone records?” Donny queried.
“Nothin’,” Marty answered.
Donny Mellor fumed, “And what? So now I get to call
Daniels and say, ‘Hello, Mr. U.S. Attorney, I’m very sorry,
sir, but both of the gentlemen in question were murdered
yesterday. One guy with two bullets in his head, the other
guy blown to bits along with a hundred or more innocent
bystanders. Have a nice day, sir.’ Is that what you’re saying?”
“Maybe not.” Peelinar shot back.
“Oh?” Donny rubbed a thick hand over his wide jaw,
feeling the course black stubble. “How’s that, Marty?”
Marty Peelinar coughed and then added tentatively,
sucking his teeth once, “Well, we think there’s a slight possibility that Clark may not have been on the plane.”
“You shittin’ me?” Agent Mellor sounded hopeful.
“They might have missed him in Dallas?”
“Possibly,” his partner acknowledged. “You know he’s
supposed to be a real smart guy. We’ve run all the standard
checks and traces. And it turns out that his credit card was
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ida. We think there’s a pretty good chance he may turn up
there.”
Donny Mellor was pacing back and forth in front of his
walnut china hutch, filled with frilly, useless (as far as he
was concerned), overpriced, never-used, gilded-edged
plates, rows of fancy Waterford glassware, and cutsie crystal and flowery painted porcelain bullshit Terry affectionately referred to as her “knickknacks.” Girl-shit, that’s what
it was. God bless her, Donny thought. He loved her to
death, thought she was prettier and sexier than Vanessa
Williams. But what was with all this junk? Donny often
wondered why you never saw any cool guy-shit in anyone’s
dining room hutches, useful stuff like engraved beer mugs,
signed baseballs, stick-shift knobs from classic cars, treble
hook fishing lures, commemorative golf balls—important
guy shit.
“Where in Florida?” he asked, growing impatient.
“Orlando,” Marty replied.
“What the hell’s he doing going to Orlando? Gotta date
with Mickey and Goofy? You got the flight number?”
Donny was getting excited, which wasn’t unusual. He was
that type of guy. To take one look at him, one would have
thought him to be an offensive lineman for the NFL, and
indeed he played the position at Ohio State, before being
recruited directly out of college by the Bureau eighteen
years ago. But he was the antithesis of the gentle-giant.
When Donny Mellor got excited, watch out.
“Of course I got the flight number.” Marty spat back.
“Seat assignments?” Mellor’s heart was racing.
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“It’s Southwest.”
“Shit.” Donny pulled the phone away for a second,
mouthing to the ceiling, Why, God? Why? “So what the hell
do you plan to do, stand at the end of the ramp holding up a
fuckin’ limo sign?”
“Now there’s a thought. Sorry, but you know there are
no known photographs of this man, Kimosabe,” Agent
Peelinar offered in his most calming voice. “We don’t have
much choice but to meet the plane and sort through each
passenger one at a time and see if they check out.”
“Yeah, yeah. OK. As long as we at least know he’s on
that plane. You got us tickets to get down there before he
does?” Donny demanded.
“No,” his partner replied.
“No?” Donny was about to erupt. “What do you mean
‘No’?”
Marty laughed, “No way in hell we’d get there in time
flying commercial. I got the U.S. Attorney’s office to get us
a chartered Lear. It’s on the ramp and ready to go, leaving
Dulles as soon as you get your fat ass down here.”
“Great. So what are you doing wasting time talking to
me?” Donny slammed the phone down. “Terry!”
Her voice echoed from upstairs, “I’ve already got your
bag ready.”
“Love that woman,” he mumbled to himself, throwing
one more disapproving glance at the girl-shit figurines cluttered on the glass shelves of the hutch as he turned to
trudge upstairs to put his dark suit on.
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CHAPTER 11
Orlando IAP, Florida
Orlando, Florida, was a vast flat sea of suburban and
mini-mall sprawl as far as the eye could see, with an intermittent golf course and amusement park sprinkled in here
and there amid large and small glistening bodies of water.
Ev kept his nose and forehead pressed against the window
as the 737 banked and came in low for final approach. The
flaps ground down into place. The plane felt like it hit a
small speed bump as the landing gear groaned down with a
hydraulic wheeze. Ev glanced at his watch. It read 1:57 PM,
which was still on Central time, which meant it was really
now 2:57 Eastern time, just a few minutes ahead of the
scheduled arrival time. The afternoon sun was still almost
straight overhead in a cloudless sky.
A friendly voice came over the loud speaker, “Ladies
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and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt
sign indicating our final approach to Orlando International
Airport. Please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened, your seat backs are up, and your tray tables are in
their original stowed and locked position. We’ll be arriving
at gate B-12 this afternoon. We know you have a choice in
air travel and we thank you for flying Southwest Airlines.”
Ev turned and looked at Jenny. Her hands were wound
tightly around the ends of the armrests, knuckles white.
“You don’t fly very often, do you?” Ev asked.
She jiggled her head from side to side, staring straight
ahead, saying nothing.
“It’s OK,” he reassured her. “Nothing to worry about. I
do it all the time. Underneath the glamour and the hype, it’s
still just public transportation. Just like riding the bus. No
big deal.”
She shot him a curt little glance and a nervous smile,
which vanished in a blink, continuing to sit as ramrod
straight as her seat back and tray table.
Rookies. Ev laughed softly to himself.
The pilot reduced air speed, dropped in low over the
end of the runway, and flared the airliner. The wheels
screamed a brief whine of protest as the jet softly settled
down on the runway, the nose gently leveling out as the aircraft settled into its roll-out. The engines reversed thrust,
and the air brakes brought the jet to a smooth halt about
halfway down the runway. The plane taxied onto the exit
ramp, proceeding toward one of the satellite terminals at
Orlando International.
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Ev reached over and patted Jenny’s arm, “There, you
see? We’re here. Safe and sound. Nothing to worry about at
all.”
“Passenger Clark, passenger Walter Clark, would you
please identify yourself by pressing your flight attendant
call button?” came the masculine voice of the flight captain
from the cockpit.
Everett Manning’s asshole puckered so tight it could
have strangled a gnat. He sat perfectly still, now the mirror
image of his blond seat-mate, his own hands now curled
tightly around the ends of the armrests, knuckles white. The
announcement hit him like an unexpected sledgehammer in
the face. He could feel the fresh beads of perspiration trickling down his back—his breath short and measured. A fresh
rush of adrenaline was threatening to make him rip his seatbelt from its moorings and then send him screaming down
the aisle, leaving an Ev Manning shaped hole in the door of
the plane, à la Bugs Bunny. Under different circumstances
that thought might have struck him as funny. He wasn’t
even remotely amused.
What to do? What to do?
For the moment, he could do nothing but sit helplessly
still as the plane continued to taxi up to the terminal. What
could he do? The sensations washing over him were pure
torture. It wasn’t the feeling like when you played hide-andseek as a kid and felt that relieved ebb of emotion when you
were found: the “OK, you got me.” No this was much akin
to being in the worst crime-ridden neighborhood in town, in
the middle of the night, surrounded by heavily armed
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gangs, freaks, toxic mutants, malcontents, and crazed substance abusers, and having your car break down. You know
you are in deep, deep shit, and you experience that sick,
helpless, on the brink of panic feeling, not knowing from
which direction the trouble is coming, but certain that it’s
coming with a Night of the Living Dead appetite.
At that moment, Everett Manning knew what all those
characters in the old black-and-white horror movies must
have felt like creeping down the darkened hallway, with the
ominous music playing, taking one hesitant step after another, holding a trembling candle, just waiting for the monster to jump out and bite off an appendage or two. The
paralyzing sensation was smothering him.
The aircraft stopped fifty feet short of the jetway. A few
people started to get up from their seats.
The captain’s voice came on again, “I’m very sorry ladies and gentlemen, but we’ve got a slight delay in reaching the gate. Please remain in your seats with your seat
belts fastened until we’re safely stopped at the gate. Then
you will be free to move about the cabin. And would passenger Clark, passenger Walter Clark, please identify yourself to a flight attendant. There is an urgent message
waiting for you.”
Urgent message?
Everett Manning was panting like a dog, but trying to
do so without being too obvious, or hyperventilating and
passing out. His bladder felt as if it was about to explode.
Were they doing this on purpose? Was this their idea of
some cruel form of police torture? Why didn’t they just
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come and get him and get it over with? He thought about
the announcement again. An urgent message? What was
that all about?
And then it was obvious.
They were trying to be discrete. They didn’t want a
scene. Ev was in violent agreement. He didn’t want a scene
either. Actually, a line from a Jimmy Buffett song sprang
up in his mind concerning two hayseeds who robbed a gas
station. The song’s refrain had one of the characters lamenting the fact that after his arrest he wished he was somewhere else, sitting in a bar, sucking on a beer. That’s
exactly what Ev Manning wished at that moment. He chastised himself over and over for ever being so foolish as to
think he could just run away.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Ten seemingly endless minutes of idle nothing crawled
by, allowing ample time for Ev’s imagination to run wild.
The rational part of his mind kept reminding him that all he
had really done was use someone else’s credit card. But it
didn’t matter. The irrational part of his brain kept conjuring
up every scene of every movie and television program he’d
ever seen of criminals getting arrested, rustled, roughed and
cuffed. It was excruciating. And there was nothing he could
do. He wanted to scream. Jenny turned and gave Ev a confused look. He returned a helpless “I don’t know” shrug.
The cabin air grew hot and stuffy. All the other passengers
started murmuring and grumbling, anxiously looking
around at one another.
Ev’s mouth had gone bone dry.
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The flight attendant call button beeped four times. Ev
heard the flight attendant in the rear jump-seat by the galley
pick up the handset.
She answered, “Yes?…What?…The FBI?…Well, how
long will that take?…So what do you want me to do?…All
right, but are you going to make an announcement?…OK.”
Ev heard the handset click back in its holder. A paralyzing chill washed over him at the very sound of the letters FB-I.
That’s it. I’m fucked. They got me. This is serious. I
don’t know how they did it so quick, but they did it. It’s
over.
The draining ebb of resignation finally flooded over
him. Game over. Strangely, at that moment the one thing
that really bothered him was what Jenny would think when
she saw them drag him away in irons.
The captain’s voice came over the public address system once more, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Upon deplaning this afternoon, we’d like to
ask for your cooperation in a brief post-flight security
check. I know this is a bit unusual, and we sincerely apologize for any inconvenience. There’s nothing to be concerned about. Some gentlemen at the end of the ramp would
merely like you to present your identification upon exiting,
and then you can be on your way. Please have it out and
ready as you deplane. It shouldn’t add more than a few
minutes to your departure. The tower confirms that due to
our early arrival all connections should be fine. And thanks
once again for flying Southwest Airlines.”
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Ev turned his face back to the window.
Damn. Clever bastards. I’m trapped. No way out. Only
one door on this baby.
The only identification he had on him was his fabricated Arizona driver’s license in the name of Walter Clark,
the original tucked away in the suit jacket pocket in the
overhead bin. As planned, he’d thrown his own away back
in Dallas. But the more he thought about it, he realized it
wouldn’t have done him much good. He assumed the FBI
would be standing outside the jetway, simply checking
names off of a passenger manifest. They would find him by
the process of elimination no matter what his ID card said.
The plane’s engines revved up and it powered forward
the last few feet, finally coming to a halt. What sounded
like a school bell rang twice and the jetway swung over.
The end of it accordioned down and attached to the forward
left side of the cabin. The engines powered down. The
cabin lights came up full. The seatbelt sign extinguished,
and like well-trained rats, the anxious passengers clambered
to their feet in unison. The overhead bins began to pop
open and arms pulled and yanked out their belongings and
burdens. Ev just sat quietly, the timid sheep before slaughter.
Jenny turned to him, “Yeah, I’m not getting up anytime
soon. Evidently it’s going to be a while before we can get
off. I wonder what’s going on.”
Ev said nothing, keeping his eyes trained on the front of
the plane.
She gave him a frown of concern, “Ev, you don’t look
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so good. What’s wrong?”
He tried to smile, not meeting her eyes, “Just tired.
Guess it’s been a very long day for me.”
“Can’t be as bad as the one I’ve had,” she replied.
What to do? What to do?
There was nothing to do. He was going crazy: Yep, it
was over. Just go peaceably and don’t make it any worse
than it already is. Would the handcuffs hurt? Could I get
my own cell? How many years did they give you for using
someone else’s credit card to buy a plane ticket anyway?
Was there probation for that, or hard time? It was a first
offense, you know. Is there such a crime as leaving the
scene of a bombing? How hard is it really to mount a temporary insanity defense?
Then again, he wondered if he could talk his way out of
it. He’d just been through a terrible trauma. Yeah, that’s it.
People did a lot of stupid things after something like that. It
was only natural that I’d want to run away. So I took a few
liberties in doing do. Big deal. Couldn’t that be chalked up
to a misunderstanding or a mistake? Maybe they would understand. Maybe a slap on the wrist.
He sucked in a deep cleansing breath.
Who are you trying to sell now, Ev? You’re screwed.
Take it like a man.
In about ten minutes, most of the people on the sparsely
filled plane had filed out, still grumbling and murmuring as
they shuffled forward, most anxious to be about their business. Jenny stood up, opened the overhead compartment
and fetched her small green gingham tote bag, slinging its
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long strap over her right shoulder. She winced once
slightly, then transferred it over to her left side.
“You coming?” she raised her eyebrows with a smile.
Ev returned a half-laugh, started to say No, then realized it was futile, and answered, “Oh, sure, why not? Got
nothing else to do.”
She was still staring at him with a puzzled look.
With his mind whirling, trying to piece together the
story he was about to tell in his defense, Ev grabbed his
laptop from under the seat in front of him, slung it over his
right shoulder, and made his way into the isle. Turning
around in the narrow walkway, he reached up into the overhead bin and pulled out the light brown Hartman briefcase
and his own black nylon soft-side. He left Walter Clark’s
gray wool suit jacket behind. There was no use dragging it
around anymore. Jenny was already several rows ahead
when he caught up to her. Ev was last in line, save the rear
flight attendant. The line continued to move ahead slowly.
“Sir, is this yours?” a voice called behind Ev.
He did a startled about face. The flight attendant was
holding the gray jacket.
He shook his head solemnly, “No…sorry, not mine.”
She gave him her too-much-lipstick smile and a halfshrug, then walked up behind him with it draped over her
forearm.
The line appeared to move a little more quickly once
they made it to the jetway. With about ten people standing
in front of him, opening their wallets and purses one at a
time, Ev could see a tall, heavy-set black man in a charcoal
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gray suit carefully matching ID photos to faces and reciting
names to a tall thin man standing to his left. The thin one
looked very Italian—soft, almost feminine eyes, straight
dark brown hair, swarthy good looks, olive complexion,
dressed almost identically to his large companion. The tall
thin Italian held a clipboard with a computer sheet on it,
marking off the names one at a time. Cleared passengers
walked between the two men. In light of the wires coming
out of each man’s right ear, Ev figured they were either
both severely hearing impaired, or Federal agents. The
loose fitting jackets and irregular protrusions near their
waists argued strongly for the latter.
That’s when all the humor inside him died and the fantasy of escape to an island paradise faded to black. Everett
Manning’s bottom lip and chin began to tremble. The notion of successfully talking his way out of this situation was
slowly slipping away as a possibility. His lips were a
pressed thin line of distress. A hot film of tears stung his
eyes. The knot lodged in his throat doubled in size. Reckoning time.
This wasn’t going to be pretty.
What would he do? Would he stiffen his lip and take it
like a man, or would he wither like a leaf and have a complete breakdown? With everything that had happened recently, he wasn’t sure. All his willpower was struggling for
the former, not the latter. Then again, Ev couldn’t remember the last time he broke down and physically cried out
loud. Was it at his mother’s funeral seven years ago? They
lost her to cancer. Or was it that night at the hospital when
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his father passed away five years ago? Maybe it was the
night after he signed his divorce papers. That was only four
years ago. Those were the only times that stood out in recent memory where he just broke down and lost it.
Oh, sure, he’d puddled up a time or two at an especially
sad moment in a movie; but it had been a long, long time
since he had actually cried. He could scarcely remember
what it felt like, but an internal alarm told him clearly that
as soon as the Agent a few feet away asked him for his ID,
no matter what he did to prevent it, it was coming—and it
was going to hurt, physically and emotionally. With each
shuffled step his legs became more and more rubbery. After
a minute more, he could no longer feel his feet. He could
hear the Agents’ words clearly now as seven people remained between him and everything he ever knew as freedom.
“I’m telling you he ain’t here, Donny,” the tall thin Italian groused. “I got a bad feelin’ he ditched us.”
“Has to be here,” the big heavy one replied, staring at
an elderly woman’s ID for a prolonged second, then glancing at her face. “He damn well checked in. Didn’t he? And
the number of passengers on the manifest equals number on
the plane. So that means he has to be here.”
“Yeah, well, he checked in on the Dallas flight too,”
tall-thin retorted.
“Shut up and mark off names,” the fat one snapped as
the next person stepped up in line.
And then there were six.
Ev felt like he was about to pass out. Foolish thoughts
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bounced around in his head. How about pushing everyone
out of the way and making a mad run for it? Could they
catch him? Would they dare shoot in a crowded public
place? And was being shot to death while fleeing any worse
than what awaited—having to go to jail, or worse, having to
go back to being Everett Manning?
Run, just run.
As if by telepathic instruction an older man in line
ahead of Ev did just that. He was two passengers in front of
Jenny, two behind the man currently being inspected. He
was wearing a blue ball cap pulled down low over his eyes,
and had been cowering behind a tall woman in line directly
in front of him. With no warning whatsoever he bolted,
shoving the tall woman in front of him aside, slamming her
against the sheet metal side of the jetway. He bounded past
the startled gentleman in front of her, lowered a shoulder
into the fat FBI agent, and ran headlong into the terminal
gate area, hurdling a row of vinyl seats, and then another.
He was into the main aisle and moving at full speed before
the tall-thin Italian agent had time to look up from his list.
“Runner!” the fat agent bellowed as he tangled with a
small ticket podium on his way to the floor. Both he and it
went crashing down hard.
“It’s him!” screamed the tall thin one, throwing the
clipboard to the carpet and taking off in pursuit.
The fat one pushed the podium away and was crawling
on the floor toward the first row of seats, tearing back his
jacket, exposing a holstered automatic pistol, grabbing for a
portable radio clipped to his belt, which he smashed to his
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lips a second after he got his thick paw around it, “Got him!
He’s running down the B concourse, headed for the trams.
Wearing a Dallas Cowboys ball cap. White shirt. Black
trousers. Do you see him? Over!”
A voice came back over the radio, “We see him, Donny.
He’s heading for the fire exit. We’ll get him.”
“Don’t you assholes dare let him get away,” the heavy
man ordered. “No matter what. You got that!?”
By this time the remaining few people in line had
moved nervously through the doorway and were standing
together in a small huddle, watching the excitement, all
slack-jawed, none more so than Everett Manning. Yet Ev’s
gut told him this was just a brief delay in the inevitable. A
teaser before the main event.
I am Spartacus, Centurion. Spare the others. I am the
one you seek.
The heavy FBI Agent climbed back to his feet and
turned to the astonished little group of final passengers,
pumping his beefy palm toward them three times, laboring
to breathe, “I’m terribly sorry, folks. I hope none of you
were injured. But if you’ll excuse us. We have to apprehend
that man.” And with that he lumbered off down the concourse after his partner.
Jenny stood next to him, but not too close. She whispered, “Well, shit fire and save matches, can you believe
that?”
His voice was very distant and dazed, each word coming out with a distinct interval of emphatic separation.
“Not…at…all…”
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“That’s creepy” she shuddered. “Some criminal was
right on our plane all the time. Come on, let’s get the hell
out of here, before anything else happens,” she tugged him
forward. “I don’t know how much more excitement I can
deal with today.”
“Absolutely.” He obediently followed.
As he walked forward, his numbed feet barely his servants any longer, an incredibly striking woman in a widebrimmed white hat and dark glasses brushed past him,
moving toward the jetway entrance. Her perfume alone was
enough to drag his eyes around after her for a second. He
saw her stop in front of the flight attendant who was standing in the open doorway holding the Walter Clark’s gray
jacket over her arm. The woman in the white hat leaned
close and whispered a question to the flight attendant. Ev
snapped his head back in the direction he was walking and
picked up the pace.
Jenny noticed the sudden urgency in his step, “What is
it?”
“I’m not sure. Let’s just get going.” He adjusted the laptop strap on his shoulder.
They walked faster.
He couldn’t help himself. Ev glanced back over his
shoulder once more. The woman had her dark shades pulled
down to the end of her nose. A pair of piercing green eyes
were peering over them, staring directly at him. Those eyes
narrowed as a thin smile emerged—a knowing smile, never
wavering as she gracefully bent down and picked up the
discarded clipboard.
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Ev turned back and moved even faster.
“What’s the rush?” Jenny looked worried, practically
having to jog to keep up.
Ev didn’t know what to say at first, and there was no
sense unnecessarily alarming Jenny. He pursed his lips and
gave her an absent-minded shrug, “It’s nothing. Sorry. Just
eager to get going after all the excitement back there. Come
on, let’s get out of here.”
Ev’s heart didn’t slow down until they dashed through
the doors of the tram just a few seconds before they closed.
Only then did he dare venture another look back, relieved to
see the lady in the white hat wasn’t following him, nor anyone else for that matter. The bullet-shaped vehicle pulled
out of the satellite terminal and sped along its rails to the
main terminal building. From there he and Jenny blended
into the teeming throng of travelers until they made their
way outside into the sweltering Florida humidity to the taxi
stand at the curb.
The sultry, moist air enveloped them like a damp
shroud the instant they left the air-conditioned safety of the
terminal building. Ev finally dared to let out a sigh of relief
when the taxi door closed and the car pulled away from the
curb.
We made it! Damn. I don’t believe it.
“Where to, folks?” the driver inquired.
Ev searched his memory banks for something familiar,
somewhere he’d been before on business. Something close.
A trade show came to mind. He blurted out, “The Hilton,
Walt Disney Village, please.”
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“We’re going to Disneyland?” Jenny was beaming.
“Disney World,” Ev corrected. “This is Florida.”
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CHAPTER 12
Orlando IAP, Florida
Donny Mellor was perspiring from head to toe as he
made his way up to the group of security men holding their
quarry captive on the concrete tarmac, face down, a different officer pinning each arm and leg. The shrill whine of
the alarms from the fire exit crash-doors that their fugitive
had burst through continued to blare back in the distance,
competing with the whistling whine of jet turbines all
around.
“All right, men, good job,” Donny commended, above
the noise. He stopped with one hand on Marty’s shoulder,
still huffing and puffing.
Marty Peelinar stood with both hands outstretched together before him, supporting his nine-millimeter Glock
semi-automatic pistol, aimed at the back of the man’s head.
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He shouted, “Turn him over. Slow like. Careful. The man’s
supposed to be pretty dangerous.”
The elderly gentleman in the Dallas Cowboys baseball
hat, black trousers and white shirt was cautiously rolled
over on his right side. Each of the four airport security officers handling him kept a death grip on his arms and legs.
“Mr. Clark, I presume,” Donny chuckled, proudly
perching his fists on his wide hips, Superman style.
The pinned man on the ground whimpered, “No mas,
señor. Por favor. No mas.”
Donny’s jaw fell, “What did you say?”
The four airport security officers all looked at each
other and started laughing.
One of them spoke to the man in Spanish. The man replied in kind, which only made the officer laugh all the
more. He stood, let go of the man on the ground and walked
over to Donny and Marty, “Well, Agent Mellor, I don’t
know how dangerous you think this old guy really is, but he
sure as hell can run when he wants to.”
“What’s going on?” Mellor demanded.
The officer pursed his lips, “I got good news and bad
news. The bad news is that I don’t think this is who you
were looking for. The good news is that I think you guys
just qualified for INS duty.”
“What?” Peelinar pulled his pistol back and checked the
safety, a look of total confusion all over his face.
“Cut the shit,” Mellor protested. “Check his ID.”
The officer shrugged, walking back over to the man on
the ground, and signaling to his colleagues to let him up.
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“OK. Although, he just asked me not to send him back to
Mexico. Says he’s just here to work for his brother in
Tampa.”
“That can’t be!” Mellor insisted.
Marty shook his head sarcastically, “Yeah, right, no
way, man. A flight from Texas. Who could’ve imagined
that there could be an illegal coming from Texas, of all
places, who makes a run for it when he sees two security
guys checking ID’s.”
“Aw, man,” Donny spun all the way around in disgust.
“I don’t believe this shit.”
Marty grabbed his partner’s shoulder, “And it also
means that our man, if he really was on that plane, was still
back in that line. We left a few stragglers.”
Donny shot the officer who had spoken to him a harsh
glare, “You guys take care of that mess.”
The airport security officer saluted, making no attempt
to conceal his sarcasm. The other three joined him in laughing.
Donny and Marty turned and chugged back toward the
terminal. When they arrived at the gate, both agents were
even more furious and embarrassed when they discovered
that all the remaining passengers were long gone, and so
was the list of names they had been checking.
“You left the list?” It was more of an accusation than a
question. Donny made no attempt to hide the outrage on his
face.
“What do you think? I was chasing the guy,” Marty shot
back.
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Donny feigned a backhand to his partner, then drooped
his shoulders in complete disgust.
“We fucked up?” Marty raised his thick brown eyebrows.
“We fucked up,” Mellor concurred with a curt nod, and
as he thought about what just happened, started to laugh in
spite of himself.
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CHAPTER 13
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
The cab pulled away from the Hilton Hotel’s wide
porte-cochere and wound back around the circular drive.
The uniformed bellman looked at the two new arrivals, a
tired-looking man in a dark suit carrying a black nylon bag
and a tan briefcase, with a computer bag slung over his
shoulder, and a blond woman in jeans and a denim work
shirt carrying a green gingham tote. An odd looking couple,
he thought, traveling light.
He offered them his most professional smile of welcome, “Good afternoon. Will you be checking in with us
today?”
Everett looked at Jenny with uncertainty. She had that
deer-in-the-headlights look. He turned to the bellman, still
making things up as he went along, “Uh…yes, of course.”
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ing service is running a bit behind today. We’re not checking anyone in for another hour or two. I hope that’s not too
much of an inconvenience.”
Ev frowned, “No, that’s all right. I wanted to
show…my…wife…the Disney Village anyway. She can’t
wait to see it.”
“Very good, sir,” the bellman replied. “Just to your left
here. Only one block away. Restaurants. Shopping. The
works. May I check your bags for you until you return?”
“Oh,” Ev thought about it quickly. Yes, that certainly
would help not to have to lug their burdens another step.
“Please. That would be nice.”
He handed the bellman his laptop case, the soft-side bag
and the Hartman briefcase. Jenny handed over her tote.
The bellman gave Ev three small, square claim check
slips in exchange for a five dollar tip. Ev put the slips in the
eel-skin wallet, which he returned to the inside breast
pocket of his jacket.
The bellman offered another smile, “What name shall I
put these under, sir?”
Despite the fatigue and the harrowing episode at the
airport, Ev’s mind was working well again, flowing with a
natural rhythm. His nerves were raw, but on-the-ready, like
a tennis player waiting to counter the next serve. He surprised even himself. He didn’t miss a beat; turning away as
though he’d just remembered something from a previous
conversation, just as the Bellman was finishing his question, he said, “Oh yeah, wait a minute. Honey…” He held
up one finger to the bellman and turned to face Jenny for a
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small private conference, whispering in her ear. “What’s
your last name again?”
“Davis,” she whispered back. “Why?”
“OK, then. Yeah, that’ll be fun,” he said more loudly,
then turned back and faced the bellman, “I’m sorry. What
were you saying?”
The bellman had his pen out poised to write, “Your last
name, sir?”
“Mister and Mrs. Davis,” Ev replied.
“Very good, Mr. Davis,” the bellman scribbled down
the name and disappeared inside the hotel with the bags.
Thus unencumbered, Ev offered his arm to Jenny,
“Honey? Shall we?”
She gave him a bewildered look, then giggled nervously, deciding to play along, “OK, let’s go.”
They walked arm-in-arm down the four lane boulevard
toward the entrance of the Disney Village, a massive conglomeration of trinket and memorabilia stores for tourists
and locals alike—mostly tourists, by the thousands. If it
could hold a picture of Mickey or Donald or Goofy, it could
be found there, from merely overpriced tee-shirts and hats,
to gold and diamond watches in the thousands of dollars, to
actual animation cells from classic movies worth tens of
thousands of dollars. Ev made a point of disappearing with
Jenny in the midst of the throng.
They said very little to each other as they walked sideby-side, no longer arm-in-arm, until they found a seat in an
outdoor café facing a lagoon, which the village bordered in
a horseshoe fashion. The temperature that afternoon was in
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the low nineties, but the humidity was uncomfortably high.
That kept most of the tourists safely inside the airconditioned shops. If it hadn’t been for a wisp of breeze
coming off the water it would have been unbearable.
Perspiring anew, Ev took off his suit coat and draped it
over the back of an adjacent chair. His button-down white
dress shirt was getting pretty ripe. A bothersome gnat
buzzed around his eyes, despite his attempts to shoo it
away. Oh, how he longed for a nice-hot shower and about a
week’s sleep. Jenny rolled up her long denim sleeves, revealing more bandages on her hands and forearms. Her
cheeks were flushed bright pink. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead and upper lip.
Ev tried not to stare at her arms, but it was difficult. He
chose to gaze out over the lagoon. Across the water from
them, just beyond the seafood restaurant housed in an
enormous paddle-wheel river boat, was Pleasure Island. It
was Disney’s “adult” theme park, a collection of bars,
dance clubs, and other adult distractions geared for mirth
and merriment after the sun went down and the kids were
put to bed.
“Why did you tell the Bellman that we were checking in
under my name?” Jenny asked as a waitress set down two
glasses of ice-water and handed them a menu.
The overly-chipper, teeny-bopper waitress’ name-tag
identified her as a “Cast Member” named Britney, from
Des Moines, Iowa. She was dressed in an off-white, shortsleeved blouse and khaki shorts. Her bleached-blond hair
was pulled back in a ponytail.
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“Thanks,” Ev absently took the menu from Britney and
then waved a hand of dismissal at Jenny, “Don’t worry. I’ll
pay for the hotel, separate rooms and everything. That
wasn’t an attempted come on. I promise.”
“I’ll give you folks a few minutes to look at those,”
Britney smiled and discretely disappeared.
“That’s not what I meant,” Jenny corrected. “Why did
you use my name and not your own?”
“Oh.” Ev was quiet for a second, looking solemnly at
the sun moving down in the western sky. “Would you believe me if I said that I was just trying to disappear for a
while?”
She gave him that same quizzical look again, only this
time an uneasy feeling of mistrust was creeping over her.
“Yeah, I can believe that. I’m trying to disappear myself.
It’s not that. I just get the feeling that there’s something
more. I just…I just don’t understand what’s going on. I
don’t understand you.”
He gave her a half-laugh, “Join the club. I don’t understand me half the time. And if you ever figure it out, let me
in on it.”
She took a sip of her water, “No, come on, that’s not
what I meant. I mean I got a funny feeling that there’s
something going on with you that you’re not telling me.”
He kept his eyes focused on the water, not doing a great
job of making a joke, “Yeah, that’s me. Everett Man—” he
caught himself, holding the N, “…nnn,” he cleared his
throat, “Man of mystery.”
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sion getting more strained. “Are you in trouble with the law
or something? Tell me if you are. If you really want me to
hang around with you, I think I have a right to know.”
He turned to her, endeavoring to look her in the eye.
“No. I’m not in trouble with the law. Not that I’m aware
of.”
She brought her hands up under her chin again, “Why
don’t I believe that?”
“I don’t know,” he replied defensively. “You should.
It’s the truth.”
Jenny Davis just searched his eyes—beautiful brown
eyes, really—though as exhausted a pair of eyes as she’d
ever seen in a man who was sober. What she saw before her
was a confused man. His expression told her he dearly
wanted to believe what he was saying himself, but there
were clouds of doubt there, dark brooding clouds of uncertainty. Part of her told her she was a fool if she didn’t just
get up and walk away, getting as far away from this man as
possible. He was obviously in some kind of trouble. There
was no use denying it. Wasn’t that obvious? And Lord
knows, she’d had more than her share of trouble lately,
enough to last a lifetime. Yet something else kept her in her
seat. It was the far-off sound of that other voice, the new
voice, the one that commanded her to flee her home just
one day earlier. It told her to stay.
God, was it just yesterday that all that happened?
No don’t go.
The new voice, the one she felt she could trust, said that
there was something good here in this man. It was in his
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eyes as well, wrestling mightily with his inner demons of
doubts. One thing she was sure of, whatever his demons
were, they weren’t something here to hurt her. No, the part
of him that kept her sitting still was something safe. Something worth staying put for, at least for the time being, even
if he did have a few secrets. Was that so bad? Didn’t everyone have at least one or two secrets?
She watched him get to his feet and heard him say, “I’ll
be right back. I have to find the little boys room.”
She smiled to herself as he walked away—of course it
didn’t hurt that he had such a cute butt. A wave of embarrassment flushed over her at that thought, averting her gaze,
looking down at her hands. The sight of the bandages
across her palms only made her angry again. One thing was
certain: it felt really good to be away from Randy. Even
spending one night with Loretta and Danny had been a welcome night of sanctuary. It felt good, despite the bitter sting
of the glass shards being pulled from her skin and the burn
of the isopropyl alcohol cleansing her wounds. Yes, now
that she thought about it, it had been the first real night of
freedom she’d felt in over ten years.
Had it really been that long?
The self-recriminations started in: How could you have
been that stupid? Why did you put up with it for so long?
How could you have been so blind? What were you thinking? Did you have a death wish? And on and on. It took her
breath away. She didn’t want to start crying again, so she
looked up from her hands, and gazed at the commotion going on all around her.
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The contrast to her life, sweeping past her in a flood of
human shapes, could not have been more obvious. Everywhere she looked were couples and families and groups,
from seemingly everywhere on earth, in all shapes and
sizes, all colors and nationalities, smiling and eating and
drinking, snapping pictures to preserve their memories, and
richly enjoying this place in one another’s company. Yes,
there it was, on all the faces: smiles of joy, and fun, and
happiness. Eyes filled with wonder and anticipation of discovery. The titters of laughter. The exclamation of surprise
at sights never before beheld. The fond banter of recollection, “Oh, and did you see the…” Oh, sure, each and every
one of them probably had a pocket full of troubles somewhere else, but not here. Yes, it was all a man-made fantasy, but one Jenny Davis chose to revel in for the moment.
She’d been there only ten minutes, but already didn’t ever
want to leave.
Britney, the waitress, came by again, “Were you guys
going to order anything to eat?”
“Yes,” Jenny replied, somewhat startled by the question, noting that Ev had been gone for several minutes. That
sense of foreboding came back over her. Where was he?
Did he ditch her? Did her questions spook him? Was he
really a fugitive from the law? The episode from the airport
came back. The FBI had been looking for a man named
Clark. Walter Clark. But they took off after a man, didn’t
they? She laughed at herself, feeling unnecessarily paranoid.
Five more minutes went by.
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Perhaps he really “had to go,” she told herself. He was
coming back, right? She glanced over and saw his dark suit
jacket still laying over the back of the chair. It was a reassuring sight. Yes, he’d be back. There were probably long
lines for everything at Disneyland, and that included the
bathrooms. The sight of a slight bulge in the jacket
strangely brought back the cloud of foreboding and doubt.
There was something she had to be sure of. She looked in
the direction he had gone. He was still nowhere in sight.
Jenny reached for the coat.

Everett Manning had indeed waited in line for a few
moments to get into the men’s room. He had done what he
needed to do, and was now standing in front of the mirror,
washing his hands for about the fourth time. He had washed
his face. That was a most refreshing experience. The cold
water felt good. Yet he still didn’t have the right words in
his head to say when he returned to the table and faced the
charming stranger from Alabama who had so easily seen
right through his exterior and knew that something was
wrong.
Her words had stung, “I have a right to know.”
She was right. She did have a right to know.
Unfortunately, her knowing the whole story could be
particularly bad on two major fronts: one, in exposing him,
which might lead to imminent arrest—which meant he
couldn’t tell her. And two, in her running away again, and
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ending up on that six-o’clock news report lying dead in a
black body bag. He wanted neither to occur—which meant
he had to tell her.
The dilemma kept him at the sink, washing and rewashing his hands.
But how? Direct method? Take One: OK, Jenny, I’m
sorry, but I lied, I really am running from the FBI, and a
terrorist bombing, and my old life, and pretty much everything else. Sorry about that. So what’s the special on the
menu today?
There just didn’t appear to be an obvious way to attack
this one. Several other permutations were competing in his
mind, but he couldn’t even envision how he was going to
bring the subject up without sending her running away,
screaming at the top of her lungs. And yet, that last eventuality was the one that bothered him the most. He didn’t
want to see her disappear. But why was that? He didn’t
know, or if he did, his conscious mind wasn’t ready to admit it yet.
He looked down at his hands. They were trembling.
Oddly, it was a reassuring sight. His hands often trembled
before he made key presentations and sales calls. It was a
familiar sight. And right then, at that moment, anything familiar was comforting. For the voice within him told him
plainly that when he had to speak, the words would be there
for him. That was his skill. He had the talent, even to make
the most awkward and unpleasant things sound palatable.
This confrontation would be no different.
Confrontation?
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Oh, God no, he didn’t want it to be a confrontation. No,
that usually meant noise and unwarranted attention. Definitely not recommended in a public place. No, it would
have to be a civil discussion. Yes, merely an explanation.
That’s right. A series of connected thoughts of reason and
rationality, premises forming the basis of a sound argument
and logical conclusion. Of course. He had done it a million
times, he told himself as he tossed the wadded-up paper
towel in the trash bin and headed through the crowds back
toward the table. No, he assured himself, this speech didn’t
require any preparation or rehearsal. It just required confidence and a clear mind.
The needle on the confidence meter inside Ev’s brain
went from green to a cautionary yellow when he saw Jenny
sitting there in her chair with her arms folded, her face a
dark mask of pent-up emotion. The needle pegged red, before he even sat down, when she asked matter-of-factly,
“So, Mr. Walter Clark, are you ready to tell me why the FBI
is trying to find you?”

After the man had watched them first take a seat, he had
quickly made his way around the lagoon and slipped into
the riverboat restaurant. Even in the late afternoon the place
was jammed with late lunch and early dinner crowds. It was
easy to go unnoticed. The signs which read “Employees
Only” helped him find his way to the maintenance corridors
and the back stairs. On the roof he found a secluded spot
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behind one of the two massive smoke stacks. It was there
he laid his heavy satchel down, opened it, and removed a
pair of laser, range-finder, field-glasses. He looked across
the water.
Yes, there they were. She was still sitting down. He was
standing by the table with a shocked expression on his face.
He noted the exact distance on the laser range-finder,
accurate to within a tenth of an inch, then reached down
into the satchel and extracted the rifle scope. In less than a
minute, skilled hands had removed the other intricate pieces
of the rifle from the satchel and had it assembled, locked,
and loaded. He wound a noise-suppresser into the rifling at
the end of the barrel.
Unlike the “silencers” depicted in the movies as sleek
cylinders, this device resembled a very small oblong car
muffler, about six inches long and four inches in diameter,
the rifling port off-center, which made it hang below the
end of the barrel like a cow’s udder. Even that device
wouldn’t eliminate the entire report, but it would reduce it
to a dull, muted spit. The laser range-finder’s settings were
meticulously calibrated into the long-range scope’s precision tuning wheels, taking into account the velocity deviations that would be introduced by the noise-suppresser, the
angle of flight, and the slight breeze. He inserted the special
high-grain ammunition and closed the single-shot bolt.
He wound the weapon’s shoulder strap twice around his
left arm and brought the eyepiece up to his right eye. The
man in white shirt sleeves with the shocked expression on
his face was sitting down once again.
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
“What did you say?” Ev’s knees went weak, as he
slipped into his chair.
“That is your name isn’t it? Walter Clark?” Jenny accused.
“No, I told you my name, it’s—”
He never got to finish before she spat, “You lying sack
of shit. Then why does it say Walter Clark of Phoenix Arizona on your driver’s license?”
“My driver’s license?” He slunk down lower in his
chair, in a fresh state of shock and confusion. Confidence
and clear thinking were now light years away.
Jenny lifted her hands from the edge of the table and
tossed the eel-skin wallet at him. It landed with a “So there,
Mr. Berger” Perry Mason-open-and-shut-case note of finality.
Ev looked around in all directions, his face going red
with a pained look. He wheezed, “I…I can explain that.”
Her arms were tightly folded again, “I’m counting on
it.”

At three hundred yards the magnification of the scope
put the cross-hairs neatly in the middle of the target’s forehead. The slow double-beat of the shooter’s own heart wavered the intersection of the two perpendicular lines ever so
slightly between the target’s eyes. That was an acceptable
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margin of error to get the job done. The high-velocity slug
was a special gel which maintained its aerodynamic shape
during flight exceptionally well, but spread wide an instant
after penetration. It was much more effective than a dumdum or hollow-point round, in that its flight could be controlled with great precision over long distances. Although,
it was just as messy on impact, if not more so. The gel had
the added benefit of only wreaking its damage on the intended target and not penetrating through, as did most other
long range slugs, and inadvertently cause collateral damage
or casualties.
His thumb found the twin safeties and released them.
His index finger moved to the trigger. He took one deep
breath and released it slowly.

“I’m not Walter Clark,” Ev stated plainly.
Jenny tipped her head back. “That sure looked like your
picture on Walter Clark’s driver’s license, tucked in your
wallet.”
He nodded, running all ten of his fingers nervously
through his hair. “It is my picture. But that’s not Walter’s
driver’s license. It’s a fake. I made it in Dallas. I swear, I’m
not Walter Clark.”
“Bullshit! Can you prove it?” she demanded.
A thought occurred to him: Walter’s original. “Actually, I think I can.” He picked up the wallet and dug through
it for several frustrating seconds, then slammed it shut in a
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huff of realization, clutching it tight in his left hand. “Oh,
shit, I put it in the other coat pocket.”
“The other coat?” She was starting to get irritated.
“That’s awfully convenient. What other coat might that be?
Your raincoat?”
He waved the entire line of thinking away, “Nevermind.
Jenny, you’re right. I need to tell you what’s going on. You
have a right to know.”
She licked a pair of tight, dry lips, “Damn straight. OK,
so if you’re not really Walter Clark, then who the hell are
you?”
“My name…,” he began as a wink of light appeared
across the water from the top of the paddle-wheel boat, as
though a camera had flashed.
Britney the overly perky waitress stepped back up to the
table, cheerfully announcing, “So what can I get—”
And her chest exploded.
One moment she stood there in her off-white blouse. In
the next instant, a ten inch rose bud of flesh, bone, cartilage, and blood blossomed. Her cast member name-tag flew
past Ev’s ear.
Both Ev and Jenny screamed simultaneously as a mist
of red peppered and splattered them. The young woman
dropped in a heap beside the table, her eyes wide and frozen in surprise.
On sheer instinct Ev lunged to his feet, grabbing the
edge of the heavy metal table and tumbling it over on its
side in the direction of the paddle-wheel. He then grabbed
Jenny by the arm and jerked her down behind it. With the
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ring of a giant gong, an invisible fist slammed into the table
top from the other side producing a convex dent roughly the
size of the hole in the waitress’ chest, right between Ev and
Jenny’s heads. Jenny screamed again, her nails digging into
Ev’s forearms.
“Run!” Ev shouted.
Her face was a paralyzed knot of disbelief, horror, and
confusion. But her legs weren’t confused at all.
They ran.
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CHAPTER 14
Lake Buena Vista, Florida
Yvette Monroe sat quietly in her hotel suite, blowing
smoke rings at her computer screen. The passenger list
from the Southwest Airlines flight lay on the desktop to her
left. Only five names had not been crossed off by the FBI
man. Two of them were a couple, Mr. Jamaal Washington,
and Ms. Kaneisha Washington. Two of the remaining people standing in line that afternoon had been AfricanAmerican, one Hispanic, two Caucasian. Likely, the African-Americans were the Washingtons. Another name on
the list was Raul Garcia. There was a woman named Jennifer Davis. And, of course, there was the illustrious Walter
Clark.
Yvette had discretely followed the two FBI men and
observed their “handiwork” on the tarmac. Much to the
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zealous G-men’s chagrin, their prey undoubtedly turned out
to be Mr. Garcia. Therefore, by the process of elimination,
the only other man remaining on that flight—a man she had
carefully noted as he left—had to be Mr. Walter Clark, or
his accomplice. But that man wasn’t alone. There was a
blond with him. So once again, my dear Dr. Watson, it is
elementary. The blond must be the one and only Ms. Jennifer Davis. A few mouse clicks on the computer brought up
the reservation log. There was the passenger information on
Jennifer Davis, address, and telephone number.
She picked up the telephone in the room and dialed the
number on the computer screen in front of her.
After four rings an irritated male voice answered, “Yellow?”
“Mr. Davis?” Yvette asked.
“Yeah, who’s this?” the gruff voice barked back in a
thick Southern drawl.
“Mr. Davis,” Yvette began professionally, “I don’t wish
to alarm you, but this is Special Agent Tracy Brown from
the FBI calling.”
“The FBI?” the voice dropped some of its hard tinge of
irritation to a note of respect for authority. “Yes, ma’am,
what can do for you?”
“Mr. Davis,” she asked, “Are you the husband of Jennifer Davis?”
There was a pause filled with two heavy breaths, “At’s
right. Jenny’s my wife.”
“Good,” she said. “Do you happen to know the exact
whereabouts of your wife right now, Mr. Davis?”
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Another terse breath, “No. She ain’t home. Been gone
since yesterday. But I’d sure as hell like to know where she
run off to. Say, what’s this all about?”
“It’s rather confidential, sir,” she responded, “But suffice it to say that we’re looking for your wife right now, and
it’s urgent that we contact her as soon as possible. If you
should hear from her, we’d appreciate being notified.”
“What’s she done?” Randy Davis asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir,” Yvette replied. “But we
have reason to believe that she’s traveling with a man who
is wanted for questioning in a federal matter. This man and
your wife were last seen together at the Orlando International Airport earlier this afternoon. Were you aware she
was traveling to Florida?”
“Say what?” he was dumfounded. “You sure you got
the right Jenny Davis?”
Yvette glanced back at the computer screen, “Well let’s
confirm that. Is this the Jenny Davis who is a little over
five-feet tall, blond hair, and lives at…1206 Rutherford
Road, Steele, Alabama?”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s the little bitch.”
Yvette heard the sound of the man on the other end of
the line taking a long swig of something, swallow, and
belch, “But I ain’t got any idea what the hell you’re talking
about, lady, on any federal matter. My Jenny don’t know
nobody in no Orlando and nothing federal. She growed up
here all her life.”
Yvette frowned. This wasn’t going quite as she’d
hoped. But it was an angle of contact she had to play,
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among others. “Well, Mr. Davis, like I said, should she call
you, we’d appreciate being notified.”
“Yeah, sure,” he huffed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just call the following number. Do you have something to write with?” She heard him fumbling around for a
few seconds.
“Yeah, shoot.”
Yvette provided him with a non-traceable 1-800 number that she could program with an intercept which would
forward the call immediately to her cell phone. She had to
repeat the numbers slowly and often, picturing a half-drunk
hayseed drawing his “ciphers” on a piece of ruled notebook
paper like a preschooler with a fat crayon. The image of
Jethro Bodine came to mind.
She added, “And if it’s not too much trouble, Mr.
Davis, could you please give me the names and numbers of
any close friends or relatives you know she might keep in
touch with, so we can contact them as well and see if
they’ve heard from her?”
A long, pronounced huff preceded, “Shit, I dunno. I’ll
have to think about that one, honey, and call you back.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Davis,” she closed with her
friendliest voice, noting to herself that the word shit normally didn’t have two syllables. “We sincerely appreciate
your cooperation.”
With that Yvette hung up the phone.
What a fucking red-neck.
Yvette took another long drag off her cigarette. What
was Walter Clark doing with the wife of some backwoods
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PWT? The two of them were together, she was sure of it.
She’d seen them together with her own eyes. She saw how
he looked at her, and how she looked at him. And when he
turned around and looked over his shoulder, he took off
with the blond right at his side, step for step. Yes, they were
very much together.
So what was he doing? A shadow?
Yes, that had to be it. Her fingers flew to her laptop
computer keyboard. In a few minutes she had filter-traps set
up in all of the major hotel, airline, and car reservation networks. She updated her electronic traps in all the major
credit card networks to add the filter for “Davis.” As soon
as anyone checked into a hotel, bought a plane ticket,
rented a car, or used a credit card under the name of Davis,
the transaction would be transferred into her online log file.
Davis. Damn. Why couldn’t it have been Bonkowski or
Polimontari? What’s the matter, Clark, wasn’t there a single Smith on that flight for you to flirt with?
Yvette knew painfully well there would be hundreds, if
not thousands of “Davis” transactions in any twenty-four
hour period. Those would take precious time to sort down
to a woman named Jennifer from Alabama, traveling in
Florida. Walter Clark was living up to his reputation, she
mused. He was very clever to pick a shadow with such a
common name to camouflage his movements. Naturally,
this led her to believe more strongly than ever that this man
was indeed the real Walter Clark, and not just one of his
minions. But a shadow could be both an asset as well as a
liability. Yvette’s only hope was that he didn’t know what
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she now knew about his traveling companion.
Who knows, sometimes you just have to get lucky.
She stubbed out her cigarette and rose to go take a
shower. Yes, the thought of a little good luck made her decide to get cleaned up, and put on a little something alluring—perhaps something red—and go prowl the bars
downstairs for some evening “amusement.”
A chill of excitement rippled up her spine.
Oh yes, a lonely businessman on the road and away
from the wife and kids could always be found lurking in
any good hotel bar. And if that little hunt didn’t turn up any
promising game, then after dark she’d need to go no further
than just across the street from the hotel to Pleasure Island.
Hey, there was always fun for everyone at Disney
World.
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CHAPTER 15
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
What to do? What to do?
Both Ev and Jenny pressed their backs up against the
rear wall of a souvenir clothing shop as far from the lagoon
as they could get, squatting low near a trash dumpster. The
screams and shouts of terrorized voices filled the air in the
distance as sirens approached. Now twice in as many days,
Everett Manning was face-to-face with grisly terror and
panic in a crowded public place. Once again, his only
thought was to just get as far away from it as he could. But
this time he was no longer alone.
He looked over at Jenny.
Her chest was heaving almost as fast as his own. Her
eyes were wide, pupils tight. The right side of her face and
her right arm were spattered with thick dark splotches of
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blood, as though someone had dipped a wide paint brush
deep in a gallon of dark red paint and then flicked it at her
several times. An image from the movie of Stephen King’s
Carrie, came to mind.
Ev looked down and saw his white shirt fared no better.
It was everywhere. He could feel the warm sticky sensation
on his hands, on his face, and in his hair. He told himself it
might not have been as bad if he had still been wearing his
suit jacket. Unfortunately, it was left behind, still draped
over the back of a blood-splattered chair. Oddly enough, the
eel-skin wallet was still clutched in his left hand. He
slipped it into his back pants pocket.
“That poor girl,” Jenny whispered in disbelief.
Ev couldn’t say anything for several moments. Around
the building from where they hid, the sounds of more
shouts, running feet, and hard commands cut through the
general murmur of the throng.
Amazingly, Jenny’s voice came forth unusually even,
almost somber, possessing a strength that could easily be
confused with indifference to the horror they had just witnessed. “Ev, someone just tried to kill us.”
What?
Strangely, that observation hadn’t quite registered with
him yet. The blast yesterday seemed to be such a random
act of wanton destruction. So why was the death of a waitress right in front of him any different?
Because she just happened to step in the line of fire
aimed at you, stupid.
“Why?” he seethed into the air, not really to Jenny.
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“You’re asking me?” she pointed at her chest.
“Well, I don’t know why,” he pleaded.
“There’s some shit going down with you, isn’t there,”
she was accusing again, not asking. “Tell me what’s going
on.”
“Nothing like this,” he denied. “I don’t know. I was just
getting away, but not from people trying to kill me.”
“You so sure about that?” she challenged.
He shot back, “Well, how do we know they weren’t
shooting at you? What if it was your hubby with the bad
attitude?”
Jenny spat back, “Yeah, it could be him if he had Scotty
beam him here. He doesn’t even know I’m in Orlando. And
if he did, how could he have got here before I did? Besides
that’s nonsense. And you’re not answering my question.
What the hell’s going on with you?”
Ev nodded reluctantly, “OK, I’ll tell you. But not here.”
“Where?” she sparred.
“Back at the hotel,” he gestured with his chin in the
general direction of the Hilton.
It was Jenny’s turn to take inventory of their appearance. “Right, so after a woman is blown apart a few feet
from us, we just stroll on in with these bloody clothes on,
right on back to the hotel and check in. Is that what you had
in mind?”
Under different circumstances, Ev might have been
tempted to laugh at the absurdity of the image she just
painted. He just swallowed with some difficulty, “No, we
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der that shirt?”
She started to blush, silently thankful that Loretta wore
the same cup size that she did, “A bra.”
“OK,” Ev was getting another idea. “Let’s see how
much of this soaked through.”
“Why?” she asked.
He unbuttoned his once-white dress shirt and pulled it
off. Surprisingly, his undershirt had no specks of red on it.
“How’s it look?”
“OK,” she replied. “Dirty, but no blood showing.”
“Perfect,” he dropped the dress shirt to the ground and
then pulled the tee-shirt over his head and stood there barechested holding it out to her. “It’s yours.”
She took it cautiously with her thumb and forefinger,
scowling, “You want me to put this filthy thing on?”
He frowned, “It’s only dirty, not bloody. You said so
yourself.”
She understood, handing it back to him for a moment
while she started to unbutton the blue denim work-shirt.
“Turn around?”
He complied, “No problem.”
“OK,” she said as she finished changing, pulling the tail
of the undershirt down to her waist, then lifted her arms
with her hands hanging down like a monkey, “Ooo, it’s all
wet.”
Ev did another about face, inspecting the result. His size
was ample to fit her loosely. “Don’t bitch. Nothing but
good clean sweat. That’ll work. Just tuck it in your pants.”
She nodded, “But what about your clothes?”
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“Hang on,” he stepped forward, turning her denim shirt
inside out and using the clean inside to wipe the red spots
and streaks off her face, dabbing it occasionally against his
tongue. One of those strange little oddities that Ev remembered was that saliva made one of the best solvents for
blood. She consented to the cleaning with the same pinched
expressions a five year old makes when its mother does
very much the same thing. In a few swipes, Jenny’s face
was clean.
She took the shirt from his hands and returned the favor, then repeated her question, “So what are you going to
do about your clothes?”
He replied, “Well, that’s easy. You get to go in this
store here and buy me a new shirt.” He noted the blood
streaking in her blond hair. It didn’t wipe out. That would
need some shampoo and a shower later. “And get yourself a
hat.”
“With what? My looks?” she asked.
He fished the eel-skin wallet out of his back pocket,
opened it and handed her a hundred dollar bill, doing a halfdecent impression of Humphry Bogart, “No, doll. Here, go
buy yourself somethin’ pretty.”
Jenny rolled her eyes and took the bill. “OK. Just wait
here. I’ll be right back”
He grabbed her wrist, his eyes locking on hers, stern at
first, then almost pleading, “Will you come back? I know
you know you don’t have to. You could just keep on walking and not look back.”
She licked her lips again, “You’ll have to trust me then,
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won’t you.”
Ev let her go, “I do trust you. I have to. Look... Jenny...
you may be right. I could be in a lot worse trouble than you
are. I honestly don’t know. But without you now, I’m stuck
here.”
“That’s right,” she smiled and disappeared around the
corner.
Ev tossed both his and Jenny’s shirts in the dumpster
and covered them with trash. He crouched behind the
dumpster for almost twenty of the longest minutes of his
life before he saw Jenny reappear around the corner, wearing a Goofy hat with his long snout as the bill and long
floppy black ears hanging down either side of her head. Her
soiled blond hair was tucked up beneath it, all but invisible.
“What took you so long?” he demanded.
She handed him a colorful plastic Disney shopping bag.
“Simmer down. There were a lot of people in there, thank
you very much.”
“What’s everybody saying?” he asked.
She shrugged, “Not a lot. Most everyone doesn’t know
what’s going on. Someone said they thought somebody got
hurt over by the lake. That’s about all. Apparently injuries
around here aren’t unheard of. Business goes on.”
He sighed, “Good. We have to go quick before they
start closing the area.”
Her smile reappeared. “So hurry up and look at what I
got you. I hope it all fits.”
Ev felt a sudden pang of apprehension as he saw her
open the bag and peered inside. “Whoa! Look at all this.
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You got all this for under a hundred bucks?”
“They were having a sale.” She gave him a thin smile
which faded fast, “Just put it on and let’s get the hell out of
here.”
“OK, OK,” he put his hands out, “Give it.”
She reached in and pulled out an extra-large Mickey
Mouse tee-shirt. It was navy blue. Next she pulled out a
powder blue tee shirt with Minnie Mouse on it, then stuffed
it back in, “No, that’s mine for later.”
“Oh.” He grinned at her.
She reached back in the bag and pulled out a pair of cutoff denim shorts with Jiminy Cricket’s head, complete with
top hat, embroidered on one pocket, and handed them to
him.
“What’s this?” he sounded offended.
“Dress pants don’t go with a Mickey tee-shirt, don’t
you think?” she observed.
“I would have rather had Pluto,” he quipped.
“Just put the goddamn things on,” she snapped.
“I’m not going to put these silly—” he started to say.
She cut him off, “A man with dark pants and a white
shirt was seen running from the scene…”
Ev nodded, “Got ‘cha.” He opened his belt buckle,
“Your turn to turn around?”
Jenny faced the other way, “Hurry up.”
“I’m going,” he slipped out of his shoes and trousers,
then slipped the shorts on. Surprisingly they fit pretty well.
The black socks and his Johnston and Murphy’s didn’t
quite match the ensemble. “OK. But what about my
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shoes?”
Jenny turned back and reached into the bottom of the
bag and pulled out a pair of blue and yellow Donald Duck
emblazoned flip-flops. “Covered. You can get some socks
and tennis shoes later. I didn’t know your size. Besides
shoes are tres expensive around here. There’s gotta be a
Target…,” which she pronounced Tar-zhay, “…around here
somewhere.”
Ev just shook his head as he peeled off his socks. His
feet sighed with relief as this was the first time in two days
he had even had his shoes off. He winced at the smell, tossing the socks in the dumpster along with his dress shoes.
He slipped on the flip-flops. “Thanks.”
“Not bad,” Jenny observed, taking a step back in selfdefense. “Just like a real tourist. All you need is a camera.”
“You gotta be kidding,” he looked down at himself. “I
look absolutely—”
“…like everyone else around here,” she finished. “Let’s
go.”
She started to leave, but Ev stood fast.
“Wait,” he called to her.
She turned back, “What’s the matter?”
“A man with black pants and white shirt, and a woman
in jeans were seen leaving the scene…” he said.
“We go separately?” she asked.
“We have to,” he nodded. “You go on ahead. Check us
in under your name. I’ll wait ten minutes and then follow.”
“How do I pay for it?” she asked. “They’ll want a credit
card.”
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He pulled out the eel-skin wallet again, and this time
handed her five more one-hundred dollar bills, advising as
he counted them out, “Only show them your driver’s license if they want ID. But just give ‘em the cash. And make
sure you get the cheapest rooms they have.”
“We don’t have a reservation,” she noted.
“They either have empty rooms or they don’t,” he
shrugged. “Just fake it, and always remember that hotels
hate a scene.”
She nodded, starting off with her bag in hand, “Right. I
can handle that.”
As soon as Jenny was out of sight, Ev blended into the
crowd and found his way to another public rest room,
washing his hands yet again in the sink. Only this time he
included not only his face, but rinsed his hair as well.

“May I help you?” the desk clerk asked Jenny as she
took her turn from her place behind the velvet rope, in line
for the registration desk.
“Yes, you can,” Jenny smiled, knowing she could do
this. “Reservation for Davis please?”
The young Asian woman at the desk with waist-length
black hair typed into her computer terminal, then looked up
smiling, with a furrowed brow, “I’m very sorry, Ms. Davis,
but I don’t show a reservation under that name.”
Jenny did her best to look appalled, but the Goofy hat
dampened some of the effect, “What? I don’t believe this.
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We’ve had this trip planned for over four months. You better have it!”
The young clerk, whose name tag identified her as
Cindi, gave her best professional smile, “Sorry. Do you
have a confirmation number?”
Jenny held up empty hands, “Yes, I do. Of course I do.
But it’s in my husband’s briefcase, not with me! What is
this?” She turned to another guest checking in next to her,
the long ears of her hat flopping around, as she raised her
voice, “Can you believe this, they never get anything right
here!” She turned back to the girl in front of her, “Get the
manager out here. If you can’t help me, then get me someone who can.”
Cindi blushed, nodding politely to the person Jenny had
previously addressed next to her, “No, no, Ms. Davis, I’m
sure it’s just a little mix up. We can take care of you.” She
typed several characters. “How would you like to pay?”
“Cash, of course,” Jenny continued to look indignant,
pulling out the stack of hundred dollar bills and starting to
count them out like they were from and endless fount of
plenty.
The desk clerk shrugged a quick apology, “So sorry for
any confusion, Ms. Davis. Would you like smoking or nonsmoking?”
“Non-smoking,” Jenny replied, glancing around the
lobby.
Out of the corner of her eye Jenny noticed a very striking redheaded woman in a slinky blood-red dress emerge
from the main elevators. For some strange reason Jenny had
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the strongest Déjà-Vu sensation. Did she know that
woman? Not likely. As the desk clerk continued to type,
Jenny watched the woman walk toward the darkened entrances of one of the hotel’s cocktail lounges. Must be a
high-dollar whore, Jenny mused to herself.

Ev waved at the Bellman upon returning to the Hilton.
The Bellman laughed, observing Ev’s new attire and
holding the door for him, “Looks like you’ve got into the
spirit of things, Mr. Davis.”
“Couldn’t wait,” Ev replied, fishing the bag claim slips
he received earlier out of the eel-skin wallet. There were
now only two of them. “Here you go, I don’t know where
the third one is.”
“That’s all right. I remember which bags were yours,
sir. Shall I have these items sent up to your room?” the
Bellman asked.
“But of course.” Ev moved through the revolving door
and saw Jenny heading back from the registration desk in
his direction. He met her near a large granite fountain. “Any
luck?”
She held up two plastic computer card keys, and a small
brass mini-bar key. “Bingo.”
He lifted his chin, “How much?”
“Three twenty-five a night,” she lifted her eyebrows.
“Ouch,” he turned all the way around. “For both
rooms?”
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She gave him a half-laugh, “No, that’s for one room.
Evidently, that’s all they had left.”
Ev pursed his lips, “Two double-beds, I take it?”
Jenny looked away, “Just a king I’m afraid.”
He paused and then offered, “They have couches in
these rooms.”
Her gentility came out in full bloom, “And if they
didn’t, they certainly have bathtubs.”
Ev spotted the neon bar sign, and pointed, “Let’s go get
a beer.”
She turned around and took his arm, “Absolutely. In
case you forgot, you still have a story to tell me.”
He smiled and patted her hand in the crook of his arm,
“Oh, yes, that I do. That I do.”
They marched together toward the door the lady in red
had entered just a few minutes ago.
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CHAPTER 16
Orlando IAP, Florida
Marty Peelinar walked out of the airport security office,
holding a brown paper bag in his hand. Donny Mellor stood
by the coffee pot in the break room, adding a packet of
Sweet-n-Low to his Styrofoam cup.
“What do you got?” asked Donny, stirring his coffee
with a thin red plastic swizzle.
Marty sucked his teeth once, lifting the bag, “One of the
stews pulled a gray suit coat off the plane. It was left behind
by one of the passengers.”
“Yeah, so what?” Donny carefully took a sip.
“This was found in one of the pockets.” Marty held up
Walter Clark’s plastic driver’s license by the edges.
Donny took it and examined it carefully. The picture
showed the silver-haired Walter Clark. “OK, go get this
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picture blown up and on the wires immediately. Get that
jacket to hair and fiber. If it’s legit, this could be a real
break.”
Marty nodded, “Yeah, except the stew doesn’t remember anyone on the plane who looked like that.”
“Big deal,” Mellor replied. “Do you really expect a skywaitress tossing peanuts and sodas at people all day to
memorize every passenger on every flight?”
“No…but,” Marty wasn’t exactly agreeing. “It’s not
that…”
“What?” Donny knew his partner was thinking of something.
Marty set the bag down on one of the round tables in
the airport employee break area. “A couple of things bother
me, man.”
“Like what?” Donny took another sip. He knew it was
wise to let Marty brainstorm. He had a trustworthy gut and
was rarely wrong.
“Like, who keeps their driver’s license in their coat
pocket? Don’t everyone have theirs in their wallet?” He
held one forefinger against the underside of the other,
counting off point number one.
“Which means…?” Donny prompted.
He counted point number two, “That I think this jacket
was left behind on purpose.”
“Why?” Donny was confused.
Marty dropped his hands at his side, “Because he knows
that there are no known photographs of him. So he leaves
us this one, knowing we’ll find it and go out looking for
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someone who looks just like this.”
“Safe assumption,” Donny nodded.
“Yeah, but what if the picture is a disguise?” Donny
pointed three fingers at his partner, crossing them with his
forefinger: point number three.
“A disguise?” Donny slurped another sip of his coffee.
“Right,” Marty was getting excited. “Cause the stew
says that the coat was in an overhead bin next to some
younger guy with short black hair, who got on in Dallas,
sitting next to a blond, who got on in Alabama. She says
she thought it was his, could have sworn she saw him toss
it up there when he first got on. She even asked him about
it when he was getting off, but he denied it was his. But
hell, a little gray hair coloring, or a wig, maybe some contact lenses, and there you go.”
“Hmm,” Mellor set his coffee down. “That makes
sense. Can we get her to give us a composite sketch of this
younger man?”
“Worth a try,” Peelinar agreed.
“Do it,” The senior Agent ordered.
The door flew open from the security room. The head of
airport security stuck his head out and motioned to them,
“Agent Peelinar, Agent Mellor?”
Both Marty and Donny walked over, alarmed by the
tone of urgency.
“What do you got?” Donny asked.
The security chief motioned them close, even though no
other airport employees were in the break room. “You’re
presence is required, gentlemen. There may be a break on
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your Walter Clark guy. Just got a call from a guy, says he’s
an old friend of yours, on the Orlando police force. Gene
Phillips.”
Marty and Donny exchanged a smile.
The chief paused, “You know Phillips?”
Donny made a circular motion with his hand, prompting
the officer to go on with his story, nodding, “Yeah, we go a
ways back. You were saying?”
The chief continued, “Yeah, well, apparently there’s
been a shooting at the Disney Village. One down. Waitress.
Probable bystander. Sounds pretty ugly. High-powered shit.
Phillips says the victim looks real bad, like a thirty-oughtsix taking out a watermelon. And he says he’s got a peculiar dent in a table top the size of your fist he wants you to
come take a look at.”
Marty frowned, “So what’s the connection to our boy?”
“He was apparently there,” the chief replied. “Phillips
just called in direct response to your APB, looking for you
two in particular. Says they found a black suit jacket at the
crime scene right near the body. It was left behind by a man
and woman who were seen sitting down for drinks in the
outdoor café just before the ruckus. They were presumably
the original targets. There was a business card in the jacket
pocket with the name Walter Clark on it. So there you go.”
“Another discarded jacket by Walter Clark?” Donny
sounded doubtful.
“Looks that way,” the security chief said.
Marty pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket and a
pen, “They get a description of this man and woman?”
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“Not much,” answered the chief. “Like I said, it was
supposedly pretty grisly. Just a man in his mid- to latethirties. White shirt. Dark pants. Black hair.”
Both Donny and Marty looked at each other.
Marty prompted further, “And the woman?”
“A blond in a blue top and blue-jeans. That’s all he had
for now,” he concluded.
“Sounds like our couple,” Donny was getting excited
again. He turned to Marty, “But why another jacket after
leaving the first one? Isn’t that a bit redundant?”
The chief shook his head, “Witnesses at the scene said
those two left in a big hurry with someone shooting at
them, soaked with the waitress’s blood. My guess is that
this forgotten jacket could be a legitimate mistake, under
the circumstances.”
Donny smiled, “Which is the kind of break we hope and
pray for.”
Marty thanked the chief, “Appreciate your help on this
one, Steve. We assume the local cops are busy looking for
these two?”
“Of course,” the chief replied. “They shouldn’t be too
hard to spot now. And of course they’re still trying to find
the shooter as well. Unfortunately, there’s no description.
Nobody got a look at him. But nevertheless, they’re canvassing all the hotels in the area as we speak to see if the
couple turns up.”
“Well come on, let’s get out to the park and see what
Gene’s got,” Donny motioned to Marty.
Agent Peelinar pocketed his notepad and pen. “Yeah,
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before whoever the persistent bastard is who’s after our Mr.
Clark finds him before we do, and finishes the job.”
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CHAPTER 17
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
Yvette Monroe sat at the bar, her emerald green eyes
scanning for likely targets of opportunity. She took a slow,
pensive sip of her extra-dry Grey Goose Vodka martini.
There were a few entertainment possibilities sprinkled here
and there, but nothing extraordinary. Two tanned poolstuds in tank-tops, beach shorts, and sandals sat at a small
cocktail table munching the pretzel mix and sipping draft
beer, laughing at some joke. It had been a while since she’d
had a threesome. That might be amusing. An older gentleman in a flowered Hawaiian shirt and white slacks sat alone
watching the big-screen television mounted in the wall. A
professional football game was about to start. Denver was
playing Kansas City.
On the wide projection screen Yvette watched a female
sports reporter stick a foam-tipped microphone in Denver’s
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coach, Mike Shannahan’s face. Though the volume was
muted, the closed-captioning slowly scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Yvette pulled an olive off her toothpick
with her front teeth and bit into it, absently reading the dialogue on the screen:
Lesley>> So coach, what are your keys
to winning today?
Mike>> Well, Lesley, today we really
need to focus. More importantly we
need to concentrate. We especially
need to focus all our energy on concentrating. And then we must concentrate
on not losing our focus. Because if we
put a focused concentration on not losing our focus, then we can concentrate
on winning.
And these guys get paid millions for coming up with
this gobbledygook? Yvette shook her head in wonder. Her
eyes returned to the older gentleman in the Hawaiian shirt.
The older ones were always more patient and attentive. She
preferred that, though the athleticism of a young colt in his
twenties was always a treat, and two could double your
pleasure, double your fun. Hawaiian-shirt-man glanced
over at her and smiled. She’d give that one a little time to
ripen—i.e., see if a wife or girlfriend showed up.
Not that it ever mattered.
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A couple walked into the bar, a man and his daughter or
teenage girlfriend. They were silhouetted momentarily from
the bright Florida sun blazing in from the lobby behind
them, contrasted by the cave-like dimness of the bar. Nevertheless, Yvette could make out the man was in a dark teeshirt with a cartoon character on the front, cut-off shorts,
and sandals, with his hair slicked back. The girl with him
had one of those silly dog hats on, a dirty tee-shirt and
jeans. Tourist trash, she thought. Parents just don’t even
bother to try and dress their kids anymore. They took a
booth in a back corner, sliding in on opposite sides of a narrow table.
Yvette finished the last half of her martini in a single
swallow.
The bartender was at her service before the V-shaped
stemmed glass touched the bar again. “How about another,
ma’am?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” she gave him her dazzling
smile.
Yvette was a wee bit disappointed when, as she suspected, a heavy-set woman with a brunette bee-hive, cateye glasses, and tan polyester slacks, came back from the
bathroom and sat down next to Mr. Hawaiian shirt. She
continued to inspect the other pub patrons for potential.

Jenny kept her voice low, “So spill it.”
Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places” started on the
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jukebox.
Ev leaned in close to her over the table top, angling his
face toward the wall as much as possible, so as not to be
overheard. “OK. All of this is going to sound kind of stupid. But here goes.”
“I’m all ears,” she held up the Goofy flaps.
Ev just rolled his eyes. “Did you happen to watch the
news yesterday?”
“No,” she answered, gesturing to the bandages on her
hands and arms. “In case you didn’t notice, I had a little…incident yesterday. I spent most of last night running
for my life, barefoot and bleeding, and ended up at my
friend’s house. We never turned on the TV.”
“That’s OK,” he went on. “It’s like this. Yesterday, at
the airport in Dallas, a plane was blown up.”
“What?” she was openly incredulous.
“Yeah,” he nodded, “Don’t know how or why, but I was
there.”
She leaned back warily, turning her head a few degrees,
brows furrowed, almost accusing.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it!” he denied, pressing the tips of his fingers into his chest.
“You sure?” she asked, the note of apprehension still
apparent.
“Absolutely,” he assured her. “But here’s the deal. I was
supposed to be on that plane. That was my flight. But I
missed the flight—thankfully, I missed the flight.” He
shuddered, “It was terrible, Jenny. I’ve never had anything
like that happen anywhere near me before. Not even close.
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Never even seen a car wreck in person. I mean, you hear
about shit like that all the time, but you never think you
ever are going to actually be there when it happens.”
She shook her head, growing quiet for a moment, her
eyes welling moist with empathy, then offering, “That must
have been awful.”
“Worse than awful,” he corrected.
Her tone grew grave again, “But what does any of that
have to do with you having your picture on a driver’s license of someone named Walter Clark, someone the FBI is
obviously looking for?”
“I honestly have no earthly idea why the FBI is looking
for Walter Clark,” he told her truthfully. “Walter’s dead. He
was on the same flight. That’s just it. I met Walter Clark at
the airport yesterday. He just walked up, a total stranger,
and sat down and we had a beer together. He was real
friendly. We talked for maybe a minute or two. Nothing
more. Then he got up and boarded the plane. Next thing
you know…Boom.”
“And…?” she prompted.
“And,” he went on, “After he left to go get on the plane,
I saw that he left behind his briefcase and his jacket.”
Her eyes widened, “I wondered why you were carrying
two briefcases. That was kind of weird.”
“Right,” Ev said. “Anyway. I was on my way to the gate
to give them back to him, but I was too late. The plane had
already left the gate. I was standing there at the ticket
counter when I watched the damn thing go up in flames,
right out there on the blacktop next to the terminal.”
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“So what did you do?” she asked.
“What do you think? After I shit my pants, I got the hell
out of there,” he replied. “I ran for my life. I don’t know, I
guess I was in shock or something. I couldn’t think. I could
barely hear. It felt like I was floating around in like a dense
fog or something. All I knew was that I just wanted to get
away from it all. It was terrible. The next thing I remember
I was sitting in some coffee shop somewhere, trying to stop
shaking, and then I notice I’ve still got all of Walter’s stuff
with me.”
“So why didn’t you give it to the police or something?”
Jenny inquired.
Before Ev answered a waitress walked up. “What are
you having?”
Ev turned to her, “What’s on draft?”
“Bud and Miller Lite,” the waitress shot back, and then
turned to Jenny, “And I’m afraid I’m going to need to see
her ID.”
Jenny reached into her front jeans pocket and pulled out
a small change purse. She extracted her Alabama driver’s
license from the folded wad of twenty dollar bills and
showed it to the waitress.
The waitress shrugged in surprise, “Wow. Sorry, honey,
but you could pass for twelve in that hat.”
“It’s all right,” Jenny put the license back. “I get that all
the time.”
Ev instructed, “Just bring us a couple of Miller Lites, if
you would.”
“Coming up,” the waitress shot them an OK sign and
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departed.
“You were saying,” Jenny prompted again.
“Oh, yeah,” Ev remembered his place. “That’s where, I
admit, things start to get a little weird.”
She folded her arms, waiting patiently for the weird
part.
Ev took a deep preparatory breath and let it out slowly,
examining his fingernails for any new growth to nibble off.
“You see. It’s like this. There I was, sitting in this diner.
And I suddenly realize that as far as anyone in the world
knows, I’m dead too. I was supposed to be on that plane. I
had checked in for the flight at the gate, so they already had
my ticket. That means they would count me as one of the
casualties.”
She nodded, her tone somewhere between matter-offact and patronizing, “So you just decided to up and take
off with Mr. Clark’s stuff, pretending to be him.”
He just met her gaze for several seconds. “It’s not like
you think.”
“Really? What do I think?” she challenged.
“I didn’t do it because I was some down-and-out loser,
ripping off a dead guy,” he carefully explained. “I had a
pretty good job, making pretty good money. Nice apartment, nice car. I just didn’t want it all any more. Until yesterday I never realized just how much of my life
just…happened. I didn’t plan any of it. And the more I
thought about it, the more I knew how much I didn’t want
any of it.”
Jenny’s hard expression began to soften.
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Ev licked his lips, “For the last twenty years I’ve done
everything I thought I was supposed to be doing. I was an
honor student in High School. I got an academic scholarship to Emory University in Atlanta, the ‘good school’ my
folks told me I should go to. Graduated magna cum laude in
Business Administration. Was recruited right out of college
by Xerox, and making real good money for those days.
Married my college girlfriend. Started a family right away.
Had a boy, named him Jeffrey Allen. Did just what everybody and everything said I was supposed to do with my life,
picket fence in the suburbs and all.”
Jenny gave him a sharp look, “So you’re telling me
you’re married?”
Ev laughed, “No, divorced. Thank God.” He regained
his train of thought, “Oh, but don’t let me mislead you. I’ve
done OK. But I sure as hell have had my share of pot holes
in the road as well. I’ve done well at a lot of things, and not
too good at some things. I don’t have many regrets, but a
few. I guess that’s about par for the course for most folks.
But my point is, yesterday I had this crazy revelation. A little light went on inside. And I realized, who ever said any
of the things in my life were required? And staring me in
the face in that moment was a chance to just leave it all behind, go somewhere else, and start all over again. Only this
time it would be taking up a life I wanted, whatever it
was—bartender, sailor, painter, poet, whatever.”
“So you’ve got an ex-wife and a kid who probably think
you’re dead,” she noted. “Isn’t that a little cruel to them?”
He shook his head and lowered his eyes, “My son... I...
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don’t know. That’s the one part of this I haven’t figured out
yet, and hurts most of all. I’ve wished for a long time that
we could be together again, but it just hasn’t been possible.
I don’t know now if I’ll ever see him again. For sure, my
ex-wife won’t care. She’d probably be glad I was dead and
throw a party.”
“You don’t mean that,” she said.
He just shrugged.
Jenny’s fingers were loosely laced together, her arms on
the table in front of her. She let out a half-laugh, “Now I
know why you were laughing at me on the plane this morning.”
He smiled.
She returned it, “I guess in our own ways we are two
peas in a pod. The difference being that you had a choice to
do what you did to get away. I didn’t. All I could do was
run. I didn’t have a Walter Clark to sneak off as.”
Ev huffed, “Actually, right now I think in some ways
you and I just traded places. I had no idea becoming Walter
Clark, even for a day, was going to mean people suddenly
wanted to hunt me down and kill me. I just wanted the old
me to be gone.”
Jenny shuddered, extending her arms in a brief stretch.
At the mention of Walter’s name, Ev pulled out the eelskin wallet, turning it over slowly in his hands, “This was
his. I found it in his jacket. He sure as hell didn’t need it
anymore.”
“So what happened to his jacket?” she asked. “You
didn’t have it when we got off the plane.”
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“I left it on the plane,” he responded matter-of-factly.
“Didn’t think I needed it. Unfortunately, it had Walter
Clark’s real driver’s license in it. If I still had it I could
prove to you I’m not full of shit about all of this.”
Jenny patted the air at him, “It would take a lot more
than just that. But keep going. I’m not sure if I want to believe you yet. I still have a few more questions I’d like to
hear answered. Like, where did the license in the wallet
with your picture come from? And, what else from that
wallet that doesn’t belong to you have you used.”
Ev explained his little trip to the copy shop, which
seemed to satisfy her.
The waitress returned with their beers in chilled Pilsner
glasses.
Ev took a big sip from his, the head leaving a white line
of foam on his upper lip, which he wiped away with the
back of his hand. After the waitress walked away he answered her other question, “And, yes, I admit that I used
one of Walter’s credit cards to buy my plane ticket here.
That’s the only thing I can figure out I’ve done wrong. I just
can’t figure out why the FBI is involved and how they
tracked me down so quickly. I mean, shit, it’s only a credit
card. People rip off credit cards everyday and they don’t
roll out a nationwide manhunt.”
Jenny stared at him like he was a complete idiot, “Well,
in case you weren’t paying any attention, someone was
shooting at us back there, not our waitress. Maybe this Walter Clark was somebody real important. And maybe it’s
possible that someone out there wants this Walter Clark
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guy dead. And maybe by using that credit card, even once,
you’ve given them reason to believe that he’s you. Those
things can be tracked with computers, you know. I saw a
show about it on Oprah.”
That sinking feeling was back in his stomach, “Oh, shit.
I’ve really stepped in it this time.”
She was on a roll, “And, who knows? Maybe the reason
your plane blew up in the first place was because your Mr.
Walter Clark was on it.”
Ev rolled his eyes, concluding, “Yeah. Could be. And
when I used his credit card, I ‘officially’ resurrected him, so
now they’re after me.” He looked her in the eye, his expression cold sober, “But why?”
“Who knows?” she threw back. “But it sure sounds like
you picked a pretty shitty time to turn over a new leaf. Out
of the frying pan and into the fire—or as we say where I
come from…you fucked up.”
“It would seem so,” he agreed, lifting his glass in a little
toast to her pathetic assessment.
“But don’t feel bad. Fuck-ups are something I’m pretty
well acquainted with myself.” She clinked her glass against
his and sipped as well. “So we come to the bigger question:
who the hell are you really? I take it you’re neither Mr.
Walter Clark or Mr. David Everett Albright.”
“The Everett part was true,” he said. “Until yesterday, I
was Everett Manning, single-divorced, software salesman.
Today? Good question. I’m not sure who I am anymore.
And if I just go to the police, then I have to tell them everything that happened, and that means I might have to go to
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jail. Or worse, go back to being Everett Manning. Jenny, I
don’t think I can go back again. I’ve gone this far. I’m not
turning back now. Do you know what I mean?”
Her eyes crinkled in a pained smile, “I know exactly
what you mean.”
“So what do we do now?” he looked very, very tired.
“Believe me, I’m open to suggestion.”
Jenny leaned back in the booth, “For one, you have to
get rid of anything and everything to do with Walter Clark,
once and for all.”
“How?” he asked.
“By getting rid of all his stuff,” she said. “Take all his
credit cards, the briefcase, everything, and send it to the police or the FBI with an anonymous note saying you found
these at the airport.”
Ev was genuinely impressed. “That’s a great idea.”
“After we get cleaned up and get a decent night’s rest,”
she continued. “Then tomorrow we can hitchhike a ride
down to Miami, just like you planned, only with no tickets,
no credit card receipts, and see what happens from there.”
“I’ll drink to that,” he lifted his glass.
She joined him in another toast, “To St. Walter. I get it
now.”
“To dear old Walter,” he laughed.

Yvette grew bored after her second martini. Nothing
exciting was happening at the bar. She checked her watch.
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It was a few minutes past 6:00 PM. The sun would still be
up for another two hours at least. There was still time to go
up and check the computer logs, do a couple of hours of
database sorts, and see how the Davis clan was doing. If
anyone named Davis had bought something with a credit
card, booked a flight, rented a car, or checked into a hotel,
she’d know.
The lady in red paid her tab and headed back toward the
elevators.
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CHAPTER 18
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
Donny Mellor squatted down and inspected the deep
dent in the café table next to the lagoon. In the farthest
depth of the recess he observed a translucent greenish substance spread out evenly in about a three-quarter inch diameter. “Does anyone know what this material is?”
“I was hoping you guys could help me with that,” Inspector Gene Phillips, an Orlando city police investigator,
replied. He was a stocky man, about five-foot-eight, boasting a deep Florida tan over his face, arms, and the crown of
his almost completely bald head. A thick goatee encircled
his lips. He wore gray slacks and a black polo shirt with the
initials O.P.D. stenciled on the breast. His gold shield was
pinned to the belt of his trousers.
The entire patio café was cordoned off with bright yel189
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low crime scene tape. Uniformed officers held back the
large crowds who had come in to gawk and take pictures.
Many in the crowd thought it was a movie being filmed.
The Orlando crime scene unit was already there, snapping
their own pictures, taking measurements, and carefully collecting and marking samples of anything and everything
from cigarette butts to popcorn crumbs. The victim’s body
had already been removed by the time Donny and Marty
had arrived. A white tape outline of where the woman fell
was all that remained of her—that is, if you didn’t count all
the blood. It was everywhere.
Marty, with his FBI credentials displayed hanging from
his jacket pocket just like Donny, knelt down and looked at
the deep penetration in the metal table as well, addressing
Phillips, “Never seen anything like that. We’ll get a sample
up to our lab in Quantico if you want.”
Donny stood back up and turned out to face the lagoon.
“Yeah,” Phillips picked up his thought before Donny
asked. “The trajectory says the shots came from over there.
We suspect on top of the restaurant. If it was on any of the
lower levels, the shooter would have been seen.”
Mellor turned back around and looked at the table,
grasping the lip of it between the tip of his forefinger and
thumb. “Quarter inch steel?”
Phillips nodded, “Gotta last out here in the weather and
with all the tourist traffic year after year.”
Marty rose to his feet again as well, “What are you
thinking, Donny?”
Donny was looking back at the paddle-wheel again,
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“I’m thinking that’s about a three-hundred to three-hundred
fifty yard shot. That’s over a thousand feet. And yet there’s
no lead or copper in that hole there. Just that green shit. It
didn’t go all the way through, but it was strong enough after
flying all that way to put a three-inch dent in a quarter inch
of steel. Not to mention what it did to the victim,” He whistled, “I’m impressed.”
Marty shook his head, “Definitely not standard issue.”
Donny shot Marty a knowing glance.
Phillips saw the exchange, “What’s this all about,
guys?”
Donny lifted a hand of apology, “Can’t say, Gene.
Sorry.”
“Well, some of it’s obvious,” Phillips noted. “There’s
somebody out there with some very sophisticated firepower
who wants your guy very dead. They missed him in Dallas
and they’re trying to nail him here.”
Marty nodded, sarcastically noting with a grin, “Wow.
You’re good at this, Gene. Ever think of stepping up to the
big leagues with us?”
Gene Phillips huffed, “And put up with all the paperwork? Not this kid.”
“I don’t know,” Marty scratched his chin, “You’re too
fat and not sexy enough for the Crocket and Tubbs thing
here. You ought to think about it.”
“Fuck you very much, Marty,” Phillips replied with an
affectionate smile.
Donny Mellor was quietly staring back at the table still
laying on it’s side. A thin line of white, where the table’s
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edge met the ground, caught his eye. He knelt down again,
inspecting it carefully.
“What do you got?” Marty asked.
“I don’t know for sure,” Donny peered at the edge, noting that it was a small portion of paper. “Something,
maybe. Give me a hand here.”
Marty looked at Gene, “You guys have enough pictures
of this thing already?”
Phillips nodded, walking over opposite Marty as the
two men uprighted the table with obvious difficulty by the
amount of groaning and explicatives used in the process.
Special Agent Mellor remained on one knee, watching the
table come up and away from a small, plain, square tab of
paper with a single perforated edge.
“Anything?” Marty asked.
“Might be. I don’t know,” Donny turned it over with the
tip of his pen. A large black ant had been mashed flat in the
center of it. Timing’s everything, little fella, Donny thought
to himself.
“Well?” asked Phillips.
Marty looked up at the two other men, “I would say it
appears to be a fresh claim check receipt from the Disney
Village Hilton Hotel.”
All three men exchanged a hopeful glance.
Marty looked at Phillips, “That near here?”
Gene pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “A block
away. Within walking distance.”
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CHAPTER 19
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
After finishing their beers, Ev had waited patiently outside the gift shop of the hotel while Jenny went in and “got
some things” she said she needed. He wanted to hurry her
up, and tease her a little bit for going so slow. However, as
they rode the elevator up to the ninth floor, he didn’t say a
word when he saw through the thin white plastic bag that a
good deal of what she purchased were bandages.
Ev was still waiting, sitting quietly on the small loveseat in their room, as she took the first crack at the bathroom. He could hear the shower running. Oh, how he
longed for it.
He laughed slightly to himself, remembering how funny
she acted when they first walked into the hotel room. To
him, it was just one of a million hotel rooms he’d seen the
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inside of over the last decade or two: mirrored closet and
small bathroom off the tiny foyer, then a bedroom furnished
with a king-size bed, two end-tables, a dresser, an entertainment center which held the TV and mini-bar, a small
writing desk with chair, one occasional chair, a tiny brass
and glass coffee table, and the loveseat where he now sat.
He’d seen nicer. She thought it was a palace, “ooing” and
“ahing” for the first five minutes, astonished to learn that
Conrad Hilton even provided his guests a blow-dryer in the
bathroom. He wondered how excited she’d get when she
found the little three-foot long ironing board and iron in the
closet.
You can take the girl out of the country…
He’d already looked through the “Local Attractions”
magazine from the little coffee table and was bored. The
mini-bar was well stocked, thus an empty package of cashews and a half-drunk can of Budweiser already littered the
coffee table. That had to be at least twenty dollars worth, he
figured. Ev hadn’t eaten anything since the hot-dog that
morning and was famished again. He looked at his watch. It
was almost 6:30. As soon as they were finished with their
showers, it would be time to scrounge up some dinner. As
tired as he was, and wanting to stay out of sight, Room Service wasn’t out of the question.
“Your turn,” the wonderful announcement came at last,
as Jenny exited from a cloud of steam. Her hair was rolled
up in a towel. Another one was wrapped around her. She
was carrying her dirty clothes.
“Praise God and pass the ammunition!” Ev jumped to
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his feet and headed for the bathroom.
She stopped him. “I need your help for a second.”
“Sure.” He noted the troubled look in her eye.
She tossed her clothes down next to the bed and handed
him a box of gauze pads and some adhesive tape. Without a
word, she sat down on the edge of the bed and loosened the
towel, letting it drape away from her back, but holding it
modestly against her front. Her chin fell to her curled fists.
Ev moved over behind her, moving aside the two briefcases, his laptop case, and her tote from where the Bellman
had deposited them on the foot of the bed. He turned and
sat directly behind her, setting the medical supplies between them.
When she heard him gasp, she said, “It’s not as bad as it
looks.”
Ev swallowed hard, utterly shocked by the intricate
network of red and brown scratches, cuts, scabs, and
gouges all over Jenny’s back, from the nape of her neck to
the small of her back. He had noticed several long cuts on
her forearms when she sat down, but those looked no worse
than a bad experience with a rose bush. He was surprised he
hadn’t noticed them earlier. But as he thought about it, they
were along the bottoms of her forearms, not visible when
he was directly facing her. An especially large bandage
covered her right shoulder, which was already showing
signs of fresh blood soaking through it.
He winced as visions of A Nightmare on Elm Street
came to mind, “Damn, Jenny, were you married to Freddie
Kruger?”
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She returned a brief nod, and whispered, “Yes.”
For her sake, Ev’s did his best to stay upbeat and cheerful as he gently applied clean, white, cotton pads to the
wounds which hadn’t scabbed over yet, carefully taping
them down. Inside he was seething. The horror just never
seemed to end. He told himself that he never wanted to be
around death again if he could help it—especially his own,
or this woman’s. However, at the thought of Jenny’s obviously rabid animal of a husband, he could picture just one
more. He hoped for her husband’s sake, they never had occasion to cross paths.
As soon as the job was done, she dismissed him with,
“Go ahead and get cleaned up. I’ll be fine out here.”
“OK,” he rose and walked to the bathroom, “The bar’s
open. Help yourself.”
“I will,” she assured him, reaching for her tote and unzipping it.
It was undeniably the best shower of Everett Manning’s
life. He just let the water cascade off his face, down his
neck and chest. It felt wonderful. The little cake of soap
was almost gone before he was satisfied he was thoroughly
clean. A disposable razor from the gift shop scraped away
the stubble from his chin, neck, and cheeks. As he was drying off he noted his two-days dirty briefs lying by the door.
He had no intention of putting them back on.
“OK, so at risk of chafing and an unshielded zipper, we
go commando till we can find a Target Store,” he told his
blurry reflection in the fogged mirror, pronouncing the
store’s name as Tar-zhay, as Jenny did.
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When he opened the bathroom door Jenny was already
back in her jeans and sneakers, wearing the new powder
blue Minnie Mouse tee-shirt. It was an extra-extra-large.
The sleeves hung down well past her elbows. She had it
tucked in, but Ev suspected the bottom of it went down to
her knees. The towel was off her head, but her hair was still
wet.
She smiled at him, “Feel better?”
“Like night and day,” he replied.
They both jumped as an urgent knock came to the door.

Yvette Monroe scanned her log on the computer screen.
Three hundred and twenty-four “Davis” transactions had
landed in her electronic traps over the last few hours.
324? Great.
She sorted them first by locality, looking specifically
for only those which occurred in the Orlando, Florida, area.
That got the number down to sixty-five. From there, she
then separated out the retail credit card transactions from
the travel reservations. There had been thirty-nine credit
card transactions. She then cross-referenced the retail file
by the card member’s home address, but got no hits for
Alabama on the State key field. Thus, Yvette turned her
attention to the remaining twenty-six travel related transactions.
All the rental cars had gone to men. No plane tickets
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tries. One was a future reservation for a William Davis of
Sacramento, California, at a Marriott near the airport three
weeks hence. The second was a Charles Davis of Southfield, Michigan, who had checked in at a Holiday Inn Express downtown. The final one was listed merely as a Mr.
and Mrs. Davis, no first names nor initials. The method of
payment: Cash.
Yes! Paydirt. Has to be.
Yvette dropped her jaw when she saw the address of the
accommodation.
Good God, they’re here.
Her fingers were immediately flying across the keyboard, tapping into Hilton’s central computer network. In
less than five minutes she had a room number in the very
hotel she now sat: 907.
Yvette was in Room 315 staring up at the ceiling, “Like
I said, boys and girls. Sometimes you just have to get
lucky.”
With her laptop unplugged from the cellular phone, she
dialed the familiar number.
It was answered on the first ring, “Yes?”
“I’ve found him,” she spoke evenly.
“Does he have it with him?”
“I’ll know soon enough,” she replied.
“We saw the reports of a shooting there this afternoon.”
“Yes,” she acknowledged. “Unrelated.”
“That’s not what our information says.”
“Oh?” she was defensive. “What makes you say that?”
“FBI and local police reports. Your man’s calling card
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was found at the scene of a dead civilian caught in the
crossfire.”
“So he wasn’t taken?” She was inwardly relieved.
“Hardly. But you certainly seem to have some credible
competition.”
She looked for her cigarettes. “I see.”
“You say you now know where they are?”
“Yes.” She smiled, glancing again at the ceiling, “I do
now.”
“Then you know what to do.”
“I’ll call you when it’s over,” her finger pressed the
END button.
Still sheathed in her red cocktail dress, Yvette Monroe
walked over to her suitcase and removed her make-up bag.
She lit a fresh cigarette. From what appeared to be a large
mascara, she unscrewed the cap and slid out a five-inch
long chrome cylinder. The handle of her hairbrush was
oddly the shape of a pistol grip. She picked up the cylinder
and peered through the nine millimeter bore. Satisfied, she
began taking out other items and assembling their contents.

“You there!” Donny Mellor pointed at the uniformed
Bellman standing at the entrance of the Hilton.
“Yes, sir, may I help you?” the pleasant faced young
man addressed the heavy set black man approaching him,
with two other gentlemen in tow.
Donny stuck his FBI credentials in the teenager’s face,
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“I’m Special Agent Mellor, and this is Special Agent Peelinar. We’re with the FBI. And this is Inspector Phillips of
the Orlando Police Department. Are you the guy who gives
out claim checks here today?”
The Bellman’s smile disappeared, “Yes, sir. That would
be me. What can I do for you?”
Marty spoke up, “You keep a log of what claim checks
belong to what guests?”
“Of course, sir,” the Bellman answered. “It’s all computerized now.”
Marty flipped open his notepad. The actual claim check
they had found was neatly sealed in a plastic evidence bag
back with the Orlando Police Department’s forensic unit.
He read off his notes, “Then I need you to be a good citizen
and go look up for us claim check number six-seven-fivetwo-eight-four.”
“Six-seven-five-two-eight-four,” the nervous kid repeated, then disappeared inside the door.
The three officers followed him.
Inside the hotel, immediately behind the Bell Stand
counter, was a small room with a few filing cabinets, a
wall-mounted case full of keys for the valet parking, and a
computer terminal. Over the top of the Bell Stand counter
the three men could see the young kid from out front hurriedly typing something on the computer terminal.
An older man standing behind the counter, identified by
his brass name tag as an assistant manager, addressed them
tersely, “What’s going on here, gentlemen?”
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thing’s fine. Your guy there is taking good care of us.”
The young Bellman looked up nervously from his computer at the assistant manager.
“Stop what you’re doing right now, Tommy,” the older
man commanded with schoolmaster authority, waving a
terse backhand of dismissal over his shoulder, “I’ll take
care of this.”
This was obviously one of those tiny-dick-assholes with
just enough authority to be a real pain the ass, for no other
reason than he could. Donny frowned, “You’ll take care of
what?”
The older man puffed up his chest and recited the
proper policy, chapter and verse, “I’m very sorry, gentlemen, but you’ve asked for privileged information concerning one of our guests.”
Donny fumed, pulling out his ID wallet, “Hey, dip shit,
we’re with the FBI.”
The manager gave them an isn’t-that-nice smile, “I
don’t care if you’re an envoy from the Vatican. Unless any
of you has a properly executed search warrant…”
Donny turned to Gene, “It’s your town, man.”
“Yeah. Got it.” Gene walked around behind the counter
and put his arm around the shoulders of the assistant manager, which made the starchy man’s eyes go wide in alarm.
“Look here…,” he looked at the brass name tag,
“Claude…Let’s do this the easy way, because we’re all in a
hurry. I’ll make this short and sweet. There’s a man we’re
looking for who’s staying right here at your hotel. This man
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ble for the bombing of that plane yesterday in Dallas. Just
this afternoon he sent us another bomb threat saying he was
going to blow up a hotel. Maybe he means this one. We
think he may even have a hostage. A young woman. So if
you want us to leave, and go get some papers for you, and
then come back in a few hours, that’s fine. We can do it
that way. But let me write your name down so I get it right
for all the reports and the newspapers and everyone else
who wants to know who kept us from stopping him in
time.”
Claude Fuller, the assistant manager, shoved Gene away
indignantly, “That macho foolishness may work on some,
Officer, but not on me. You’re on private property. I know
the rules, and I know you do too. I’ll not let you infringe on
the privacy or civil rights of a single one of our guests
without proper authority.”
Gene walked back around the counter over to Donny
and Marty, who were both smiling. Gene lifted his hand at
shoulder height for a tag-team high-five. “I tried to do it
nice.”
Marty grinned, “We know. And you did fine. Now we
do it the hard way.”
A look of alarm quickly spread over Claude’s face as
the two FBI agents approached him, still smiling, one from
either side of the counter. He backed away from them as
they followed him toward the little room with the computer
terminal.
“What do you think you are doing?” Claude retreated
into the room.
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Donny spoke out of the side of his mouth to Marty, loud
enough for Claude to hear, “You grab his balls. I’ll get his
throat.”
Claude took another step back, some of the former bluster evaporating from his voice, now more of a whine, “You
wouldn’t dare lay a hand on me!”
Donny and Claude stepped into the room. Gene hung
back, keeping watch.
“You touch me and I’ll sue you for everything you’ve
got!” Claude shouted like a taunting child on the play yard,
wagging his finger at the two agents.
Donny took another step into the room. Marty was massaging his right fist into his left palm. They took yet another
step. The young Bellman seated in front of the computer
screen cringed, preparing for the worst.
Claude was about to scream like a ten-year-old girl
who’d been goosed when Donny easily leaned over Tommy
the Bellman’s shoulder, and pointed to the screen, “Is this
it, son? Mr. and Mrs. Davis, staying up in Room 907?”
Claude was about to say something to Tommy.
Marty opened his jacket, like Clint Eastwood flipping
back his poncho, to reveal the 9mm Beretta holstered on his
belt as he took one more step toward Claude and held up
one finger to his lips for silence. Claude flattened himself
against the wall, teeth clenched and trembling. Marty
seethed, “One more word out of you, asshole, and you’re
under arrest for obstruction of justice. Hand-cuffs, the
works, right out in front of all your lovely guests. And all I
pray is that you make the mistake of resisting, cause then I
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get to shove my size eleven shoe up your ass. Got it?”
Donny prompted, “Son?”
The boy stammered, “Yes, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Davis. In
907.”
“Did you happen to get a good look and Mr. and Mrs.
Davis?” Donny asked the trembling boy.
“Yes, sir,” he gulped. “I helped them with their bags.”
Donny nodded approval, “Good. And did Mr. Davis
have dark hair, dressed in black pants with a white shirt?
Mrs. Davis, was she a blond in jeans and blue shirt? Something like that?”
“That’s them,” Tommy vigorously nodded, “That’s how
they were dressed when they first got here. But they
changed after they went down to the Disney Village for a
while.”
“So they did come back to the hotel?” Donny sounded
hopeful.
“Yes, sir,” Tommy affirmed, “Checked in about an hour
ago and went up to their room. I delivered their stuff to
their room myself.”
“Thank you,” Donny smiled at the boy, patting him on
the back. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Marty grinned at Claude, buttoning his jacket. “Been a
pleasure, Claude. Have a nice day.”
Donny reached into his pocket and tipped Tommy with
a ten-dollar bill, “Thank you, Tommy. Good job. Now do
us one more favor,” he pointed to Claude, “…no matter
what this shit-head says to you. I need you to call your hotel
security or maintenance people and have someone meet us
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at Room 907 with a passkey, on the double. And then you
can let your hotel manager, the real manager, know what’s
going on. Can you do that?”
Another nod.
Donny and Marty politely thanked both men again and
left.
Gene Phillips was laughing when they returned, “You
guys like doing that a lot more than you should. You know
that, don’t you?”
Donny and Marty exchanged a smile.
Donny pointed toward the elevators, “Up in Room 907.
Staying under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Davis.”
“Is it them?” Gene asked.
Marty nodded, “Could be. Fits the description of both.”
Gene nodded, “Then let’s go up and see if they’re
home.”
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CHAPTER 20
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
Ev walked hesitantly to the bedroom door, his hands
outstretched at his sides as though he were trying to maintain his balance. He stopped a few feet from the door, leaving it closed and locked. Jenny retreated over between the
bed and the wall separating the bathroom from the bedroom, her hands balled tightly together in front of her lips.
“Yes?” Ev called, slipping halfway into the bathroom,
ready to dive in the bathtub if the center of the door exploded by a shotgun blast as he was currently envisioning.
His heart rate was accelerating again. He glanced toward
the window. They were nine stories up.
Trapped!
“Turn down service, sir,” called a Jamaican sounding
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female voice. “Would you like your bed turned down for
the evening?”
Ev sighed with relief, “Oh. No, thank you.”
“OK, sir. Have a pleasant evening,” said the voice on
the other side of the door.
Jenny giggled, “Now we’re getting really paranoid.”
“You’re right,” he tossed a hand at her. “Time to just
chill. Nobody could possibly know we’re here.”
The telephone on the bedside rang. They both shrieked
in unison.

Donny, Marty, and Gene watched the illuminated numbers scroll up with excruciating lethargy. An elderly couple
who got on board in the lobby exited on the second floor,
arguing the whole way in loud New York-ese about the cost
of the buffet as compared to Atlantic City, how much their
feet hurt, and the heat, and the crowds, and several other
dire topics as the doors mercifully closed.
The elevator stopped again on the third floor.
All three men stood a little taller with their guts sucked
in when a drop-dead gorgeous redhead in a slinky red dress
stepped on in stiletto heels. She held a pocketbook hanging
from a shoulder strap tightly to her side. The woman leaned
over to press a button and then stopped, smiled with a
shrug, and then stood up straight again when she observed
that the ninth floor was already selected. Donny gave Marty
a chastising look for leaning forward a few inches to sneak
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a peek down the front of her dress when she leaned over,
and shot Gene one for leaning back a few inches to take a
gander at her ass. Neither was disappointed.
Marty wiggled his eyebrows and licked his lips.
None of the four spoke a word as the numbers climbed
to four, five, six…

Ev pushed a settle-down palm at Jenny, “I’ll get it.”
She gave him a quick nod.
He walked over to the end-table and lifted the receiver,
“Hello?”
“Mr. Davis?” a voice Ev didn’t recognize asked.
“Who’s calling?” Ev asked tentatively.
“This is Claude Fuller, the assistant manager of the hotel, sir,” the voice announced.
Ev’s shoulders slumped again with relief. He put the
phone to his chest and turned to Jenny, “Another false
alarm. Just more hotel people.”
“Oh, thank God,” Jenny walked around the edge of the
bed.
“Mr. Davis?” the voice called again. “Mr. Davis? Are
you there?”
Ev put the phone back to his ear, “Yes, Mr. Fuller. I’m
sorry. What do you need? Everything is great so far with
the room, although we could use a few more towels, if you
could have some sent up.”
“No, no, sir. Please listen carefully. I’m very, very sorry
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to trouble you, but there are some very rude gentlemen who
allege to be from the FBI or the police or something like
that on their way up to your room. I have to tell you, they
are all atrocious, ill-mannered brutes, and are probably
standing at your threshold this very moment preparing to
break down your door.”
“What?” Ev couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Jenny spun around again at the tone of excitement in his
voice.
“I just thought you should know, sir, and be forewarned.” Claude advised. “I have no idea what their intentions are, but I can assure you that I did everything in my
power—”
Ev slammed down the phone, “We’re busted. It’s the
Feds again.”
“How?” she looked back and forth from Ev to the door.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “They must be a hell of a
lot smarter than they show them in the movies.”

The elevator stopped on the ninth floor. The bell
bonged once and the two silver doors slipped open.
Inside the elevator, the three gentlemen chivalrously
waved for the lady inside to step out first. She nodded a
gracious thanks and walked out, looking at the brass plaque
on the opposite wall. It depicted an arrow pointing left for
rooms 900 through 925. An arrow pointing right indicated
the way to rooms 926 through 950. She turned to her left
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and started down the hall as the three men stepped out of
the elevator behind her.
Donny called after her, “Excuse me, ma’am?”
She stopped and turned around, “Yes?”
“Which room are you going to?” Donny asked her.
The lady in red took a step back, “I’m sorry? And what
business would that be of yours?”
Marty smiled, “No, it’s all right, lady.” He fished out
his ID badge and flashed it. “We’re with the FBI. We’ve
got to talk to someone down that way. It might be better if
you waited back this way for a few minutes.”
“Oh! Certainly,” she looked genuinely surprised. “Don’t
want any trouble.”
“No trouble, ma’am,” Gene added. “Just a routine call.”
“Fine,” she walked back through them, aware that all
three men inhaled her perfume deeply as she passed between them. She stopped on the opposite side of the elevators.
“Thank you,” Donny nodded at her.
“No problem,” she lifted her hand and fluttered her fingers.
Yvette Monroe watched the three men walk down the
long corridor as she opened her purse and reached inside.
Her hand wound around the wooden handle of the nine millimeter handgun she had assembled. Her thumb switched
off the safety. The specially-crafted weapon held fifteen
rounds. More than enough, she thought, at point-blank
range for each to receive the “Silencer and the Closer.” The
smile she wore was genuine. This was most opportune.
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She’d let the heroic FBI make the first contact and see if
Clark and his little bitch decided to come out shooting.
Donny Mellor stopped on one side of the hotel door
marked 907. Marty moved across to the other side. Gene
Phillips stayed behind Donny. Marty nodded that he was
ready.
Donny wrapped his knuckles against the door, “Mr.
Davis?”
Several seconds passed with no reply.
Donny gently laid his ear against the door, then shook
his head at the other two men, whispering, “Nothing. No
TV. No voices.”
Donny beat harder on the door, raising his voice, “Mr.
Davis, we know you’re in there. Open this door please and
save us all a lot of trouble.”
Nothing.
Donny shrugged, “If he’s in there, he means to stay
there until we go in and get him.”
“If that’s the way he wants it,” Marty quipped.
As if on cue, the door to the stairs at the end of the hall
opened, and an elderly black maintenance man, clad in
khaki overalls, emerged and headed up the hall toward
them.
Marty smiled, “The man with the key! All right.”
Yvette’s hand tightened around her gun. Another witness. That brought the body count to six. Two apiece.
Twelve rounds. Still three to spare.
“You boys the ones who want in 907?” the maintenance
man asked, whose embroidered red patch identified him as
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Bob.
“You got a passkey?” Marty asked him.
“Here you go,” the man handed Marty a thin plastic
card with a magnetic stripe on the back.
“Thanks,” Marty nodded at him, opening his jacket and
drawing his weapon, chambering a round. “Now please
stand back, sir.”
“Don’t mind me,” the man raised his hands and backed
up several paces, but content to stay and see what was going to happen.
Donny and Gene drew their pistols as well.
What followed next was what Bob the maintenance
man characterized later in the official police report as nothing but a great deal of noise and commotion. More banging
on the door and demands. Finally, on a whispered count of
three, the tall Italian-looking white man slipped the card in
the key slot and snatched it out. When the little green light
flashed, he hit the door hard with his shoulder. It flew back
in the jam, slamming hard into the wall. Bob watched all
three men disappear through the doorway. Bob noticed a
woman standing way down the hall by the elevators. She
smiled at him. He waved politely at her.
A volley of curses came out of the room and all three
men reemerged. Marty was holding the Goofy hat in his
hand.
Donny looked back at Bob and shrugged, “Sorry, old
timer. False alarm. Nobody home.”
Bob took the card key back from Marty and put it in his
pocket. “Were you by any chance looking for a young man
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and woman in there?”
“Yeah?” Gene replied. “You see a man a woman leaving here?”
“Oh, yeah,” old Bob hooked a thumb over his shoulder,
back toward the stairs. “Running down those stairs fast as
they could go just a little while ago. Passed ‘em on my way
up.”
“Oh, fuck!” Marty tossed the hat back in the room and
took off down the hall toward the stairs.
Gene turned to Donny, “I’ll go with Marty.”
“I’ll ride down and meet you guys in the lobby,” Donny
turned back toward the elevator.
The lady in red was no longer there.

Ev and Jenny hit the crash door at the bottom of the
stairs, both of them winded and drenched in sweat, panting
like dogs. Ev had his laptop case slung over one shoulder
and carried his black soft-side briefcase, the heavier of the
two. Jenny had her green gingham tote at her side, its strap
draped diagonally across her chest. She carried the Hartman
briefcase in one hand and her Disney bag with dirty clothes
and the remaining items she’d picked up at the gift shop in
the other. They were immediately enveloped in bright
sunlight. Even at 6:45 in the evening, the summer sun was
still going strong in a cloudless blue sky. After running
down nine flights of stairs in dim light, they both cowered
with their arms up protectively over their faces, squinting.
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“Where to?” Jenny asked him, out of breath.
“The highway,” he gasped.
“What’s there?” she cautiously looked left and right
over the sculptured and manicured grounds of the hotel
looking for anyone chasing them. Fortunately, they had
emerged on the side of the hotel.
“Your idea,” he pulled her along, still gasping for
breath. “But a little ahead of schedule. We hitch a ride
south.”
And off they ran again, Jenny flapping along in Loretta
Charles’ tennis shoes that were two sizes too big, Ev in his
Donald Duck flip-flops smacking against the bottoms of his
feet. In less than fifteen minutes they made their way to Interstate-4 and stood on the shoulder beneath the sign that
declared hitch-hiking illegal in the State of Florida, holding
their aching sides with one hand, and extending their
thumbs with the other. Ev felt like his calves were about to
burst into flames at any second.
The wait was less than ten minutes before an eighteenwheeler flashed its lights and pulled over. Ev and Jenny
picked up their bags and ran along the passenger side of the
truck. Ev eagerly climbed up to the cab.
“Hey there,” Ev called up to the driver as he swung the
door open. “Thanks for stopping.”
“Hey there yourself, young people,” answered a grinning man with a strong, hearty voice.
The truck driver was everything Everett Manning imagined a truck diver should look like. He wasn’t a mountain
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tainly a big fella, probably just over six-foot tall, clad in
faded loose-fitting jeans, a plaid work-shirt rolled up to his
biceps, worn open revealing a white V-necked undershirt
beneath. A sprig of exposed gray chest-hair was nestled in
the V of his tee-shit. A pair of cuffed and well-worn Roper
western boots completed the ensemble. His arms looked
like those belonging to a body-builder. Ev guess him to be
in his late forties or perhaps early fifties, and surmised his
thick belly came from lots of sitting behind the wheel, not
too many low-fat dishes, and perhaps a beer or two. The big
man sported a full beard, bushy and brown, peppered with
speckles of gray, with a yellow-brown coffee/tobacco stain
in the center of his mustache.
However, the truck driver had little hair left on top,
save a laurel of wispy gray connecting his ears around the
back, which hung in babyfine strands down to his collar.
The top of his head was tanned brown, but not burned, a
broad speckled Robin’s egg of moles, freckles, age spots,
and a scar here and there. His little bulb of a nose was very
sunburned, perched between plump cheeks, highlighted
with a fibrous webwork of broken capillaries, which made
his eyes fold to cheerful leathery slits as he smiled at them.
It was a warm toothy smile of yellow teeth. In some ways,
the man reminded Ev of what he thought Santa Claus
would look like out of uniform.
It was a face Ev instantly liked.
The man put forth a strong hand to help Jenny climb
inside, and pass their belongings into the cab. She took a
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tain’s chairs. Ev climbed in the passenger seat and closed
the door.
The driver released his air brakes, “The name’s Houston. Farley Houston. You can call me Farley. Welcome
aboard.”
“Ev and Jenny,” Ev reached over and warmly shook the
man’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“What direction you kids headed?” Farley asked, throwing the truck into gear and signaling to get back on the
highway.
“South,” Jenny answered.
Farley nodded with approval, “South is a good direction. I’m headed that way myself. Happy to have the company.”
The powerful engine of the massive Peterbilt revved
and propelled the truck forward with a firm shudder. The
interior of the cab smelled of a pine air-freshener in the
shape of a Christmas tree hanging on a string from the base
of a small, plastic fan mounted to the divide between the
two wide windshield sections. It blew softly, oscillating
pleasantly back and forth across the cabin. The fan was
tethered by a thin black electrical wire, spliced with electrical tape in the middle, down to a cigarette lighter outlet.
However, no cigarettes were visible. The open ashtray
held only loose change, discarded gum wrappers, and a
crusty double-A battery. However, a near-empty, crinkled,
green and red pouch of Red Man chewing tobacco lay on
top of the sun-faded burgundy vinyl dash, amid an assortment of well-worn maps, candy bar wrappers, empty potato
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chip bags, a tire gauge, an assortment of capless ballpoint
pens, a small length of rusty chain, and an old Detroit Tigers baseball cap. The well-bowed bill of the cap was
stained in a dark semicircle of dried sweat from the band.
Farley Houston reached over and turned up the radio, filling
the cab with the energetic strains of a classic rock station.
“Grand Illusion” by Styx was playing.
Ev turned back and smiled at Jenny. She squeezed his
shoulder. Though unspoken between them, they both simultaneously felt that one more bullet had been dodged that
day by virtue of the generosity of a single kind stranger.
The scent of freedom awaited them just a few more miles
down the highway. It felt as though a great river, a horrid
river of a stranger’s blood, had just been successfully
forded.
In that moment, all was well.
Farley Houston laughed quietly to himself when, in less
than ten minutes after they pulled out on the highway and
he had the truck up to sixty-five, both of his new traveling
companions were fast asleep. The girl was lying on her side
in the sleeping bunk, the young man leaning against the
passenger window, both snoring ever so softly. There was a
story there he knew that he’d get to hear shortly. And if
what he suspected was true, it was probably a good one. He
leaned to his left and checked his tall side mirror, signaled,
and then downshifted to accelerate into the passing lane,
pulling around a blue-hair in a Lincoln peeking through her
steering wheel with the audacity to only drive the speedlimit on his highway.
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MOVEMENT II
Critical Choices
What man wants is simply independent
choice, whatever that independence may cost
and wherever it may lead.
Dostoyevsky
Notes from Underground, 1864
Will cannot be quenched against its will.
Dante
The Divine Comedy, c. 1300
Our wills and fates do so contrary run,
That our devices still are overthrown;
Our thoughts are ours,
Their ends none of our own.
William Shakespeare
Hamlet, 1600
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CHAPTER 21
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
The man was growing impatient. The call still hadn’t
come. Perhaps not today, nor tomorrow, but eventually it
would come. It had to. Human nature itself would prevail.
Of that, he was certain. And when it did, he would be
ready. He lifted the cell phone from his coat pocket and dialed the pager’s number again, entering his own phone’s
number, then hung up and re-dialed, entering the number
from the card in his pocket. In a few hours, he would do it
again. And again. As many times as were necessary until
the call came.
He slowly stirred his gin and tonic, watching the ice
cubes swirl around the inner circumference of the OldFashion glass, tinkling and plinking as the last verse of
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ground.
The target had been lucky. Very lucky. Yes, luck always
played an important part in trading blood for blood.
He couldn’t remember another occasion where he had
missed a clean shot like that, even at that distance. It was
unfortunate that the young woman had unwittingly stepped
into his cross-hairs at the worst possible second. Just a few
ounces of pressure on that particular hair-trigger was just
something that couldn’t be taken back. But casualties and
collateral damage were always a possibility. If he’d had an
armor-piercing round, or if the rifle had even been a semiautomatic, he could have finished it then and there. However, the high-velocity gel-rounds were designed for human
flesh, not metal. Was it a mistake? No, a miscalculation.
And luck.
Oh, yes, so lucky.
Luck was everything in the business, more important
than all the advanced training, all the meticulous planning,
and all the years of experience. The target was lucky to get
out of the airport so quickly. Following him to the hotel
was easy enough, but one unlucky red light amid the heavy
traffic meant they were gone on foot before he could even
get out of his own rental car. Fortunately, for a generous
tip, the Bellman had been most helpful in pointing him in
the right direction.
More luck.
However, picking up their trail in the dense vacation
crowds had been almost futile. Nevertheless, it was lady
luck again who allowed him to spy them sitting there in the
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outdoor patio by the water’s edge, and gave him enough
time to get in position and set up the shot. But lady luck
was, oh, so fickle, and came to the target’s aid in the one
instant that mattered.
The queen of luck obviously liked this pawn for some
reason.
He took a long sip of his drink, taking a cube of ice in
his mouth and cracking it with his back teeth.
The bartender pointed toward him, “Another round,
sir?”
The man nodded.
He shook his head in dismay. In his mind’s eye he
could still see both of them running headlong back into the
protective envelope of the crowd as he had desperately tried
to chamber a third round. They were gone before he could
close the bolt, shoulder and sight.
He knew there was no way they would have been foolish enough to come back to the hotel. By now they had
probably jumped a freight train north to Chattanooga. Thus,
he had no other option but to sit and wait for contact.
A brief bit of commotion had caught his eye when he
returned to the hotel himself. It was amusing. Three “suits”
were running from the hotel with their guns drawn. Not exactly a subtle search for him. He even smiled at one of them
as he past, an overweight black man. The authorities were
so good at looking busy long after the time for action had
passed.
Yes, now there was nothing left but the waiting—
waiting patiently on lady luck.
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The bartender set a fresh drink in front of him as something new and quite appealing caught his eye. A gorgeous
redhead in a red dress just strolled into the bar. He was impressed. Nice tits, sleek legs, great ass—a real head-turner.
Supermodel-caliber from head to toe if there ever was one.
Even in the dim light of the bar he thought she looked even
better than the head-turner in the white hat and dark glasses
he’d seen at the airport earlier, waiting for the target’s flight
to arrive. He watched her walk up to the bar, her face a dark
cloud of consternation.
She got the bartender’s attention, “Vodka martini,
please.”
“Grey Goose again, ma’am?” the bartender asked.
She gave him a heart-stopping smile, “You remembered. Yes, that’s perfect.”
The man watched her take a stool three seats down, pull
out a pack of cigarettes from her purse, slide one out, and
put it between her lips.
He reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a
gold Colibri lighter, extending his arm and snapping the
flame, “Allow me.”
She turned and looked at him with the most radiant
green eyes he’d seen in a long time, at the same time turning the warmth of that smile in his direction, “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He returned the lighter to his pocket.
She took a deep drag and blew out a long spiraling
cloud over her head. “I could use a little pleasure right
about now, now that you mention it.”
“Bad day?” he asked.
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“I’ve had better,” she replied, then made a fist with her
free hand, “Ever have one of those days where you think
you have everything right where you want it, and just out of
nowhere, everything gets totally screwed up?”
His laugh was genuine, “Yes, now that you mention it. I
certainly do.”
The bartender set the woman’s martini down in front of
her.
She picked it up, taking a moment to look the man over
from head to toe, quite pleased by what she saw: a tall,
dark, and quite handsome gentleman. He appeared to be in
his early forties, with curly brown hair, sparkling blue eyes,
and finely chiseled features. He was dressed in khaki slacks
and a loose fitting white open-collared shirt. She was happy
to see no gold chains. In fact, he wore no jewelry of any
kind, with the exception of an elegant gold watch.
Her smile blossomed once more as she lifted her glass
in a little toast, “Care to join me?”
The man moved over two stools. “I’d be delighted.”
He concluded, if he was condemned to have to sit and
wait, there were definitely a few ways of passing the time
that were distinctly preferable to others. Perhaps lady luck
had changed her mind yet again.
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CHAPTER 22
Charlotte County, Florida
When Ev Manning opened his eyes it was dark. The cab
of the truck was illuminated only by the dim green glow of
the dash instruments. He looked at his watch. It was almost
10:30.
“Where are we?” he rasped.
“Oh, on interstate seventy-five now. I’d say about a
good hour south of Sarasota,” Farley answered. “We should
make Ft. Myers right on about midnight. I’d like to stop
there for a little shut-eye myself.”
Ev straightened up in his seat, rubbing his eyes, “I’m
sorry I dozed off.”
Farley chuckled, “Not a problem. You and the little
Miss looked pretty whooped.”
Ev glanced over his left shoulder. Jenny was still curled
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up in a little ball, sound asleep. It made him smile. She
looked so innocent and childlike, and yet at the same time
so vulnerable. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could hurt
or take advantage of something so precious. The painful
images of her ravaged back came to mind. With his molars
grinding tight, he turned his attention back toward the road.
“You make it down this way a lot?’ Ev tried to make
conversation.
The beard moved up and down, “You could say so. But
I tend to hit just about everywhere at one time or another.”
“What are you hauling?” Ev’s stomach was growling. If
they passed a place to eat he made a note to remember to
ask the guy to stop.
“Washing machines,’ Farley replied. “Got a load for a
discount store in Ft. Myers. I drop my trailer there, and then
I got to get on down to Miami to pick up a piggy-back car
carrier to take back north to Savannah.”
“Wow,” Ev said. “You sound busy. Ever get to take a
break?”
“Oh, yeah,” the truck driver nodded. “I don’t have to
get the cars up to Savannah until the end of the week. I plan
to park my rig down in Coconut Grove and take a few days
off. That’s where I live most of the time, that is, when I’m
in this neck of the woods.”
“Good for you.” Ev’s bladder was suddenly trying to
get his attention.
“Need to take a leak?” the driver asked.
Ev laughed, “What, are you a mind reader?”
Farley laughed, “No. Let’s just say I been on the road a
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long time, and I know what a man’s first priorities are after
he first wakes up.”
“Well, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” he shrugged,
his knees already starting to applaud—not raucously, like at
a football game, more subtly as in appreciation of a good
putt.
A few miles down the road, when the rig pulled into the
Texaco station, Ev reached back and shook Jenny’s arm.
She popped up immediately, her eyes lagging far behind,
her lips smacking, “What? Where are we?”
Ev answered, “We’re making a pit stop. You gotta go?”
“Uh-hmm,” she nodded with no hesitation. It reminded
Ev of when Jeff was little and he’d fallen asleep in front of
the TV, waking him up and making him go pee before he
tucked him in his bed. Half the time he was convinced the
child did it sleepwalking. Jenny’s face looked much the
same.
She stretched, yawning wide, her words slurring into,
“And gim’me some money to get some crackers or something.”
“You got the wallet in your tote,” he reminded her.
“Oh, yeah,” she looked all around her, finding the green
and white gingham bag behind Ev’s seat.
Fifteen minutes later they had done what they needed to
do and were roaring down the highway once again. Jenny
sat cross-legged on the bunk with a bag of cheese popcorn
and a box of Ritz-bits in her lap, crunching away, intermittently sipping on a twenty-ounce Coke. Ev munched on a
Snickers bar with a can of Pringles waiting in queue. Farley
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had a microwaved hamburger in one hand.
Jenny looked at the burger, “How can you eat those
things? Do you have any idea how long it probably sat in
that case before you bought it?”
Farley shrugged, “Nope. Don’t know. Don’t care where
it’s been.” He turned around and winked at her, “But I sure
as shit know where it’s going.” And with that he took a single bite that caused a third of it to disappear.
“How long you been driving a truck, Farley?” Ev asked,
discarding the Snickers wrapper by his feet and starting in
on the Pringles.
“All of this life,” he said.
“And what did you do in other lives?” Jenny teased,
waiting for the Shirley MacLaine, transcendental reply.
The burly driver’s answer was quite serious, “Quite a
few things, I reckon. When I was just knee-high to a duck, I
started out delivering newspapers. Did that till I was old
enough to go work construction with my pop. He was a
brick layer. Got in a little trouble when I was in my late
teens, as some kids are a wont to do. Just borrowing a car
for a little joy ride. Wasn’t too smart, but I always loved to
drive, and this one particular car was something I just felt
like I had to give a whirl. Probably wouldn’t a been that big
a deal if it hadn’t been a Porsche that belonged to one of the
town councilmen.”
Ev and Jenny laughed.
“Brought it back in less than an hour,” Farley shook his
head in dismay, “But still ended up spending almost a year
as a guest of the State of Tennessee. That particular life was
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probably the shortest, but seemed like the longest. Don’t
ever want to relive that one ever again, if I can help it.”
Ev’s smile disappeared.
Farley continued, “Then, when I turned twenty…” he
paused, considering carefully, “Yeah, if I recollect rightly,
it was about twenty…I sincerely believe I got ‘the calling,’
so went off to seminary in Kentucky for three years.” He
chuckled, “Now that was a wild ride.”
“You were a preacher?” Ev was surprised.
“Yea, verily,” Farley nodded. “Worked at it for a lot of
years, but never really made it past associate pastor.”
“No offense, Farley, but you don’t strike me as the
preacher type,” Jenny observed.
“Well, now there you go, little lady,” Farley agreed with
a big nod. “I really don’t think I was much of one either,
inasmuch as what the job really calls for. But it seemed like
the right thing to do at the time. My folks were the kind
who were always down at the church-house with me and all
my brothers and sisters every time the doors opened. Twice
on Sundays, Wednesday nights, home Bible-study on Friday nights. Choir practice on Saturdays. Felt like we lived
there. And considering my situation at the time, everybody
thought it would help.”
“You didn’t want to go?” Jenny asked.
“It was all right. I didn’t mind. The pastor and I were
very close, you see. Came to visit me a couple of times
when I was in jail. Got me reading. Found out I really liked
to keep my nose in a book. Greek and Hebrew texts mostly.
I even taught Sunday school. So…I guess you could say the
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decision to go off to seminary was a combination of one
thing leading to another, not having a desire to do much of
anything else, and just trying to live up to what was naturally expected of me. So, yes indeedy, brothers and sisters, I
gave it a spin.”
“So how long were you actually in the ministry?” Ev
asked.
Farley puzzled his brow again and ran the back of his
hand under the whiskers on his chin, and took a guess, “I
guess it had to have been just over seven years. Maybe
eight. It’s been so long now.”
Jenny asked, “Why’d you quit?”
“They ran me off,” he said matter-of-fact. “But I got no
regrets. Naturally, I was pretty upset at the time, as you’d
expect, but I really believe they did me a big favor in the
long run. It wasn’t where I belonged.”
Jenny shook her head knowingly, “I hear ‘ya. We went
through a whole bag of preachers in my church back home.
I bet we must’ve had every one of them in the whole denomination at one time or another. There was always so
much damn-fool politics and backbiting going on…it was
so stupid. I just hated it. The board of elders would like this
one fellow just fine, be singing his praises…till he wanted
to start changing things. It was never seen as improving,
only changing. Oh, no. Couldn’t have that. You’d of
thought change of any kind was downright sinful. So they’d
figure out some way to run him off and then go get the
search committee together to hire a new one.”
Farley nodded, “Yep, seen a bit of that in my day as
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well.”
Jenny added, “I really liked this one preacher we had,
Pastor Fletcher. Now he knew what was going on. Started
the youth choir and everything. And everybody liked to
come and hear him preach. But wouldn’t you know it, they
finally got to him too. He was the one who told me we were
just three funerals away from having a really good church.”
Both Farley and Ev laughed.
Farley shook his head, “No, it wudn’t like that with me.
They run me off after they found out I was having an affair
with one of the other associate pastors.”
“Oh, really?” Jenny piped up on the heels of what
sounded like juicy gossip, eyebrows arching high. “Do tell.
I take it you, perchance, got caught at an inopportune moment?”
“Yeah,” Farley sighed, “Very embarrassing day in my
life, so I’ll spare you the indiscreet details. I still turn red
thinking about it to this day.” He shuddered the image in
his mind away, “Oh, let me tell you, it was quite a little
scandal we had us there for a while. Of course, my folks
liked to have killed me. The sad part of it all is that I suppose everything could have been prevented if we’d just
been a little more discrete. We knew we were pushing the
rules. We were both still single, and should have waited to
get marred, even if the church wouldn’t have approved at
the time. But no, I was too bull headed, and was always
pushing it. I couldn’t help it. I’ve just always been a very
outgoing and affectionate person.”
“I couldn’t tell,” Jenny giggled.
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Farley laughed at himself, “But, hell, I don’t make no
excuses. I was just one of those young and dumb kids,
full’a piss and vinegar, hip deep in lust, but thought I was in
love. And of course in my mind, at the time, being in love
made everything all right. You know how those things happen.”
“Do I ever. Guilty,” Ev raised his hand.
He thought back to his early relationship with Tanya
back in college. For the first six months it was almost exclusively the horizontal-mambo-marathon. Oh, that awful
fateful day her mother showed up at her apartment, unannounced, and caught them both in bed, bare-assed naked,
with his face buried between her legs, the awful sound of
her mother screaming—
NO, STOP IT
Ev shuddered the exact same way Farley did a moment
ago. That was one of the few ultra-embarrassing memories
he had that still made him feel like jumping off a tall bridge
into icy waters at the very thought.
Jenny announced, “Well, I’m not one to kiss and tell,
but I won’t say I never did a few things I shouldn’t have.
But I can assure you I never got caught.”
Ev teased, “Yeah, but you got married when you were
thirteen. Right?”
She smacked the back of his head.
“Ow, quit that!” Ev laughed. He shot her a playful look,
then commented, “Hell, I’ve only known a couple of people
in my entire life who have ever acted any different.”
“That you knew,” Jenny appended.
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Farley just nodded in solemn agreement, “Exactly. Underneath, we’re all a lot more the same than we are different. And the majority of our perceived differences are really
just a matter of what people are willing to admit to.”
Jenny was struck by that comment, somewhat surprising to her to be coming out of the mouth of a good-ole-boy
truck driver. “I like that. Did you read that somewhere?”
Farley absently shook his head, “No. Just the truth.”
Ev cocked an eye at Farley, as a funny curiosity occurred to him, “So you belonged to one of those denominations that let women be pastors? I’m not against it, don’t
get me wrong. I’m just wondering what that was like.”
Farley reached for his pouch of Red Man on the dash as
he pursed his lips and shook his head at the absurdity of
Ev’s question, “Women pastors? No, of course not. Who
said anything about women pastors?”
“But your affair,” Ev looked confused. “You said it was
with an associate pastor…”
Farley turned to him, a little trace of agitation in his
voice, “And so you just assumed I was talking about a
woman.”
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CHAPTER 23
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
Gene Phillips questioned the desk clerk who had been
on duty that afternoon, a young Asian girl named Cindi. He
asked, “So it was the woman who checked in? You never
actually saw Mr. Davis?”
The round school-house style clock on the wall read
11:27. It had been a hectic night for everyone. They had
interviewed the maintenance man extensively, but with little to show for it. The Bellman had offered the most useful
details concerning descriptions, clothing and such.
Cindi sat before a small conference table in the management offices of the hotel, professionally responding,
“That’s right. Just the woman.”
“And what form of identification did she use?” asked
Donny Mellor, also seated at the table.
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“Just her driver’s license,” Cindi answered Donny,
glancing down at a computer print out sheet she had
brought with her to the meeting.
“You get a home address from her?” Marty was standing by the door, still on the lookout for Claude Fuller.
Tommy the Bellman had informed them of Claude’s
call to the Davis’ room in advance of their arrival. As soon
as Marty saw Claude he planned to arrest him, as promised.
The hotel manager, Michael Twilliger, was also at the conference table. He had been most apologetic concerning
Fuller’s previous behavior and had committed the hotel’s
complete cooperation. The sight of three armed men running through the lobby had troubled more than a few of the
hotel’s guests.
Cindi replied, “I asked her to fill out her home address
on the registration form, but she left the street address
blank. Just put Steele, Alabama. No zip.”
Donny lifted a half-hearted shrug, “We’ll have somebody check it.”
Donny, Marty, and Gene asked both Cindi and Twilliger a few more questions, then sincerely thanked them for
their assistance and walked back out to the hotel lobby.
Donny was frustrated, “Dead end.”
Marty nodded. “I wasn’t too hopeful about that angle.
This guy’s obviously not stupid. Since they were smart
enough to pay cash, in all likelihood, any address the
woman would have given would have been fake. The ID
probably was as well.”
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dures on registration,” Donny fumed. “You should at least
have to show at least two form of ID to get a fucking
room.”
Marty looked at Donny as though he were crazy,
“Really? Tell that to your local Congressman the next time
he shows up at a hotel with his favorite hooker on his arm.”
Donny started to respond when Gene lowered his voice
and asked, “So who is this guy Walter Clark, really? Come
on, guys. It’s me.”
Donny looked at Marty. Marty shrugged a note of resignation.
Donny lowered his voice, “OK. But only because it’s
you. And this goes no further than you. Our elusive Mr.
Walter Clark is a man who was on his way to meet with the
U.S. Attorney’s office in Washington before an attempt was
made on his life in Dallas.”
“The bombing yesterday, yeah, yeah,” Gene nodded
once.
“Right,” Marty cut in. “Only somehow, he gets wise to
the hit, ducks, and heads this way for reasons yet to be determined. But then someone finds out that he’s here, and
within an hour of his arrival, takes a pop at him again.”
“Which means they knew he was coming,” Donny finished.
Gene shook his head, waving both hands, “No. Stop. I
know all that shit. I mean, who the hell is he? Why was he
going to talk to the U.S. Attorney in the first place? Who’s
trying so damn hard to pop him? And what business is that
of the Bureau?”
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Donny leaned closer to Gene, “We don’t know everything just yet. All I know to tell you is that Clark was a very
high-priced terminator. Internationally known. So was another man by the name of Anton Yaeger, a German. These
two apparently were in the mood to retire, and rather than
spend the rest of their days looking over their shoulders,
they were willing to turn over a whole bunch of old case
files to the Justice Department, specifically the RICO
team.”
“These were family hit men?” Gene asked.
Marty interjected, “No. Private contractors. They were
supposed to be seven-figure class trigger men. They were
ready to give us evidence on lots of high-rollers in lots of
places who had employed their services.”
Donny continued, “Naturally, it was all in exchange for
an all-expense paid vacation for the rest of their lives, courtesy of the FBI and the US taxpayers, new passports, Social
Security numbers, and everything. We were due to meet
them at the airport in Washington last night. Neither
showed up. Yaeger was found dead yesterday morning in a
bathtub in New York. Clark was initially thought to have
been in the plane bombing. That is, until our Spooks back
at the ranch got a positive trace on one of Clark’s credit
cards, buying a plane ticket here. We just missed him at the
airport. You know the rest. It’s our sole intention to get to
Clark before someone else does.”
Gene frowned, “I don’t get it. Why would a man, who
probably doesn’t like to have his whereabouts known, use a
credit card in his own name? Wouldn’t that be a dead give236
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away on his actions and whereabouts?”
Donny shrugged, “Well, until about two weeks ago,
when he contacted the Justice Department, we didn’t know
his real name. Unless you specifically know who you’re
looking for, a guy like that can go about his business like
any other citizen. In fact, if he didn’t, that would arouse
suspicion. I suspect after today’s events, he’s now realized
that we’re not the only ones with access to credit card files.
I seriously doubt that’ll happen again.” He mused, “Unless
he wants it to.”
“Makes sense. Any idea who’s apparently trying to give
Clark a little dose of his own medicine?” Gene asked.
Donny shook his head, “We’d sure like to know. Apparently Clark and Yaeger had been doing that voodoo that
they do so well for a long, long time. So it could be anybody really. Gotta believe folks like that have more than a
few enemies. But with what we’ve seen lately, it’s gotta be
a big player, with a lot of high-powered resources. Who’s
behind this was part and parcel of what Clark and Yaeger
were supposed to be coming to Washington to tell us.”
“I see,” Gene’s voice was somber. “Well, boys. You
know I’ll do everything I can in my jurisdiction to help. I
know I still owe you for the Barbados thing.”
Marty winked at Donny, “A man who pays his debts.”
Gene continued, “Right. But unless we just get flatassed lucky, it looks like the trail’s gone cold around here.
Let me get back to the office and see what forensics was
able to determine, if anything. We’re bound to have some
hair and fiber off the coat we found down at the Village. If
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anything good pops, I’ll call you.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Donny smiled.
Gene shook their hands and headed for the revolving
door.
After Inspector Gene Phillips had departed the hotel,
Marty turned to Gene gravely and said, “You scared the shit
out of me. I knew he wouldn’t be satisfied unless we told
him something. But for a minute there I thought you were
actually going to tell him the truth.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Donny lifted his
palms defensively, “Besides, some of it was true.”
Marty gave him an incredulous stare.
Donny shrugged, “Well, a little of it was.”
They both laughed.
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CHAPTER 24
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
From the moment he put his hand on her thigh while
they were still in the bar, Yvette knew this one was going to
be a classic. It had been a long time since she’d been with a
man who knew how to tease and please so well. A devilish
smile crept from the corners of her mouth, glad that no one
else had been in the elevator where it started. The hotel
guest or employee that found her panties lying there was
sure to get a thrill.
The red dress lay in a puddle just inside the door of his
hotel room.
His clothes lay by the side of the bed.
She drew in a quick breath. Getting close again.
Yvette lifted her chin higher toward the ceiling, digging
the crown of her head into her pillow and arching her
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shoulder-blades higher off the mattress. Her fingers continued to reach down and massage through his thick brown
curls, in absolute ecstasy at what he was doing. She could
feel him resisting the pressure she was applying to the back
of his head, attempting to press his face against her tighter
and tighter.
It was well past midnight.
There was only the briefest moment of disappointment
when he stopped, and began kissing his way back up over
her stomach, drawing a circle around her navel with his
tongue, taking a luscious moment to savor each of her
breasts, and nipping along the line of her neck with feathery
kisses.
He was obviously ready again.
She wanted this time to be even better than the previous
two, if that was physically possible without making her
pass out. Her voice was hushed, “Let me get on top.”
He obliged her with an eager yummy noise, rolling over
beside her on the king-size bed. She swung one of her long,
graceful legs across him and sat up. She rocked forward on
her knees slightly to let him enter. Once more, the warm
fullness filled her completely. It stilled her breath for a second.
He was a big man. Gentle and talented, but big nonetheless. She dearly liked big men.
Her hips went into an even rhythm, deep and intense,
squeezing from within.
He rose up into a sitting position, leaning her back ever
so slightly. She felt his hands sweep up her sides, cupping
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her breasts together, alternately teasing her nipples with
delicate little strokes and circles from the tip of his tongue.
That felt soooo good. She was certain that this time her
pleasure was not only going to be better, but arrive so much
sooner and stronger than she could have ever imagined.
Yvette knew from experience that all day tomorrow
she’d be delightfully sore, thoroughly exhausted, and in
general, feel like shit. But that was then, this was now, she
thought. There were other priorities to consider. Her remarkable and handsome lover showed no signs of tiring,
still most eager and diligent to perform his task for as long
as she could endure it—which was surely going to be put to
the test that night. Oh, and how he performed.
Her heart rate was beginning to accelerate in concert
with the rapid, shallow pace of her breathing and the
sweeping arcs of her hips.
For now, the search for the elusive Walter Clark could
just damn well wait. In fact, the whole subject of work
wouldn’t even be considered for many, many delightfully
indulgent hours to come. Of that she was absolutely certain.
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CHAPTER 25
Charlotte County, Florida
“You’re gay?” Ev’s incredulity wasn’t lost on anyone.
“You’re not?” Farley tossed back innocently, tucking a
golf ball sized brown wad of Red Man tobacco in his mouth
and starting to chew.
Ev bristled, “No. What makes you think I’m gay?”
“What made you think I’m straight?” Farley sparred.
“Well, I mean…you drive a truck…and…” Ev started.
“Well, you have to be gay. You’re wearing flip-flops,”
he taunted. “I can see all your toes.”
“Flip-flops?” Ev voice rose in pitch, his face a perplexed knot, “What the hell do flip-flops have to do with
being gay.”
Jenny started laughing and smacked Ev in the back of
the head again, “He’s just making a point about the stupidity of assumptions, goof-ball. And you just made his point
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for him.”
Farley turned his head around and winked at Jenny, and
then addressed Ev, “Hang on to this one, son. She’s smarter
than you. And a smarter partner in life is something you’re
lucky to have, whether your ego can stand it or not.”
Ev didn’t like being lectured. He crossed the tips of his
fingers with the palm of his other hand, signaling, “Whoa!
Time out. I got nothing against gay people. I’m not like
that. Your business is your business. You didn’t strike
Jenny as a preacher. You didn’t strike me at first glance as
gay. Nothing more to it. You’re just a man of many surprises who’s hard to figure in many ways. That’s all I was
trying to say.”
“Really? I see,” Farley thoughtfully puckered his lips,
then asked, “Didn’t think I looked gay enough to really be
gay. Is that it?”
Ev waved his hands, “I didn’t say that.”
Farley inquired, working his chaw over into the left side
of his mouth. “Well, tell me. I’m curious. How many gay
people do you actually know?”
Ev himmed-and-hawed, “…oh…I dunno…a few.”
“I see,” Farley nodded. “So what do all of the ones you
know look like? All of them hair-dressers, interior decorators, flight-attendants, ballet dancers? Transvestites, or
flaming prissy queers? Leather and latex, or sensible
pumps? Or maybe just sissy-boy faggot fudge-packers trying to pick up little boys on the school-yard? What exactly?”
Warm embers of embarrassment were glowing from
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Ev’s cheeks again, “No. Nothing like that. They’re just
people.”
“Wow,” Farley nodded again with a note of approval,
“How ‘bout that. Just people.”
No one said a word for quite a while.
Jenny broke the silence with, “That must have been
very hard for you, growing up in the kind of environment
you described and being gay.”
Farley was quick, “Yep. No denying it. Just like it must
have been hard for a pretty girl like you to grow up in the
South, being smart and unafraid to speak your mind, even
in front of strangers. Something tells me you know a lot
more about willow switches than most girls you know. You
must’ve woke up every morning feeling like a long-tailed
cat in a room full of rocking chairs most of your life. Most
girls like that I’ve known tended to end up in relationships
with people that don’t much give a damn what you say, nor
care about much of anything else for that matter.”
Jenny’s eyes widened, and she swallowed once. Ev
thought she looked like someone just punched her in the
chest, but was momentarily pleased the focus of the conversation had shifted away from him.
“I don’t mean nothing bad by that, darlin’,” Farley said
in a calming voice. “Just an observation. Don’t take no offense. That’s mostly what I do, you see. Observe, and
sometimes share my mind on what I see. It ain’t nothing.
Like, from that accent, I’d say you’d have to be either from
Georgia or Alabama. Am I right?”
“Alabama,” she replied.
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“From a small town?” he probed.
“Yes,” she answered.
Farley lifted an empty Styrofoam coffee cup up from
the center console, spat in it, and tucked it down between
his legs. “Then we got something in common, honey, you
and me. We both know all-too-well about not fitting in, not
wanting to do just as you’re told, not wanting to just quietly
accept your place, keep your mouth shut when you have
things to say, even when others think it ain’t fittin’-andproper to do so.” He turned his head again, noting the
scratches on her arms and Band-Aids on her hands. “And
I’d say you’re also a lady who’s smart enough to know
when to excuse yourself when you feel you’re not welcome.”
A shiver ran through Jenny. “That’s more-or-less why
I’m sitting here.”
Farley smiled, “That’s kind ‘a what I figured.” He
turned back to Ev, “So what’s you’re story, city boy. You
ain’t from Alabama.”
“City boy?” Ev sounded offended.
Farley noted, “Son, your arms and legs are about as
white as a white man gets without being a ghost. So I say
you spend most of your days in shirt-sleeves and trousers,
probably suits. That haircut didn’t come from no threedollar barber. And only city-folk wear watches they want
others to think are a lot more expensive than they are. So,
yes sir, I’d say it’s a safe bet you’re from the big city.
Which one? Atlanta?”
Ev threw up his hands in resignation, enjoined by a
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half-laugh, “Why, yes, Sherlock Holmes, I did live in Atlanta for a while. I’m amazed that you figured that out. But
until recently, I was living in Dallas. But you probably had
already deduced that as well. Am I right?”
Farley was laughing, obviously more amenable to being
teased than Ev was. “No. Just a guess. You didn’t talk like
a Yankee, and you’re too white to be from California or
Florida. Atlanta’s just the nearest really big city in these
parts. So what are you doing thumbing rides so far from
Dallas with an Alabama girl on your arm?”
“It’s a long story,” Ev sighed, rolling his eyes at Jenny.
Farley waited for Ev to elaborate on his story, and when
he didn’t, he said, “Dallas you say? Been there a few times.
Nice town. Lots of fun people.” He paused and then asked,
“Say, you kids hear about that plane somebody blew up
there yesterday?”
Ev and Jenny shot each other a careful sideways glance.
“Yeah, it was pretty awful,” Ev murmured.
“You know anybody in Dallas on that plane?” Farley
asked.
Ev couldn’t stand it anymore. Something inside him
was about to boil over. He turned to Farley, dead serious,
seething with sarcasm, “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. I
was on that plane. You nailed it a moment ago, my friend.
I’m a ghost. That’s why I’m so white.”
Jenny’s eyes were wide, staring at him.
Farley was quiet for a second and then nodded, “Yeah. I
kind of figured you were the ones.”
Ev’s eyebrows went up, “How’s that?”
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“Your names are Clark and Davis? That right?”
A sledgehammer hit Ev’s chest. He couldn’t breathe.
Jenny gasped out loud.
“What?” Ev tried to play dumb. It wasn’t hard. His
heart was pounding anew. Beads of sweat had already broken out on his upper lip.
Farley reached down below the dash and tapped an
elaborate police band scanner, mounted next to a CB radio.
“It’s always good to find out where the bear traps are. The
police, FBI, State patrol, and the what sounds like the
whole goddamn National Guard’s been out looking for you
and this little lady all afternoon. You two fit the descriptions to a tee. Right down to the Mickey Mouse shirts and
flip-flops.”
“Oh, shit,” Ev turned nervously toward the window,
one finger in his mouth, nibbling at the nail.
“Are you going to turn us in?” Jenny asked apprehensively.
Farley shook his head, “Like he said before, your business is none of my business. Sounds like you two got plenty
of troubles on our own. You sure don’t need me adding to
it.”
A wave of unexpected relief washed over them both.
Jenny whispered, “Thank you.”
Farley shot her another wink.
Ev turned to him, “Yeah, thanks. We really appreciate
that. So you knew it was us they were looking for when you
first picked us up?”
Farley spit in his cup again and nodded, “Had a pretty
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good idea it was you.”
“Then why’d you do it?” Jenny asked.
Farley laughed, his meaty shoulders bobbing up and
down, “Thought twice about it, I did. But you kids looked
harmless enough, standing there all weighed down with all
that stuff you was carrying. And I knew you had to have a
good story to tell. That alone was enough to make me stop.
You gotta understand, folks in my line of work love a good
story as much as a hot shower, a good meal, and a soft
warm bed.”
Ev was amazed. “And that’s it?”
Farley nodded, “I’m serious. I want to hear that long
story of yours. Gotta be a doozy. They’re saying you’re
wanted real bad for questioning in connection with that
plane incident yesterday in Dallas and some woman that
was murdered this afternoon not too far from where I found
you.”
Ev nodded, his mouth seemingly confessing of its own
accord. “Yeah, that poor girl that was blown apart…we saw
it. We were there.”
Jenny interjected, “But we didn’t have anything to do
with it. We were just sitting there when it happened.”
Farley lifted the cup from between his legs and spit another brown glob of tobacco spittle into it. “I can believe
that. Nope, you two don’t look like the killer type to me.”
Ev smiled, “And how many killers do you actually
know?”
They all laughed. Ev licked one finger and chalked up a
point in the air.
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Farley stopped laughing first. “A few.”
Everett Manning didn’t know exactly why he told Farley Houston his bizarre and sordid tale of events which had
transpired over the last day and a half, but he did. Beginning with sitting alone in the bar at DFW, leading up to the
explosion, “...and I had just turned to the ticket agent when
out of nowhere, I felt the air slap my face. Hard. It hurt.
And then it was like this giant searchlight flashed on right
in my eyes...”
With obvious difficulty swallowing, taking short
breaths, and with a quivering voice, he told the tale, all the
way up to running down the stairs at the Hilton Hotel and
making their way to the highway to thumb a ride, “... and
for all we knew they were still trying to kill us when we
made it to the highway where you found us.”
Ev told it all, making a full confession, sparing no detail
he could remember. He couldn’t help himself. It felt so
good to talk about it, to get it out, to see if someone else
could make any sense of it, or even believe it happened. It
just all came tumbling out of his mouth, a lot like it did
when he first told Jenny, only more so. He felt a physical
catharsis in the telling, like squeezing pus from an infected
wound.
All the while Ev spoke Farley just nodded, and threw in
a few strategic “unh-huh’s” and “I understand” to keep him
going, never interrupting, never acting surprised or offended by anything Ev said. It was almost magical. There
was nothing overt in what Farley said or did. Perhaps it was
more in what he didn’t say or do. But something unique
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about him acted as a catalyst to leech out more and more
information, and emotion, and feelings. They were almost
to Ft. Myers by the time Ev finished his story. When he
stopped talking he was physically tired and out of breath,
but felt refreshed. Something inside Ev told him that Farley
Houston had probably been a good minister.
Jenny appended with a wan smile, “And I’m just along
for the ride.”
Farley spit again. “But now you’re involved. And
they’re after you too.”
She nodded.
“I’m so sorry, Jenny,” Ev apologized.
“It’s OK,” she replied. “I made my own choice. And we
still intend to get away. Right?”
“Right,” Ev agreed.
“But neither of you have any idea why someone would
like to see this Clark fella dead.” Farley signaled left and
prepared to pass another truck.
“Not a clue,” said Jenny.
“Well, maybe you should look for one,” Farley suggested.
“What are you talking about?” Ev asked.
Farley accelerated the truck into the passing lane.
“Well, perhaps you need to know a little bit more about this
Mr. Walter Clark. Maybe if you knew why everyone was
after him, you might figure out a way to get them to leave
you alone.”
“How would we do that?” Jenny asked.
Farley pointed to the object sitting next to her on the
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bunk, “Have you even looked through his briefcase?”
Both Ev and Jenny stared at each other. Ev felt stupid.
He’d been carrying the thing around for over twenty-four
hours, and the thought of looking inside the briefcase had
never even occurred to him. Then again, he consoled himself, a lot had happened over the last twenty-four hours to
occupy his attention.
“Let me see it,” Ev held out a hand to Jenny.
She passed the Hartman up to him.
Ev unsnapped the leather straps on the corners of the
briefcase covering the locks. He was pleased to find it
wasn’t locked. He popped the two catches and lifted the lid.
Something inside moved.
Ev’s heart leapt up into his throat. As the lid came up,
something inside was buzzing loudly like a giant insect for
about two seconds and scurried around in the far corner of
the case.
They all heard it.
Jenny coughed up a little cry of surprise.
And all went silent.
Ev thought for a second it might be a booby-trap and
they were all dead. His breath caught in his throat.
“What is it?” Farley spun his head to the right, whispering with a note of alarm. He stopped chewing.
Ev was frozen in place, heart pounding, both hands still
on either side of the case’s lid, his eyes clenched shut.
Jenny leaned forward, peered over Ev’s shoulder, and saw
what it was.
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CHAPTER 26
Steele, Alabama
Randy Davis hadn’t gone to work that day. He was still
having trouble walking straight. But the near empty bottle
of Jack Daniels gripped in his right hand had done wonders
to stem the pain.
Through hazy eyes he could barely make out the time. It
was just past midnight.
He took another swig and stared at the television. A
black and white western was on. He liked westerns, especially the old ones with Jimmy Stewart and Audie Murphy.
You know, Audie Murphy was a fucking war hero, goddammit. So was Jimmy. Served their country like real men,
instead of all these pansy-ass faggot actors they had today.
He swallowed the liquid brown heat.
The bitch was gone.
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Fuck her.
If she knew what was good for her, she’d stay gone too.
His left hand pulled the lock-back buck knife out of its
leather case on his belt and opened it with one hand. Even
drunk it was a move that happened by reflex. Yep, he decided, the next time the stupid bitch shows up, she gets her
tits cut off. Oh, yes sirree, she was going to learn a hard and
painful lesson about ever striking back at Randy Ethan
Davis, thank you very much.
He chuckled to himself. That’d be a piece a work, cutting off those tits. They was big’uns. Stand up and say
howdy titties, yes sir. His smile faded. No, not going to give
that bitch another thought. Fuck her, and to hell with her.
She can just kiss my Dixie-fied, country boy, free, white,
and over twenty-one ass.
The bottle hit his lips again. There were a few swigs
left. A drop trickled down the left side of his chin, and ran
cold down his neck, settling in the hollow between his collar bones, soaking into the collar of his tee-shirt. It wasn’t
the first drop to make it there. He didn’t care.
Florida. What the fuck was she doing in Florida?
He still couldn’t believe the phone call he got from that
FBI bitch. What the fuck was Jenny doing with some old
boy wanted by the fucking F-B-&-I?
Wasn’t it obvious?
Hell, yes. She was fucking him. Probably had been
fucking him for a long time while poor Randy Ethan Davis
was off at work, busting his hard-working ass, trying to
earn a paycheck to pay for this nice house she lived in, and
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all the good shit she had. Yep, the fucking ungrateful little
cunt was probably balling the hell out this bastard every
day, getting her jollies, right in their own bed, while he was
off digging ditches to lay the new power cables.
His knuckles were growing white around the bottleneck, his cheeks burning red. Oh, yes. And everyone in
town probably knew about it and were all laughing their
asses off behind his back.
It was suddenly all so perfectly clear.
He had already figured out exactly how she got to Florida. Now he knew why. Oh, yes. He was more certain than
ever what had happened. That fat cow whore Loretta
Charles was always mouthing off about going down to visit
her stupid pig of a sister in Orlando. That had to be it.
Loretta and her sister were both in on it. They were all out
to make a fool out of him.
Fuck that!
He growled to himself, feeling no remorse about calling
her ugly ass up a couple of hours ago and letting her know
that he knew damn good and well what she’d done, and
how he knew exactly where Jenny was. Only, he just didn’t
figure it all out till that moment that it was to cover up
Jenny’s whoring with some other motherfucker. He’d have
called Loretta a lot more names if he’d known that part
then. Nevertheless, it gave him the greatest satisfaction
when the bitch had burst into tears and hung up the phone.
Fuck her too.
So Jenny had run off to Florida to lay on the beaches
fucking some other goddamn shit-head. That’s probably
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why she never hardly wanted to do it when he came home.
That lying-ass slut. She wasn’t tired. She just didn’t want
him to smell her boyfriend’s aftershave all over her. Or find
his cum stains on her panties.
“Can you believe that?” he bellowed at the empty room.
“She was fucking some asshole motherfucker, right in my
own fucking bed!!”
The Jack Daniels whiskey bottle exploded against the
wall just above the television set.
Randy was up on his feet again, staggering but up. The
lamp next to his chair was the next thing to hit the wall in a
shower of fragments before the coffee table was overturned.
“What’s the matter, you fuckin’ whore?” he screamed
running down the hallway toward his bedroom. “My dick
not big enough to take care of you? I sure as shit am gonna
take care of you…if I ever see your lying-ass face again!”
He bolted into the bedroom and dove toward the bed.
The buck knife plunged into the center of the comforter on
the bed, tearing a long gash in it.
“Can’t imagine my cock not being big enough for you.
You fucking choked and gagged on it enough!”
Stab. Tear.
The knife stuck again and again, ripping through the
linens and into the mattress. Fluffs of bedding went everywhere. Other objects around the room began exploding
against the walls.
When his tantrum subsided ten minutes later and he
couldn’t find anything else in the bedroom to break, Randy
Davis staggered back out to the living room, breathing in
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long wheezing gasps, spit dripping from his stubbled chin.
He could hear Dexter barking his fool head off out on the
porch. Randy stopped abruptly.
He wasn’t alone.
Through the doorway from the kitchen to the living
room, Randy could see someone standing just inside the
kitchen.
“Hello, Red,” a slightly familiar voice called. “Looks
like you been making a mess. Maybe you could use some
help.”
Randy squinted. The image was slowly coming into focus. It was Danny Charles, that fat-ass bitch Loretta’s husband. He was undoubtedly in on it too.
Randy screamed, and raced toward Danny, wielding the
knife high in his right fist. He didn’t see the baseball bat
Danny held at his side, nor the other two men standing behind him.
A tire iron crossed Randy’s forearm as the knife came
down in a wide arc at Danny’s head. It was swung by
Johnny, Danny’s brother. Danny never flinched, just held
the bat out in front of him like a jousting lance. Both
Randy’s radius and ulna cracked as the tire iron made contact. The knife flew from his hand and skittered across the
kitchen floor.
Randy had just begun to scream in pain when the third
member of the group, Danny’s best friend, Jasper Fox,
swung an aluminum softball bat straight up between
Randy’s legs, vertically, like a golf club. Randy’s piercing
scream from the broken forearm was arrested in a choking
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gasp.
Danny’s hickory Louisville slugger came whipping up
next, arcing hard to the left across Randy’s left ear, with a
meaty whup. It drew a spray of blood, and drove him to the
linoleum floor, right on top of the same glass shards Jenny
had crawled through just a night earlier. Danny’s right foot
stomped down hard on Randy’s kidneys.
Both of Randy’s grimy hands were in his crotch again,
his red and yellow, whiskey-soaked eyes bulging from their
sockets. His face had gone scarlet.
The tire iron came down against his right hip with vicious force. Randy shrieked. His trembling right hand
reached out and grasped Johnny’s left ankle.
Jasper’s aluminum bat came down in an air-splitting
blow to the back of Randy’s wrist, producing a dull crunching sound. The hand went limp beside him.
With the ball of his foot still in the small of Randy’s
back, Danny Charles dropped a knee between Randy’s
shoulder-blades. He then slipped the bat under Randy’s
chin, and grabbed it on both sides of Randy’s head. With a
powerful tug, Danny jerked Randy’s head back, the bat
crushing into his windpipe.
Danny leaned down and seethed into Randy’s ear,
“Don’t move, shit-for-brains, or the next thing you feel will
be that tire iron shoved straight up your miserable ass.
Don’t talk unless I ask you a question. And when I do, you
answer like a five year old talking to his daddy. You got
that?”
“Fffffkkkkk-youuuuuuu” Randy gritted out through the
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pain.
The tire iron whipped down from behind into Randy’s
swollen balls. Randy puked over the top of the bat pulled
tight under his chin. Yellow streams ran out his nose. His
eyes began to water.
“I don’t think you quite understood, boy,” Danny tightened the pressure from the bat. “Everybody knows you are
about the dumbest sack a shit on the face of this planet. But
if there’s one fucking brain cell you haven’t fried that
doesn’t want to die in your own puke right here in your
kitchen floor, then you need to pay attention to what your
betters are saying to you.”
“Fffffkkkkk-youuuuuuu” More brown liquid poured
from Randy’s lips and squirted from his nose.
Jasper’s bat audibly cut through the air once more,
whoooshhh, crushing Randy’s nose and closing his right
eye with a loud, tenderizing crunch and spray of blood.
Danny looked up at Jasper. “Get his knife over there. If
he doesn’t get the message, start taking off his fingers.”
Randy grew still. Blood streamed over the lower half of
his face, mixing with the brown vomit. His right eye was
filled with blood. His one good eye watched Jasper Fox
walk over to the refrigerator and retrieve the buck knife.
Danny leaned down near Randy’s bleeding ear again.
“Good boy. Now listen up you worthless fuck. You obviously need to learn some manners. And we’re here to help
you learn a few. Rule number one is that your days of terrorizing defenseless ladies is over. We know what you did
to Jenny. I had intended to come over and have a little man258
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to-man chat with you about that anyway, but I never
thought you’d be brain-dead stupid enough to go and upset
Loretta. Now Loretta says you called her saying you figured
out where we sent Jenny. And we know Jenny never made
it there. So we’re going to give you just one chance to tell
us what you done to her, and where she is now, or this night
is going to get a lot uglier and a lot more painful for you
than you can possibly imagine.”
Jasper walked over, lifting Randy’s crushed right wrist,
placing the blade of the knife between the webbing between
his thumb and forefinger.
Danny loosened the tension on the bat, “So where is
she, shit-head?”
Randy gurgled and rasped, “Dunnn….knwwww.”
“Don’t know?” Danny raised his voice. “Damn. For
some reason, I don’t believe you.” He nodded at Jasper.
There was one sweep of the knife. More blood dripped
down to the tiles.
Randy shrieked again. “Gdddddammmm—youuuu, I
dunn-fukknnnn-knowwww!!!”
The tire iron whipped into Randy’s right ankle. Another
crack echoed through the kitchen. Randy choked, and his
entire body went into a panicked spasm. He was still laying
on his left arm. His right jerked out of Jasper’s grasp, fresh
blood smearing in a wide, thick swath over the linoleum.
Danny still had his torso pinned. Johnny flopped down
across his legs.
The pine bat came up again hard into his throat. “Now
just where do you think you’re going there, buddy boy?”
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Another bodily spasm projected a vile stream of vomit
out of Randy’s mouth in a thick stinking jet, propelled a
full six feet across the room, splattering the front of the refrigerator. All three men hung on tight, holding him down.
Jasper grabbed his aluminum bat again, and brought it
directly down on the top of Randy’s head with the same
stroke he used to chop a cord of wood. Randy Davis’ body
instantly went limp. A fresh trickle of blood flowed from
Randy’s scalp, puddling in the socket of his left eye.
A few seconds of silence passed.
“Is he dead?” Jasper asked matter-of-factly.
Danny put two fingers against the side of his throat,
then announced, “No. He’s got a pulse. You just knocked
his ass out. Fuckers like this are harder to kill than crabgrass.”
Johnny sounded more alarmed. “Well, let’s get the hell
out of here. We came to mess him up, not to kill him.”
Jasper nodded with satisfaction, “Oh, he’s pretty
messed up, all right. That’s for sure.”
Danny nodded and stood up, looked down at the shattered body on the floor. “Damn straight. It’ll be a good long
while before he fucks with anyone again.” He yelled down
at Randy’s unconscious body, “Ain’t that right, fuck-head,”
and then kicked him in the ribs.
No response.
“Now what?” Johnny asked.
Danny thought about it a second, sighed, and instructed
his brother, “Go call that 911 thing.” He pointed at the
phone on the wall. “Don’t give ‘em your name. Just tell
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‘em you heard a ruckus from this address. Think somebody
might be hurt. Then hang up. They can clean up this piece
of shit, if they have a mind to.”
Jasper threw the knife back down on the floor. “You
believe his bullshit about not knowing where Jenny is?”
Danny shrugged, “I don’t know. Maybe. He might of
just been guessing when he called up this evening and tried
to give Loretta some shit. But that was his mistake either
way.”
Jasper looked down at him, “Big mistake.”
Johnny went to the phone and made the call as instructed. He returned looking nervous, “Let’s get the hell
out of here. They said they’d send a cop around right away
to check it out.”
“More than the bastard deserves,” Jasper spat a thick
wad of phlegm on the bloody crown of Randy’s head.
Danny nodded, “OK. We’re out of here.”
Danny, Johnny, and Jasper were safely miles away before the first St. Claire County patrol cruiser arrived at the
Davis home. They were all showered and in bed, snuggled
up to their wives’ bosoms before the ambulance arrived.
However, all three of them were fast asleep and snoring—
the heat of their righteous-indignation long since quelled—
long before Randy Davis had ever fallen asleep.
At no point in time throughout the entire ordeal was
Randy Davis ever really unconscious in his attackers’ presence. He could play opossum as good as anybody. He used
to do it with his own big brother when they’d fight and
wrestle as kids, then start whaling the tar out of his brother
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again when he made the mistake of turning him loose.
He was half-amazed the stupid shits didn’t know better.
No, Randy Davis didn’t really drift off to sleep until
after he’d spent over four hours in the emergency room to
have his right arm, from his elbow to his wrist, set in plaster; a pin implanted into his ankle; plus receive thirty-seven
stitches—twenty of them in his right hand and seventeen
more over his right eye. Rest finally came after he was
wheeled into a recovery room with a glucose, plasma, and
morphine drip in his arm. Until the moment the morphine
finally took away the pain, he was fully aware of everything
going on around him.
Oh yes.
He knew who had done this to him. More importantly,
he knew why. It was all because of that lying, cheating,
whore, slut wife of his. The motherfuckers who had done
this had only made one mistake. They left him alive. From
the second he was strong enough to stand again, he vowed
to spend the rest of his days hunting that cunt down. And
when he found her, she’d not fare anywhere near as well as
he had that night, nor would the asshole she ran off with.
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CHAPTER 27
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
Donny Mellor was only half-asleep when his phone
rang. At first he didn’t remember where he was. The surroundings of the hotel room weren’t familiar. Terry wasn’t
lying beside him. On the second ring, his brain started to
remember. He was still at the Hilton Hotel at Disney Village in Orlando, Florida. As a gesture of good will, the
manager had given both Donny and Marty private suites.
“Mellor here,” he graveled into the phone, reaching for
the lamp on the night stand.
It was Marty, “Hey buddy. We just got beeped.”
“What is it?” Donny sat up, rubbing his eyes. The red
digits of the clock beside his bed said it was almost 2:00
AM.
“Maybe a small break,” Marty answered.
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“What do you got?” Donny just wanted to lay back
down and sleep for the next twelve hours. His gut told him
he was going to have to get back up and get dressed.
“We had research run a check on any Davis families
from Steele, Alabama. Turns out there are a couple of families there with that name.” Marty advised.
“Big fucking deal,” Donny groused. “I’d be surprised to
find a town in this country that doesn’t have at least one.”
“Yeah,” Marty agreed, “But one of them had a guy almost murdered tonight. Happened just a couple of hours
ago. The guy is still in surgery, but he’s expected to make
it. Apparently when they brought him in he was babbling
about a run-away wife, named Jennifer Elaine Davis, blond
hair, blue eyes. Supposedly, took off yesterday for Orlando.
Steele is less than an hour from Birmingham.”
Donny swung his legs over the side of the bed, “No
shit?”
“No shit,” Marty continued. “I’d say we got a hundred
percent hit. The fellow also was babbling about her running
off with somebody wanted by the FBI.”
“Bingo,” Donny was standing by the bed.
Marty added, “What’s weird is that he told the county
deputy that found him we had already contacted him about
it.”
“Did we?” Donny asked.
“We didn’t know the guy existed until about an hour
ago.”
“So get someone out of the Birmingham office to go get
his statement,” Donny ordered.
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“Way ahead of you,” Marty answered. “After he’s out
of surgery, when he’s awake, we’ll find out what he knows.
But one thing’s for sure, we know who the blond is now.
Sounds like Clark just picked up a traveling companion on
the fly.”
Donny was nodding, “Yes, but now we’ve got another
way to track him.” He grunted with satisfaction. “Tell the
research team they done good this time.”
“Did that too,” Marty shot back. “So get some sleep and
I’ll meet you downstairs for breakfast at 9:00.”
“Thanks, Marty,” Donny hung up the phone.
Go to sleep? He didn’t get a wink that night.
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CHAPTER 28
Lee County, Florida
Jenny pointed inside the briefcase, “Isn’t that a pager?”
Ev opened his eyes and looked down. Yes, it was. He
picked it up and looked at it. Displayed on the LCD readout
was a number he didn’t recognize. A pang of sadness hit his
heart.
He turned to Jenny and Farley, “It’s probably someone
looking for Walter, hoping he missed the flight and will
return the page. I hope it’s just somebody he works with
and not a wife or family member. I have no idea how long
it takes the airlines to notify everyone.”
“That’s so sad,” Jenny commented.
Ev looked back down at the other contents of the briefcase. It was not much different from his own, nor anyone
else’s he’d ever seen. Inside there was a cell phone, turned
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off, with a spare battery; a leather-bound appointment
book; a few colored file folders, stuffed with reports; a bigbutton solar powered calculator; several computer disks
bound together with a rubber band; a leather eye-glass case,
with glasses; two CD’s without labels; and various and
sundry items: a pad of yellow “Post-It” notes, a few loose
pens, Afrin nasal spray, and a bottle of Advil. A couple
more folders were in the pocket in the lid.
Farley hit his right turn signal to exit the highway.
“Well, kids, you can look at that stuff more in a little while,
or better yet, in the morning, but right now we’re about to
call it a day.”
Both Jenny and Ev looked out the window. For the last
several miles they had seen more and more of civilization.
They were on the outskirts of Ft. Myers, Florida. Farley
maneuvered the truck onto the exit ramp and was heading
for a small motel. The red neon vacancy light was still on.
“Looks lovely,” Jenny didn’t hold back the sarcasm.
Farley smiled, “It’ll do. Been through these parts many
a time. It’s clean. Cheap. Got showers. And if you toss
down a little cash, they don’t ask no questions.”
Ev nodded, “That would be a good thing right about
now.”
“Thought it might,” Farley replied.
Ev closed the briefcase as they pulled into the parking
lot of the small roadside motel. It had two floors, the doors
of each room all facing the highway. The parking lot was
fairly full, so Farley swung the truck around back and
stopped, set his brakes and killed the big diesel engine.
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He held his hand out to Ev, “Give me fifty bucks, and
I’ll go see if they got a couple of rooms left.”
“Three,” Jenny corrected.
Farley looked at Jenny and then back at Ev, “Whatever
you say. Then make it a hundred.”
Ev pulled the eel-skin wallet out of his back pocket and
peeled off a hundred for Farley. He opened the driver’s side
door and climbed down.
After Farley had left, Ev turned to Jenny, “Hey, you
really don’t have to be a part of this anymore. You haven’t
done anything wrong.”
“I know,” she nodded. “But you haven’t really either.
We’re in this together now, like Farley said.”
“But you don’t have to be,” Ev argued. “If you just go
to the police, you can say that we just met. It’s the truth.
They’ll have no reason to hold you for anything.”
She bit her bottom lip and announced, “I don’t want
to.”
Ev just stared into her warm blue eyes for a long moment, trying to understand what this woman could be thinking. “We might not make it. And the more we run, the
worse it gets.”
She raised her eyebrows hopefully, “But we might make
it. And having the chance is more than I’ve had in a long
time. Can you understand that?”
Ev swallowed hard, “Absolutely.”
They were both quiet for few minutes.
Ev was facing toward the window when he asked, “Do
you really think he’s gay, or just pulling our legs?”
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Jenny huffed, “Well, of course he’s gay. I could tell in
the first two minutes.”
Ev turned to her, “How? It isn’t like they get a special
badge or pin. You got some sixth sense about these
things?”
She smiled, “It’s not that hard. But being a guy, you’d
never know.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ev pursed his
lips.
Jenny raised one eyebrow, “Let’s just say gay men are
much better than straight ones at maintaining eye-contact in
the first minute you meet them.”
Ev frowned, “Eye contact?”
She shrugged, “Fact of life. The next woman you meet,
see how long it takes you to break eye-contact and check
out her boobs.”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” he rolled his eyes, starting to
laugh. “Now if that isn’t a sexist statement, I don’t know
what is. All guys aren’t like that, and I’m sorry, but anyone
who doesn’t happen to take a gander ten inches below your
chin isn’t automatically gay.”
She leaned toward him, not backing down, “Time yourself next time and then tell me I’m wrong.”
“So just because you didn’t see Farley check out your
rack right away, you think that makes him a homosexual?”
he asked.
She shrugged, “Never glanced down from my eyes
once.”
“So that makes him gay?” Ev repeated. He was about
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half a syllable short of raising the issue of feminine vanity
in this equation, but prudently stopped himself.
“I’m not saying it’s a foolproof technique,” she conceded, pulling back her shoulders and looking down at the
generous swell of her breasts beneath her Minnie Mouse
tee-shirt, “But it’s fairly reliable. You wouldn’t know cause
you don’t tote these things around all day like I do, and
have done since I was fifteen.”
“Whatever,” Ev just threw up his hands in mock surrender and laughed to himself.
Farley came climbing back up to the cab. He swung into
the driver’s seat and closed his door, handing Ev back his
hundred dollar bill. “Sorry. But we got us a decision to
make.”
Ev asked, “What’s the deal?”
Farley shrugged apologetically, “Well, they got one
room left. If you want it, we can stay here, but you’ll have
to share. I can sleep in the truck here. Otherwise we push
on down the road and look for something else.”
“What are the chances of finding something else?”
Jenny asked.
“I won’t lie to you, honey,” he replied. “Not much for a
while, till you get down around Naples. Then you hit all the
fancy expensive stuff. Nothing…discrete…for another hour
and a half, two hours maybe. But we can do that if you
want.” He yawned.
She shook her head, “No, we’ll make do.”
Ev spoke up, “You sure?”
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lando. We can make do here.”
“Good enough,” Farley nodded.
Ev opened the passenger side door and then stopped. He
turned to Farley, “Farley, out of curiosity, by any chance,
when you first laid eyes on Jenny, at any moment, did you
happen to notice her breasts? Check ‘em out?”
“Beg your pardon?” Farley looked dumfounded.
Jenny’s jaw dropped.
“When you first saw her, did you glance down and see
what she had?” he asked matter-of-factly. “This is very important. I need to know.”
The questioning look never left his face, “Why on earth
would I do that?”
Ev started to answer, “…nevermind.”
Farley looked at Jenny, as if to apologize for her own
companion’s rudeness.
Jenny held up a hand to Farley, laughing softly to herself, “Don’t even ask. It’s a private joke.”
“Oh,” he smiled. “All right then. Well, y’all get some
rest tonight. I want to get back on the road no later than
nine.”
“Do they have wake-up calls here?” Ev asked, grabbing
their bags.
Farley huffed, “It ain’t that bad a place, son. It’s not like
you have to bring your own sheets and lightbulbs. I been in
places like that, and this ain’t one of ‘em.”
“OK,” Ev said. “And, Farley…thank you again.”
“My pleasure, kids,” he smiled at them. As Jenny was
climbing over the seat he added, “And, by the way, I took
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care of your room already. My treat.” He tossed Ev a brass
key attached to a diamond shaped piece of plastic. “Number
one-thirteen. Just around the corner there.”
Jenny started, “But how did you know we’d decide—”
“Just had a feeling,” Farley cut her off.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Ev Protested.
“I wanted to.” Farley smiled, “You kids should save
your money. I gotta feeling you’re going to need it.”
Jenny reached over and hugged Farley’s neck and
kissed him warmly on the cheek. “You’re an absolute angel.”
Farley chuckled, his cheeks reddening, and shoulders
bobbing, “I just love it when people say that.”

The room wasn’t that bad. Simple, but functional. It had
all the basics of any hotel/motel room. Everything was just
so old. The management apparently sprayed for bugs, as
was evident by all the six-legged carcasses lying everywhere. Unfortunately, there was no bathtub, just a moldy
shower stall that smelled of mildew. In fact, the entire bathroom wasn’t much bigger than a phone booth. There was
no little couch in the room, just a single occasional chair
with torn fabric sitting in a corner; a short two-drawer
dresser with a Gideon Bible in the top drawer and a small
TV perched on top, which was chained to the wall; and one
double bed with no headboard.
Ev piled the briefcases and his laptop bag in the chair
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and sat down on the edge of the bed. He called out, “So
how do you want to do this?”
Jenny was in the bathroom. After the toiled flushed she
emerged, still wearing the Minnie Mouse shirt and socks,
but carrying her jeans and shoes. As Ev had suspected, the
oversized tee-shirt hung down almost to her knees. She
looked at the bed. “If you’re half as tired as I am, then we
just go right to sleep. It’s big enough for two.” She paused
and then added, “And I think I can trust you. Can’t I?”
Ev blew out a long sigh, trying to smile, not really
aware of how genuinely weary he was until she mentioned
it. With the exception of the brief nap in the truck, he’d
been up for two days. The idea of any hanky-panky was the
most remote notion he could conceive of. All he wanted
was to lay down before he fell down.
He looked up at her with weary eyes, “Your virtue is
safe, my dear. I could fall asleep within five seconds of hitting the pillow.”
“Me too,” she pulled back the bedspread. “So let’s just
get some rest.”
Ev nodded. He kicked off his flip-flops and crawled
into the bed with his shorts and tee-shirt still on. Jenny
crawled in on the other side. They both lay as close to their
respective edges as they could get without falling off onto
the floor. A good foot of “no-man’s-land” existed between
them. It didn’t last long, but neither of them knew it. As
predicted, they were both fast asleep in seconds. And minutes later, they were rolled over together, arm in arm, cuddled tight, with her head leaning against his chest, both
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snoring softly.

They awoke hours later to a loud banging on their door.
Daylight was streaming in through the two inch gap in the
faded curtains, only slightly diffused by the filthy window.
Ev had been dreaming about running down a talcumpowder-white beach with a ferocious Bengal tiger hot on
his heels, when he started awake. More bangs rang out. Ev
looked down to find Jenny curled up against him, still snoring softly, dead to the world. Her arm was draped over his
stomach. He smiled to himself and gently lifted it, causing
her to start slightly, smacking her lips.
She spurted out, “What?”
“Somebody’s at the door,” he whispered, climbing out
of bed. His whole body ached. He cracked the door slightly,
leaving the safety chain in place.
Farley was standing outside sipping a Styrofoam cup of
steaming coffee.
Ev closed the door, removed the chain, then pulled the
door open, managing to get out a scratchy-throated, “Hi…”
“Guess you forgot to get that wake-up call,” Farley
grinned. “It’s almost nine o’clock. Need to get rolling. I
know a great pancake place just down the road.”
Ev yawned and nodded, “Sorry.”
Twenty minutes later they were back on the road, still a
bit groggy, but rested nonetheless.
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CHAPTER 29
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
Donny Mellor was sitting in the Disney Village Hilton
Hotel restaurant sipping his morning coffee when Marty
joined him. His face looked long and discouraged.
“You look like shit, partner.” Donny returned his cup to
its saucer with a click. “Didn’t sleep a wink myself. Too
excited.”
Marty shook his head, taking a seat and picking up a
menu, “No, I slept great. I just got off the phone with
McConnahan.” Kevin McConnahan was a fellow agent in
their Washington office.
“What’d he say?” Donny was suddenly concerned.
“It’s about the Davis guy in Alabama who got trashed
last night.” Marty said.
“Yeah,” Donny prompted, suddenly very worried, “He
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didn’t make it? He’s dead?”
“No, not dead. He’s gone.” Marty announced.
“Say what?” Donny was leaning forward, both hands on
the table top.
Marty shrugged, “One of our people arrived first thing
this morning to get his statement. The hospital people said
he pulled an IV out of his arm around six o’clock this
morning and just disappeared.”
“Well how far could he go in the condition he was in?”
Donny demanded to know.
“Unknown.” Another shrug from Marty, “You wouldn’t
think far. Right? He had a cast on one arm and one foot.
Lots of bandages all over his head and shot full of dope. I
didn’t get the impression he could even walk. Local cops
are out looking for him.”
“Damn!” Donny smacked the table hard enough to
slosh his coffee.
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CHAPTER 30
Big Cypress Swamp, Florida
Just past 11:00 AM, with a belly full of pancakes, coffee, and juice, Farley’s Peterbilt was cruising east on Highway-75, the everglades parkway, affectionately known as
“Alligator alley,” toward Fort Lauderdale. He had dropped
off his trailer full of washing machines at first light in Ft.
Myers while Ev and Jenny were still sleeping. Ev thought
the truck looked funny without its trailer, but once they
were driving, it was hard to tell it wasn’t still there.
The conversation had gone back to Ev’s flight and
plight and the mystery of Walter Clark. That led them to
continue their investigation of the briefcase. Ev handed
Jenny the paper file folders, and he pulled out his laptop to
see what was on the computer disks and CD’s.
They all jumped when the pager buzzed again.
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Ev picked it up, “This thing’s probably been going off
for the last couple days. It’s a wonder the battery hasn’t
worn out.”
“Maybe you should turn it off,” Farley suggested.
“Yeah,” Ev agreed. He glanced at the number on the
LCD readout. “What the hell…” Staring him in the face
was a number he did recognize.
“What is it?” Farley and Jenny said simultaneously.
Ev turned, “It’s my number. My office number.
But…how…”
“What?” Jenny looked confused. “How could your
number be on someone else’s pager?”
Ev looked back at the display. He hit the button that
scrolled through the last ten pages the pager had received.
His eyes grew wider and wider as he saw two numbers alternating, his, and the one that he didn’t recognize. Ev was
flabbergasted. He showed both Jenny and Farley, who both
shook their heads in dismay.
Farley coughed once, “Well, if that really is your office
number, then there’s only two possibilities. One, the owner
of that pager also works at your office with you. Or, someone is trying to reach you, who knows your office number,
and also knows you have that pager.”
“That’s…impossible,” Ev insisted. “Walter Clark was
certainly not working at my office. And no one at my office
could possibly know I have a dead guy’s briefcase, let alone
what that dead guy’s pager number would be to page me!
And I’m sure as hell not calling in to the office to see who’s
looking for me!”
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“I doubt that’s what you’re being requested to do,” Farley offered.
“What are you talking about?” Ev asked.
Farley pointed out, “Your number might just be someone letting you know that they are trying to reach you, not
the pager’s owner.”
Ev was feeling a sense of panic again, “So what do I
do?”
Jenny spoke up this time, “Call the other number and
see who it is.”
He picked up the cell phone in the briefcase, turned it
on, pleased to see the battery still fully charged and dialed.
A sinking feeling was permeating Ev’s gut, “I have a funny
feeling I know who it is.”

It was late-morning. As hoped for, her gentleman had
been utterly fantastic. Without a mirror, Yvette Monroe
knew her eyes would have a glassy, satisfied sheen. It had
been several years since she had made love until dawn. Her
skin felt clammy from all the dried perspiration. She rolled
over and looked at the clock on the night stand. Yes, quarter after eleven. The bed was a wreck. She was exhausted
even after four hours of sleep—more of a nap really, but
she’d had to exist on a lot less on numerous occasions.
He was in the bathroom. She could hear the shower
running. Her stomach growled. Eggs-Benedict sounded
good. Surely Room Service could accommodate her, along
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with a bottle of champagne and some orange juice to make
Mimosas.
Yvette sat up when she heard the muffled chirp of a cell
phone.
Yet something wasn’t quite right about the sound. She
arose and walked over to her purse, which she found tossed
in a chair. She pulled out her cell phone, noting her pistol
was still securely inside the purse. The ring came again, but
not from her phone. She followed the sound over to the pile
of clothes by the side of the bed. She found the phone in the
jacket breast pocket of her lover’s suit. The LCD screen on
the front read: INCOMING CALL, 214-555-0665.
Oh, what the hell, she thought, he had been most kind
to her. It might be an important call he didn’t want to miss.
She hit the SEND button and answered it, “Hello?”

Everett Manning was about to hang up when he heard a
female voice answer, “Hello?”
He had expected a male voice, “Hi. Who is this?”
“Who is this?” the woman’s voice asked.
Ev felt stupid and then slightly relieved. For half a second he thought it would be the one and only Walter Clark
himself who answered the phone. It was Walter’s briefcase
he had. He had given Walter one of his business cards. Ev
remembered the image of Walter sticking it in his shirt
pocket and patting it twice. His thought was that perhaps,
somehow, Walter had survived the flight and also somehow
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knew Ev had his stuff. If so, he was probably going to be
mad. But this was someone else.
Ev answered, “Hang on a second.” He held the phone to
his chest, “It’s some woman. Wants to know who I am.”
Farley instructed, “Then it’s likely someone looking for
Clark. This may be your chance to find out some more
about him. Go with it. See what you can find out.”
“Right,” Ev nodded, lifting the phone to his ear again,
willing to play along for minute and see what happened,
“I’m sorry. This is Walter Clark. You paged me. What can I
do for you?”

Yvette Monroe almost dropped the phone, “Who did
you say you were?”
The voice on the other end of the line answered, “Walter Clark. I got your pages. Sorry I haven’t answered
sooner, but I’ve been out of touch for a day or so. Who is
this, please?”
Yvette looked toward the closed bathroom door. It
couldn’t be. How did her handsome stranger happen to be
connected to Walter Clark, and how would he have the
ability to page him? There was only one answer: her sensually talented beau in there washing off all the delightful
juices from her body which covered him from head to toe,
had to be one of the damned federal agents he was supposed to meet. She almost laughed out loud, thinking:
How’s that for irony, boys and girls? This one would go in
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the one-night-stand hall of fame.
She smiled speaking into the phone, “I’m so happy you
called, Mr. Clark. This is Sheila Davenport. We’ve been
waiting for your call. I’m very happy to hear that you’re
alive. We all feared the worst after the incident in Dallas.”
“Yes,” the male voice answered. “Most unfortunate.
But I’m all right.”
She kept her eyes on the bathroom door, “Well, Mr.
Clark, everything is still prepared for your arrival. In fact,
I’ve been sent to meet you and bring you in, as you agreed.”
“Bring me in?” a nervous voice asked.
“Of course,” she assured him. “I know things have been
a little dicey lately. But surely you know the information
you have is still vitally important to us.”
“My information?” he repeated.
“You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” she
asked.
He was quiet for a second, “I don’t know. I’m still
thinking about things. Especially after everything
that’s…happened.”
“That’s understandable,” she said. “Tell you what. Why
don’t we meet? Just you and I and discuss it. If you’ve
changed your mind and don’t want to go through with it,
we understand. But if we can sit down face-to-face and just
talk, I think I can convince you how important this is, and
what a service you really are doing for your country, sir.
And under your circumstances, I hope you would agree that
isn’t asking a lot.”
There were some muffled sounds and a long pause.
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“Where do you want to meet?”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Florida,” the voice replied.
“We know that, sir,” she responded. “Could you be a
little more specific than that? Where exactly in Florida?”
More muffled sounds and another long pause.
“Do you know where the Deerfield Beach Resort is?”
the voice asked.
Yvette’s heart was racing. She couldn’t believe her
good luck, “The one just south of Boca Raton?”
“That’s the one,” the voice replied.
“Yes, I know it well. Beautiful place, fantastic colors,”
she said. “I can catch a flight to Ft. Lauderdale and be there
in four or five hours.”
“OK,” the voice was tentative. “Be there. If I’m not
there by six o’clock this evening, I’ll call you back later.”
Oh shit! Yvette knew she wouldn’t have this phone
later. She bit her bottom lip. “Tell you what, Mr. Clark.
This is not a secure line. I’d appreciate it, if you call back,
to please use a different number. Specifically, one that can
be encrypted. I’m sure you can understand that.”
“Fine,” the voice replied. “What’s the number?”
Yvette gave him the same 1-800 number she had given
Randy Davis, while at the same time writing down the
Caller ID number displayed on the screen of the digital cell
phone. “I hope to see you later this afternoon.”
“We’ll see,” the voice replied.
“How will I find you there?” she asked.
Another pause, and then, “There’s an outdoor patio in
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the back, part of the bar. Get yourself a big white hat and
wear it. I’ll find you.”
The In-Use light went out. She put the phone back in
the pocket of the suit jacket and ran over to where her red
dress lay by the door.

Everett set the cell phone back in the briefcase on his
lap. He didn’t know why, exactly, he told the woman to
wear a big white hat. He’d seen one recently, and it just
stuck in his mind.
Jenny looked at him, “Well?”
“I’m pretty sure it was the FBI,” he answered. “But the
lady I talked to was real nice.”
Farley noted, “Perhaps, if information is what they
want, then the FBI’s sincere interest in Mr. Clark isn’t to
arrest him, but to hear what he has to say.”
Ev nodded, “Yeah, from what she said, they were expecting him to give them some kind of information.” He
snapped his fingers, “OK, which was obviously why he was
on his way to Washington. To meet with them.”
“But someone didn’t want him to get there,” Jenny
added.
“Right,” Ev realized. It was suddenly all making sense
to him. But then his logic hit a snag. “But that doesn’t explain why my office phone number was on the pager.”
Jenny looked to Farley.
Farley just shrugged, “Yep, that part’s still a mystery.”
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Jenny closed the file folder laying on her lap, “But what
was he going to tell them about? It must have been something so important someone was willing to blow up a plane
and try and kill us over. That part’s still pretty scary.”
“And the answer to that question might be right in
here,” Ev looked back down at the briefcase.
“Well, keep looking through all that,” Farley nodded.
“And I’ll get you to your meeting in Deerfield on time.
Maybe your FBI agent will give you more information
when you get there and talk to her.”
Jenny touched Ev’s shoulder, “But they don’t get anything until they tell us what’s going on and agree to get us
far away from it.”
Ev nodded, “Agreed.”
The folders turned out to contain nothing but a bunch of
boring legal documents and contracts. They offered no clue
whatsoever about Walter Clark’s life or business dealings.
However, the computer disks were another story, though
still a mystery.
“What do you mean encrypted?” Jenny scowled.
“What’s that word mean?”
Ev ejected the last disk from the floppy drive port and
shut off his laptop. “Encrypted means they’re encoded or
scrambled, you might say, so no one can read them except
the person with the key or password to unscramble them.
People only do that with sensitive information. Whatever it
was Walter was taking to Washington, is more than likely
hidden here on these disks.”
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CHAPTER 31
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
When he opened the bathroom door, he fully expected
to see her lying nude in bed as he had left her, sleeping
soundly. Perhaps there was a little time for one more exceptional interlude before starting the day. There was a slight
sensation of disappointment when he saw that she was
gone. Probably had a boyfriend or husband elsewhere in the
hotel she had to get back to and make excuses.
No matter. He had a busy day ahead of him. Today was
the day the damn phone call would come. He could feel it
in his bones.
The man who had identified himself as Walter Clark to
the pawn he met at the Dallas airport two days ago walked
over and lifted his jacket off the floor. He pulled the cell
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stand, then neatly laid his jacket on the bed. He needed to
pack his things and prepare to check out. Rules of the trade
forbade ever staying in the same place more than one night.
Constant movement was a necessity of survival, just as it
was with man-eating sharks.
He walked back in the bathroom and looked at his reflection in the mirror. The Walter Clark gray had washed
out of his hair nicely the day before. He selected a little
more of an auburn tint for this day, and a pair of green contact lenses.
“The asshole better call,” he muttered into the mirror.
He still couldn’t believe Manning had just run off with
his briefcase. How had he misjudged that? While sitting
there in that bar, a simple glance over at Manning’s watch
had revealed it was running almost five minutes slow.
There was no danger whatsoever he’d make the plane. He
was a perfect choice. He was just supposed to turn the wallet and the briefcase over to the authorities and be done
with it. He was a perfect untraceable mule. Then everything
would have worked exactly as planned. The Feds would
have what they wanted, and he would have had what he
wanted, the perfect escape. But then along comes Everett
Manning and fucks the whole thing up. What the hell was
this idiot doing playing pick-pocket with a dead man’s luggage? He was a goddamn computer salesman! Not a thief.
Only goes to show how little you can trust human nature, the man huffed to himself. Give him the temptation,
and here comes the sin.
Manning’s movements hadn’t been that hard to trace
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after he lost him in the confusion at DFW. That is, it wasn’t
hard once Ev started charging things. Following the credit
cards was easy enough. Although, he was still curious how
Manning was able to board a flight with his Walter Clark
driver’s license. The airlines must be falling down on security, he mused.
It was amazing. How does someone witness a disaster
like that, and then decide it’s time to cash in on a free vacation to Florida? Fortunately, the flight Manning bought was
a milk-run on Southwest, and that gave him ample time to
get to Orlando on a non-stop at almost the same arrival
time. And he did. He was there. He saw Manning get off
the damn plane! Everett had the Hartman briefcase right
there in his hand! And the Feds were right there too! It almost worked out just fine without lifting a finger. If they’d
busted him and found out that he was Everett Manning, and
not Walter Clark, then Walter Clark could go back to being
dead, and the package would have been safely delivered.
Life would have been good.
“But nooooo,” he lamented into the mirror, applying the
dye brush to his hair.
Nope, the bastard runs. And he still had the case with
him. But he manages to stash it at the hotel. Nice young guy
out front was most forthcoming with that information for a
few bucks. Oh, so close. Although, it would have been too
suspicious to try and bribe him for the bag, and too many
witnesses to start dropping bodies and try and take it. So
there was just a lousy claim check standing in his way. Easy
solution. Good-bye, Everett. Get the ticket before security
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or medical teams show up, and then go get the bag. Simple.
“But nooooo,” he moaned again at the mirror.
Some bitch gets in the way and off he goes again. An
hour or two later, a different Bellboy back at the hotel confirms the bags had already been redeemed. And, of course,
no Walter Clark nor Everett Manning checked in at the hotel.
Gone.
So how long was it going to take him to look inside the
damn briefcase and find the pager? It was all he had left.
Manning didn’t look like a total idiot. He had to see the
thing and recognize his own phone number and realize
what was going on. Could the Feds have already got to
him? Did they already have the case? He shook his head.
No, if they did, he would know. To much would happen.
The arrests. The “accidental” deaths. Some of it would leak
to the press. But so far, nothing.
So why hadn’t he called yet?
Still completely nude, he walked back to the bed, sat
down, and picked up his cell phone. He reached inside his
suit jacket pocket and fished out the business card Manning
had given him.
He dialed the number of the pager one more time.
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CHAPTER 32
Walt Disney World Village, Florida
“Hey, Marty,” Donny pointed at a woman walking away
from the cashier’s desk in the hotel lobby. “Check it out.”
The two FBI agents had checked out of the hotel and
were waiting for the airport shuttle to arrive and drive them
back to the airport.
Marty saw where Donny was pointing. An attractive
redhead dressed in a white top and pants, sporting a broad
white hat was walking by. His eyes did what they always
did when spotting a pretty girl. Marty smiled, “Oh-Kay,
nice tits. Good legs. Tight ass. This is Florida. Good eye,
Donny.”
Donny flicked his fingers off Marty’s arm, “No, dipshit. Look with the big two-eyed head, not the little oneeyed one. Don’t you recognize her?”
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Marty took another look as the woman pressed through
the revolving door and walked outside to speak with the
doorman. A bellboy followed her with a cart full of luggage.
He shrugged, “Should I?”
Donny nodded. “Well, my friend, I’d swear that’s the
same woman in the red dress we saw up on the ninth floor
yesterday, right before we made our uneventful visit to
Clark’s room.”
Marty nodded, “Yeah, I think that is her. She looked
better in that little red number.”
Donny shook his head, “Forget that part. What’s making me feel weird is that I’ve seen that big white hat. In
fact, I think I’ve seen that hat on that woman before.”
“Where?” Marty asked.
Donny was trying to concentrate, “Tell me I’m wrong,
but I’d swear it was at the airport yesterday afternoon, when
we met Clark’s flight. She was hanging back like she was
waiting for someone on that plane. Hard to miss her. Only I
saw her still standing there when we took off after the runner. And that was with next to no one but our boy left behind on the plane.”
The woman was supervising the loading of her luggage
into the trunk of a taxi.
“So what are you saying?” Marty prompted. “She
helped him get away?”
Donny shrugged, “I don’t know. It could be total fucking coincidence, or totally stupid, or both. But I’m saying
that I think I saw that woman at the gate yesterday waiting
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for Clark’s flight. We saw her yesterday on Clark’s floor
heading in the direction of his room. And now I see her in
what looks like an awful hurry to get out of here after we
know Clark’s now gone.”
Marty nodded, “Sounds like a lot of coincidences to me
too. You want to follow her?”
“You got anything better to do?” Donny smiled at his
partner.
“OK,” Marty agreed. “Let’s see where our pretty redhead is off to.”
“And if I’m wrong,” Donny added, “Maybe you can at
least get her phone number.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Marty playfully punched Donny
in the shoulder as they picked up their garment bags and
headed for the revolving door.
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CHAPTER 33
Big Cypress Swamp, Florida
Everett was still staring inside the briefcase, looking for
something meaningful, when the pager went off again. He
jumped.
“I thought you turned that off,” Jenny said.
Ev picked it up. “No. I forgot.” He looked at it and saw
the same number he called before. “It’s the same page.”
“Maybe she forgot to tell you something,” Farley suggested.
“Yeah, maybe so,” Ev nodded. “But she said not to call
this number again.”
Jenny shrugged, “Try it anyway and see what happens.”
Ev picked up the cell phone again and dialed. It was
answered on the second ring.
“Hello, Everett,” a voice he did recognize answered.
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“So glad you finally called.”
Ev’s trembling left hand came up through his hair. His
right hand held the phone to his face. This couldn’t be happening. Was it all some cruel nightmare?
Jenny could tell he was upset, “What is it?”
Ev waved her off, “Hi.”
“Everett,” the voice said, “I have no time for lengthy
explanations to you, or from you. So we’ll save all that.
You have something that belongs to me. I want it back.”
Ev was stammering, “It’s all a big mistake. I promise. I
thought you were dead.”
“So that gave you license to pillage my things?” the
man asked.
“No,” Ev was looking around the cab of the truck for
help. Both Jenny and Farley looked grave. Ev tried to explain, “I didn’t know what I was doing. I just took off. And
now everybody thinks I’m you and they’re trying to kill
me.”
“I know, Everett,” he said. “They were trying to kill me
too, in case that didn’t occur to you.”
“Why?” Ev asked. “Why does everyone want you
dead?”
“Like I said, dear boy,” the voice repeated, “No lengthy
explanations warranted here. Suffice it to say that I have
something that a lot of people want. And now you have it.
And I need it back.”
“It’s information for the FBI, isn’t it,” Ev stated more as
a fact than a question.
“You could say that,” the voice answered.
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“Well that’s OK,” Ev tried to talk his way out of a difficult spot, his sales talents coming to his defense, “I’m on
my way to meet with them right now. To give them your
briefcase.”
“You’re meeting with who exactly?” the voice demanded.
“The FBI,” Ev shot back. “Hell, you should know.
They’re at this number. Aren’t you there with them?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” the man demanded.
“I just answered your page about twenty minutes ago,
and called this number. A woman answered. She said her
name was Sheila Davenport,” Ev explained.
“At this number?” The man sounded incredulous.
“Yeah.” Ev started to feel even worse. “What’s going
on here, Walter?”
Jenny and Farley exchanged a worried glance.
There was a long pause then a laugh. “Just a little mixup, Everett. Yes, you could say Sheila and I are working
toward the same goal. She’s on her way to meet you, you
say?”
“That’s right,” Ev answered.
“Well, it was Sheila’s original intention to go alone,” he
said. “But I’ve changed my mind. Everett, I’d like to get my
bag back in person and turn it in to the authorities. Where
are you meeting her?”
Ev swallowed, “The Deerfield Beach Resort.”
“Yes, I know that one. When?” he snapped.
“Tonight,” Ev replied. “At six.”
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Jenny stuck her hand in between Everett’s mouth and
the phone. Ev looked up at her questioningly.
She whispered, “Wait! Is that really Walter Clark.”
Ev painfully nodded.
She asked, “Well, didn’t that woman think you were
Walter Clark?”
Ev looked back at the phone like it was a flaming turd
in his hand. He was trembling from head to toe. Nothing
made sense anymore to him. He shouted at the receiver,
“Sorry, Walter, gotta go!”
His finger jammed the END button.
Ev barely had time to set it back down in the briefcase
before it started ringing.
“Don’t answer it,” Jenny cautioned.
Farley nodded, “Let it go for now, boy.”
Ev turned the unit off. “What the fuck is going on?”
“What did he say?” Jenny almost shouted.
Ev wiped his perspiring brow. “Not much. Just that he
wants his briefcase back.”
Farley was shaking his head, “Something rotten here,
kids. And maybe dangerous. You call a number and you
talk to someone who thinks you are a certain man. You call
back a few minutes later, that certain man answers. That’s
strange, no matter how you look at it.”
Ev stared out the front window, his mind whirling, trying to fit the pieces together. “There’s only one explanation.”
“What?” Jenny asked.
Ev closed the briefcase and put it back behind his seat.
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“She knew I wasn’t Clark all along. She was just playing
me along. He had to have been there with her all the time.
He was probably listening in on the call. Since they knew I
was pretending to be Walter, they figured they’d let me
continue to pretend until they get the briefcase and the disks
back. And then they tell Walter he can’t come along for the
ride. Only maybe Walter doesn’t really trust them, and
wants to be there too when we give up the briefcase.”
Jenny nodded, “Yeah, I can see that. So what’s going to
happen if you show up at that meeting?”
“Well,” Ev went on, “If she was telling me the truth,
then I’ll probably be arrested.”
“Yep,” Farley observed, “But what if she wasn’t telling
you the truth. What if she doesn’t work for the FBI at all,
and just works with this notorious Walter Clark that everyone’s after? You don’t really know for sure if what’s on
those disks is some important information that he was
planning to turn in to the government. That’s just what she
said. It sounds real good. But think about it. This Clark
fella might just as well be a desperate criminal that the authorities have been trying to track down for a long time, and
she’s helping him, or maybe even double-crossing him, trying to get the stuff for herself. There’s a lot of things it
could be, and too much you don’t know.”
“So what do you think I ought to do?” Ev asked.
Farley took a deep breath and sighed, “I think it might
be a bad idea for you to go to that meeting.”
“So where do we go?” he asked.
Farley smiled, “Oh, I didn’t say we wouldn’t go there.
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Just that you won’t actually be attending the meeting.”
“What are you talking about?” Ev was sweating all over
again.
“Well,” Farley turned his line of thinking around, “She
might be legit. Real FBI. In that case, you need to get rid of
that stuff and move on as quick as you can. No way to
know unless we go there and check her out.”
“But Walter will be there too,” Ev lamented. “I just told
him where we were going.”
“That’s OK,” Farley assured him, “I’ve got an idea.”
Ev and Jenny were all ears.
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CHAPTER 34
Orlando IAP, Florida
Yvette Monroe stood in the satellite terminal of Orlando International airport, awaiting her flight to Fort
Lauderdale. There was a commuter flight leaving almost
every hour from Orlando. The next one left in twenty minutes.
Her cell phone was in her ear, “I’ve got him.”
“Excellent work.”
“That’s what you pay me for.” She looked around the
concourse for any eyes looking at her. “I’m meeting him
tonight at six o’clock. He’s bringing the merchandise with
him.”
“Perfect. Don’t leave any traces of him anywhere. Clean
sweep.”
“But of course,” she grinned, hitting the END button.
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Perhaps it was her excitement of getting so close to the
prey, or the fatigue from the night of sexual excess, or both,
that prevented her from noticing the two men sitting in the
gate opposite her, peering over a newspaper during her
conversation. Nor did she notice them following her down
to her gate to watch her board her flight.

The man called Walter Clark almost threw the cell
phone through the plate glass window of the hotel room
when he got the automated voice advising, “We’re sorry,
but the cellular subscriber you’ve called is either traveled
out of the service area or has switched the cellular unit off.
Please try your call again later.”
His first instinct was to fly down to Ft. Lauderdale and
make that six o’clock meeting before Manning gave the
briefcase to whoever the woman was.
Who was she?
It bothered him deeply he didn’t pick up on anything
about her. A 307? That was his worst fear. He knew he was
number one on their hit parade (no pun intended). But she
couldn’t be. If she was a 307, she had more than enough
opportunity to kill him. And there was no way they had rescinded the shoot on sight order. Perhaps a Fed? Yes? No?
Who then?
Nothing made sense, certainly nothing that could adequately explain how she could know about the briefcase
and then set up a meeting with Everett Manning to retrieve
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it. Plus, there was no way that idiot Manning could know
what it was he now had in his hands, or what incredible
damage it could cause. And the woman couldn’t be working with Manning. He was a nobody, a nothing, barely a
fly-over. Certainly not a player. Hell, Manning sounded just
as surprised to have spoken to her as he sounded in their
own conversation.
So who could she be?
He racked his brain, but couldn’t come up with anything that made even the remotest bit of sense. At any rate,
she was a secondary concern right now. If not a Fed, then at
a minimum a competitor for the prize, a hunter. Maybe
even a free-lancer. No difference there. It didn’t matter. He
had no time for such nonsense. Nor did he intend to play
any cat-and-mouse games with the likes of some yuppie
schmuck, Everett Manning. No, Everett needed to learn that
if he wasn’t smart enough to just walk away, he was about
to experience what it was like to play in the big-leagues.
It would be a most painful lesson.
Everett had something the man sitting before the laptop
computer typing desperately wanted. That meant he needed
to get something in his possession that Everett desperately
wanted. Then they would both be in a position to negotiate
some business on a more equal footing. The question was
finding something of supreme motivational value to a person like Everett Manning.
It took less than an hour to generate a detailed computer
profile of one insignificant computer software salesman
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plied from his credit reports and practically every record
that had ever been electronically generated on the man. It
was amazing just how much information about an individual was available for the taking. Not a great deal of digging
was required to find out what the now auburn-haired man
needed to know.
Ah, yes, the perfect thing.
He thought again, long and hard, about just heading directly to Ft. Lauderdale, taking care of them both, Everett
and the blond, prior to the meeting with the redhead. Ultimately he decided against it. That might not be possible,
and Everett might actually be clever enough to hide the
briefcase. It had to be recovered. Nevertheless, Everett
Manning had disrupted his well laid out and carefully executed plans. A price needed to be paid for that transgression, a dear price indeed. Therefore, he logged into the
online reservation system and booked a first class seat on
the next Delta flight to Atlanta.
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CHAPTER 35
Deerfield Beach, Florida
Farley Houston’s truck reached Deerfield Beach, Florida, on Highway A1A, along the Atlantic coast, about midafternoon. Ev and Jenny had already decided to check into
the Deerfield Beach Resort and get a suite. Both Jenny and
Farley were most amused to see Ev’s handiwork with his
laptop computer, combined with a short stop at a copy
shop, to produce two new driver’s licenses. This time they
were allegedly from Idaho. In no time at all Ev and Jenny
were now Mr. and Mrs. David Albright, from Boise. It was
Farley’s idea as well to stop at a Target store in Ft. Lauderdale and let them buy a couple of new changes of clothes,
one set of which they changed into before arriving at the
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ing, for the execution of his great idea.
Personally, Ev didn’t think Farley’s idea was all that
great, but it was better than anything else they had. Plus
Jenny agreed to go along with it and Ev instinctively trusted
her judgment.
Ev had been to the Deerfield Beach Resort a couple of
times in years past when he had business in the Boca Raton
and Ft. Lauderdale area. That’s why he picked it off the top
of his head. Once again, something familiar seemed to be
comforting. Granted, it was a little bit pricey for a limitedcash budget, but Ev had always enjoyed it and wanted to
stay there anyway. The resort was a former Embassy Suites,
and unlike a standard hotel, all of the rooms literally were
suites, with a separate living room, separate from the bedroom, some with kitchenettes, and some with two bathrooms. All had wet-bars and refrigerators. They were
fortunate to receive, upon request, a beach-side suite on the
fifth floor facing the Atlantic, overlooking the courtyard
below, which was the pool and patio area. Just beyond that
was the beach. When Jenny pulled back the curtain and
looked at the view from the balcony it took her breath
away.
“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed with a gasp of surprise,
“Ev, this is the nicest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Glad you like it,” he smiled, depositing their gear on
the dinette table in the living area. The Hartman briefcase
was gone. Farley had taken it with him for safekeeping, as
part of his plan. However, Ev still had the pager and the
telephone with him in case he needed them.
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Naturally, he thought Farley’s plan was insane. He halfreached for the phone, wanting to call Sheila Davenport or
Walter Clark and cancel the meeting, just tell them to come
pick up the briefcase at the front desk, and then just run
away. But what if they weren't the good guys. Then it might
be a terrible mistake to let them have whatever was in it.
Ev followed Jenny out on the balcony, wearing his
brand new pair of Levis, a yellow polo shirt, and some
cheap tennis shoes. Jenny had also changed out of her jeans
and Minnie Mouse tee-shirt into a simple white, cotton,
shirt-dress she’d found at Target. It fit her loose and comfortable, the hem hanging down to her knees, still discretely
covering her shoulders, back, and most of her arms. A new
pair of white sandals made the outfit complete for less than
fifty-dollars.
A soft Atlantic breeze hushed in off the beach, fluttering the leaves of the plants that accented the balcony.
Jenny drank it in, her dress billowing around her. “This
is so incredible.”
“Enjoy it while you can,” he whispered.
She turned to him, almost scolding, “Hey.”
He looked into her eyes. They still took his breath away.
She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Lighten up. We
don’t know what’s going to happen. And if we want to, we
can just hide out here and let those people come and go
without ever knowing we were ever here. They don’t know
about Mr. and Mrs. Albright.”
“I know,” Ev stepped up to the rail beside her. “I guess
I’m just a little scared about all this. I don’t know who I can
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trust.”
Jenny touched the back of his hand, “Do you trust me?”
Ev smiled, “Of course I trust you. Why shouldn’t I?
We’ve been through a lot together since…” He paused,
thinking for a moment, then his eyes went wide, “Since I
met you yesterday.”
She cocked her head, “It was only yesterday?”
He chuckled, “We’ve had a lot of quality time since
then.”
Jenny just stared into his eyes for a pregnant moment.
The warm ocean breeze continued to caress their faces. Ev
was starting to feel awkward, as though something were
wrong. He was about to say something to break the silence
when she reached up with both hands, grabbed either side
of his face and pulled him to her.
Their lips met.
Her kiss was warm and dear, lasting only a few seconds, and then she released him. Everett Manning’s face
had never felt hotter in his entire life, even over the course
of the last two days. His lungs decided to momentarily quit.
He whispered, “What was that for?”
“I just wanted to,” she answered and then turned back
to put her hands on the balcony rail and face the sea, blushing slightly. “And you just looked like you could use it.”
She looked away, “I’m sorry. Pardon me for being so forward. I’ve never done anything like that before. I hope you
don’t mind.”
“No…don’t apologize,” he whispered, feeling a little
dizzy. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I met you on the
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plane.”
She turned back to meet his gaze, smiling shyly with
her lips tucked in, chin tilted down, peering from beneath
her brow.
Ev walked around behind her and wrapped his arms
around her. She pressed her back gently into him, leaning
her head against his collarbone. He rested his chin on her
temple, but mindful of her cuts. Her arms folded over his.
And there they stood together, just watching the gulls and
the boats and the waves, listening to the other guests five
floors below merrily enjoying the resort amenities, a happy
fun mixture of laughter and splashing in the pool and snippets of leisure conversation.
The balmy salt air felt so good washing over Ev’s face,
scented with a trace of rum, coconut suntan oil, chlorine,
and cigarette and cigar smoke drifting up from the bar and
pool area below. Strands of Jenny’s blond hair whispered
across his chin and his neck.
Ev wondered what Jimmy Buffett was doing today.
It was a perfect moment in time he desperately wanted
never to end—on the doorstep of Margaritaville. But even
then he knew the moment would end, just not as soon as he
expected.
“This is so crazy. We’ve only just met. And as unbelievable as it sounds, I’ve accidentally involved you in
something... diabolical, that might get one or the both of us
killed. And yet, all I can think about is how I don’t want to
lose you,” he told her, hugging her a little closer. “I know
it’s selfish, and maybe sounds stupid, but that’s how I feel.
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I don’t understand why you don’t just get away from me as
fast as you can. While you still can.”
She leaned back into him a little tighter, “I already told
you. I don’t want to get away from you. I don’t want to lose
you either. I know it’s crazy, and maybe to some people it is
stupid, but not to me. I wasted too many years of my life,
good years, but dead years. Those were the stupid years.
I’ve never felt more alive than I have yesterday and today. I
don’t want to lose that feeling ever again.”
He turned her around in his arms to face him, eye to
eye, nose to nose, and told her, “Yes, but Jenny, listen to
me. Not to be melodramatic about it, but mere days may be
all we have left. This is serious shit. That’s the problem.
Days.”
There was no look of resignation or apprehension in her
eyes.
“Then let’s enjoy them,” she smiled, closed those deep
blue eyes, and leaned her lips into his again.
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CHAPTER 36
Atlanta, Georgia
He pulled the rental car in front of the address he’d
written down from the computer profile. It was a nice home
in a nice suburban neighborhood. Very yuppie. Very dark
suit, very red tie, very Everett Manning. It was late afternoon, and most of the residents were still at work. He
walked straight up the walk to the front door and rang the
bell. He could hear a television set playing inside. Then
came the sound of shuffled footsteps. A dead-bolt lock was
thrown back and the wide, ornately beveled glass, stainedoak door came open.
The auburn-haired man smiled and extended his hand to
the teenager who answered the door, “Hi there. You must
be Jeff Manning. How are you doing? I’m a friend of your
father’s.”
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A scruffy looking kid of perhaps sixteen or seventeen
stood in the door frame. He wore baggy gray shorts down to
his knees, a Georgia Tech jersey, and unlaced high-top
black tennis shoes. His hair was black and straight like his
father’s, but long and tied into a pony-tail behind his head.
His face was still suffering the ravages of acne, and a babyfine line of peach-fuzz impersonated a mustache across his
upper lip.
The boy looked surprised, his eyes brightening at the
mention of his father, “You know my dad? Sorry, man, he
don’t live here no more. Hasn’t in a few years. He, like,
lives in Dallas now, you know.”
“I know,” the man shrugged, his hand still held out,
“We work together in Dallas. He asked me if I was ever in
town to drop by and say hello. That’s all.” He lifted his
right hand an inch higher, “So, hello there.”
Jeff looked embarrassed, and reached out hesitantly,
“Oh. OK. Hi.”
It all happened very quickly. As soon as Jeff’s hand was
securely caught in the auburn-haired man’s grip, the man’s
left hand came whipping out from behind his back. Jeff
never saw the syringe, but he felt it stab into the right side
of his neck and he winced, his right shoulder cocking up
with a jerk.
Jeff gasped and tried to reach for the source of the burning sensation in his neck with his left hand, clawing and
struggling, but the powerful sedative in the syringe was already flowing in his bloodstream, seeping into his brain,
reaching up hot along the inside of his right cheek and
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crawling beneath his scalp like a molten hand sliding beneath a sheet—paralyzing him. His left hand froze in the
air, the fingers curled like talons, rigid and trembling.
“There, there, dear boy,” the man smiled. “This won’t
hurt a great deal, I promise you. It’ll just make you feel a bit
sleepy, and woozy, and kind of numb all over. You may
even like it. Much better than the schoolyard shit. It’ll make
sure you do as you’re told, and that way no other harm will
come to you.” He laughed, “Unless of course your father is
a much more stupid man than I think he is.”
“Who is it, Jeffy,” a nasal female voice called from in
the house. “Who’s that at the door?”
Jeff Manning was just staring blankly ahead, his pupils
already beginning to dilate. The man pulled the empty syringe out of his neck, snapped the needle off on the doorframe, and returned it to his coat pocket. He let the boy list
forward against him into a hug. That gave the man a clear
view over Jeff’s left shoulder.
“Tell whoever it is, we don’t want to buy anything,”
commanded a terse matriarchal voice.
The man could see through a small foyer into a den in
the rear of the house. A short heavy-set woman with shoulder-length black hair was parked on a couch, stuffing popcorn in her mouth. She looked toward the door. Tanya
Manning, the ex-Mrs. Manning, he presumed.
Their eyes met.
“Just who the hell are you, and what do you think
you’re doing there with my Jeffy?” she demanded, huffing
herself up off the couch, and plodding defiantly toward the
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door. She was dressed in dark blue sweats with white socks
on her feet, charging forward like a pissed-off rhino, her
thick hams pumping. “Jeffy, you get away from him. I don’t
know who that is, and I don’t like people I don’t know
coming into my house without my permission—”
The man whispered in Jeff’s ear, “Ever so sorry, young
man. Do forgive me. Can’t be helped. I only need you. I
don’t need any witnesses.”
With Jeff still hugged against him, supported with his
left arm, the man reached inside his coat with his right hand
and pulled out a small-caliber pistol and fired twice in rapid
succession at point blank range, a well-trained action, executed by pure reflex.
The silencer and the closer.
Two small red holes, rimmed in black, neatly appeared:
the first through the center of Tanya’s throat, collapsing her
windpipe, which silenced her, also passing through her spinal cord, paralyzing her. The other went straight through
her forehead, closing the deal, as they say in the man’s
trade.
Tanya was shut-up in mid finger-wagging command.
Her hair flew up in the back, some of it detaching and
swirling into the air amid a V-pattern spray of little bits of
red and white, which speckled the walls of the foyer on either side behind her. She had the most odd look of surprise
in her eyes the man had ever seen. It held an outraged sense
of “how dare you,”—no fear nor pain nor confusion, as was
typical.
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step, her hands flopping down to her sides, fingers twitching. She tottered left and right a few inches for a brief second, then plopped down flat on her generous ass, still
staring at him. Her lips parted and a thin rivulet of blood
ran out of the corner of her mouth. The man slipped the gun
back in his coat as she rolled over on her back, her head
smacking the hardwood floor behind her with a meaty, wet,
egg-shell crunch. The wide-eyed stare was now directed up
at the small chandelier in the foyer. A dark red stain quickly
radiated out in a thick pool from behind her head.
Jeff Manning was hardly aware of the two deafening
concussions a few feet from his head a moment ago. They
were but distant echoes of thunder. He was floating in a
fog, with no idea what was going on, nor why.
The man turned around, on Jeff’s left side, and put his
right arm around Jeff’s shoulders, taking a moment to reach
back and close the front door. He then guided Jeff like a
drunk friend to the open rear door of the rental car. He
loaded Jeff into the backseat where he could lay down and
potentially sleep. The plan was going perfect, as usual.
Moments later, as the car sped off down the street, the man
looked over his shoulder at the teenager drooling in the
backseat, eyes glassy, pupils fully dilated. Yes, that would
do quite nicely.
Now it was time to make an important phone call.
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CHAPTER 37
Deerfield Beach, Florida
Everett Manning had never been kissed by a woman so
tenderly and passionately in all his life. It all felt so natural,
so right.
They fit.
When she led him by the hand back into the suite, he
followed, eagerly, expectantly. They entered the bedroom
and stopped at the foot of the king-sized bed, embraced,
and brought their lips together again. The slow tenderness
and gentleness began to intensify.
And then everything stopped.
Jenny pulled away, pushing Ev away, the tips of her
fingers covering her mouth, with fresh tears in her eyes.
Ev’s hands were still on her elbows, “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, “You’re the first man I’ve kissed
other than Randy in over ten years.”
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It felt like a slap. Ev took a respectful step back. Caught
up in the passion of the moment, the fact that she was still a
married woman hadn’t exactly been on the forefront of his
mind.
He forced an awkward smile, his cheeks flushing, “It’s
OK…No foul. We…uh…just got a little carried away.
That’s all. People sometimes do that in stressful situations.”
Jenny shook her head, more tears coming, “No, it’s not
that. I want this. I want a new life.” She choked back a sob,
“I want you. I don’t want him. I left him. He’s gone. But I
just…I don’t know if I can…” She began to sob.
Ev stepped toward her again, pulling her head to his
shoulder and comforting, “It’s OK. Shhhh…” He gently
patted the back of her head and stroked her hair.
“Hey…everything’s happening real fast here. I understand.
Believe me I do.” He lifted her chin to look him in the eye,
“But you need to know that I’m the kind of guy who is
never ever, ever, ever…going to want you to do anything
that makes you feel bad or wrong about anything. Ever.”
“I know that,” she said, “I knew it from the moment I
met you. That’s why I want to stay with you for as long as I
can. Even if it’s only a day or two.”
He hugged her close, his own eyes moistening and his
throat tightening.
Everett Manning had long wondered if a woman would
ever say those words to him, let alone one as sweet, and
intelligent, and beautiful as this one. Tanya didn’t want to
stay with him. She made that perfectly clear. A few girlfriends he’d had over the last couple of years didn’t want to
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stay with him. But this one did, this perfect stranger he
didn’t ever want to let go of. He didn’t have the words to
articulate how much what she just said meant to him. And
yet, somehow, by his warm embrace, the message was getting through. She reached up once more and pulled his face
down to hers.
Amid their kisses, they wet each other’s faces with
tears.
From that moment, it was magical, surreal, almost a
time without time, floating along in a slow-motion blur. To
be certain about what he felt was about to happen, Ev
started to ask her yet again if she was sure about what she
was doing, but her eyes answered the question with a surety
that required no words.
When her cotton dress came up over her head and fell
back to the floor, Everett Manning was utterly overwhelmed. Despite the bandages, the cuts, and the bruises,
there was an extraordinarily beautiful woman underneath
that garment. It was inconceivable to him how any human
being could be so low, so base, as to do damage to something so lovely.
He gently and carefully took her in his arms.
Initially, there was an awkwardness, an unfamiliarity
about a new lover that makes each party tentative, yet an
urgency of desire fostered by the mystery of discovery. The
most important discovery came for Jenny who was stopped
by Ev more than once to assure her that her role was not to
“do” what she had been painfully forced to do so many
times in the past. That brought more tears of joy from her.
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He realized very quickly that this was a time for her to
learn, perhaps for the first time in her life, that her pleasure
and her feelings mattered too.
Jenny couldn’t believe it. This was like a fairy-tale
dream for her. That fear that she was going to suddenly
wake up and still be home with Randy was nothing less
than terrifying. It was difficult, but she finally managed to
push that thought out of her mind. She didn’t know how
talented Everett Manning was as a salesman, but from the
way he treated her, it was hard for her to imagine any man
being any better at any task. Until then, she didn’t know it
was even possible to feel this way.
He was so gentle, so patient, so unlike any other intimate experience in her life. Before, her experience of lovemaking, if one could have called it that, was always too
rough and quick, and often painful. This new experience
was nothing like that at all. In the first fifteen or twenty
minutes there wasn’t a square inch of her body he hadn’t
affectionately caressed or kissed, and she his.
Oh, yes, she wanted him.
When her body couldn’t wait another moment to feel
him inside her, she felt another dark pang of apprehension.
Due to the condition of her back, she couldn’t lie down. But
she wouldn’t be denied the pleasure she instinctively knew
awaited her just a few steps further. Thus, in her mind, she
was resolved to literally grit her teeth and endure it.
Jenny received another surprise when Everett guided
her on top of him, straddling his lap. She wasn’t completely
naïve about this. She’d heard people talk about it, and she
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could picture it; yet, it was an altogether new experience for
her nevertheless. Randy never let her get on top. Looming
over her, or assaulting her from behind, was all he ever
wanted.
It was unbelievable. Never had she felt to free, so uninhibited, so in control.
She felt his hands gently guiding her hips into a slow
rock, forward and back. Before long, another exquisitely
new sensation, something akin to a tickle, yet deeper and
more sweet was beginning to tingle within her.
It felt, oh, so good.
The feeling made her hips accelerate their motion of
their own accord. Her breathing became shallow and rapid,
like a long distance runner. And yet, in some ways that was
exactly how she felt, running free—yes a new part of her
was now unexpectedly and delightfully free. More tears
trickled down her cheeks, but she didn’t know why. Were
they tears of sadness, mourning how much of her life she’d
lived a prisoner of her own culture and ignorance? Perhaps
a few. But the rest were tears of joy, found in an all new
sensation of discovery and freedom.
When Everett softly pulled her down to him, she buried
her face in his neck. Her hips were more restricted in that
posture, but his went to work with perfect precision. Her
breaths caught pace with the sensations of the warm pressure that filled her, and the subsequent relaxation, ebbing
away.
And then it happened.
Jenny Davis honestly believed in her heart that it had
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happened before, mistaking the real thing for a slight tingling sensation she referred to in her mind as “a little one.”
But there was no point of contrast in her life, so how could
she know any different? Her mother had never said anything about it. From the girls she knew from school, to her
sisters, to her neighbors—all had all been completely silent
on this mysterious matter, as though it didn’t exist. And
perhaps for them it didn’t, she considered. Even in the
movies and on television, the women appeared to be enjoying themselves more than what actually happened in real
life, but that was true for about any subject that Hollywood
attempted to portray.
Therefore, the next chapter in Jenny’s wondrous education of new experiences tore away generations or ignorance
with a vengeance. It only occurred to her later, when she
thought about it with a smile of satisfaction on her face,
that people for about a mile radius from the hotel room
probably could have heard her scream in unbridled ecstasy.
When the sensation hit, it didn’t just build slowly to a
peak and then taper off. It was no urgent contraction akin to
a big sneeze. Oh, no. This was more of a monstrous “aneurysm,” jumping out from hiding and seizing her by surprise.
It was terrifying and fantastic. She thought she was going to
die—and love doing so. From that first moment when muscles she didn’t even know she possessed began to throb and
pound, faster and faster, harder and harder, she feared some
dreadful kind of seizure or fit was coming on.
Happily, it was a seizure, of the best kind.
There was nothing she could do but let it consume her.
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It was like standing in the surf and seeing a wave rolling in,
a big one taller than your head, looming high, seeing it
crest, hearing the roar, and then feeling it just roll over on
top of you, crushing you down to the bottom with the sheer
power and mass and force of nature. Holding your arms out
against it is futile. Jenny had no resistance whatsoever to
offer the orgasmic tidal wave that loomed up out of nowhere and exploded all over her. It was joyously welcomed.
Every muscle fiber in her body contracted in one cataclysmic moment, her lungs locking fast. Her fingers dug deep
into her lover’s chest, hanging on for life. Her jaw flew
open, stretched to its extremity, eyes clenched tight.
And then she screamed.
But it didn’t stop. Oh, no. The sensation of pure pleasure radiating out to the tips of her fingers and toes only intensified, like rushing up the next hill on the roller-coaster
to plummet off the other side. For almost a full minute or
more it held her as its awestruck prisoner in an iron grip,
and then like the waves of the sea, caressed the beach and
slowly ebbed away.
And all became still.
The fragrances from the sea were still drifting in from
the open balcony door. Jenny drank them in. When she
could breathe again, she was trembling all over, unable to
stop.
Ev whispered in her ear, “All you all right?”
He felt a nod against his neck and soft kisses against his
shoulder. The beautiful body he held in his arms was damp
with beads of perspiration.
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Jenny lifted herself upon one elbow as the intense sensations continued to abate. She looked into Ev’s eyes for a
long moment, smiling, then kissed him again, long and leisurely. She laid her head back down on his shoulder and
whispered, “I’ve never felt anything like that before in my
life. It was incredible. Is it always like that?”
“It’s supposed to be,” Everett smiled and began to move
his hips into her again, “And it’s far from over.”
Lesson two promptly commenced, soon followed by
lesson number three.
Over an hour later, they lay cuddled beneath the bedclothes, both delightfully spent and supremely relaxed. It
was a momentous event for the two of them, they both
knew that; but in many ways it was an oasis of complete
release. The dark fires of every fear, every tension, every
horror of the last two days came raging out, smothered in
each other’s passion. According to the clock next to the
bed, it was almost a quarter to five. Farley would be arriving at the hotel any minute. Ev knew they needed to get up
and shower pretty soon, before the festivities of the evening
commenced.
Jenny was studying his face, enjoying it, memorizing it.
She noticed a small thin white scar on the right side of his
upper lip, from the edge of his nose leading down about a
half an inch toward the corner of his mouth. It normally
disappeared in his smile lines, and she probably wouldn’t
have noticed it if she hadn’t been looking so closely. The
tip of her index finger traced it, “What’s this from? Shaving
accident?”
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It took him a second to realize what she was asking.
“Oh, no. Little accident I had as a kid with a barbed-wire
fence.”
“Ouch!” Jenny winced.
Ev continued, “Never really saw it coming. Playing
Hide-and-Seek. I just saw a place in the shadows to hide
and ran for it full speed. The next thing I knew, I was laying
flat on my back, with the wind knocked out of me, and my
face felt wet. My mother had kittens when she saw me walk
into the house. The entire front of my shirt was soaked with
blood. Took four stitches.”
“It must have really hurt,” Jenny noted.
“It did later,” Ev acknowledged, “Sore mostly. Hell, the
tetanus shots hurt more than anything. But not when it happened. I was just running for a place to hide. I thought the
shadows looked safe. So I ran for it. And then pow, everything stopped.”
They were both quiet for a long pensive moment, neither wishing to say what both of them were thinking at the
moment. Is that what is was going to be like? Would they
be running for safety and then POW, everything stops?
Everett kissed Jenny’s forehead and rose from the bed,
“It’s getting late. Come on. We need to get ready.”
She smiled up at him, her eyes glassy and full, “I
know.”
They both heard it at the same moment. It was the buzz
of the pager coming from the other room. Ev’s head
snapped in that direction, and then back to Jenny, wondering what to do.
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Jenny sat up, “Go call. It’s all right. They probably just
want to confirm that the meeting is still on.”
Ev thought a minute. “We can still blow it off.”
Jenny shook her head. “We don’t need to. Farley was
right. This’ll work.”
“I don’t know. I hope so.” Still naked, Ev walked into
the other room and picked up the cell phone.
Jenny got up out of the bed and went to the bathroom.
The phone was answered on the first ring. “That you,
Everett?”
“Walter?” Ev replied.
“So good of you to be taking calls, dear boy.”
“Don’t worry. We’re here. The meeting is still on,” Ev
advised tersely, not wanting to belabor this conversation an
extra moment. “I don’t want to talk now. I’ll see you at
six.”
“Oh, no, dear boy,” the man who had called himself
Walter Clark contradicted, “You will see me, but there will
be no meeting this evening. We shall meet tomorrow. Not
today. At a place and time of my choosing, not yours.”
“What?” Ev was confused. “I thought you wanted to get
this over with and get your stuff back.”
“Oh, I do,” the voice on the phone assured him, “Only
not tonight. The woman you spoke with earlier today is an
impostor, I’m afraid. Sorry about the confusion earlier. I
don’t know how she managed to intercept your call, but you
are not to contact her again in any way. In fact, I think she
may be the person who’s been trying to kill both you and
me.”
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“That’s crazy,” Ev protested. “You said before you
were working together.”
“I lied. Do forgive me. It’s irrelevant to our task. So let
me get right to the point, Everett. As I said before, you have
something of mine that I want. And I intend to get it. That’s
all that matters.”
Ev was beginning to feel angry. This was all wrong,
“And what happens if I don’t believe you and just tell you
to go to hell and turn everything over to the FBI agent when
she gets here?”
“That would be a mistake,” Walter replied. “You see,
dear boy, as I said, you have something very valuable of
mine, but you need to know that I now have something
valuable of yours.”
“What are you talking about?” Ev asked.
Jenny came running out of the bathroom when she
heard Ev scream “NOOOO!” at the top of his lungs.
“You fucking son of a bitch!” he bellowed into the
phone, as she bolted into the living room, still nude.
“What is it?” A cold chill was prickling up and down
her spine. “What’s wrong?”
Ev screamed at the ceiling with a rage neither he nor
Jenny knew he had within him. It frightened her, making
her wrap her arms around her body protectively. Then Ev’s
body just seemed to go limp, his shoulders slumping and
bobbing. The phone fell from his hand to the floor. The In
Use light was out.
Ev turned around. He was crying, “The fucking bastard’s got my son.”
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MOVEMENT III
Freedom’s Price
I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free.
Charles Dickens, Bleak House, 1852
When a prisoner sees the door of his dungeon open, he dashes for it without stopping
to think where he shall get his dinner outside.
George Bernard Shaw
Back to Methuselah, 1921
Freedom is the will to be responsible to ourselves.
Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols, 1888
To know how to free oneself is nothing; the
arduous thing is to know what to do with
one’s freedom.
Andre Gide, The Immoralist, 1902
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CHAPTER 38
Ft. Lauderdale IAP, Florida
Yvette’s cell phone started ringing shortly after she got
off the short flight from Orlando to Ft. Lauderdale, as she
was walking though the terminal concourse toward the
baggage claim to collect her bags. At the time her mind was
fixed on getting out of the terminal building and having a
cigarette. She sincerely hoped that the call wasn’t from
Clark, calling to cancel the meeting. She was so close now
she could feel it. The voice on the other end of the line
wasn’t expected at all.
“Mizz Brown? Is that choo?” a thick voice slurred with
a Southern accent.
Brown? It took Yvette a moment to recall who this
could possibly be. Then she remembered.
“Oh! Mr. Davis,” she replied, “Hello there. How are
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you today?”
“I been better,” she heard him grouse back.
“Any word from your wife?” she asked.
“Hell no,” he seethed. “I was kind’a hoping you had
heard something from her. I gotta find her real bad.”
Yvette thought about it for a moment. Yes, this particular piece of the puzzle might be exactly what she needed to
stack the deck in her favor. Clark was obviously using this
bumpkin’s wife as a shadow. It might be of direct benefit to
remove a layer of his camouflage.
She said, “Why, yes. As a matter of fact, Mr. Davis, I
believe I know exactly where your wife is right now, and I
could use your help getting to her.”
“Just tell me where I need to be,” he slurred, “And what
you want me to do.”
She grinned, “Get to the Birmingham airport as soon as
you can. I’ll call and take care of all the arrangements. At
the Delta ticket counter you will find a pre-paid e-ticket in
your name for a flight to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. When you
arrive, take a cab to the Deerfield Beach Resort. We’ll reimburse you for the cab fare. Then call me again as soon as
you get to the hotel. A room will be waiting for you in your
name.”
The voice on the phone coughed once, it sounded wet
and croupy, “I’m much obliged for this, Mizz Brown. You
have no idea.”
“My pleasure to help you, sir,” she said, “We just thank
you for your cooperation. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Yvette Monroe hit the END button, elated at the turn of
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events. This would be perfect. Her feelings of excitement
dominated her thoughts. She still didn’t notice the two men
in dark suits who were waiting for her at the gate, and were
now discretely following her toward the baggage claim
area.

Special Agent Donny Mellor and his partner, Special
Agent Marty Peelinar, had no problem finding out where
the lady in the big white hat was going after she boarded
the flight in Orlando. It only took a little coordination with
the airport authorities and the FAA to ensure that her flight
was a few minutes late taking off from Orlando, and a few
minutes in a holding pattern before landing in Ft. Lauderdale. That gave ample time for their hastily chartered Lear
jet to get them to Ft. Lauderdale almost twenty minutes
ahead of her flight.
“You know if she makes us, she’s gone,” Marty observed, loitering momentarily with Donny in a newspaper
kiosk, keeping an eye on the woman as she spoke on her
cell phone. “If we saw her at the airport in Orlando, then
she’s sure to have gotten a good look at us too.”
Donny took a sip of his Snapple. “Yeah, that’s probably
right. So let’s not let her make us. I still got that feeling
she’s following Clark.”
Marty nodded, “Yeah, me too. She’s on the trail of our
boy just like we are. We follow her, we find him.”
Donny finished the last sip of his drink, belched, and
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tossed the empty bottle into a trash bin. “Let’s go.”

Randy Davis hung up the pay phone with a grunt of satisfaction.
The few people who had been on the city bus earlier
that morning had looked at him queerly when he got on: a
man with a swollen head, heavily bandaged, as well as his
right arm, hand, and lower leg. He was hobbling without a
crutch, but had been determined to get on the bus, regardless. He had hobbled all the way from the bus stop a half a
mile from his house to get home, change into clean clothes,
and get his car.
After talking to that Tracy Brown FBI woman, Randy
just knew he’d been right all along. That whoring cunt of
his was off at some Florida beach resort living it up, drinking champagne and eating soda crackers, while she sent
those assholes to the house to kick the shit out him. Well,
her little trick hadn’t worked. He still had one good eye left
to find her, and one good arm left to cut her to pieces when
he did.
Randy realized that he couldn’t take his .357 Colt revolver to the airport. And because of the Brady Bill, he
couldn’t just buy a new one when he got there. But that
didn’t really matter. A chuckle bubbled up from his chest,
amid the pain. No, these days, while hand-guns were of the
devil, just about any store in America would sell you a
shotgun as fast as you could lay your money down, no
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questions asked. And a full-pump-action Mossberg twelvegauge riot gun with a pistol grip would suit his purpose just
fine. Hell, he smiled to himself, he’d been wanting one of
those babies for a long time. This was as good a time as any
for a little early Christmas present.
After one stop at the bank to clear out what little was in
his checking and savings accounts, he set off for Birmingham. Before he left he had taken a moment to pat Dexter’s
head and rub behind his ear one last time, then turned him
loose from his chain. Randy figured someone would either
find the dog and take him in, or the pound would catch him
and gas him. He didn’t care. One way or another, he had no
intention of ever coming back to Steele.
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CHAPTER 39
Deerfield Beach, Florida
Everett Manning was in a state of pale shock, and little
of what Jenny or Farley said to him was of much comfort.
The three of them sat around the glass-toped dinette table in
the living room of the suite at the Deerfield Beach Resort.
Over the past two days Everett had witnessed an airplane blown up, killing over a hundred people, then a
woman gunned down right before his eyes, from shots fired
at himself, and he was almost apprehended twice by the
FBI. And yet none of those things seemed “real.” Those
things were all just part of the crazy fantasy. However, this
latest horror brought it all home for him and he was a complete wreck.
“I don’t care anymore…about anything else,” Ev cried,
staring at red and green Christmas bells gripped tightly in
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his hand, the piece of white yarn which connected them
wound tightly around his fingers. “I have to give him what
he wants to get Jeff back.”
Farley scratched the end of his round nose, “Then I say
we just make a minor modification to the plan.”
Jenny turned to Farley, dressed again in her white dress
and sandals. “What kind of a change?”
He explained, “I still go meet with the woman as
planned.”
“No!” Ev interrupted, “He said he’d kill him if we met
with her, or talked to anybody else!”
Farley shook his head, “No, he said you weren’t supposed to meet with her. He doesn’t know nothing about me.
I can talk to whoever I want to.”
“And what are you going to tell her?” Ev demanded.
Farley’s face was grim, “Well, if she checks out as
someone genuinely in authority, then I say we only promise
to give them the briefcase if they help us get your boy
back.”
Ev was about to say something else, when Farley held
up a finger and continued with, “And you can stay up here
with the phone. If he’s got your boy, then he’s probably still
in Atlanta. He couldn’t get down here fast enough to know
whether or not I’ve had a chat with anybody.”
Ev looked helplessly at Jenny, holding the bells to his
chest and nervously plucking at the collar of his polo shirt
with his free hand.
She nodded, “It’s the right thing to do, Ev.”
Ev pressed his lips together and nodded reluctantly.
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Farley smiled, “Then it’s settled.”
Ev turned back to him, “Where is the briefcase right
now?”
“With a friend,” was all that Farley would say.
“And if anything happens to you?” Ev asked, “How do
we find this friend?”
Farley reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a
business card, “You call this number. Ask for Tim.”
Ev took the card. It was from a boat repair shop called
“Ozzie’s Wizard Repair and Dry Dock,” located in Coral
Gables, Florida. Ev knew that Coral Gables was just south
of Miami, before you got to Key Biscayne, perhaps an
hour’s drive away. Farley had apparently had time to make
it there and back in just over two hours.
Farley looked at his watch. “It’s almost six. I better get
downstairs. Here.” He reached down by his feet and opened
a paper sack he had brought with him and removed two
small walkie-talkies. He handed one to Everett. “Thought
these might come in handy. Actually, it was Tim’s idea.
They’re his.”
“Wow,” Jenny was impressed.
Farley also pulled out a small yellow earphone and
plugged it into the unit he kept, sticking the other end into
his ear. “They’re two-way transmitters. I can lock the talk
button down on my end and you’ll be able to hear everything that’s said. But with the earphone in, anything you
want to say, only I’ll hear it.” He stood and clipped the unit
to his belt.
Ev turned the walkie-talkie over in his hand like it was
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some alien object.
Jenny caught Farley’s arm as he turned to leave, “Be
careful.”
“I always am,” he smiled and patted her hand.
Ev moved around the table and threw his arms around
Farley’s neck, “Thank you so much, Farley. You have no
idea what your help means to me.”
Farley hugged him back, “Yes, I do. And I’m glad to be
of service.”
With that he headed out of the suite.
Ev grabbed Jenny by the hand, “Come on. We should
be able to see everything that happens down there on the
patio from up here.”
They moved out to the balcony. Five floors below, in
the bar area, all the tables and chairs were crowded with
vacationers sipping umbrellas drinks, laughing, and telling
stories. Every lounge chair bordering the pool was filled
with a sun bather, slathered in oil, even as the late afternoon
shadow of the hotel prevented any more sunlight from hitting them. Children chased colorful balls and splashed each
other in the pool. A bronze-skinned lifeguard in a red
Speedo blew a whistle and commanded two of them to “cut
out the horseplay.”
From the walkie-talkie in Ev’s hand, he and Jenny
could hear Farley in the elevator. A bong sounded. Farley
said hello to someone and then commented about the heat.
A few seconds later another bong rang and what sounded
like a family with two misbehaving children joined them. It
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one getting out of the elevator on the first floor. They could
hear the soft music playing in the lobby. The festive sounds
of the patio grew stronger as they saw Farley emerge from
the wide double-door below. He was still dressed in jeans
and his Roper boots, but had changed into a red work-shirt.
He looked so out of place, yet no one paid him much attention.
Ev looked at his watch. It was 6:03 PM.
He looked down again. Two more minutes ticked by.
And suddenly, there she was, emerging from the doors to
the bar. A tall woman in a white blouse, white summer
pants, and wide white hat came walking out carrying a
milky drink in a plastic cup with a wedge of pineapple
perched on the rim. Due to the brim of her hat, and the
height of the fifth floor suite, Ev couldn’t really see her
face.
He pressed the talk button on his walkie-talkie, “Farley,
I think I see her. Coming out of the bar. With the big white
hat.” Something about that hat stuck Ev as oddly familiar.
Had he seen it before?
“If that’s her, then I see her,” came Farley’s voice from
the device.
She moved out and took a seat at a table for two facing
the ocean. Ev and Jenny watched Farley heading toward
her.

“Who’s the fat fuck?” Marty asked Donny from inside
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the lobby, looking out the plate glass window that overlooked the patio terrace, pool, and beach.
“No idea,” Donny watched a heavy-set man in jeans and
a red shirt walk over to the table where the woman in white
sat. He noted that the woman didn’t appear to recognize
him. They shook hands and the big man took a seat.
“Any sign of Clark or the blond?” Marty kept looking
around outside occasionally turning around to scan the
lobby.
Donny huffed, “Nothing yet. This could be a complete
fucking waste of time.”
Marty cocked his head for a second, “Wait a minute.
You keep an eye on the redhead and her tubby boyfriend. I
got an idea about something I need to check out.”
“Wonders never cease,” Donny murmured.
“Fuck you, Mellor,” Marty playfully punched Donny’s
arm as he turned and walked away.
Special Agent Peelinar walked up to the registration
desk and asked one of the desk clerks to see the manager on
duty. A few minutes later a pleasant young woman
emerged.
She smiled, “Yes, I’m the manager, Janice Kurtz. How
may I help you.”
Marty motioned her discretely aside, lowering his voice
and displaying his wallet ID folio, “Good afternoon,
ma’am. I’m Special Agent Peelinar. FBI. If I could have a
word with you privately.”
“What’s this about?” Janice looked worried.
Marty gave her a calming smile, “Probably nothing.
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We’re just trying to find someone. Routine search. It’s a
couple actually. And I could really, really use your help, if
it’s not too much trouble.”
The manager’s smile reappeared, not at all inconvenienced by having to speak with the tall, dark, and handsome
Italian-looking federal agent standing before her. “Well,
certainly. What can I do to help?”
Marty loved it when charm worked and he didn’t have
to go get a search warrant. “If it’s not too much trouble, I
just need you to check your registration log and tell me if
any couples have checked into your hotel today or possibly
late last night, only paying cash, with out-of-state IDs.”
“I’d be delighted,” Janice cooed. Come right this way
into my office. I have a terminal there. I can get you a print
out.”
“After you,” Marty smiled and gestured for her to lead
the way. He followed right behind, taking a moment to
check out her behind.

Farley extended his hand, “Ms. Davenport? Sheila Davenport?”
The woman in the white hat looked up at the burly man
standing next to her table. “Uh…who’s asking?”
“You’re here to meet with Mr. Clark?” he replied. Still
holding out his hand.
“Yes, but you’re not him,,” she said, shaking his hand
briefly and motioning her unexpected visitor to a seat. She
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noted the earplug. “Although, I take it Mr. Clark can hear
our conversation?”
He nodded, “Every word.”
“So then he is nearby,” she concluded.
“Reasonably,” Farley nodded. “That’s not important.”
“It is to me,” she said. “I need to speak with him immediately.”
“Understood,” he said, “But first we need some identification. You claimed to be with the government in some
capacity. Before I can let you talk to him, I need some verification of that.”
“Absolutely,” she agreed, opening her purse and pulling
out a small black wallet folio, and handing it to Farley.
He opened it and examined it carefully. It was about the
size of a passport, opening like a book. On one side was the
woman’s picture and lots of official detail.
“What’s it say?” Farley heard an impatient voice in his
ear.
Farley pursed his lips, “Sheila Davenport. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Special Agent In Charge.”
Yvette took off her hat and laid it on the round bar table.
Farley handed her ID back to her, “And how do I know
if that thing is real?”
“Because it is,” the woman replied, taking off her sunglasses and tilting her head back in the last remaining rays
of the sun.
The voice crackled in Farley’s ear, “It’s OK, Farley. I
knew I had seen that hat somewhere before. I recognize
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her. She was with the other FBI agents at the airport in Orlando yesterday afternoon. She’s legit. Bring her on up to
the room.”
Farley glanced up over his shoulder briefly then turned
back to the woman. “Very well. If you’ll follow me.”
Yvette grabbed her hat, “And where are we going?”
“To your meeting,” he replied.
“I see,” she smiled, “Thank you.”

Marty rejoined Donny in the lobby. He looked puzzled
as to why Donny was no longer looking out the window.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Donny pointed, “On the move again. She left the table a
few seconds ago with the big guy. They just got on the elevator. No telling what floor they’re headed to.”
“Yes there is,” Marty help up a computer printout.
“What’s that?” Donny asked.
“Just playing a hunch,” he tapped the page. “Here’s a
list of all the couples that have checked in over the last
twenty-four hours, paying cash, and showing an out-of-state
ID.”
Donny looked pleased. “No shit?”
“No shit,” Marty beamed. “There’s only five of them.”
Donny agreed, “Good work Agent Peelinar. If I didn’t
know better I’d think you’d done this once or twice.”
“Fuck you, Donny,” Marty said with a smile.
“So what do you got?” Donny peered at the list.
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Marty read the names off, “Alphabetically…we got Mr.
and Mrs. Albright, Carson, Mitchell, Parillo, and Young.”
Donny huffed, “May as well start at the end and work
back. It’s never the first one. It’s always the last one you
check.”
Marty nodded, “Then let’s go up and see Mr. and Mrs.
Young.”
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CHAPTER 40
Deerfield Beach, Florida
Ev and Jenny were seated on the couch in the living
room of the suite, when Farley opened the door and escorted the lady in white in. Ev had stuffed the green and red
jingle bells in his front pants pocket.
He stood up, his face still puffy and wet from crying,
“Thank you so much for coming, Ms. Davenport.”
She stepped just inside the room, her fingers playing
with the mouth of the purse hanging from her shoulder. All
three could easily be dispatched with very little noise, she
concluded. Although the big one was going to be a bleeder.
The big ones always were. It might take four rounds to put
him down.
“Mr. Clark?” she asked.
Ev shook his head, “No, sorry. Afraid I’m not Walter
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Clark.”
Yvette was confused, “What?”
“Please,” he motioned to the small dinette, “Sit down. If
you’re really FBI, then I desperately need your help.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she quickly glanced
back toward the door, ensuring this wasn’t a trap. “If you’re
not Walter Clark, then who are you? Do you work for
him?”
“No way!” Ev joined the others at the table and sat
down. “Walter Clark is a kidnapper.”
“Kidnapper,” Yvette wasn’t following at all.
“He’s got my son,” Ev exclaimed, his eyes welling up
again. “Please help me get him back. I’ll do anything, but I
have to get my son back. He’s all the family I have.”
Yvette set her purse down in front of her on the table,
“OK…but why don’t you help me understand what you’re
talking about…what’s your name?”
Ev gulped, “Names aren’t important now.”
Yvette looked at Jenny, “Well then, Jenny, why don’t
you tell me what the hell’s going on here.”
Jenny’s eyes went wide, “How do you know my name?”
“Because your husband thinks you might have been
kidnapped,” she replied.
“My husband! No!” Jenny protested. “I left him.”
“So what are you doing here with these men?” Yvette
questioned.
Jenny looked to Ev for help.
Ev said, “She has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Any of what?” Yvette was getting exasperated.
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“Of Walter Clark,” Ev shot back.
“So you are involved with Walter Clark,” Yvette countered.
“Not on purpose,” Ev retorted. “He’s got my son, because I have his briefcase and the information in it you
want.”
Yvette’s eyes went wide, her hand moving closer to her
purse, “You have the briefcase and the information? Where
is it?”
Farley spoke up, “Not here at the hotel. But it’s in a safe
place.”
Yvette tried to calm her voice, “Look, whoever you
are…by now you must know that there are a lot of people
out looking for Walter Clark. A lot of very serious people.
Dangerous people. And a lot of those people are under the
strange impression that you are Walter Clark.”
“I know that,” Ev shook his head sorrowfully. “That
part’s my fault. But it’s all a big misunderstanding. I’m not
him.”
Yvette Monroe nodded, lying as smoothly as Ev used to
do about future product features, “I believe you. And you
were right to ask for the Bureau’s help in this matter. If
you’ll just turn the briefcase over to me, I promise you
we’ll do everything in our power to help get your son
back.”
“No fucking way!” Ev spat out. “You guys get the
briefcase as soon as I get Jeff back safe and sound.”
Yvette took a long breath, thinking. If she took these
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dise. That was unacceptable. And from the look of desperation on this man’s face, even if she put a gun to the head of
either of his friends, he’d never turn over his only bargaining chip while his son’s life was still at stake. Plus, there
was still the matter of the disposition of Mr. Walter Clark.
There was therefore no choice but to play this hand out. Her
luck had been holding steady thus far. If it held a little
longer, she’d have her hands on the briefcase, and Walter
Clark neatly taken care of. After that, what happened to
these three plus one kid was a rounding error.
“I can appreciate your position, Mr.…uh…at least give
me something to call you,” she said.
“Jimmy,” he replied, longing for Margaritaville now
more than ever. “You can call me Jimmy.”
“OK, Jimmy,” she went on, “I understand how upset
you are. We deal with this kind of thing all the time. But
there are some realities you have to face, no matter how
difficult it is for you.”
Ev nodded, his voice cracking slightly with emotion, “I
know, like that kidnappings almost always end in the death
of the kidnapped party. Right?”
Yvette gave him a tight-lipped smile, “Sometimes. He
could already be gone.”
“No! That’s not true,” Ev shouted. “I won’t believe that
until I see it with my own eyes. I heard his voice just an
hour ago. Clark put the phone to his lips. He didn’t sound
too good. He sounded sick, but it was him. I know it was.
He’s alive, and he’s going to stay that way if I can help it.
So, no Jeff, no briefcase. And that’s final!”
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“I see,” Yvette leaned back in her chair. “So is the real
Walter Clark expected to contact you again at some particular time?”
“He just said tomorrow,” Jenny piped up.
Yvette nodded, “Then there is little we can accomplish
between now and then. I’ll get a room here and we can follow up later. I would advise you to stay put and wait for
that call. And the instant you hear from him, call me immediately. Do you still have the number I gave you?”
“Yes,” Ev nodded.
“Good,” she stood up. “Then, I’ll go make some calls
and get the ball rolling on your son’s behalf. We’ll do our
part. You do yours.”
Ev nodded once.
Jenny spoke up again, “Ma’am. If you don’t mind my
asking, do you know who this Walter Clark guy really is?
And what’s so damn important about that briefcase?”
“Yeah,” Ev joined in. “I’d like to know what’s on those
encrypted disks that’s worth a man kidnapping my son, or
why so many people were trying to kill me thinking I was
him. I think I have a right to know.”
“Sorry,” she replied, a little shocked at hearing that the
man was aware of the encrypted files. That just sealed their
fates. She tried not to let it show. “There’s very little I
could tell you that isn’t classified.”
“What can you tell us?” Jenny asked.
Yvette paused and then said, “All you need to know is
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crets. That’s all I can say.”
“Oh,” Ev was disappointed.
“By the way,” she thought to ask, “I’ll be taking over
the case from the other agent you were working with in Orlando.”
Ev just stared at her like she was crazy, “What other
agent?”
She gave him a knowing smile, “The other agent you
were calling when we first spoke.”
Ev looked nervously at Farley, then back to the woman
in white, “Lady, I don’t exactly know how you were able to
intercept my call—I guess the FBI is good at that kind of
thing—but the person I was calling when you answered was
Walter Clark, not some FBI agent.”
Yvette felt slightly faint for a second, “What did you
say?”
“Well, of course,” Ev went on, as though he were refreshing her memory, “You know, when you first answered
and pretended I was Walter? Naturally, I figured out later
that you were just playing along to try and catch me. But I
promise you, I had stopped using any of Walter’s stuff
without his permission ever since I left Dallas.”
This wasn’t making any sense, Yvette thought. “Back
up. You’re losing me here. You thought you were calling
Walter Clark when I answered—uh, yes, intercepted—the
call this morning?”
“I know I was,” Ev replied. “I’ve spoken with him twice
at the same number. He tried to trick me into believing that
you were just a liar and an impostor, pretending to be FBI,
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who had intercepted his line. He said you were the one trying to kill us. And he specifically told me not to meet with
you today. Now we all know why he’d say that. I know I’m
taking a big risk by talking to you, but I felt I had to. And
with what he’s done to my son, I know who the real liar is
now.”
Yvette suddenly felt ill. She sat back down in her chair,
removing her hat and massaging one temple with the tips of
her fingers. A devastating wave of realization was about to
make her throw up.
Ohmygod, I fucked him. I had him, I fucked him, and I
let him go.
The heat of embarrassment was glowing brightly from
her cheeks, which was most unusual. Granted, it wasn’t the
first time she’d slept with a target before taking care of him.
Anton Yaeger in particular came to mind, as a matter of
fact. It was one highly effective method of access.
But it’s nice to know ahead of time!
Actually, it had been part of the plan all along for her to
meet Walter Clark at the hotel in Washington, seduce him,
and give him the same treatment as Yaeger—the Silencer
and the Closer. And yet she never even knew it was him all
along. Then again, she realized, he couldn’t have known
either. To him, she was just a pretty face in a bar. Holy shit.
Yvette figured she would laugh long and hard about this
some day, but at the moment, it didn’t seem the least bit
funny.
She whispered, “Would you please give me that number.”
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“You don’t have it?” Farley asked. “Aren’t you tracing
the calls?”
“I don’t have it handy,” she replied.
Ev wrote the phone number down on a piece of hotel
stationery and gave it to her.
Farley looked at her with concern, “Are you all right,
Missy? You look a little flushed.”
Yvette Monroe let out a long breath, “I’m all right. A
little jet lag or something, perhaps. I…uh…nevermind.”
She locked her gaze firmly on Ev again, “But I want to
know how you got this number in the first place.”
Ev explained, “He paged me with it.”
“He paged you,” she repeated, deadpan.
“Yep,” Ev continued, “There was a pager and a cell
phone inside the briefcase. When I opened the case to check
out what was in it, the pager was just laying in there going
off.”
“And you just knew to call the number in someone
else’s briefcase, on someone else’s pager, like it was for
you,” she rattled off in disbelief.
“Not at first,” Ev said. “I didn’t realize who it was until
he kept putting in my own office number to let me know
that he knew it was me who had it.”
“He knows where you work?” The room was starting to
spin around her.
“Sort of,” Ev tipped his head back and forth, “I gave
him my business card when we met in Dallas. That’s the
only way he could have known.”
“You met in Dallas,” she prompted.
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“Yes,” Ev acknowledged. “For just a few minutes. Just
a stranger next to me in an airport bar having a beer. I
thought all along that he was on the flight that blew up yesterday. He left his coat and his briefcase behind, where we
had been sitting.”
A light of sanity began to emerge. She pointed at him,
“So that’s how it came to be in your possession. You just
took the briefcase and high-tailed it out of town, using his
credit cards.”
“I though he was dead,” Ev said defensively.
“We all did,” Yvette noted. “So why did you do it?”
It was Ev’s turn to have his cheeks flush, confessing, “I
don’t know. It was stupid, I realize that. And if I have to go
to jail for what I did, I won’t care, as long as I get my son
back alive. That’s all that matters to me.”
She smiled, putting her hat back on, running her tongue
along the inside of her cheek, “I see. Yes, much to my own
amazement, this is all starting to fit together nicely. Well,
Jimmy, whether you realize it or not, you may have inadvertently rendered a tremendous service to your country.”
He frowned, “Excuse me?”
“If you hadn’t done what you did,” Yvette explained,
“We’d all still believe that Mr. Clark was dead, and the information he had was destroyed along with him. Instead,
you’ve flushed him out, and have in your possession what
we need from him.”
“Does that mean you might not arrest…,” Jenny pointed
to Ev, “…Jimmy?”.
Yvette laughed, her eyes narrowing, “I can guarantee
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it.”
Ev brightened, his eyes tearing up a bit again, “Thank
you, ma’am. I swear I’ll never do anything like this ever
again.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that,” Yvette assured him.
A hard knock came to the door.
Four faces spun in that direction.
Yvette looked at Ev and Jenny, eyebrows raised, “Expecting anyone?”
They both shook their heads. The woman pointed to
Farley and then at the door. He nodded.
She whispered to Ev and Jenny, “Get in the bedroom.”
They moved quickly, suddenly very alarmed.
Farley walked over to the door, “Yes? Who is it?”
“FBI,” came a New York sounding voice, “We’d like to
speak with Mr. and Mrs. Albright. Open up please.”
Farley looked relieved. “OK, just a second.” He looked
at the woman in white, “They must be with you.”
Yvette looked irritated, walking over to the door and
grabbing the door handle before he did, “Yes. They are.
You go on back to the bedroom too, and let me handle this.
Just stay here with Jimmy and Jenny and I’ll be back later.
I’d like to get the more detailed version of Jimmy’s story.”
“OK,” he retreated back into the suite.
Yvette twisted the handle down and drew the door
back. The two men in the hall in dark suits looked very surprised to see the woman in white walk out to greet them.
She pulled the door to behind her and stood in the hall.
“Damn, you were right. It is her!” Marty exclaimed.
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“Gentlemen,” she smiled, recognizing the faces of the
agents from Orlando. “We meet again.”
“You want to stand aside, Miss?” Marty ordered in an
authoritative voice.
“Cool your jets, cowboy. He’s not in there,” Yvette put
her hand flat against Marty’s advancing chest.
“Ma’am, you’re interfering with federal business,”
Marty started to say.
“No, I’m not,” she contradicted, pushing him back a
few inches. “I’m conducting federal business. Hate to be
the one to break it to you, but Walter Clark is not in this
room. You’re chasing the wrong people.”
With no warning, Marty grabbed the woman’s wrist and
wrenched it around, spinning her away from the door, and
slamming her hard into the wall, face first. Her hat fluttered
down to the carpeted hallway. He snatched her purse away
with the other hand and handed it out to Donny, “We don’t
have time for this, ma’am. Donny check her out.”
With her cheek pressed against the wall she evenly said,
“Check the blue ID folder. Not the black one. The black
one is one of yours I’m using for cover.”
Donny opened the purse and his eyes went wide. He
lifted a small custom-crafted nine millimeter semiautomatic pistol out of the purse, “Oooo, hold on tight there
to that one, buddy boy. The lady is armed and dangerous.”
Marty saw the weapon, and pressed his body against
her, pinning her tight, “I sure as hell hope we find live bodies in that room, honey, or you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”
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“If you don’t let go of me this instant, they’re going to
find two dead bodies here in this hall,” she threatened.
“What did you say?” Marty was outraged, twisting her
arm even tighter, making her wince.
“Let her go, Marty,” Donny ordered.
“What?” he spun his head toward Donny in disbelief.
Donny Mellor had the pistol and purse in one hand, an
open blue ID folio in the other. His eyes were wide with
alarm, “I said to let her go. Right now. And then say you’re
sorry as nice as you can.”
“Why?” Mellor implored.
Donny stepped over and showed Marty the ID badge,
up close and personal. Marty’s eyes went wide as well, and
he immediately let go of the woman, stepping back, apologizing profusely, “I’m so sorry, ma’am. You gotta believe
that. We didn’t know. We thought you were with Clark.”
Yvette Monroe spun around, grabbing her things back
from Donny, and picking her hat up off the floor. She angrily put her hat back on, pulled the purse strap over her
shoulder, then chambered a round and shoved the pistol in
Marty Peelinar’s face, her teeth clenched, brows down,
scowling, “You ever touch me again uninvited, Cub Scout,
and you’re a dead man. Are we clear on that? You know I
could blow your head clean off right now, and you also
know damn good and well there isn’t shit your partner
could do about it except fill out the paperwork and go to
your funeral. Now give me one good reason why I
shouldn’t.”
Marty took a cautious step back, holding up his hands
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defensively in front of his face, peering through his trembling fingers, “Whoa! I said I was sorry. We didn’t know
who you were.”
Their eyes locked for several tense seconds.
She took in two deep breaths, calming herself, then
lowered her weapon. “I don’t give second chances very often.”
“Thank you, Commander Monroe,” Marty whispered.
His legs were trembling. “It won’t happen again.” He tried
to smile, lifting a three fingered salute, “Cub Scout’s
honor.”
Yvette Monroe strode past them in a huff, ordering
tersely, “Follow me. You two idiots may be of some use
yet.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they both chimed in unison, obediently
following her down the hall in the direction of the elevator.
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CHAPTER 41
Monroe County, Georgia
By his calculations, covering a thousand miles between
Atlanta and southern Florida would take about fifteen or
sixteen hours, including brief pit stops for gas and food.
That would put him and his semi-conscious passenger into
the Boca Raton area about mid- to late-morning the next
day. In his current condition, the young teenager in the
backseat wasn’t very hungry, and unlike most boys his age,
wouldn’t have much of an appetite for the duration of the
trip. The man didn’t like long drives, especially allnighters, but short of hiding his traveling companion in an
air-conditioned shipping crate or a coffin, there were few
other viable and discreet transportation alternatives.
Jeffrey Manning continued to lay quietly in the backseat, his eyes at half-staff, lips parted and dry, but still
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breathing. He’d be all right for one day, the man mused.
That’s all it would take.
However, he wondered how long the boy’s father’s resolve would hold out before he broke down and called the
police or the FBI. That was to be expected. In addition, he
knew he had to assume that his attractive redheaded companion of last evening would do everything in her power to
make contact with Manning. That could potentially create
inconveniences, but not insurmountable ones. In all likelihood, he surmised, she was indeed FBI. If need be, Bureau
personnel could be ordered to back off. However, in his
case, Special Operations Executive Order 307 surely had
already been rescinded.
He glanced at the clock on the dash. It was almost 8:00
PM. The late summer sun made its crimson fade into the
western horizon. The twilight stars were winking in the
eastern sky. He wouldn’t even make it to Orlando until well
after midnight. He made a mental note that at the next rest
stop he needed to give his passenger his next injection.
He called over his shoulder, “Sorry there, son. As much
as I’d love to know what girls you’re dating, your favorite
bands on MTV, sports heroes, and such, I’m afraid you’re
going to have to remain my little well-behaved zombie until
I get what I need from your father, assuming he’s smart
enough to do as he’s told. For your sake, that is.”
A sleeping Jeffrey Manning gave no reply.
The man laughed. However, even when the deal was
done, he still hadn’t made up his mind yet on whether he
was going to kill Everett Manning. Odds are, he would
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have to—and the boy, the blond and the redhead as well.
Loose ends were such a nuisance.
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CHAPTER 42
Deerfield Beach, Florida
The initial shock had evolved into a general numbness
in Everett Manning. It was an eerie calmness, a quietness, a
stillness. Yet, to the casual observer, it was all an illusion.
Inside, he was a spring wound as tight as it could go, waiting for the catalyst to release the adrenaline rush of pure,
raw emotion and lethal power. In that stillness, the unthinkable, like taking another person’s life, became very thinkable, even desirable. If he had to, in order to get his son
back, or if any harm came to his son, he’d tear Walter Clark
apart with his bare hands, or die trying.
He felt a little better now that the FBI was involved. But
for now all they could do was sit and wait by the phone.
That was the most excruciating torture of all. It was hard
for Ev to resist the temptation to pick up the phone and call
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Walter and see how Jeff was doing. But what good would it
do? The very real danger existed that he’d say something
wrong and get Walter mad, which might mean greater risk
for Jeff. Thus, the phone lay silent in the middle of the table.
“He said tomorrow,” Jenny noted softly.
Ev just stared at the phone. “He might change his
mind.”
“I understand,” Jenny reached out and touched his hand.
They all sat in silence for a long while.
Farley looked puzzled, and said, “You know, something
still bothers me about that FBI lady.”
“What?” Jenny prompted.
“Can’t put my finger on it exactly,” he plucked the
whiskers on his chin. “But when she was here and you was
talking about calling Clark on that phone there, and getting
her instead, she looked awfully surprised.”
Ev nodded, “She did look a little funny. What are you
thinking?”
“I don’t know yet,” Farley got up and walked over to
the hotel telephone sitting on the writing desk. “I reckon, in
this situation, we need to be extra sure about everything.”
Ev and Jenny just watched him curiously as he picked
up the phone and dialed.
“Information?” he asked, “I’d like the number for the
FBI. No, not local. The main number in Washington.” He
grabbed a pen and began to write when the automated voice
came back with the requested number.
“Why are you calling the FBI?” Jenny asked.
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Farley looked back toward her, “Just being extra sure.”
Ev nodded to Jenny that it was OK.
Farley dialed, when the line answered he asked, “Good
evening, ma’am. Could you direct me to someone who can
verify the identity of one of your agents? Yes, I spoke to
someone recently who claimed to work for you guys, and I
was just hoping you could tell me if that was so. Sure, I’ll
hold.”
A nervous chill tingled up Jenny’s spine, “What if they
say no?”
Farley covered the mouthpiece with his other hand,
“Then we’ll probably need to get out of here as quickly and
as quietly as possible.”
Ev took a deep breath and let it out slow. He didn’t
want any more excitement at the moment.
“Yes, hello there,” Farley cheerfully addressed a new
party. “The name’s Farley Houston. Drive a truck, I do.
Don’t mean to be a bother, but I was calling to see if you
could help me out for half a second. You see, I met this
lady in a bar, very pretty thing actually, and she says she
works for you guys. Says she’s an FBI agent. I thinks
maybe she’s just a secretary or something, but me and my
buddy have a bet going, and we was wondering if you could
settle it for us.”
Ev and Jenny were smiling. Farley was good.
“Uh, huh,” he went on, “Thought you might understand
there, good buddy. Says her name is Sheila Davenport.
Yep, that’s right, Davenport, as in Iowa. Sure I can hold.”
He waited for almost a full minute in patient silence. “OK,
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thank you. That’s all I needed to know. You’ve been a great
help.”
He hung up the phone.
“Well?” Ev’s eyes were wide.
Farley’s smile faded. “Get your things. They never
heard of her. Not an agent, not a secretary, not a janitor.”
He half-laughed, “But the old boy said if she was really that
good looking I should do her anyway. As if!”
Ev and Jenny were already moving, gathering up their
bags.
Ev looked at Farley, “Where’s your truck?”
Farley was helping Jenny throw her things into a bag,
including Walter Clark’s cell phone and pager. “It’s down
in Coconut Grove. I came back in Tim’s car. It’s outside in
the parking lot.”
“Are they going to let us just walk away?” Jenny
pointed toward the door.
Farley walked over to the door, “Hang on.”
He opened the door and standing outside, leaning
against the opposite wall, was a tall, dark-haired, Italian
looking man in a dark suit.
“Hello there,” the man in the suit said pleasantly. “Going somewhere?”
Farley smiled, “We need some ice.”
“No you don’t,” the man replied. “Close the door and
stay put. You get hungry or thirsty, call room service.”
Farley closed the door, and turned around, answering
Jenny’s question, “Apparently not.”
Ev set his briefcase and laptop case back on the table
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again, and walked out to the balcony. Jenny and Farley followed. It was getting dark. The sun had already set, and the
sky was violet in the east, still lighter in the west. The stars
had already begun to twinkle. The bright white lights
around the bar and pool area shone up from below, highlighting the hotel on the beach, but shadowing the individual balconies.
Ev looked down, “Five floors. Can’t jump. And too far
to climb.”
Jenny cautioned, “And don’t even get any ideas about
the swimming pool. That’s only in the movies.”
Ev nodded, looking around at the adjacent rooms,
“Right. But wait a minute. Look there.” He pointed straight
across the U-shaped hotel to the opposite side. Their suite
was on the northern leg. He gestured toward the southern
leg. On their same floor another balcony door was open, its
curtain blowing in the breeze.
“What are you suggesting?” Jenny asked apprehensively.
“Getting out of here,” Ev said, “Wait here. I have an
idea.”
He disappeared inside the room. Jenny and Farley heard
the television come on, and the volume turned up rather
loud. Ev returned a moment later with an ironing board
from the closet.
“I don’t think it’ll reach all the way across,” Farley
chuckled.
“It’ll reach far enough,” Ev smiled, moving to his right
and placing the ironing board from the rail of his balcony to
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the one immediately next to it. The ironing board formed a
crude bridge, spanning the two foot gap between balconies.
He pressed it up against the wall, deep in the shadows.
“I don’t know if that thing will hold me,” Farley said.
“It will. Just don’t step in the middle. Keep your feet
near the rails.” Ev pointed, then turned to Jenny, “Let’s go
get our stuff.”
The procedure turned out to be quite simple really.
They pushed a wrought-iron patio chair up to the balcony’s
edge, and used it to step up on the board, keeping their feet
on the part of the board which rested on the rails for support, and one hand on the wall. One of them held the board
steady while the others crossed. On the other side, it was a
three and a half-foot jump down. Ev would go first, moving
another chair from the adjoining balcony so Jenny and Farley could step down without having to jump. Jenny was especially thankful for that, considering she was wearing a
dress. The board and another chair was then moved to the
next one and the process repeated.
The only time they were in any real danger of being
seen was when they reached the corners. On those two occasions they were no longer in the shadows. If anyone did
see them darting across, no one paid any attention.
Furthermore, it was a miracle that no one was sitting
out on their balconies in the twenty minutes it took them to
get all the way around to the room with the open patio door.
There was a light on in that particular room, but its guests
were obviously out for the evening. For that stroke of luck,
all three of them were eternally grateful.
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However, their luck was not to remain so generous.
All three of them were damp with sweat and breathing
hard when they walked into the other suite, thankful no one
was home.
“Now what?” Jenny looked to Ev.
“Stairs,” Ev replied.
Farley looked concerned, “OK, but that still only takes
us to the lobby. Lots of folks down there.”
Ev nodded, “That’s OK. Here’s the plan. Farley, you
just walk out the front door, nice and easy, not attracting
any attention, and go get the car. We’ll hang back in the
stairwell and wait exactly five minutes, then we just mingle
our way out, get in the car and go.”
“What if our alleged FBI people are down in the
lobby?” Jenny questioned.
Ev shrugged, “They think we’re still snug in our room
watching TV. If they see us, we run. Farley just needs to be
ready to high-tail it.”
“I can handle that,” Farley assured them.
“Then let’s go,” Ev headed for the door.
He opened it slowly and peered out. A family with two
kids were tromping down the hall. He closed the door and
let them pass. When all was quiet, he opened the door again
and they headed down to the end of the hall toward the
green EXIT sign. It didn’t take long to reach the first floor.
“Wish me luck,” Farley grinned.
“Luck,” Jenny reached over and hugged him again,
planting another kiss on his cheek.
He beamed, “I just love it when she does that.”
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Ev smiled, “Me too.”
Their faces grew somber again.
Farley opened the stairwell door and looked in Ev’s
eyes, “Five minutes. On the button. I’ll be there.”
“So will we,” Ev nodded.
Farley disappeared. Ev looked at his watch, noting the
time.
There was a small window in the first floor stairway
door, from which both Ev and Jenny watched Farley meander through the lobby, looking at things here and there,
casually making his way to the front door. They breathed a
heavy sigh of relief when he walked out.
Ev looked at his watch again. “OK. Three minutes to
go.”
Jenny nodded.
When it was time, Ev shouldered his laptop case, and
gripped his briefcase handle. Jenny rolled the top of her
bags, adjusted the green gingham tote on her shoulder, and
smoothed her skirt.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
Jenny leaned over and kissed him, “For luck.”
Ev smiled, “It worked for Farley.”
They opened the door and headed out, slowly, nonchalantly, heads down, trying not to run. It was working. They
were only a few paces away from the front door when a
loud voice pierced the general murmur of the lobby.
“BITCH!”
Both Jenny and Ev’s heads turned toward the registration desk. Thirty feet away stood a man with half his head
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bandaged, a cast on his right forearm, and another one on
his ankle.
Jenny screamed.
“Run!” Ev shouted.
She was frozen to the spot.
Ev tugged at her arm and she started to move, her eyes
wide with horror as she watched her husband Randy grab a
tall piece of luggage next to him. It was a travel golf bag.
Her mind was short-circuited into a paralyzed blur. What
was he doing here? How did he find her? And Randy didn’t
play golf. Yet he was unzipping the golf bag and pulling an
object out—a long black object. Would he chase her with a
golf club?
Everett Manning literally lifted Jenny off her feet and
propelled her toward the door. Thankfully a blue Ford Taurus was standing outside, the passenger and rear doors
open, engine running. Farley was behind the wheel. Farley’s smile vanished when he saw Ev and Jenny come barreling out the door. He could see someone else moving
behind them, but not running, more limping. Their pursuer
had something long and black in his hands.
Both Ev and Jenny bounded into the backseat, throwing
their bags in along with their bodies. Farley stomped down
the gas pedal. Both doors on the right side of the car
slammed shut from the sudden forward movement of the
car. The Taurus’ tires spun, screaming against the pavement
and kicking up a stinking purple cloud.
A thunderous explosion roared from the entrance of the
hotel an instant before the rear window of the car exploded.
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Once again, had Everett Manning not been in the process of
falling down, this time on top of Jenny, both of them would
have been hit by the flying glass. Farley wasn’t so lucky. It
wasn’t bad, but tiny bits of glass were lodged in the back of
his neck and scalp. Thin rivulets of blood were already running down to his collar. He only winced and kept driving.
Jenny was still screaming hysterically.
“Go, go, go!” Ev yelled.
The Taurus fishtailed left from under the porte-cochere
and then swerved right into the street as it roared away.

Donny Mellor and Yvette Monroe were sitting in the
bar talking when they heard the distinct sound of a shotgun
blast. They were on their feet in the next instant running
toward the sound. Through the open front door they could
see a man swathed in bandages, holding a pistol-grip shotgun in one hand, and hobbling away quickly to his left, disappearing from sight.
Racing out the front door, with guns drawn, they were
almost run over by a white Chevy Corsica with the bandaged man behind the wheel, squealing his tires and racing
away. Another squeal of tires brought their gaze to a blue
car careening out of the hotel drive. Unmistakably, the fat
bearded guy Donny had seen by the pool was behind the
wheel. The head of the man with short black hair popped
up and looked out through a missing back window.
“Fuck!” Donny shouted, “It’s them.”
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Yvette ran over to a car that had just arrived at the hotel, a black Lexus sedan. Its well-heeled owner was taking a
valet parking claim check from the attendant. She reached
into her purse and came out with the black ID folder, ordering, “FBI emergency. Step away from the car.”
Donny was already climbing in the Lexus’ passenger
door.
“Wait a minute…” the owner began to protest.
“Back off,” Yvette put her pistol in the man’s face.
He obediently stepped back, hands raised.
As Yvette climbed in behind the wheel, Donny was
pulling his radio out of his pocket.
He pressed the talk button, “Marty.”
“Yeah, man, what’s up?” came the reply.
“Your chicks have flown the coop.” Donny grabbed the
oh-shit handle above the passenger door as the car roared
away from the hotel.
“What are you talking about?” Marty challenged, his
voice crackling with a bit of static over the radio.
Donny growled, “I’m talking about the fact that the
people in the room you’re guarding are no longer there.
They got out somehow.”
“We’re five floors up. That’s impossible!” Marty insisted.
“Apparently not, partner. Right now they’re in a blue
sedan heading away from here as fast as they can go. I’m in
a commandeered vehicle with Commander Monroe in pursuit,” he advised. “Get your ass downstairs and get the car.”
“Roger,” Marty replied.
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Donny asked Yvette, “You want me to call in the highway patrol?”
Heading west back toward the highway, the car went a
few inches airborne as it crested the train tracks just before
Dixie highway, landing hard on its suspension, not slowing
for a second.
Yvette shook her head, “That would be a bad idea under
the circumstances, wouldn’t you say?”
Donny conceded, “Yeah, I guess so.” He paused a moment, half in shock—not from the high-speed pursuit—
rather, still thinking about what Commander Yvette Monroe had just shared with him, and how it changed everything. The fewer people who were now involved, the better.
He asked, “So who’s the other asshole in the white car
shooting at them? Could it be our boy, Walter Clark?”
“Doubtful.” She shook her head, though she was fairly
certain who he was, “I have no idea who it is. And right
now, I don’t care.”
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CHAPTER 43
Pompano Beach, Florida
Even after 9:00 PM, traffic was heavy on Interstate-95
heading south toward Miami. It was summertime, lots of
vacationers, lots of tourists, lots of locals, lots of everyone.
If the road had been less busy, either the Corsica or the
Lexus might have had a chance to catch the Taurus. For the
first mile or two, Ev and Jenny could still see both cars
weaving through the lanes attempting to draw closer. But
Farley Houston was a professional driver. Even if his primary vehicle was an eighteen-wheeler, he knew his way
around anything with wheels and an engine. He knew how
to use the shoulders and exit ramps to continue slipping
ahead of the slower moving cars and trucks. The fact that
night had fallen helped immeasurably.
Jenny turned around toward Farley, “You’re doing it!
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You’re losing him!” Then, from the headlights of the cars
behind her, she saw the wet red reflection of blood on the
back of Farley’s neck, “Oh, my God, you’re hurt.”
Farley sniffed once, sounding tough, “Just a scratch.
Flesh wound, as they say in the movies. I been worse off.
Nicked my fool head is all. Your head bleeds like a stuck
pig. Always looks worse than it is.”
“A scratch? A flesh wound? And I’ll bet that’s what
you’d say if someone blew your head plumb off too.” Jenny
opened one of her bags and pulled out Ev’s old white teeshirt. “Here, hold still. Let me look.”
She wiped away some of the blood. Well, for the most
part she just smeared it around. “Yeah, it’s not too bad. Still
bleeding a lot. And you’ve got a few little pieces of glass
that are going to need some tweezers to get out.”
Farley swerved into another lane, “Let me use that cell
phone you got.”
Jenny dug it out of the bag.
Ev grabbed her hand, “What if Walter calls?”
Jenny jerked it away, glaring, “He won’t in the next
minute.”
“How do you know that?” Ev challenged.
She handed the phone to Farley. “We take the risk. If
it’s busy, and he really wants his briefcase, he’ll call back.”
Ev looked away.
Farley hastily dialed a number, and hit SEND. When it
was answered he said, “Tim. It’s me. Yes, we have a little
problem. I’m on ninety-five, just coming into Ft. Lauderdale. You still got that first-aid kit handy?” He paused,
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then, “Yes, they’re fine. No, I’m OK. Just a little cut up on
the back of my head…It’s all right. I’ll explain when we get
there…Yes, we. We can be there in less than an hour, an
hour max, depending on the traffic and the lights. Be ready.
Yes, I know. You too.”
Jenny took the phone back and replaced it in the bag.
“There, see?” Jenny chastised, “No big deal.”
“Sorry,” Ev apologized. “I can’t stop thinking about
Jeff.”
She leaned over and hugged him, “I know.”
Ev asked her, “Who was that back there shooting at
us?”
Jenny took a pained breath, “That…was Randy.”
“Your husband?” Ev couldn’t believe it. A chill ran
over him. “What’s he doing here?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged, starting to tear up,
“Unless the FBI called him to come and get me and take me
home.” She grabbed the front of Ev’s shirt, her voice on the
edge of panic, “You can’t let them do that. You can’t let
them make me go back with him.”
He held her close, “I won’t. Don’t worry. You’re not
going back. None of us will if we can help it.”
Farley asked, “Can you still see ‘em?”
Jenny looked over Ev’s shoulder, “No. I don’t see
them.”
“Good.” Farley veered across traffic and hit the exit
ramp, getting off the highway at the 595 junction, near the
airport.
“What are you doing?’ Ev asked.
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“We’re taking the scenic route,” Farley shot back.
“Don’t want to take a chance of finding a wreck up ahead
and giving all those nasty people back there a chance to
catch up.”
Ev nodded, “Good idea.”

The Lexus had passed the Corsica, but was soon bogged
down in the heavy flow of cars and trucks.
“We’re losing them!” Donny shouted.
Yvette nodded, reluctantly, slowing down and backing
off. “But not for good.”
“How do you plan to catch them now?” he demanded.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” she smiled, grabbing her purse
and sticking her hand inside. She came out with a folded
piece of stationary from the hotel. “Call your buddies and
have them run a trace on the two numbers on this paper.”
“What are they?” Donny asked.
Yvette passed another car, “One is the cell phone of
Walter Clark, the other is the cell phone our friend Jimmy
and Jenny had back at the hotel. Chances are he called and
they’re making a run to meet him and try and get Jimmy’s
kid back.”
Donny nodded, “But cell phones are going to make it
hard, if not impossible, to pinpoint a location.”
Yvette shrugged, “We’ll know what cell they’re in.
That’ll get us close enough, till you can bring in a triangulation van. And if they call any land-lines, we’ll have records
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of that too.”
Donny nodded once again, “I’m on it.”

Behind the Lexus, the white Corsica kept pace. Randy
Davis had seen the big black car come roaring out of the
hotel after him. He thought it was the cops at first, but had
no intention of slowing down for them. The bitch was too
close. He was quite surprised when they didn’t even try to
get him to stop, just blew right by him, still shouting and
pointing at the Ford up ahead. It was then he realized that
they must be after his whore and her home-wrecking boyfriend too. So he decided to just keep following them and
see where they went.
He’d pick his time carefully. It wouldn’t be long now.
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CHAPTER 44
Coral Gables, Florida
It was after 10:30 PM when the blue Ford Taurus pulled
down the long pea-gravel and broken shell drive of Ozzie’s
Wizard Repair and Dry Dock. The tires crunched past a line
of boat hulls propped up on wooden supports, and a scattered array of discarded tires, car parts, boat parts, and rusting mechanical carcasses that were hard to identify at first
glance, especially at night. Ahead, in the wash of the headlights, Ev could see a large sheet-metal warehouse building.
Farley pulled the car up and parked beneath an outdoor florescent streetlight mounted to the front of the building.
They weren’t even out of the car when a slender man in a
Hawaiian shirt and white shorts came running out of a
small office door toward them.
“Is that Tim?” Ev asked.
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Farley nodded, “That’s my Tim.”
Tim appeared to be in his forties, with sun-bleached
blond hair, a thin mustache, and a dark Florida tan. His face
was a mess of concern, “Let me see, let me see.”
“It’s not that bad,” Farley protested.
But Tim would hear nothing of it, “Oh, my God, what
happened to you?”
Ev and Jenny just looked at each other.
When Tim saw the back window of the car he exclaimed, “Was someone shooting at you? Are you shot?”
“No, no. We’re OK,” Farley assured his friend, hugging
him close. “But thanks for asking.”
Tim was beside himself, “Well, go get inside and let’s
get you cleaned up.” He turned to Ev and Jenny, “Hi, there.
I’m Tim. You must be Ev and Jenny.”
Ev and Jenny nodded and said an awkward hello as they
gathered up their belongings from the backseat and followed Tim and Farley into the building.
Walking through the warehouse door was much akin to
Dorothy stepping out of her tornado relocated black-andwhite house upon arriving in Munchkin Land. The grim
industrial boat repair exterior gave way to a section of the
building which had been cordoned off into a spacious, twobedroom apartment. The decor was loud enough to make
one squint.
“Wow…,” Ev murmured as he walked in.
“Oh, do you like it?” Tim asked, ushering Farley over to
a kitchen area to stand by a sink.”
“Mmmm,” Ev just smiled and continued to look
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around. Screaming Retro meets Art Deco wasn’t exactly his
taste, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He hadn’t seen this
much color in one place since the old TV show Laugh-In,
back in the 60’s.
The sight of Farley standing there by the sink while his
friend picked glass out of the back of his head made
Jenny’s stomach tighten. It hadn’t been that long since
she’d been doing the very same thing at Loretta Charles’
sink.
Ev set all the bags down on the floor next to a glass-top
coffee table. Beneath the glass top, the base was the turquoise statue of a bare-breasted mermaid, supporting the
top with her upraised arms, the back of her head, and her
fish tail. Ev took a seat in a banana yellow leather club
chair. Jenny sat down on one end of a long lima bean green
leather sofa.
Tim had a pair of tweezers in his hands, going to work
on the back of Farley’s head. Occasionally, after a wince by
Farley, he shook the tweezers down at the basin of his black
onyx sink, whereupon a little “tick” could be heard over the
sound of the running hot water.
Tim smiled at Jenny and Ev, but spoke to Farley, “So
are these your new friends?”
“Unh-huh,” Farley grunted. “Take it easy back there.
Leave the brain, I need it.”
Tim chastised, “You sit still, Mister, and let me get all
this out, or you’re liable to get an infection. And we can’t
have that.”
Farley just grunted, “You’re such a hen.”
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Ev tried to suppress a smile. Jenny couldn’t.
Tim called over to them, “So have you two eaten yet?”
“No,” Ev shook his head, “There wasn’t really time.”
“That’s good,” Tim grinned, eyeing a fresh glint of light
reflecting near the nape of Farley’s neck and going after it.
“I like to eat late myself. I’ve a got a stew going in that
pot…” he gestured with his head toward a large stock pot
sitting on his six-burner gas range. “…it’s got potatoes and
carrots and onions and everything in it. There’s bowls in
the cabinet to the right and silverware in the drawer next to
the dishwasher. Help yourself, there’s plenty.”
Jenny moved first, “I wondered what smelled so good.”
That just made Tim smile all the more, “Bon appétit.”
Ev just sat there.
Tim frowned, “Not hungry?”
Ev shook his head, “Thank you, but no.”
Tim frowned more severely, putting one hand on his
hip, “You’re not one of those veggie fanatics that doesn’t
eat meat, are you?”
Ev shook his head again, “No, I love meat, it’s just
that…”
Farley spoke up, “It’s bad, Timmy. They got his boy.”
Tim’s mouth fell open, “No. What happened?”
Farley huffed, “Finish patching me up and we’ll fill you
in.”
Eventually, Ev was talked into “trying” a little bowl of
Tim’s stew, which led to another, and another. All four of
them sat around Tim’s Italian marble dining room table,
veined with crimson, and ate, with Jenny and Farley telling
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most of the story while Ev shoveled meat and vegetables
into his face.
Tim dropped his spoon in his empty bowl. “That’s absolutely dreadful. And you think they’re fake FBI agents?”
Farley said, “We at least know the woman is. Don’t
know about the men. They’re together, so they’re probably
fake too.”
Jenny asked Farley, “Is there a chance that the guy you
spoke to at the FBI was wrong? That maybe that woman
really is with the FBI?”
He shrugged, “Anything’s possible.”
“That’s the whole point,” Ev added. “I don’t know who
to trust, or what to do. We just keep running. And somehow
they keep finding us. We don’t know how, but they keep
doing it.”
Tim shrugged, “Well, government types and criminals
are good at that sort of thing, I would expect.”
They all nodded.
Tim continued, “But no one knows you’re here, so put
your mind at ease. I’ve got an extra room.” He pointed to
the back wall of the main living area, which housed the living room, dining room and kitchen. On the back wall were
three doors. “The first door is my room. The middle one is
the bathroom. The one on the right is for guests. If you’re
friends of Farley’s then you’re friends of mine. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
“Thank you.” Ev felt his throat tighten again with emotion. “You know, I think I’ve been treated better by total
strangers in the last couple of days than I have by all the
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people I’ve ever known in my entire life.”
Tim lifted his eyebrows, “Well, perhaps you’ve just
been hanging out with the wrong kind of people.”
Ev managing a half-laugh of agreement, “Yes. I would
tend to say that’s probably right. But until quite recently, I
never realized I had a choice.” He glanced at his watch. It
was almost midnight. He looked at Farley, “What do you
think would happen if I tried to call Walter again?”
Farley shook his head, “We’ve already talked about
that. At least wait till morning. Let’s all try and get some
rest. I got this bad feeling in my bones that tomorrow is going to be a hard day for us all.”
“I don’t know if I can sleep,” Ev bemoaned.
“I can help there,” Tim rose from the table, went to a
cabinet in his kitchen and returned with a medicine bottle.
He opened it and pulled out a pill, “Here, it’s a Lortab. Just
acetaminophen with a dash of codeine. Put you right out,
and is great for headaches and coughs.”
Ev took it from him, “Thanks.” He put it on the back of
his tongue and swallowed it with a sip of his iced-tea.
Without another word, everyone rose from the table and
prepared to bed down for the night.
Everett was already starting to feel drowsy from the effects of the pill when he was in the shower, getting cleaned
up. In the guest room, Jenny had already crawled beneath
the zebra-skin bedspread of the queen-size bed and was
nodding off when Ev came into the bedroom. Her white
dress lay over the arm of a rattan-backed, bent-wood rocker
in the corner. To Ev, Jenny looked as exhausted as he felt.
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He turned off the lamp, whose base was a miniature of
Michelangelo’s David, and crawled in beside her. She
snuggled up next to him and he held her close, cherishing
the warm feel of her bare skin pressed against his, yet still
mindful of her bandages.
“Are you scared about tomorrow?” he heard Jenny
whisper in the darkness.
Ev took a long breath, “Of course. Aren’t you?”
He could feel her nod against the bottom of his chin,
and heard her say, “I can’t believe Randy is here.”
Ev’s molars ground together. He said nothing.
Despite the drug, Ev only drifted briefly in and out of
sleep, dozing for a minute or two before stirring in a sensation of panic, thinking he might have heard a sound. Walter
Clark’s cell phone lay on the nightstand within reach. Ev
had been thankful that his own AC adapter from his softside briefcase fit the phone and was able to recharge the
battery. It had occurred to him shortly before retiring that it
could go dead and they’d never get the call they were waiting for. Nor did he want to be too asleep should the call
come whilst he slept.
Jenny’s eyes only blinked every ten seconds or so, all
night long. The image of seeing Randy standing there in the
hotel was burned into her brain. Even with all those bandages, she knew it was him.
But what happened to him?
She recalled the two casts. Did he have an accident? It
made no sense. She knew she didn’t do it. All she did was
kick him and run. Did he fall down the steps chasing after
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her?
And he had a gun. A big gun.
He actually fired it at her intending to blow her head
off. Could it have been him who fired at them at Disney
World, as Ev suggested? But how? All along they had
thought it was someone shooting at Ev. What if it had been
Randy? But if it was, how did he get to Orlando so quickly?
And on and on the questions went in her mind until the
first rays of the sun began to dawn.
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CHAPTER 45
Palm Beach County, Florida
At first light he was almost to West Palm Beach, making better time than he thought. A slight moan from the
backseat caused him to glance over his shoulder. Jeff Manning’s eyes were fluttering, a dry leathery tongue trying to
wet his lips.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” he cheerily greeted his
passenger. He knew soon he’d have to stop to administer
one final injection. “Oh, don’t worry, the effects of your
little hibernation aren’t permanent.”
A weary hand tried to lift up, but fell back down again.
“Yes, yes, indeed,” the man continued, “I know what
you’re wondering, and yes, we’re almost there. Not to
worry. And when we get there, you’ll get to go see your
daddy, and then we’ll find out just how good a business
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man he really is. Now won’t that be fun?”

The black Lexus had stopped at an all-night diner on
Miami Beach. Their fugitives had been heading south when
they lost them. Thus, it made no sense to go back north to
the Deerfield Beach Resort. No one was going to get much
sleep that night anyway. Donny, Marty, and Yvette sat in a
booth in the back sipping coffee. Marty had joined them
around midnight. For most of the night they sat in tense silence, occasionally broken by smalltalk, just waiting for a
call from the FBI electronics surveillance team. That two
man squad, a driver and a technician, was parked outside in
a black tracking van, having arrived around 3:00 AM.
“They could be in Cuba by now,” Donny muttered.
Yvette just stared out the diner’s plate glass window at
the unmarked black van with the antenna farm on top, “No,
they’re nearby. They went to get the briefcase. Had to.
Clark has still got a hostage. The son. And from what they
told me, he’ll be coming down from Atlanta. Probably driving, which means he should be hitting town any time now.
And then he’ll call.”
Marty rubbed tired eyes, and yawned, “And when he
does, we’ll be ready to move.”
Yvette rolled her eyes at the van, “I don’t know what
could be more obvious. Why don’t you guys just put a great
big sign on the side of that stupid thing announcing, ‘Here
we are! Feds! Spying on you! Right here!’ I
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mean…please.”
Donny laughed, “Hey, we get what we get. It works. Be
happy. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. You guys are
the ones with all the fancy budgets. You could have called
your own people instead of us.”
“There wasn’t time,” she countered, “Or I would have.
And may I remind you Special Agent Mellor to never lose
sight of the fact that anything and everything of yours is
mine, anytime I need it.”
Donny looked away from her eyes, “Yeah, I remember.”
Marty’s radio beeped and a voice announced, “Agent
Peelinar?”
He picked it up, “You got something?”
“Perhaps,” the voice responded. “Still nothing active
on either of the two numbers you gave us. But, as you requested, we went back and pulled the records for those two
numbers over the last twenty-four hours. Report just came
in over the fax. There’s only a few calls, primarily between
the two numbers. But the last one was from your man’s
phone to a local number here in the area.”
“You got an address?” Marty inquired.
“Yes, sir,” the voice replied. “It’s in Coconut Grove. A
commercial boat repair place. Estimate no more than a
thirty minute drive from here.”
“Sounds like they might be planning a little cruise.”
Marty looked at Yvette, “You want to check it out?”
She thought about it for a moment, “It’s farther south.
Could be something. And it doesn’t make much difference
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whether its here or there we wait.”
“Then let’s roll,” Donny stood up from the table.
Yvette addressed Donny, “You go with your partner.
I’ll follow you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Donny replied, tossing some money on
the table as they left.
Marty climbed into their car behind the wheel. Donny
jumped into the passenger seat. Yvette made her way to the
Lexus.
Donny turned to his partner, “Bossy bitch, isn’t she.”
Marty shrugged, starting the car, “Sorry, you know the
rules. She’s a 307. She gets to be.”

No one paid any attention to the white Corsica parked a
block down the street, nor its driver, waiting, and watching
them. When he saw them come out of the diner and get into
their cars, he started his own as well and put it into gear.
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CHAPTER 46
Coral Gables, Florida
Ev got up at the sound of someone bustling around in
the kitchen area of the apartment. He poked his head out of
the guest bedroom door and was greeted by the mouthwatering smell of frying bacon. Tim stood at the stove in a
floral robe and barefoot with a fork in his hand, poking and
prodding around in a steaming and hissing skillet.
“Hey that stuff’s bad for you,” Ev croaked, wearing
only his jeans.
Tim smiled at him, “Yes, and if I stopped doing everything they said was bad for me, I’d have died of boredom
long ago.”
Ev laughed, “Good point.”
“So how do you like your eggs?” Tim asked.
“Over medium, thank you,” Ev replied, yawning and
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trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.
“Rest well?” Tim walked over to his thirty-cubic foot
Sub-Zero refrigerator built into the wall and pulled out a
carton of orange juice.
“Not really,” Ev answered truthfully.
Tim looked embarrassed, “We didn’t keep you up did
we?”
It took Ev a second to catch the inference of that question, and then took his turn feeling embarrassed, “Oh, no!
Not at all. It’s just the stress of everything. I keep waiting
for that call.”
“Oh!” Tim looked relieved. “Well, don’t worry. It’ll all
be all right. For as long as I’ve known Farley, things just
have a way of working out around him.”
Ev nodded, “Yeah, I’ve noticed that myself. He still
asleep?”
Tim smiled, “I think so, poor dear. I don’t want to wake
him up until his breakfast is ready.”
Ev glanced back at the bedroom door he just came out
of, “Yeah, I think Jenny just now dozed off. I feel terrible.
All this has been really hard on her.”
Tim shot him a conspiratorial glance, “Honey, I
wouldn’t worry. She’s got that look in her eye for you. Yes,
it may be hard for her, but I’m telling you, she’s going to
stick with what she’s got.”
Ev shrugged, “I hope you’re right. I really like her a
lot.”
Tim eye’s chastised him, “No, you care a lot more
about her than that.”
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Ev blushed again, “Maybe so.”
They both froze when the sound of the cell phone ringing cut though the air.
Ev spun around. Jenny came stumbling out of the bedroom with the phone in her hand, still naked, but discretely
clutching her long Minnie Mouse shirt in front of her. Farley came lumbering out the other bedroom door, already
dressed in his jeans, boots, and a black tank-top. He looked
as alarmed as Jenny did.
Ev ran to Jenny and grabbed the phone from her hand.
She turned around with her bare bottom facing Ev and Tim,
and pulled the shirt over her head, working it down almost
to her knees.
Meanwhile, Ev’s attention was one-hundred percent on
the telephone. He hit the SEND button to answer the call,
“Hello?”
“Good morning, Everett,” Walter’s voice sounded so
paradoxically warm and cheery.
“Hello, Walter,” Ev tried to remain calm, “How is
Jeff?”
“Doing fine, doing fine,” Walter assured him. “So I
trust you slept well at the lovely Deerfield resort. Very nice
place. Good choice. Been there a time or two myself.”
Ev thought fast, “Uh…actually…we had a little change
of plans.”
“You didn’t meet with the FBI, did you?” Walter
abruptly snapped.
“Oh, no,” Ev replied. “But they did find us…and we
had to…make a change of venue. And not without a few
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shots fired at us, if you know what I mean.”
“Interesting,” Walter mused, the joviality back in his
voice, “And I trust you’re well?”
“Yes,” Ev said.
“And you still have my briefcase?”
“Yes,” Ev looked at Tim and mouthed “the briefcase.”
Tim nodded.
“Then where are you?” Walter asked.
“Just south of Miami,” Ev replied. “Where are you?”
Walter hummed to himself slightly, “Oh, about an hour
and a half from you, I suppose.”
“How do you want to do this?” Ev asked.
“Some place very private,” said Walter, “No bothersome crowds, such as at your former resort.”
“Name a place,” Ev said flatly.
“All right. Find the Hilton on Key Biscayne,” Walter
instructed. “I’ll meet you on the beach about a mile south of
the hotel. You’ll see several high-rise condos under construction. Bring the briefcase. I want to be able to see your
pretty blond friend too. Got that?”
“I got it,” Ev closed his eyes. He had a bad feeling.
“Can I please speak with Jeff?”
“Certainly, my boy,” a rustling sound came through the
receiver, then the sound of Walter’s voice away from the
phone, prompting, “Go ahead, son. Say good morning to
your dad.”
A weary, raspy young man’s voice whispered, “Dad?
A…are you…there?”
“Yes, Jeff,” Ev’s eyes swelled with tears. “Are you
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OK?”
“So…so…sl-sleepy…” Jeff’s voice trailed off before
being replaced with Walter’s.
“There, Manning. You see?” he cheerfully added, “I’m
doing my part, now you do yours.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Ev demanded, “What have
you done to him?”
“Oh, nothing to worry about,” Walter ignored the urgency in Ev’s voice. “Just a little something to help the boy
relax. Now get your thoughts on the matter at hand, if you’d
like to see him at all. Can I expect to see you on Key Biscayne shortly?”
“We’ll be there,” Ev assured him.
“And, Manning,” Walter added in a very condescending
tone, “Don’t do anything stupid we’ll both regret. All
right?”
“I just want Jeff back,” Ev replied.
“And you’ll get him,” Walter said as the line went dead.
Without missing a beat, Ev looked directly at Farley,
“Do you have a gun?”
Farley looked at Tim, “He does.”
Ev spun around to Tim. “I need to borrow your gun.”
Tim frowned and folded his arms, “Do you know how
to use one?”
Ev shrugged, “How hard could it be?”
Tim shook his head, “Harder than you think. So, no, if
you haven’t been properly weapons trained, then you can’t
borrow a gun. You’re liable to shoot yourself or someone
you love.”
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Ev looked back to Farley for help, “Then what do I
do?”
Farley pointed to Tim, “You let Tim help you with the
gun part. He’s pretty good at it. Even showed me a thing or
two.”
Ev did an about-face back to Tim, “You can handle a
gun?”
Tim shrugged modestly, “I was a Captain in the U.S.
Army. Rangers. Expert marksman. Unfortunately, the Army
wasn’t a place were I felt I could be…” he made the quote
gesture, “…all that I could be,” he dropped his hands, “It
was a long time ago, but I still keep my skills sharp.”
Once more Ev turned to Farley, “He’s kidding, right?”
Farley looked proud, “Not even a little bit. Among
other talents, handling a weapon is something Tim is exceptionally good at.” He scowled, “He’s even in the NRA and
everything.”
This was too much for Ev to absorb all at once. He
waved his hands out before him, “OK, whatever. We need
to think all this through. Let’s figure out what exactly we’re
going to do?”
“What did Walter want you to do?” Jenny asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Ev realized, “That would help.”
He related the details of Walter’s instructions to his
other three companions.
Farley nodded, “OK, he obviously still doesn’t know
about me and Tim yet. That’s your edge.”
Ev was listening.
Tim nodded, walking over to an oak armoire against the
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wall opposite the kitchen. “I know those condos he’s talking about. Not too far away. They’re right on the beach. I
can easily get up high in one, stay out of sight, and cover
you. At that distance I can make sure there’s no funny business, and then we’ll get your boy back.” He opened the
double doors of the armoire to reveal an arsenal of rifles,
racked side by side. Not one of them was a hunting rifle.
“Whoa!” Jenny’s eyes went wide in amazement.
Tim bent down to a drawer under the main cabinet,
pulled it open, and came up with a long rifle scope. He then
reached inside the main cabinet for one of the rifles, an AR15 assault rifle, the non-military version of an M-16. Only
Tim’s had the “conversion” done to allow it to operate fully
automatic when desired.
He added, “Farley can be waiting nearby with the boat.”
“What boat?” Ev looked back to Farley.
Farley was grinning, “Tim and I have a real nice boat.”
“Is it fast?” Jenny asked.
Farley and Tim laughed together, as if they shared a
joke.
Tim snapped the scope on the rifle’s “handle” above the
breech, and then inspected the breech with well-practiced
hands. “Oh, yes. It’s plenty fast.”
Ev was actually starting to feel like there was hope.
All the smiles in the room faded when the sound of a
bullhorn rang out from outside, “This is the FBI. Everyone
inside come out with your hands on your head. I repeat,
this is the FBI. Come out immediately with your hands on
your head.”
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Everyone thought it simultaneously, but Ev said it, “Oh,
shit, now what?”

The white Corsica rolled down the asphalt road beyond
the entrance of the pea-gravel and broken shell drive. Its
driver had seen the black Lexus, a green Chevy Caprice,
and a black Van covered with antennas turn into it just
moments earlier. He stopped the car, grabbed the shotgun
laying on the seat next to him, and opened the car door with
a wince and groan.
His head was pounding and aching so badly his vision
was starting to blur. Randy Davis tore the bandage off his
head in hopes that his right eye had any use left in it. Blood
tricked down the side of his face from the five stitches he
just tore open. A burning sear of pain gripped the entire
right side of his head. The throbbing ache in his ankle and
right arm wasn’t any better. Nevertheless, he told himself
that it was just like it was back when he played middlelinebacker for the St. Claire County Cougars: you played
through the pain. His back teeth ground almost to the point
of cracking as he hobbled forward.
He closed the car door, chambered a shell in the shotgun with a single one-handed jerk, then started off on foot,
limping through the tall Johnson grass, behind the line of
dry-docked boats. In the distance he thought he heard the
sound of someone’s voice on a loud speaker.
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
Farley moved quickly to a small four-pane window near
the door to the apartment, pulled the curtain back an inch,
and peeked outside. He saw three vehicles parked on the
other side of the parking area: two cars and a van. The two
cars had formed a V-shaped roadblock just inside the parking area near the end of the entrance drive. The van was
behind them, blocking the mouth of the one-lane driveway.
The front driver’s side and passenger doors were open on a
green Chevy, and the driver’s side only was open on a black
Lexus. Two men and one woman were crouched behind the
open doors, guns drawn, in firing stance. By the red hair, he
recognized the fake FBI lady in white.
A heavyset black man Farley didn’t recognize had a
bullhorn in his hand.
The man raised it to his lips and called out, his voice
echoing through the boatyard, “Come on out. We don’t
want anyone to get hurt.”
Farley turned around and ordered, “Everybody get
something on. We gotta get out of here. And fast. While
there’s still time. Before any reinforcements arrive.”
Jenny had already run back into the bedroom, emerging
seconds later with her jeans on, a new pair from Target,
which unlike Loretta’s, actually fit her. She was carrying
her new tennis shoes and Ev’s yellow polo shirt, tossing it
at him.
Ev grabbed the shirt in midair, and tugged it over his
head, “How do we do that? Is there a back way out of
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here?”
Tim had run into the other bedroom to gather up some
clothes as well.
Farley shook his head, “Yeah, there’s a back door, and a
door into the warehouse, but unfortunately, no back driveway.”
“So we run for it on foot then?” Jenny concluded.
Tim came racing back out the other bedroom dressed in
a pair of gray coveralls and dark green Nike tennis shoes,
carrying the Hartman briefcase, catching Jenny’s question.
“Not unless you want to swim. We’re on a small peninsula.”
Ev was near panic again, anxiously pacing back and
forth, “You guys, I’m sorry, but I have to get out of here
and get to that beach and get to Jeff. I can’t let them get me
here.”
Farley offered, “We may have a minute or two to think
of something. They won’t storm the place just yet. If they
know they have us cut off, then they know they got all the
time in the world to sit and wait us out.”
“But I don’t have all the time in the world!” Ev
shouted.
Jenny finished tucking her Minnie Mouse tee-shirt into
her pants and put her arms around him, “It’s OK. We’ll figure something out.”
Farley looked to Tim, “My truck gassed up?”
“It’s got the trailer on it,” Tim noted.
Farley shrugged, “Then there’s no time to unhitch it.”
“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” Tim
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asked.
Farley nodded, “You got a better idea? And besides I
think we may need the cargo.”
Tim gave him a puzzled look. “What for?”

Donny Mellor was about to start in with his bullhorn
again, when Marty stopped him, “They ain’t listening,
buddy. We’re going to have to do this the hard way.”
“If there’s even anyone in there,” Yvette quipped with
disdain.
“Oh, they’re in there,” Marty looked back toward the
warehouse. “We got a hard triangulation on the cell call just
a couple of minutes ago. Both numbers hit.”
“You got tear gas?” Yvette asked.
Donny shook his head, “Not with us. We could call in a
SWAT van.”
Yvette shook her head, “No. No time. And I don’t want
the attention. In fact, get that van out of here. We have to
keep this one in the shadows.”
Donny nodded, “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”
Marty keyed his radio, “You guys can pull out, but stay
handy in case we need you. Over.”
The van started its engine. It’s driver gave Marty a
thumbs up, and then the vehicle began backing up, its tires
slowly crunching up the single-lane shell and gravel drive.
An engine rumble filled the air.
Donny, Marty, and Yvette all whirled toward the build396
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ing. Donny felt the small hairs on the back of his neck go
up. An electric motor buzzed and the large steel door on the
front of the warehouse began rolling up. All three dropped
back down behind their car doors again, guns pointed toward the opening.
Yvette ordered, “If Jimmy’s not the driver, take him
out. Understand?”
Marty and Donny nodded, releasing the safeties on their
weapons.

“You ready?” Tim asked Farley. Tim was sitting in the
passenger’s seat of the Peterbilt’s cab, tightly clinging to
Farley’s right hand. The AR-15 stood on end in the floorboard, sandwiched between Tim’s knees.
It was dark inside the cavernous sheet-metal warehouse.
As the door reached the top of its course, the angled shafts
of bright sunlight shining in through the rain of dust motes
didn’t reach the front grill of the truck. They were all still
conveniently hidden in the shadows.
Farley nodded, letting go of Tim’s hand and shoving the
long gear shift into first, revving the Peterbilt’s powerful
engine. “We only have to make it as far as the marina.”
“I know,” Tim swallowed hard. “Please be careful.”
Farley winked at him, “I’m always careful.”
“But your beautiful truck…,” Tim lamented.
Farley shrugged, “It’s insured. And it’s helping someone who needs our help. You know what that means.”
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“I know,” Without breaking eye-contact, Tim lifted the
rifle up and inserted a 120 round banana shaped magazine,
pulling back the slide and chambering the first round. The
safety was clicked off. He smiled once, a knowing smile,
full of appreciation and admiration for his partner, then
looked forward. “…and that’s why we gotta do what we
gotta do.”
Farley took a deep breath. He juiced the engine once
more. “Then let’s do it. And please try not to hit anybody.”
Tim shook his head and smoothed out his mustache
with this left hand. “I won’t…unless I have to.”
It was time.
Farley’s foot came off the clutch, eight of eighteen tires
screamed against the concrete, spewing blue smoke into the
air, the two front tires lifting off the ground momentarily as
the massive truck surged forward.
From where Ev and Jenny were sitting, all they could
see was the rusty back wall of the warehouse, still immersed in almost total darkness. They felt the rumble of the
truck. When it surged forward, Ev rocked forward and
sucked in a breath. The back wall accelerated away from
them. Sparks began to fly from metal against concrete.
Early morning sunlight enveloped the cab of the truck.
Farley hit the gas, up-shifted into second, and pointed
the long nose of the truck squarely between the V formed
by the two parked cars at the mouth of the drive. He hung
onto the steering wheel and laid over on the console just as
the windshield shattered where his face normally was.
Three holes appeared in the leather of his headrest.
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Tim swung out the open passenger side window.
The staccato roar of automatic gunfire peppered the air.
Gray-primer fried eggs with black concave holes for yolks
dotted along the sides of the two cars in an uneven line.
Both men and the woman dove behind the cars for cover.
Tim leaned back in and braced himself for impact.
In unison, barely a second before tons of steel plowed
through them, the three agents hiding behind the cars dove
headlong into the tall wispy two-foot-high Johnson grass
surrounding the parking area. Donny and Marty rolled to
one side. Yvette, tumbled to the other, rubbing dark green
stains in the knees of her white pants, and bloodying her
elbows, loosing her hat in the weeds in the process.
With an enormous crash and squeal of metal, the
chromed bumper of the Peterbilt slammed into the rear
quarter panels of the two cars, rolling up over the trunk of
the Caprice, crushing its back end almost flat, and peeling
away strips of metal. The nose of the Chevy came spinning
around. Its right front corner caught in the space between
the tractor and its trailer, bending the frame of the car almost in half, twisting it violently in the direction of the
blow.
At the same time, the black Lexus overturned from the
force of the impact, caroming away like a corner pocket
eight ball. Its gas tank ruptured as the razor edges of a broken axle snapped like a twig. As the car completed its first
half revolution, sparks from the twisting, scraping metal
ignited the pinwheeling spews of fuel. In the next instant,
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tion. A red, yellow, and black ball of fire roared into the
sky. Inside the cab of the truck, Farley and Tim could feel
the concussion of the blast.
The truck never slowed. It continued to accelerate.
By the time the trailer passed through the breach, the
green Chevy was pushed parallel to the hole that had just
been created, only facing back the way it came in. The
black Lexus lay upside down, a raging inferno.

In Donny Mellor’s case, he’d had no time to react other
than dive out of the way as the huge truck bore down on
them. But as the sunlight hit it, for a brief instant, he got a
look inside the cab of the truck. He had seen the fat bearded
man in the driver’s seat at the resort hotel, but someone
new was in the passenger seat, a thinner man with blond
hair and a mustache. That was the moment Donny had fired
his weapon at the driver. However, when the stranger in the
passenger seat opened fire with an automatic weapon, he
had nearly wet his pants.
He’d shouted, “Gun!”
Marty had been rolling on the ground behind the Chevy
as it got sprayed with bullets. “Holy, shit, they got help.
With serious firepower!”
That was the exact moment the big truck impacted the
rear of the two cars, which sent them all diving for the
weeds. Donny had been looking at Marty, about to say
something when the explosion rocked the air, smacking
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them in the face. Instinctively, both of them put their faces
to the ground and covered their heads, bracing themselves
for the hot stings of falling debris.
It was the woman’s voice, shouting, “Move, move!”
that got them up on their feet and running down the gravel
drive.

“Stay down,” Ev shouted. “Don’t let them see you.”
Jenny was crouching down in the front floorboard of
the car they were sitting in. She’d been sitting up until the
sound of the explosion over her right shoulder sent her
scrunching down as fast as she could move.
Ev ventured a peek over the dashboard. Just as the
gravel driveway was starting to bend, he saw three people
running after them on foot. The tall white man was gaining
on them.
“Oh, shit,” he turned to Jenny, “You ready for this?”
She nodded, looking up at him from beneath a squinting
brow. “As I’ll ever be.”
“Then get back up here and put your seat belt on,” Ev
put his hand on the emergency brake, and this thumb over
the release button. “It’s not much longer now. And we’re
going to have to move quick.”

Farley raised himself back up in the cab, gunning the
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engine again, looking through the broken windshield at the
black van, now just a few yards in front of him. He yelled,
“Hang on!”
Tim pushed his head back against his headrest and
clenched his teeth.
The big truck slammed head-on into the van, which fortunately had been moving in reverse at the time. The Peterbilt pushed it the last fifty yards out of the drive, thrusting it
across the paved road, heading for the ditch beyond. Farley
swung the wheel hard to the left. Metal screamed against
metal once more as the two vehicles separated. The van’s
rear end clumped down into the ditch.
As the truck slowed into its turn, Ev looked up again.
The tall man with dark hair had reached the end of one of
the two metal loading ramps and was bounding up it. Ev
ducked, hoping and praying he had not been seen. As the
trailer swung hard to the left, the dark haired man lost his
footing and rolled back onto the pavement. He took a hard
fall, but got up and started running after them again. Ev
didn’t dare breathe. He peeked again, thankful to see the
Peterbilt was again picking up speed and soon outdistancing its pursuers.
Everett sat up and looked at Jenny. She was clutching
the shoulder strap of the seatbelt, eyes squeezed tight, like a
small child on a roller coaster for the first time. He reached
over and touched her arm. He couldn’t tell if the trembling
he felt was coming from her or himself.
“You OK?”
She opened one eye about half way, “So far.”
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He nodded, looking out the windshield, “Yeah, so far.”

Donny Mellor was the last to reach the black van. The
driver had already managed to pull it back onto the road,
thankful for four-wheel drive.
Yvette had climbed into the front passenger seat and
was bellowing instructions to the driver. “Go, go, go!
Dammit, you let them get away, you’re a fucking dead
man! You hear me!”
“But what about him?” the driver was pointing at
Donny, still a few paces away.
“Fuck him!” Yvette screamed, grabbing the right leg of
the driver and pushing it, trying to get him to step on the
accelerator.
Marty was slumped in the jump seat, mounted directly
behind the passenger seat, his eyes glassy and dazed,
breathing hard. His right hand was clutching a nasty cut on
his left elbow, where he had exchanged flesh for grains of
asphalt. The material from his suit jacket was ripped away.
Donny was still running as fast as he could go, reaching
for the hand of the van’s electronic technician, as the van
was starting to pull away. His heart was thundering in his
chest. He knew he had one chance not to be left behind.
He dug in and jumped.
A strong hand found his wrist and yanked. Special
Agent Donny Mellor landed hard on his right side against
the metal bottom of the van, just as the tires peeled their
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shrill cry against the hard black pavement. The FBI tracking
technician helped pull Donny’s legs inside as the van took
off. It accelerated to over sixty miles an hour, the wind
whipping around inside, before they were able to slide the
door closed.

About two miles down the road, just as the Peterbilt
passed the turn-off which Farley and Tim had instructed Ev
and Jenny to take if their crazy plan worked, Farley braked
hard and blew his air horn twice.
At last, as the truck came to a stop, Ev released the car’s
emergency brake. He had been watching the two metal
loading ramps on the back of the car carrier drag along the
blacktop since they left the end of the pea-gravel driveway.
The scraping metal had fishtailed back and forth, flashing
up bright orange sparks and digging white furrows in the
pavement. Ev turned the key Farley had given him from the
manila bag he kept in the cab and started the car.
Ev was still a little bit in awe of the automobile he was
sitting in. The escape plan itself was mind-boggling
enough. It was all they could come up with on such short
notice. However, it was quite another kind of shock when
Ev saw Farley’s car carrier hitched behind his Peterbilt held
eight new Mercedes-Benz SL 600, V-12, two-door convertibles, all with retractable hardtops.
The powerful German engine roared to life.
“I always wanted to drive one of these before I died,” he
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muttered more to himself than to Jenny.
“Then enjoy it while you can,” she shot back. “It might
be the last time.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he replied.
He eased the sleek black and silver two-seat sports car
forward, gliding down the ramps to the hot black pavement,
then honked his horn twice. A moment later the truck’s
horn blasted a reply signal. As Ev pulled the briar burl Tiptronic stick shift down into “D” and took off, in the rearview mirror, he saw the Peterbilt’s doors fly open and both
Farley and Tim jump out. Ev turned on to the turn-off road
he was told to, and pushed the pedal down. The SL 600’s
speedometer was well over eighty in less than six seconds.
Jenny touched his arm, “Do you think they’ll make it? I
mean do you really think we’ll ever see them again?”
Ev gave her a half smile, not really wanting to consider
the alternative, “We’d better.”

Farley and Tim ran to the rear of the trailer and tipped
the loading ramps back up on their hinges to the vertical
position and locked them into place with support chains.
Tim shouted, “They’re coming.”
Farley looked over his shoulder and saw the black van
in the distance, closing fast. They had perhaps a mile head
start. “It’ll have to do.”
Both men sprinted back to the cab. Tim grabbed his rifle as Farley threw the truck in gear and started moving.
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
Yvette pointed, “There! There’s the truck. Move it!”
The driver nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”
Donny and Marty were both panting like dogs. Their
eyes were both locked on each other, both thinking the
same thing. While they’d never seen such a determination
and drive to apprehend one’s prey, two things were clear:
one, this woman was definitely nuts; and two, there wasn’t
a damn thing they could do about it except obey.
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CHAPTER 47
Coral Gables, Florida
“I don’t see anyone behind us,” Jenny was looking out
the small back window of the sport’s car. “You can slow
down now.”
Ev eased off the gas pedal. “Yeah, that would suck, after everything, getting pulled over for a ticket, or wrapping
this beautiful thing around a tree.”
“So drive casual,” she advised. “We’ll be at the beach
in plenty of time.”
“Yeah,” Ev nodded. “I know. Just pray Farley and Tim
are able to lose the FBI guys at that marina.”
“They will,” Jenny confidently announced, trying to
make herself believe it, as if believing could make it so.

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The marina where Farley and Tim kept their boat was
south of their present position, about three more miles
down the road. As they drew nearer the marina, they noticed that the black van had gained on them dramatically.
When Farley had to slow down to turn left across the small
stone entrance bridge to the marina, the black van closed
the gap all the more. Tall fieldstone columns flanked the
bridge’s mouth, connecting it to an island parking lot for
the private marina. Fortunately, the parking lot wasn’t very
crowded that morning.
As the truck bounced and groaned over the one-lane
bridge into the parking lot, Tim turned to Farley, “You got
the keys?”
Farley nodded, “Just give me a minute to rev her up and
cast off.”
“You’ll have that minute.” Tim checked his rifle.
Both cab doors came open at once. Farley climbed
down, holding Ev’s two bags in one hand, and Jenny’s
things in the other. He sprinted toward the wooden gangplank that connected the island parking lot to the floating
marina. Tim walked confidently around behind the car carrier and shouldered the rifle. He sighted in the scope back
towards the small stone bridge.
“Vans have motors in the front,” he muttered as the
cross hairs settled on the black vehicle with the dented front
grill as it rounded the corner from the main road and approached the bridge.
His forefinger switched the weapon over to semiautomatic and then squeezed off seven rounds directly into
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the front grill of the van. Steam burst out in separate jets.
Once of the rounds successfully impacted something vital,
the engine locked, which froze the drive train, which arrested the wheels, which sent the van careening and skidding up to the mouth of the bridge, spinning sideways and
coming to rest against one of the bridge’s stone columns.
Had it not been for the column, the van would have toppled
over on its side.
The van’s passenger window, which was facing Tim,
came down and two shots rang out. Tim ducked behind the
steel car carrier as one of the rounds zinged by his left ear, a
little too close for comfort. The other shot went wide. He
counted to three and then came back up and squeezed off
two more rounds, planting them in the side door of the van,
creating two more gray and black fried eggs. He then turned
and ran full speed toward the gangplank.
As he raced down the sun-grayed and weather worn
dock toward his boat, he could see frantic bodies climbing
out of the van and running after him. This was going to be
close. A nagging thought jumped into his mind about remembering to check the fuel filter on the boat. A nightmare
image of the maintenance hatch on the rear deck standing
open with a disconnected hose from the fuel bladders almost made him scream. A wave of relief washed over him
as he heard the tailpipes on the forty-seven foot Cigarette
boat huffing and coughing with their usual lion’s growl. He
was smiling again as he ran up and jumped into the rear
deck.
Farley was at the wheel. He pushed the array of throttles
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forward. The three custom V-8 Chrysler engines roared and
the water began to boil and churn behind them.
Tim wrapped an arm around Farley’s shoulders, “I
don’t think you need to sweat the five mile-an-hour limit
today, good buddy.”
Farley smiled at him, “But we don’t want the Coast
Guard after us.”
“As if,” Tim retorted.
The boat’s bow nosed up as they flew to forty-knots,
leaving a wide white wake behind them in the apple-green
waters, heading out to open sea from the horseshoe shaped
inlet. Tim turned around and looked back. The two men in
dark suits huffing and puffing at the end of the dock were
barely visible when the boat climbed to almost a hundred
miles an hour.
“We’ll get there long before they do,” Tim shouted
above the roar of the engines beneath his feet. The hurricane force winds whipped his blond hair straight back, despite the small angled windshield that deflected the bulk of
the wind up and over their heads. The American flag on one
of the two small stern masts mounted to each rear corner
was starched straight back, save the flutter of the fringe on
the trailing vertical edge. The other chromed mast was
empty.
Farley nodded, leaning down to Tim’s ear, speaking
slowly and forcefully, “It’ll give you time to get in position.
You still got the radio on you?”
Tim nodded, pulling the walkie-talkie Farley had used
earlier with Ev out of the side pocket of his overalls. “Got
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it.”
Farley shouted, “But we won’t be in range to talk to
them until they get there. Range is only about a mile.”
“Understood,” Tim pressed his lips together, then went
below decks to stow his weapon and reload the magazine
from the supply of shells he had stuffed into his other pockets.

Standing on the end of the dock, Donny Mellor was
bent over, his hands on his knees, covered with sweat. The
chest pains were starting. Breathing was difficult. Marty
Peelinar stood next to him, watching the long, low, narrow,
brown boat soaring over the waves and disappearing from
sight. He checked his weapon and returned it to its holster.
Yvette emerged a moment later from the harbormaster’s office and stood at the head of the dock. “Don’t
just stand there. Come on. I’ve got us a boat.”
Donny stood up and turned to Marty.
Before he could open his mouth Marty raised a hand,
“If you give me that stupid cliché about getting too old for
this shit, I swear to God I’m putting a bullet in you and
pushing you in the water to feed the fish.”
Donny chuckled, “Oh, no. Not me. Having a fine time.
For an old fart, that is.”
They both turned around and obediently headed toward
Yvette, who stood there with a set of keys in one hand and
her gun in the other. Amazingly, Donny noted that after all
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that had happened, the woman’s purse was still slung securely over her shoulder, the strap across her body, hanging
at her side.
She pointed at a twin engine Bay Liner cabin cruiser in
a slip in the next row, “That one over there. Let’s move it.”
“That tub will never catch ‘em,” Marty noted.
“It doesn’t have to catch them,” Yvette retorted, as they
reached the boat and hastily began to cast off lines from
gray galvanized dock cleats. “Just find them once we know
where they’re going. Tell your guys in the van to keep a
heads-up on the triangulation sweeps for those two cell
phone numbers.”
Marty asked, “How do you know they’ll make another
call?”
Yvette walked to the helm and stuck the key in the ignition, then patted her purse, “I can pretty much guarantee it.”
Donny jumped down in the boat with a thud as the engines roared to life, “But at least we hit one of them. Their
shooter, I think.”
Marty looked puzzled, “You hit him?”
Yvette nodded, “He’s right. At least one of them.
Didn’t you see all the blood smeared on the back end of
that car carrier?”
Marty just shrugged absently to himself. All he remembered was a bunch of cars on the car carrier. He was running so fast from the van to the dock, he never even noticed
one of the cars was missing, let alone notice any of the
fresh blood smeared on the metal bed beneath it.
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
The frightened harbor-master had just watched the Bay
Liner pull away from the dock when he was startled by the
sound of his office door being thrown back. He spun
around. There, standing just inside the doorway, amid all
the fishing gear, ski-belts, life jackets, repair parts, bathing
suits, and water sports paraphernalia for purchase or rent,
stood a man covered with blood on the right side of his
face, neck and shoulder; grease all over his clothes; and a
cast on his right arm and the lower part of his right leg.
The harbor-master felt his bladder let go when he saw
the man pointing a shotgun directly at his face.
The man with the gun wheezed, “Gimme the keys to a
boat. A fast one. And I mean right now.”

Two shotgun blasts rang out from the harbor-master’s
office.
If it hadn’t been for the loud roar of the Bay Liner’s engines, Donny Mellor, Marty Peelinar, and Yvette Monroe
might have heard the shots. But all three of them were looking forward, painstakingly scanning the horizon for any
sign of the Cigarette boat. Consequently, they didn’t see the
metallic-purple jet boat which came ripping out of the marina moments later—shadowing them, following just within
sight.
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
Sitting at the helm of the jet boat, with his one good
hand on the wheel and the shotgun resting between his legs,
Randy Davis kept an eye on the Bay Liner up ahead a few
hundred yards. He refused to pass out from the pain. The
bitch had been so lucky, but her luck was about to run out.
Yes, indeedy!
She almost got away in that damn Peterbilt, but he had
been too quick to let her get away. Oh, yes. He was too
quick and too smart for that fucking slut. He had come
hopping out of the weeds from between the boats, even
with a bad leg, just in time to swing up on the trailer and
slither beneath one of those fancy-ass, itty-biddy sports
cars. Although, it was a bit of a fright when the one he was
under started up. If he hadn’t been able to crawl forward
underneath the next one, the differential in the rear axle
would have taken his head off. Unfortunately, the car was
gone before he could turn around and get a shot off at it.
But no matter. The van with the Feds in it had chased
the truck. So that meant she still had to have been in the
truck. And now they was all trying to run off in boats. That
didn’t matter none at all either. He knew he would catch
‘em no matter what they run off in. And when he did, she’d
get a lot worse than that bastard without a head back at the
pier.
Oh, yes, darlin’ dear slut whore cunt. Your luck’s just
about run out.
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CHAPTER 48
Miami, Florida
What’s that for? Jeff Manning was thinking.
He thought he asked the question out loud, but due to
the blur of a dream world he’d been floating in for so long,
he wasn’t sure. Through the woozy fog he watched the auburn-haired man wrapping what appeared to be sticky gray
cloth, but was actually silvery-gray duct tape, tightly around
his wrists.
The man smiled at him, seeing the boy’s gaze, and answering his unspoken question, “Just a little something to
help you behave. I don’t want you getting too excited when
we meet your dad.” He looked directly into Jeff’s eyes, “I
don’t want to hurt you, son. But if you misbehave, I will.
So be a good boy.”
Jeff just stared blankly at the green eyes before him. He
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hadn’t actually heard what the man had just said to him.
“We’re in Florida, in case you were wondering,” the
man said. “I’d estimate we’re no more than about twenty
minutes from meeting up with your father.”
Jeff took a deep breath, grunted slightly, and let his eyes
drift shut again.
“I should think you’d like to see your old man again.
Probably haven’t seen him in a while. Right?” The man
continued to apply more tape. “I’m terribly sorry your
mother couldn’t make the trip.” He smiled, “But don’t
worry. I promise that you three will all be together as one
happy family very, very soon.”
He had made his decision.

The polished mahogany Cigarette boat had come
around the southern tip of Key Biscayne, heading north,
and pulled into the shallow water, slowing and rocking in
the waves about two hundred yards off-shore. They were
directly out from the high-rise condos under construction a
mile south of the Hilton Resort on Key Biscayne. It had
taken only a matter of minutes to get there.
Tim walked to the stern of the boat. He had the rifle
slung across his back. He looked at Farley, “You’ll be able
to hear everything on the boat’s radio. I set the channel to
the right frequency.”
Farley idled the boat to a stop, “I know.”
Tim began unlashing the Yamaha water cycle sitting on
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a rack at the stern of the boat. Tim had customized the
boat’s diving platform to accommodate the large, purple
and yellow, three-man water craft. When all but one of the
tie-downs were undone, he pressed an electric button in the
stern and the platform slowly lowered into the water, like a
forklift, leaving the cycle floating.
Farley came up to Tim and hugged him close, “Anything bad happens, you get the hell out of there.”
Tim hugged Farley back, “You know me.”
“That’s what worries me,” Farley shot back.
Tim laughed, hugging Farley Houston one more time,
warmly and heartily, then climbed over the stern railing and
straddled the water cycle. He turned the key and pressed the
red starter button. It came to life with a bubbling churn of
water from its air jet. Farley was still waving as Tim hit the
throttle and swung it around, heading in toward the beach.
Farley feared the worst, but hoped for the best. A sinking feeling churned in his gut as he watched the cycle speed
away, skimming over the top of the waves.
Tim drove directly into the shore, bouncing over the
crashing surf line and parked the water cycle in the sand. It
was about fifty yards north of the new construction, near an
unattended Hobie-Cat sailboat. Tim thought that looked
like an inconspicuous enough place to park. He hiked down
the beach to the second of four side-by-side ten-story buildings. It was just a concrete hull. He made his way to the
fourth floor and found a unit on the corner that afforded
him perfect visibility of the beach, looking north or south.
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dred yards in either direction.
He pulled the radio out of his pocket, “Ev? Jenny?
Hello? Can you hear me?”
No response.
“Farley?” he spoke again.
“I got’ cha,” Farley’s voice came back. “Coming in
loud and clear there, good buddy.”
“Good,” Tim sat down cross-legged with his rifle on his
lap. “Now we wait.”

The graceful silver and black Mercedes-Benz came off
the Rickenbacker causeway bridge from Miami to Key Biscayne. The Hilton Resort, according to the map Tim had
given them, was just a few miles down the road on the left.
The car flew past a Links golf course on their right.
Ev checked the time, “If he’s on time, then we should
get there about a half an hour before Walter does.”
“What if he’s late?” Jenny asked.
“Then we wait. I don’t care when he comes, as long as
he shows up, and has Jeff with him.” Ev had begun to
speed up again. “Right now I’m just hoping Tim and Farley
show up.”
“They will,” Jenny assured him.
Ev nodded, “I know. And just between you and me, I
don’t have the slightest idea why. These two guys…they’re
incredible. They’ve risked getting arrested, and possibly
even getting hurt or killed for us. Us! Complete strangers.
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What did we ever do for them to deserve this?”
Jenny turned to him, taken aback, “I hate to be the one
to break it to you, but that’s what real love and caring is,
Ev. Doing what’s right, not because you have to, but because you want to. Or in their case, I get the feeling they’d
say it’s because they get to. It’s a privilege, not a chore.
That’s what you did for them. You gave them the chance to
care about you and show it.”
Ev was quiet for a moment. His chest hurt, and he felt
very small. “I’ve never known people like that.”
She said, “That’s not true. You’re like that. You just
don’t realize it. And you need to. You wanted to help me, a
total stranger, when you didn’t have to. And you love your
son like that. You’re going to him even though you might
get hurt or killed, when all you had to do was walk away
and disappear.”
He shook his head, “That’s different. I have to get Jeff.
He’s my son.”
She contradicted him, “No it’s not different. You’re doing it not only because it’s the right thing to do, but because
it’s something you want to do. Something you choose to do.
Can’t you see that?”
“And Farley and Tim risking their lives for us, is that
the right thing for them to choose to do?” he tossed back.
“For them it is,” she shot back. “And only they, and
they alone, get to make that decision. And you’re a complete self-righteous asshole if you dare think you’re in a position to question it.”
That one stung.
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Ev took a deep breath and let it out slow. Instinctively,
his mind was in a dither to defend itself, laboring to construct arguments to contradict, or at least deflect the powerful point Jenny was making. He desperately grasped to
make a case for self-determinism, self-autonomy, selfreliance, self-defense, and self…but every permutation
came back around to self-ish.
Because she was right.
For the first time in his life Ev began to understand and
see clearly that what she was saying was undeniably true. It
was suddenly so childishly simple. Genuine love could only
be a gift, never a wage. Love can’t be demanded or coerced.
If it is not authentically voluntary, despite outward appearance or acts, it ceases to be love. By definition, it is an act
of grace, not an act of compulsion or duty. Duty is a debt, a
chore, a tax. And just like Jenny said, love is a privilege, an
honor—a choice.
Yet at the same time, Ev could also now see how these
two distinct universes, both love and duty, found an intersection, a point of overlap where it took a conscious act of
love, a voluntary choice, to retire the debt, to do the chore,
to pay the tax—even when it was far easier to merely walk
away, to disappear without superficial consequence. That
intersection was especially evident when it came to those
occasions when it was time to risk it all and take a stand,
for love. This was one of those times.
Ev smiled at her, “Farley’s right. You are the smart
one.”
“And don’t you ever forget it,” her grin blossomed.
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Both smiles faded as the entrance to the Hilton blurred
by on the left.
“We’re almost there,” Ev noted.
That nauseous feeling was creeping around in Jenny’s
bowels again. “There. Down on the left. I can see the buildings. That’s got to be it.”
“Try the radio,’ Ev instructed. “The range is supposed
to be about a mile.”
Jenny picked it up from her lap and keyed the talk button, “Hello? Tim?”
A voice immediately came back, “Hey, kids! Glad you
could make it.”
“Are you where you need to be?” she asked.
“Ready, willing, and able,” Tim’s voice came back.
“I’m positioned on the fourth floor of the second unit. Park
in front of it and walk around to the back. I’ll keep an eye
out for your friend to arrive.”
“OK,” Jenny replied.
Ev parked the SL 600 in front of the second high-rise.
As he had been instructed by Tim and Farley, Ev took the
radio from Jenny, locked the talk-key down, and put it in
the waistband of his jeans, behind him, in the small of his
back. He left his polo shirt untucked, covering the radio.
With the Hartman briefcase in one hand and Jenny’s hand
in the other, he walked through the first floor of the concrete structure toward the beach on the far side. The gray
skeleton of the building was cold and lifeless. It gave Jenny
a chill. She was glad when they emerged back into the sunshine.
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“You hear us OK?” Jenny asked.
“A-OK,” Tim replied.
They didn’t have long to wait. Ev and Jenny had just
made their way down to the wet sand, where the last blankets of white foam stopped before sliding back out into the
waves, when they heard Tim announce, “OK, we got something. A car coming. Pulling into the parking lot. I’m moving into position on your side.”
Both Ev and Jenny jumped when the cellular phone in
Ev’s pocket rang.
Jenny looked at him in confusion, “What’s he doing
calling? He’s here.”
“I don’t know,” Ev replied, pulling the phone out.
“Maybe he wants us to come to him. You know, like trade
cars? That kind of thing?” He hit the SEND button,
“Hello?”
“Jimmy, don’t hang up,” came a woman’s voice.
It took Ev a second to realize who it was, “What the
hell do you want?”
“Jimmy, I can only assume that you’ve been contacted
by Walter Clark and are trying to get to him to help your
son,” she said. “But you’re in a lot of trouble, and we can
help you. But you’ve got to stop running.”
“I don’t care about any trouble,” he shot back. “As soon
as I have my son back, you can arrest me, or real FBI
agents or the police can arrest me. You’re not even a real
FBI agent. We checked. You’re a fake.”
She paused, then responded with, “I only said I was
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ing for, but it is a government agency. It’s classified information, and I can’t divulge that for national security reasons. You have to believe me, Jimmy. The men that are
with me are real FBI agents. I swear. And I didn’t mean you
were in trouble from us, I meant from Walter. If you meet
with him alone, he’ll kill you. You and your girlfriend and
your son and the gentlemen who are helping you. I promise
you that.”
“Lady, I don’t believe you,” Ev spat. “And this conversation is over.” He hit the OFF switch and the illuminated
display went dark. He threw the phone away in the sand, his
eyes on the rear door of the condo.

Yvette looked up at Marty, “Your guys get it?”
Marty had his radio to his ear, in contact with the men
in the black van. He nodded, “Yep, we got a GPS position.
The call came from a fixed point on a beach on the east side
of Key Biscayne. We can be there in about ten minutes.”
Yvette turned to Donny who had assumed the helm.
“Do it. And then call the Coast Guard. Use 307 clearance. I
want two gun-boats. One in from the north and one in from
the south. And I mean now. That boat’s not getting away
again.”

“Come on, son,” the auburn-haired man helped Jeff
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Manning out of the backseat of the car and walked slowly
toward the front of the high rise building.
Jeff obediently stumbled along in his trance-like state.
As the man emerged from the back of the building, he
pulled out his gun and held it to the back of Jeff’s head.
“There you go. One step at a time. Easy does it. Just walk
straight ahead. There you go. Good boy. Down on the
beach, that’s right. There’s your dad and his lady friend.
Just keep going right toward them. I want you to stay in between me and them at all times.”

Ev saw his son come out of the shadows just as he
heard Tim’s voice, “Don’t, Ev. Stay put. He’s got a gun to
the back of the boy’s head.”
Everett stopped on the first step, his heart coming up in
his throat. At least Jeff looked all right. His face looked
droopy and tired, but he didn’t appear to be in any pain. His
wrists appeared to be bound with gray tape. Ev could also
see someone else walking directly behind Jeff in single file.
Jenny looked to her left and to her right. There was no
one on the beach as far as she could see.
No witnesses.
“That’s enough, son,” Walter Clark’s voice came from
behind Jeff’s head.
Jeff stopped about fifteen feet from his father. In the
distance all he saw were the blurry outlines of two things
that might be human beings.
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It was all Ev could do not to spring forward and take his
son into his arms.
Walter’s head appeared over Jeff’s left shoulder,
“Hello, Everett.”
Ev was surprised. Gone was the elder, silver-hair and
steel gray eyes, Walter Clark. Instead a much younger man
stood there with auburn curls. Yet those eyes, even though
now they appeared to be green, and that row of dazzling
teeth, were all too familiar. It was him.
Ev’s voice was grave, “Hello, Walter.”
Walter peered down, “Ah, and I see you brought my
briefcase. How good of you. Smart man.”
“And you brought my son,” Ev replied, forcibly willing
himself to remain calm. “Thank you.” He looked into his
son’s eyes, “Are you OK?”
Jeff just stared ahead, his jaw dropping slightly.
“What’s the matter with him?” Ev seethed.
Walter sniffed with indifference, “He’s just a little under the weather. Nothing toxic or permanent, I can assure
you. Just a little relaxant to ensure everyone stays well
mannered. And that includes you, Manning.”
Ev addressed his son, “Jeff? Just hang on. Everything is
all right. Everything’s going to be OK. Right now I just
need to give this man something that belongs to him so he
can go. And then we’ll go.”
Walter shook his head, “Not so fast, Everett, dear boy.”
He paused with a pained smile, “Unfortunately, I’m afraid
you won’t be leaving the way you came. However, I must
say, you did arrive in style. You must have gone to a much
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nicer car rental agency than I did.”
“You can have the fucking car,” Ev added. “The keys
are in it. Just take it.”
“Sorry,” Walter shot back. “Not what I meant. I don’t
want your playboy toy. Not my style. You know Everett,
that’s just your problem. You’ve misjudged me. You’ve
misjudged me all along. While I can’t claim that my hands
are completely clean, all I’ve been trying to do is clean up
some very messy business, and you keep getting in my way.
And now you’ve forced me to have to clean up more business. And for that I sincerely apologize. But I must.”
“So you intend to kill us all anyway,” Ev said matter-offactly.
“You’ve left me with little alternative,” Walter replied.
“Actually, besides killing us, you have two alternatives,” Ev told him evenly.
“Yes?” Walter sounded amused. “And what might
those be?”
Ev sniffed once, gathering up all his courage. This was
to be the most difficult negotiation of his entire life. No
room for error. The adrenaline rushing through his veins
sharpened and focused his thoughts. He took one deep
breath, let it out slow, and explained, “One would be to
take your briefcase and just leave. I highly recommend that
one. Win/win. You get what you want. I get what I want.
We go our separate ways. Done deal.”
Walter seethed in a breath between his teeth, “Don’t
know about that one. No offense, but right now, you three
fall into the most unfortunate category known as pesky
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loose ends. What’s your other idea?”
“Then that leaves option number two,” Ev announced,
swallowing once, trying his best not to look as terrified as
he felt.
“Which would be…?” Walter prompted.
“A bullet in your brain,” Ev said evenly.
Walter frowned, “Come again, dear boy? Let’s stick
with reality. I can see three pairs of hands, one here with
me, securely bound, and neither of the other two holding a
weapon. How do you suppose you’re going to pull off that
little feat? I assure you, if you have something nasty behind
your back, your son will be dead before you ever get your
hands on it.”
Tim’s electronic voice came from behind Ev’s back,
“Sorry, sport. You failed to see a fourth pair of hands, holding a fully automatic AR-15, complete with two-hundred
power sniper scope, whose cross-hair alignment is now just
above your Atlas at the base of the brain. If you don’t die
instantly, at least you can count on front row parking for the
rest of your life where you go to buy your diapers.”
All the expression drained away from Walter’s face.
The gun appeared, moving up to Jeff’s temple, “Very good,
Manning. Touché. It seems I’ve grossly underestimated
your hidden talents and resources. Now tell your unseen
friend to drop his weapon right now, or you’ll get to see
your son’s brains in living color. While I admire your resolve, I caution you not to test mine.”
Their eyes stayed fixed on each other’s, neither man
blinking.
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Ev’s expression didn’t change, “No, Walter, I won’t.”
Walter’s eyes grew wide with surprise. “What are you
doing, Manning? Didn’t you hear me? I’m not playing
games here. You really are willing to see your son die?”
Ev sniffed again, almost with indifference, using all the
will he had to ignore his son’s vacant and helpless face, his
eyes still locked on Walter’s, “I don’t think so, Walter. See,
it’s like this. If my man drops his gun, then you’ll kill us all
anyway. But if my man kills you right now then we all live
and only you die. Your call. I’m still recommending you
just take your goddamn briefcase and get the hell out of
here. That’s all I want.”
“You’re trying my patience, Manning,” Walter’s breath
was blasting out his nostrils. “You’re playing out of your
league. Do you know what it takes to take another man’s
life?”
Tim’s voice came though the walkie-talkie, “No he
doesn’t, asshole, but I do.”
A single loud crack was heard from above, echoing off
the concrete structures. The sand between where Ev and
Jenny stood and where Jeff and Walter stood burst up in the
air in a little cloud. Walter gasped. Ev could see Walter’s
left shoulder—his shirt had a neat black tear in the sleeve,
and a line of blood was drawn across the skin underneath.
Tim’s voice came again, “Any questions?”
Walter threw his left arm around Jeff’s throat and spun
him around to face the building, falling down on the sand,
using Jeff lying on top of him as a human shield. The gun
was still at the young man’s temple. Jenny stepped behind
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Ev.
Walter hissed, “Call him off, Manning, or I swear to
God I’ll kill your boy.”
Ev took another step forward but caught himself, “You
hurt him in any way, and then you die, Walter. Right here.
Right now. Today!”
Walter’s thumb pulled the hammer back on the pistol.
Ev’s eyes went wide, “What are you doing!”
Walter smiled, “You really want to play chicken with
me, Mr. Salesman? Fine. Hair trigger, Ev, old boy. Your
man hits me—even in the head—death grip takes your son
straight to hell with me. Got the picture?”
“Why won’t you just take the stupid briefcase and
leave!” Jenny screamed.
Walter tilted his head back in her direction, seeing her
image upside-down from his vantage point. “I’m dead serious.”
“So am I!” Everett bellowed.
Ten seconds of silence passed. The wind and the waves
continued to push in from the Atlantic. Walter could feel
the sun on his skin.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Another ten seconds of painful silence crawled by. At
last, Walter spoke to Everett, breaking the pregnant pause,
“Well, Everett, old boy, we appear to have a bit of a stalemate here, don’t we. I’m terribly sorry. I don’t expect you
to understand, but can’t let you leave here alive.”
Ev threw up his hands, “Why are you doing this?
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What’s accomplished by killing us? Just getting rid of people who know you’re alive? Hell, all the people who have
been chasing us for the last two days know you’re alive!
Are you going to hunt all of them down too?”
More painful silence reigned for almost a full minute.
Walter took a very deep breath and let it out slowly.
Another painful decision was made.
He let the hammer of his gun close slowly and pulled it
away from Jeff’s head. “It doesn’t matter, you know. I can
spare you for now, but we’re really all dead already. It’s
true. Perhaps it won’t happen today, maybe not tomorrow,
but soon. You just don’t realize it yet. If not by my hand,
then by many others just like me.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Jenny protested.
Walter laughed, “Oh, but it does, it does, dear girl. If
you only knew why, then you’d understand.”

The Bay Liner came around a point, heading north,
about a half a mile south of the GPS position Marty had
retrieved from the FBI van ten minutes earlier. Donny
looked forward and saw a series of high-rise condominiums
under construction on the beach.
Marty called to him, “See anything?”
Donny pointed toward shore, “I can see a small group
of people standing on the beach down by that second building from the right. That should be the approximate location
of the signal we tracked.” He frowned, “What the hell…?”
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“What is it?” Yvette called out to him.
Donny turned to her, “Two of them just fell down together.”
“Move in closer,” Yvette ordered.
Donny nodded, “You got it.”
Yvette pointed to a small wooden fishing pier jutting
out into the surf about five-hundred yards down from the
group on the beach. “Pull in on the south side of that pier.
We go in on foot from there.”
Donny spun the helm to port and the boat moved in the
direction of the pier. He looked out across the water. There
were several boats in the area, many of them sailboats, a
few cruisers, a lot of small water craft. If the Cigarette boat
was nearby, he didn’t see it. However, he did notice a purple jet boat pass him to starboard, moving fast. The driver
bounced over the waves, parallel to the shoreline, then
banked hard to port and was making a bee-line for the
beach, directly toward the group they were all watching.
“Who the hell is that?” Donny pointed off to his right.
Yvette looked, “I don’t know. Looks like some joyrider. That’s what most people with boats do out here.
Wouldn’t you think?”
Donny pointed towards shore, “Yeah, but that joy-rider
is headed dead straight for our little party on the beach.”
Yvette’s eyes went from the group on the beach to the
boat, then back to the beach, back to the boat, then back to
the beach. Yes, he wasn’t turning off. “Can you cut him
off?”
“Not in this thing.” Donny replied.
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“Then screw the pier,” Yvette said, “Follow him. Beach
it if you have to.”
Donny turned the wheel back to starboard, knifing into
the wake of the purple jet boat.

When Randy Davis saw the Bay Liner turn left toward
shore, he decided to get up ahead of them and see why. It
didn’t take long to find out. Even at a distance, he could
recognize Jenny’s blond hair and figure on the beach. She
was holding some man’s hand, standing there watching two
other people laying on the ground. It was probably some
other couple laying the sand, fucking, rutting on the ground
like pigs! The tendons on his neck were standing out rigid
with fury.
Whore! Slut!
The throttle on the jet boat was still wide open, the engine whining like a mad hornet.
Randy used his broken right hand to steady the wheel as
he grabbed the shotgun in his left hand and chambered a
shell with a jerk. He laid the muzzle over the small windscreen, grabbed the pistol grip, fingered the trigger, and
prepared to fire.
She gets it first, he decided. He wouldn’t have time to
pump another round. If he missed, he’d hit her with the
boat. Hell, he thought as he spat a wad of spittle mixed with
blood over the side—he’d hit her with boat whether the
Mossberg did its work or not.
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A hundred yards to go.
A mad, wide-eyed, ear-to-ear grin spread across his
face.
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CHAPTER 49
Key Biscayne, Florida
There was a two-mast sailboat anchored in Farley’s
line-of-sight to the south, which prevented him from seeing
the approach of the Bay Liner and the purple jet boat. Yet
when the jet boat turned left and began heading perpendicular to the shore at full speed, it caught his attention. He had
been standing at the wheel of the boat with a pair of highpowered binoculars in hand, watching the events on the
beach as he listened to what transpired on his radio.
Actually it was the high-pitched whine of the jet boat’s
engine and its fast-paced slap against the waves that drew
his glance to the left. At first he just dismissed it as some
brainless teenager hot-rodding his ski boat, fully expecting
the boat to make another ninety degree turn about a hundred yards from shore. But it didn’t. It kept flying straight
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for the party standing at the water’s edge.
Farley turned his binoculars on the purple boat for a
better look. When he got a good look at the driver, and saw
what he was holding across the windscreen, he dropped the
binoculars. They bounced hard against his chest, suspended
from their leather strap. He grabbed the radio microphone,
keyed it, and began to shout.

Both Ev’s and Tim’s radios announced simultaneously
in Farley’s frantic voice, “Incoming, incoming, he’s got a
gun, repeat, got a gun.”
Ev and Jenny wheeled around at the approaching sound
of an engine. Walter was still craning his head back in the
sand. Upside-down he could see the low point of a bow
bearing down right on him, and moving fast. His left hand
went to work frantically trying to roll a listless Jeffrey
Manning off of him.
On the fourth floor of the concrete high-rise, Tim’s
cross-hair covered image of Walter’s exposed throat lifted
up to sight the incoming speed boat. He could see the man
behind the wheel, bloody and bruised. The boat was within
a hundred yards off shore. He saw the shotgun aimed at the
people on the beach. There was no time to think, just act.
Tim’s thumb threw the selection switch on his AR-15 back
to full automatic, and his forefinger squeezed the trigger.
Down on the beach, all Ev could think about was protecting the people he cared about. As he heard the drilling
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pops of automatic gunfire from overhead, he shoved Jenny
as hard as he could, sending her sprawling in the sand up
the beach. She hadn’t hit the wet sand before Ev’s hands
were on Jeff’s bound wrists, dragging him off of Walter
Clark. Walter was trying to roll in the opposite direction
and sight his weapon on the boat.
He should have kept rolling.
On full-automatic fire, the rifle scope was no good,
unless one wanted a black eye. Therefore, Tim just sprayed
at the windscreen. Fiberglass was chewed to bits, from the
bow to the Plexiglas, opening wide holes in the boat and
eventually tearing through the boat’s driver.
Jenny felt the sting of wet sand slap the side of her face,
rolling twice into the edge of the surf. Her head snapped
back in the direction of the roaring noise. Still at full speed,
the jet boat slammed into the shore’s shallow bottom of
sand and went airborne. She saw its driver—it was
Randy—just as the small explosions crushing and splintering the front of the boat tore through the small angled windshield and riddled his body.
She began to scream, but no one heard it.
Blossoms of red sprang forth from Randy’s stomach,
chest, neck and face, sending him staggering back from the
wheel. To Jenny, it all looked like it was happening in slow
motion: the boat flying up out of the cresting waves, its
bow leaning back, sailing through the air, even as it and its
sole occupant were being torn apart.
Walter Clark could do little more than cover his head
with his arms as the long, triangular shaped shadow loomed
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over him.
The boat’s trajectory was changed from horizontal to
almost vertical by the impact with the slope of the shore. As
Ev dragged his son from beneath the descending shadow of
the craft returning to earth, he had the strangest recollection
of the old Johnny Quest cartoon, of the hydroplaning speed
boat hitting a fallen section of driftwood, ricocheting into
the air, and then landing on a small boat with two evil
henchmen in scuba gear sitting inside cowering. Ev’s last
image of the man known as Walter Clark was doing just the
same. The boat’s hull exploded on top of him in a shower
of fiberglass fragments.
As the boat crashed down, before that first scream was
all the way out of her mouth, Jenny Davis’ last image of
Randy Davis was his lifeless and shredded body flopping to
the rear of the boat and falling backward as the long, black
shotgun discharged in his hand.
A wrenching scream of agony came from above.
Ev heard the scream and looked up. Simultaneously, he
could hear another scream of terror coming from the radio
speaker, still stuffed in the back of his belt.
“No! No! No!” came Farley’s anguished cries through
the radio, over and over and over.
Ev winced as the rifle from above clattered into the
sand a few yards from him. Above him, standing on the
ledge that would one day be a balcony for a fourth floor
condominium, stood Tim. The upper right half of his face
was gone.
Jenny looked up and screamed again, as a large foamy
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wave washed around her.
Ev couldn’t move. His son’s bound wrists were still in
his hands. Jeff lay at his feet, his eyes still dull and shiny,
the black of his pupils as wide as pennies, despite the harsh
brightness of the sun. Ev’s eyes stayed on Tim above. His
lower jaw was working up and down as cups of blood
poured out of what was left of his mouth. His legs were
trembling, both hands twitching and jerking randomly. One
foot shot forward in a zombie-like step, and down he came,
turning one full somersault before landing square on his
back in a cloud of sand.
Ev let go of Jeff’s hands and ran to Tim. It was the most
ghastly thing he’d ever seen in his life. Tim’s left eye, the
one that was still there, was open and looking up at him. It
wasn’t a dead eye, but a living eye, an eye that knew what
had just happened. Ev could hardly see from the tears pouring from his own eyes.
“We’ll get you a doctor,” Ev sobbed, trying to catch one
of Tim’s spasming hands. “Oh, man. Oh, Tim. Oh, God,
look at you. Oh, God, Tim, I’m here. We’re all here. We’ll
call an ambulance. Right now. We’ll get you help!”
Tim’s head shook back and forth slightly, his mouth
gurgling through the blood, “No….” then choking out a
“go” which came out more like “ko.”
Ev could hear weeping from the radio still in the back
of his pants. Then the voice from the speaker saying
through heavy sobs, “Everett…Everett, please…. oh, God,
please tell him…I love him.”
Tim’s hand finally caught Ev’s. Ev was surprised by the
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strength left in the grip. Their gaze met.
Ev could hardly get the words out, “He loves you. We
all love you.” Ev’s tears were falling from his chin and
raining down on Tim’s face. “I can’t believe what you’ve
done. Thank you so much. Thank you sooooo much.”
And the grip in his hand went lax.
The eye grew still.
Over his shoulder, Ev heard Jenny sobbing.
The fingers of his right hand lovingly smoothed through
Tim’s blond hair and stopped, cupping his left ear. Through
a grief he never knew existed, as his heart broke, with
trembling lips and a quivering chin, Everett Manning
leaned down and tenderly kissed a bloody cheek.
At that moment he wasn’t sure exactly why he did it.
He never gave it a second thought. It was just the right
thing to do. Yes, it was a veritable stranger’s cheek—yet to
Everett, in that moment, it was a hero’s cheek. A soldier’s
cheek. A soldier who had done his duty and given all that
could be given. And with that one small gesture, he bid a
briefly known, but never-to-be-forgotten friend farewell.
The painful sobs began to tear at his ribs and stomach
muscles.
Jenny’s fresh screams of alarm spun Ev’s head to his
left.
“More of them are coming,” she yelled.
“Get out of there!” Ev heard Farley’s voice commanding. “Don’t you dare let what he did be for nothing, damn
you. Move!”
Ev was back on his feet, his heart thundering in his
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chest. He grabbed Tim’s rifle off the sand and slung it
across his back by its strap, then ran to Jeff and pulled him
to his feet. Jenny scooped the Hartman briefcase up in her
hands and ran to Ev.
Ev reached behind his back and grabbed the radio as he
looked off shore. A large, white cabin cruiser was about a
hundred and fifty yards away, bearing toward shore, and
moving fast. A man and a woman were on the front deck
with weapons drawn, pointed in their direction.
“What do we do?” Ev keyed the radio talk button,
“Take the car?”
“No,” Farley replied, doing his best to stifle his own
sobs and think clearly, “If they know where you are, they
probably have lots of company coming. Get to the water
bike. It’s just up the beach. It should be able to outrun that
damn fishing boat.”
“Got it,” Ev replied, then said to Jenny, “Help me with
him. Please.”
They each took one of Jeff Manning’s armpits and
started dragging him down the beach, moving as fast as
they could.

Donny yelled, “I can’t get any closer without running
aground.”
Yvette called back to him, “They’re running up the
beach. Three of them. The woman has the briefcase. I can
see it. Stay parallel to the shore.”
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“Right!” Donny called back, turning the boat north and
hoping not to hit any sand bars. The transparent waters
made the bottom appear dangerously close.
Marty was still shaking his head in awe, “Did you see
that boat hit the beach?”
Yvette nodded, with only a slight sense of satisfaction.
They had been close enough to see the two men laying on
the ground. She could only presume one of them had to
have been the late Walter Clark, the other most likely
Jimmy’s son. She saw it all happen, right down to that idiot, presumably the late Mr. Davis, crushing his boat down
on top of Walter Clark. However, she had no idea who the
gunman was up in the condo, but was glad he was no
longer in the equation as well. Half the mission was now
complete. Just retrieve the briefcase and tie up a few loose
ends, and everything was going to be taken care of quite
nicely, thank you very much.
She turned to Marty, “Did you get through to the Coast
Guard?”
He nodded, “They’re on their way, and don’t have far to
come.”
“Perfect,” she snapped.

The Bay Liner was still over a hundred yards off-shore
and about two hundred yards south when Ev, Jenny, and
Jeff reached the Yamaha water cycle.
“You ever drive one of these things?” Jenny asked Ev,
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still doing her best to compose herself between sniffs and
sobs and staggered breaths.
“No, have you?” he replied.
“Yep. All the time back at the lake,” she said, wiping
her eyes. “But we have to get it into the water. Help me.”
Jenny and Ev sat Jeff on the middle of the long purple
seat and then pushed the craft out into the shallows, fighting the rise and fall of the surf. Jenny climbed on the bike
behind the wheel with the Hartman leather briefcase slipped
under her butt. She turned the key Tim had left behind and
hit the red starter button. The bubbles started frothing behind them as Ev climbed on the back, the rifle on his back
clattering against the back of the seat. He reached around
Jeff’s waist, lacing his own arms beneath Jeff’s arms, and
grabbed handfuls of Jenny’s shirt. She didn’t have to wait
to be told what to do next.
The water cycle cut a wide arc and headed out to sea at
a forty-five degree angle from the beach, bearing due northeast.
Over his right shoulder Ev could see the two people on
the front deck of the Bay Liner jumping up and down and
pointing frantically at them.
Jenny saw them too. She turned the water bike away
from them, heading more north, moving full throttle. They
bounced hard over several waves. Ev thought surely he
would loose his grip and fall into the ocean, but somehow
managed to hang on. In a matter of seconds, he was
drenched from the spray. Fortunately, the further away from
shore they drove, the more the ride smoothed out.
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Ev thought he could hear something, like someone talking. He realized it was the radio. He risked letting go with
one hand and pulling the radio out of his belt and held it to
his ear.
Farley’s voice was shouting, “No, no, not north. Head
east, out to sea. Straight out from shore. Straight out. Turn
right. Turn right. Get as far away as you can from all the
other boats.”
Ev stuffed the radio back down in his belt, then reached
forward again and jerked on Jenny’s shirt with his right
hand.
Jenny glanced back and saw him pointing to the right.
She nodded, and powered the craft hard to starboard.
The Bay Liner made a similar maneuver.

Yvette was leaning on the chrome gunwale, both hands
steadying her pistol, waiting to get in range. “You have a
shot?”
Marty shook his head, “No, but if we can just wing one
of them, they should stop. And then it’s over.”
Yvette turned to him, cold as ice, “Those aren’t your
orders, Special Agent Peelinar. I only want the briefcase.
No loose ends. No prisoners. Is that clearly understood?”
Marty just swallowed hard, the wind whipping through
his hair, as the Bay Liner appeared to be gaining on the water cycle.
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
“They’re getting closer!” Everett yelled above the roar
of the water bike.
Jenny nodded, turning her head and shouting, “I’ve got
it wide open. It doesn’t go as fast with this many people on
it.”
“Where the hell is Farley?” Ev shouted back.
She just shrugged and kept going.
Ev grabbed the radio again, “Farley, where are you?”
The voice came back, “I’ll be there. You just keep your
head down and keep going as fast as you can.”

“A little more,” Yvette said out loud. “Just a little
closer.”
“Why do they have to die?” Marty asked her. “Let’s just
bust ‘em. There’s no way they know what they have.”
She looked at him with utter contempt, hissing, “Because I said so, that’s why.”
The gap was now only seventy-five yards.
Marty looked out at the water cycle. His stomach was
churning. This was all wrong. He pointed his pistol in the
general direction of the water bike and fired twice, careful
not to even come close with his rounds. The bike instantly
went into a wide serpentine maneuver, swinging back and
forth, as he knew it undoubtedly would.
Yvette’s head jerked to him, “What the hell did you do
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that for?”
Marty smiled at her, “Just wanted to make it sporting.”

On the beach by the concrete shell of condominiums,
near the body of a dead man, lay another man, who had
crawled out from a pile of fiberglass rubble. He suspected
at least one of his lower vertebrae was crushed, his legs
numb and useless, several ribs broken, pelvis shattered, and
undoubtedly numerous internal injuries. The thick, bitter
taste of iron was in his mouth. He knew he didn’t have
much time. About all that was working were his arms, and
his head. If it hadn’t been for the soft sand, he would have
been crushed flat like a bug under a boot.
Through the pain all he could think of was that there
still might be time.
He dragged himself over to the dead body of Everett’s
unknown gunman. He could hear the fragmented conversation of Manning with someone else. His hand found the radio in the dead man’s breast pocket of his coveralls. He had
seen Everett and the blond and a boy run off down the
beach. He had also seen the Bay Liner cruise by in hot pursuit, just as he was pulling himself free of the shattered boat
hull. He saw the redheaded woman on the bow, and immediately recognized her. Indeed, his lover was one of his pursuers, but now he doubted seriously more than ever that she
was in the FBI.
There was very little time left to do what he had to do.
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He tuned the radio to a frequency he knew was commonly used by the FBI and keyed the talk button, rasping
out, “Hello. FBI. Calling the FBI. Can you hear me?”
A voice replied, “Who is this on this frequency? Identify yourself.”
He keyed the button again, locking it in place to conserve the little strength he had left in his hand, “Are you
one of the men on the fishing boat chasing the little SeaDoo?”
The voice replied with surprise, “Yes, who is this?”
“Are you FBI?” Walter asked.
“Yes,” came the reply, “Special Agent Donald Mellor.”
“But of course, Agent Mellor,” Walter coughed up a
wad of bloody phlegm, “Good to finally meet you. I’m
sorry I stood you up in Washington.”
“Clark?” came Donny’s voice. “Is that you?”
Walter took in a painful wheezing breath, “No time for
chit-chat, Mellor. Seconds count. Just listen. Have you been
contacted by a 307?”
“Yes,” Donny answered. “Commander Yvette Monroe.
She’s with us now.”
His worst fear was confirmed. But why hadn’t he
guessed that? She was a 307, like himself. The sudden realization and significance of their one-night-tryst wasn’t
lost on him. His laughter, coming out in a strained wheeze,
was so painful it almost made him pass out. But there was
no more time for laughter. Only to finish what he started.
Donny replied, “Why? Do you know her?”
Walter swallowed another bloody glob. He was starting
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to fade, “Mellor, listen to me…whatever you do…don’t let
her get my briefcase. You have to get it to Daniels…or the
Secret Service…they’ll know what to do with it…NSA can
break the crypto locks. It’s only a fifty-six bit key. But keep
it away from Monroe…Kill her if you have to…If she gets
it first…then you, and whoever is with you…are dead. You
got that?”
“Why?” Donny asked.
“You…you first thought it was just the termination case
files for Daniels…but then…you probably were told I was
bringing in stolen warhead launch codes…or some shit like
that…didn’t you?” Walter wheezed.
“That’s what she told us, yesterday,” Donny replied.
“Fumbled football, for tactical shit already in country and
ready to go bang.”
“Wrong…they always use that one. Sorry to tell you
this, sport, but…she lied.” Walter coughed, his eyes going
wide as a hard seizure ripped though him.
The line went silent.
Donny pleaded, “Clark, are you there? Are you there?”
The pain wracking his body mutated into a numbness
subsiding slowly until Walter was finally able to take another breath. He didn’t think he had many left. So as
quickly as he could, he told Donny Mellor what was really
in his briefcase.
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FINALE
The Hamster’s Last Stand
They must needs go whom the Devil drives.
Cervantes, Don Quixote, 1615
Must we kill to prevent there being any
wicked? This is to make both parties wicked
instead of one.
Pascal, Pensees, 1670
We kill everybody, my dear. Some with bullets, some with words, and everybody with
our deeds. We drive people into their graves,
and neither see it nor feel it.
Maxim Gorky, Enemies, 1906
It isn’t important who comes out on top,
what matters is to be the one who comes out
alive.
Bertold Brecht, Jungle of the Cities, 1924
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CHAPTER 50
Atlantic Ocean
“Fuck you,” Yvette spat at Marty, then promptly turned
her attention back toward the speeding water cycle. Her
hand drifted back and forth, following the zigzagging
craft—just another target at an arcade.
She squeezed off one round.

Everett Manning was doing all he could to not fall off
the back of the water bike when the burning lance hit his
right shoulder. Yet is was Jeff who screamed.
Ev saw a red spot on Jeff’s right shoulder blade. “Oh,
my God. Jeff! Jeff!”
Jeff rocked back, wincing in pain, his head leaning back
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on his father’s shoulder, his eyes screwed down tight. It
was only then that Ev realized how much his own shoulder
was on fire. He pushed Jeff up a few inches and saw the
bleeding exit wound on the front of his right arm, just below his shoulder.
He yelled to Jenny, “We’ve been shot! We’ve been
shot!”
She was just shaking her head, trying to zigzag even
more.
There was nothing Ev could do for the moment but
hang on, waiting for the next round to strike.

The radio had been silent for several moments.
Donny Mellor concluded that the man he had been talking to on the radio was now dead, or would be very soon.
And he also knew what he now had to do. His dilemma was
how to do it without losing what he knew he now had to get
his hands on. He pulled out his own gun, released the
safety, and aimed it at the back of Yvette Monroe’s head.
Yvette was looking down the sight of her own pistol at
the water cycle. She could see the blood dripping down the
back of Jimmy’s right arm. In another three seconds they’d
be close enough for her to get a clean head shot.
Her finger tightened on the trigger.
Donny’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Two shots were fired simultaneously—the same instant
as the impact—just as the world, as seen on the Bay Liner,
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went awry.

The sheer power of a forty-seven foot vessel moving at
over a hundred miles an hour would have been enough to
capsize most other water craft in its wake alone. But Farley
was taking no chances.
He had brought the Cigarette boat around full speed in a
wide circle, coming up behind the Bay Liner, two hundred
yards astern, but careful to stay about fifty yards to its port
side, so as to remain in the captain’s blind spot. As soon as
he saw the tall Italian agent take a shot at the Yamaha water
cycle, he knew it was time to make his move. All three
throttles were thrown wide open. Not even the sound of the
powerful engines would get there ahead of the boat.
“Ramming speed,” Farley grunted, with a vague
thought of Captain Nemo.
He measured the attack angle by sight, leading the Bay
Liner like a quarterback would lead a receiver on a crossing
route. The Cigarette boat flew across the bow of the Bay
Liner at almost a fifteen-degree angle of cut off, so it was a
glancing blow. Yet it was hard enough to sheer a four foot
section of fiberglass off the Bay Liner’s hull before capsizing it to starboard.
“That was for Tim,” he murmured to himself.
Farley never even looked back, just gazed to his left at
the zigzagging water cycle. In less than five seconds, he had
throttled back and pulled ahead of it. He could see Jenny’s
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eyes. They were full of panic. When she saw it was Farley
at the wheel, she turned and headed straight for him.
Idling, Farley ran to the stern as the Yamaha pulled
close.
“On the back!” he yelled, pointing to the stern platform.
She nodded and drove the bike up along the rear. Farley
was pushing a button and an electric motor was lifting the
water bike out of the water with its slow, mechanical arms.
“Help me get them off,” she said to Farley. “They’re
both hurt.”
“Oh, my God,” he exclaimed, his face red and puffy
from weeping.
Jenny jumped off into the boat, tossing the briefcase on
the rear deck. Ev was breathing hard, holding his own
wound with his left hand, and pressing his right hand on to
his son’s in an effort to stop the bleeding. Tim’s rifle was
still slung across his back. Farley and Jenny were able to
get Jeff off the bike and into the boat. Jeff was still in great
pain, but alive. There was no exit wound on him. His
breathing was wet and congested, misting out in atomized
droplets of blood. Ev fell into the boat. His face was pale.
Farley turned to Jenny, “I have a first-aid kit below.”
“Get it,” Jenny insisted, “Then we have to get them to a
doctor, and fast.”
Farley disappeared down the narrow half-flight of polished mahogany stairs.
Jenny stood up in horror anew when she heard sirens.
Two sirens. One blast was coming from her left, to the
north, and another just like it, to her right, from the south.
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She looked both ways. Large white ships trimmed in orange
were closing in fast.
“Farley!” she screamed. “We’re in big trouble! Get your
ass up here!”
He came bounding back up the stairs, tossing Jenny a
plastic blue box with a white shield and red cross on it.
“You take care of them. I’ll take care of us.”
The triple Chrysler combination roared to life again.
Not lashed down, the Yamaha water cycle flipped off the
back on its side as the boat lurched forward. Farley didn’t
care.
As the wind picked up around them, Jenny went to
work bandaging Ev and Jeff as best she could. She glanced
over the stern. One of the white ships was stopping near the
overturned Bay Liner. The other was turning toward them
in pursuit.
Farley looked over his shoulder, “Come on, sweet baby.
Do your stuff.”
“Won’t this thing outrun them?” Jenny called to Farley.
He shrugged, “It can outrun their boats. It can’t outrun
their cannons or their helicopters.”

One second Donny Mellor was about to put a bullet in
the brain of a traitor to the United States, and the next second he was underwater. It all happened so fast. There was
barely any sensation of real movement, just the G-force of
impact with the sea. They had been traveling forward at
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about forty knots, when something brown and huge loomed
by on the left, and the boat just spiraled over to its right like
a football. And the next thing he knew he was in the water.
The sunlight above helped him find the surface. He came
up gasping for air, his lungs burning.
About ten yards away bobbed the overturned hull of the
Bay Liner. Perched on top of it was Marty, climbing to the
peak, soaking wet, coughing and wheezing.
Donny swam over to the edge of the damaged boat.
Marty smiled, “You made it. Glad to see it, Kimosabe.”
“You OK?” Donny asked his partner.
Marty nodded, “Scared the shit out of me, but I’m OK.”
“Where’s Monroe?” Donny asked, doing his best to
climb the upturned boat.
Marty shrugged. “I didn’t see her.”
“Could she be underneath?” Donny asked.
Marty looked at him, “Could be. You want to go look?”
Donny shook his head. “No. If she’s under there, then
it’s for the best.”
“Why?” Marty looked puzzled.
And so Donny told him.
What neither of them saw, for they were facing the opposite way, was that Yvette Monroe had been thrown forward when the boat flipped. She too had gone down deep in
the water, but managed to swim back to the surface with
her gun still clutched in her hand and her purse strap still
tangled around her neck.
When she came up, she saw the Cigarette boat stopped
about two hundred feet away, loading the water cycle on its
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stern and taking on its passengers. She stuck her pistol in
her waterlogged purse and began swimming for the boat.
It took off before she could reach it, but not before losing its water cycle.
Donny and Marty might have heard the water cycle’s
engine start up again if it hadn’t been for the approaching
sirens and engines of the Coast Guard cutters. Marty managed to stand up on the hull and wave his arms, flagging
one of them down.
With the Yamaha back up to full speed, Yvette raced to
intercept the other Coast Guard cutter. The ship was moving a lot faster than her water cycle, but it was coming toward her, not away from her. The boat had tried to steer
clear of her, sounding its horn, but she bore down on it,
heading straight for the rungs of the ladder mounted on its
starboard side. She knew she wouldn’t get a second chance
to do what she had in mind.
With water spraying into her face she veered the water
bike for an angled collision course, and within the last ten
feet, she jumped. The Yamaha slammed into the ship and
crumpled.
One hand caught an iron rung.
Her body was being pulled along in the waves, bounced
and pounded, dragged and thrashed. In the next three seconds she was either going to get another hand on the rung
or drop off and drown.
With all the strength she had left, she knifed her right
hand out of the water and caught the bar, pulling herself
forward. Her left hand shot up and grabbed the next rung
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and her head came out of the water. She gasped for air.
A strong hand closed around her wrist.
Yvette looked up into the eyes of a young man wearing
blue denim pants and shirt, and an orange life jacket. A
webbed, black safety harness was cinched around his waist,
tethered with thick nylon ropes from above. Many more
curious young male faces peered over the side of the ship
above.
The young man hauled her up out of the water, yelling
down at her above the rush of the water, “Ma’am, you’re in
a whole lot of trouble.”
She hung on, “Just get me topside, sailor.”
Once over the side, she stood breathing hard, coughing
up salt water, dripping a wide puddle at her feet. Several
security troops stood on either side of her.
An officer with gold shoulder boards came up to her,
“Miss, what did you think you were doing?”
She reached into her purse as water spilled out of it. She
held up her blue 307 ID badge in the captain’s face, “I think
I’m taking command of this vessel, Captain. Order your
pilot to give chase to that brown speeder out there and prepare to open fire with your forward guns.”
The other sailors standing around started to laugh.
The captain wasn’t laughing. His eyes were on the ID
badge. “Do what she says, men. On the double.”
One of the men stammered, “What? Sir, are you serious?”
“You heard me, Mister,” the captain bellowed.
The men scattered.
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Yvette turned toward the stern and saw the helicopter
parked on the rear pad. “That thing ready to go?”
“Always,” the captain nodded.
“Then get me a pilot,” she ordered. “And I mean now!”
“Yes, ma’am,” the captain lifted a radio to his lips and
gave the orders.

“Cannons and helicopters?” Jenny wasn’t quite sure if
that’s what Farley had really said.
Farley didn’t hear her.
A few moments later her question was answered without having to be asked again. She lifted her head in time to
see the puff of gray smoke on the bow of the white ship,
and then heard the roar of thunder. A whistling sound approached, followed by an exploding tower of water shooting up about ten yards to the right of their boat, the sea
water spraying almost a hundred feet into the air.
Farley turned the wheel and started a graceful zigzag.
Another cough of thunder preceded a second whine of
an incoming projectile. This time the detonation of water
was close enough to shower all four individuals on the aft
deck of the Cigarette boat with the cold spray.
Farley shuddered, but kept his eyes forward.
“That was close!” Jenny yelled.
“Too close,” Ev added.
“You sit still,” she looked into Ev’s eyes, then ventured
a peek over the stern.
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Ev looked at Jeff. His eyes had drifted shut, but he was
still breathing.
“Oh, shit,” Jenny whined, looking far behind them.
“What is it now?” Ev lifted himself up and took a look
for himself over the stern.
Even as the bow of the white ship was getting smaller,
the white helicopter that lifted off of its rear was getting
nearer.
Ev turned to Farley, “Are those things armed?”
Farley looked over his shoulder, and saw the approaching gunship. He nodded slowly, “To the teeth.”
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CHAPTER 51
Atlantic Ocean
Donny Mellor and Marty Peelinar were on the bridge of
the other Coast Guard cutter, soaked to the skin, but
wrapped in blue wool blankets. The Captain had joined his
boat in the chase. When the forward guns of the sister ship
opened fire, everyone standing on the bridge was surprised.
“Why are they shooting?” Donny asked.
The Captain, who identified himself as Jim Thompson,
a tall, slender silver-haired man, shrugged, “I’d suspect
warning shots to try and get them to stop.”
They all saw the next round almost score a direct hit.
Marty huffed, “That’s a pretty severe warning.”
Captain Thompson went over to the communications
console and pressed some buttons, activating a secure shipto-ship communications channel, “Sea Wolf, this is Mari459
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ner, come back.”
A voice came over a speaker, “Mariner, we copy.”
“Sea Wolf, this is Captain Thompson. Why are you firing on that boat?”
“Jim, this is Carl,” came the voice of the other ship’s
captain. “We have orders to engage.”
“Whose orders?” Thompson asked.
“307 orders,” the other captain responded.
Donny was almost shouting, “She’s on that boat?”
“Who?” Thompson looked over at him.
“Commander Monroe,” Marty answered.
Thompson leaned to the radio microphone again, “Carl,
is the 307 a female, a Commander Monroe?”
“Affirmative,” the voice replied.
Donny dropped his blanket and walked over, his clothes
still soaking wet and dripping. “You’ve got to stop her. She
only wants to kill those people to get something they have.”
Captain Jim Thompson frowned at Donny, discretely
lowering his voice, “Well, Agent Mellor, you have a Top
Secret security clearance just like I do. And you know as
well as I do that if a 307 wants to kill anyone, they’ve got
an Executive Order that authorizes them to do it, no questions asked. I’m sure she has her reasons. And if she needs
our help, then we’re bound by that same order to fully
comply with any and all resources at our disposal. As I recall, violation of that order is a capital offense. Or did I forget some part of it that makes some kind of exceptions?”
Marty walked over to the captain too, with his blanket
still around his shoulders, “No, but you don’t understand.
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She’s out of sanction.”
Captain Thompson raised his eyebrows, “Come again?”
Donny lowered his voice, “She had all of us working to
catch these people on a threat of a stolen football.”
The captain looked shocked, “Those people have hot
launch codes?”
Marty shook his head, “No they don’t.”
“What then?” the captain demanded.
Donny answered him, “For starters, they’ve got detailed
case files of every sanctioned personnel termination committed over the last thirty-five years by the 307 branch. All
the how, when, where, and why.”
Jim Thompson shrugged, “Right. That’s what the 307’s
do. They clean up our country’s messes and take out the
garbage. We all know it goes on, we just keep quiet about
it. So she’s getting back classified information of the most
sensitive nature. I could see where that could be as damaging to national security as access to a nuclear weapon.”
Donny nodded, “Yes, especially when you find out that
many of the names on the list were prominent American
citizens, from key business and industry leaders, outspoken
politicians, embarrassing celebrities, inconvenient judges,
right on up to civil rights leaders, a senator, and even a sitting President.”
“No,” Thompson stared in disbelief. “I can’t believe
that.”
Donny continued, “Marty and I were supposed to meet
the man who originally had this information, and bring him
to the U.S. Attorney’s office—alive. We weren’t privy to
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what specific information he had, but the man just filled us
in before he died on that beach over there a few minutes
ago.”
The captain still wasn’t convinced, “Come on. You’re
taking the word of a dying man. He could be lying his ass
off.”
Donny took a deep breath, “That’s not the punch line,
that’s only the warm up for the main event. That information was only for credibility to what was really going down.
The man on the beach died because he wanted out. He
wanted out because he couldn’t carry out his last assignment…” He looked at Marty for a second, then faced the
captain again, his voice grave, “…executive assassination
orders.”
Captain Thompson raised a hand to interrupt.
Before the captain could say anything, Donny continued, “And I don’t mean some Third World blow hard, I
mean terminating of the current President of the United
States, along with the Vice President, so the balance of
power in our government would change. That couple out
there on that boat has the details of who it is that doesn’t
like our current administration, when the attempt was going
to be done, how it was to be done, who the key insiders in
the Secret Service are that would let it be done, everything.”
“Preposterous,” Captain Thompson was appalled.
Marty jumped in, “Our man was trying to get this information to the U.S. Justice department to shut down the
307 operation before they gave the assignment to another
one of their terminators and carried it out.”
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Three men just stared at each other, measuring glances.
Captain Jim Thompson leaned toward the goose-neck
microphone, “You get all that, Carl?”
“Affirmative,” came back the other captain’s reply.
“I’ve already ordered the gunners to cease fire and order
arms.”
“Can you detain Commander Monroe until we can sort
all of this out and find out whether these two guys are full
of shit or not?” Captain Thompson asked.
“Negative, Jim,” the voice replied. “She’s airborne in a
gunship, heading for the speed boat.”
“Can’t you recall it?” Captain Thompson asked.
“No,” the voice came back, “She’s in command of the
aircraft right now. I only command a boat. I’m sorry. Until
we have solid verification of what these men are telling
you, Jim, she’s within her authority to take out that little
speed boat, and anybody on it. There’s nothing we can do.
Those people are on their own.”
Captain Thompson looked at Marty and Donny, switching off the communications link, making a gut decision,
“You two assholes better be right about all of this, or we’re
all dead.” He turned to his executive officer, “Fire up the
chopper.” He looked back at Donny and Marty, “Come on.
You guys are coming with me.”

The helicopter was gaining fast on the Cigarette boat.
Yvette saw that the boat straightened out its course after it
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got out of range of the Cutter’s guns. Moving at over a
hundred miles an hour, it cut a long white wake in the deep
blue waters, like the vapor trails behind a jet in a clear blue
sky. The chopper could do well over a hundred and twenty.
“Take me alongside,” Yvette commanded the pilot.
He nodded and the aircraft pitched forward at even a
steeper angle to catch up, leveling as it drew closer.
Yvette unbuckled herself from the co-pilot seat and
climbed between the two front seats back to the gunner’s
station. She opened the side door and slid it back. Stiff,
pounding wind ripped through the cabin. She turned the
fifty-caliber machine gun out the port side door and
checked the belt feed. Satisfied, she set the bolt, removed
the safeties and squeezed off a couple of rounds to ensure it
was working properly.
In her headset she heard the pilot’s voice, “Don’t you
want to try and radio down to the boat and order it to stop?”
She lifted the boom microphone in front of her lips,
“They know what we want. And they’re not stopping. You
drive. I’ll take care of business. Get me in as close as you
can for a clean shot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
The helicopter was about a quarter of a mile back, closing rapidly, changing course slightly, easing to the right, to
provide a clear broadside opportunity.

Ev and Jenny saw the helicopter coming.
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A few moments earlier they had taken Jeff below decks
and laid him in one of the lower berths. The boat slept six.
Farley had some pain killers in the first aid kit and they
managed to get one down Jeff’s throat. Still wheezing, he
was resting comfortably but needed to get to a doctor immediately before he drowned on his own blood.
“They’re not going to let us get away,” Jenny lamented.
“Are they?”
“Aren’t we in international waters by now?” Ev asked
Farley.
He called back from the wheel, “They don’t seem to be
too concerned about that.”
“So what do we do?” Ev asked. “Just give up?”
Farley shook his head, “I don’t get the impression they
want to take us to jail.”
“Are you sure?” Jenny asked.
That’s when the gunship opened fire. A trail of splashes
in the water pinged toward the boat. Farley saw it and
swung hard to port. A clear miss on that pass. Overhead,
the chopper banked to come around again.
“Yes, I’m sure!” Farley yelled. He looked at Ev, “Here,
come take the wheel.”
Ev moved over behind the helm.
Farley picked up Tim’s rifle laying on the rear deck and
switched off the safety. “Here they come again.”
“What do you want me to do?” Ev shouted.
“Just listen. Keep her straight right now,” Farley replied. “If I say left or right, you turn. But do it easy, like. At
this speed, if you throw them rudders over too hard, we turn
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into a whole lot of wet kindling.”
“Wonderful,” Ev looked ahead at the open sea.
Jenny kept her eyes on the helicopter, as did Farley.
It swooped in about twenty-five feet off the water, only
thirty yards off the starboard side. The machine gun began
blinking flame and gray smoke, coughing crisp reports.
Farley barely had time to hit the deck, dragging Jenny
with him, as wood and splinters were chewed out of the
starboard side of the boat. He prayed one of those hot
rounds didn’t find the fuel tanks. Ev just ducked between
the wheel and the seat behind it. He shut his eyes tight
when the windshield above him exploded and showered
him with chips of glass.
Just as the chopper completed its second pass, Farley
came up over the rail, shouldering the AR-15 and firing,
full automatic. Sparks flew from the side and rear of the
helicopter as it banked to its right to come around one more
time.
“That’s no good,” Ev yelled. “It’s armored. You’re just
wasting ammunition.”
“I know, but I’m running out of ideas,” Farley shouted
back.
Ev frowned, chewing one of his nails, “I have one.”

As the helicopter banked right again, Yvette couldn’t
see the speed boat until they had almost completed a full
three hundred and sixty degree turn. When they came back
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around, she was somewhat surprised by what she saw.
The speed boat was stopped, sitting idle in the water on
a reasonably calm sea.
“Come up close,” she ordered the pilot. “Maybe we
nicked her engines.”
The boat’s two small flagpoles were stationed on either
rear corner of the boat, like small, three foot tall outriggers.
On one of them hung a dirty white tee-shirt, a sign of surrender. That made Yvette smile. On the other, next to an
American flag, hung the Hartman briefcase.
“Ah,” she laughed to herself in delight, “They’ve decided to acquiesce to the inevitable. A surrender. Excellent.”
This would be over soon.
She could also see that on the previous pass, her gun
had chewed a line of large holes in the right side of the
boat. Some of them were at or just below the waterline.
That meant the boat was probably taking on water fast and
wouldn’t be above the surface much longer. That, in turn,
meant that she had to get to the briefcase before it was
dragged to the bottom with the sinking boat.
“Bring me in real close,” she ordered again. “I want the
skid of this thing sitting on the stern.”
The pilot nodded and began easing the helicopter toward the boat, sideways, perpendicular to the stern. Yvette
kept the fifty-caliber machine gun trained on the opening
that led from the rear deck to the cabin below. At the first
sign of movement she was prepared to open fire.
The helicopter closed the gap.
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When they were only ten feet off the water, with the
rotors pushing the waves back in flat, concentric circles,
Yvette stepped away from the machine gun and grabbed her
pistol from her purse, clutching it in her right hand.
The helicopter eased ever closer. Its left skid drew
within five feet of the rear of the boat. Yvette motioned to
the pilot to draw closer still. This was all too easy. Just grab
the briefcase and then let mother nature do the rest.
She eased forward, sitting on the edge of the open side
door, reaching down with her left foot for the skid. When
she felt something solid beneath her, she transferred her
pistol to her left hand and used her right hand to grab the
door frame. At no time did she take her eyes off the dark
passageway down below, nor avert the muzzle of her gun.
The helicopter settled down a little lower, its left skid
actually bumping the rear of the boat. The briefcase was
only a few feet away, but she couldn’t reach it. She took off
the headset and tossed it back into the helicopter, and
leaned for the case once more. That’s when Yvette suddenly realized she needed a third hand.
The pilot solved the dilemma for her.
He was able to ease close enough for her to let go with
her right hand, but keep her butt on the bottom edge of the
door frame, both feet on the helicopter’s skid. Her left hand
held her pistol aimed at the open doorway. Her right hand
grabbed for the briefcase yet again.
She caught hold of it, but it didn’t come. She eased her
butt off the edge of the helicopter’s door frame, balancing
precariously on the skid. She yanked the case hard, again
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and again. It stayed fast, and amid the tugging she thought
she heard the faint, yet distinct sound of bells ringing.
Yvette steadied herself by grabbing the end of the flag
mast. She looked down, her eyes going wide to see that the
handle of the briefcase was secured to the flagpole in a very
tight knot of thick white yarn. On the ends of the yarn were
two large decorative jingle-bells, one green, one red.
“Wonderful,” she muttered. “I need a knife.”
Movement to her left.
She fired her weapon twice when a thick gray cloud
came blowing out the passage way. She instantly recognized it as a CO2 fire extinguisher, and the futility of such a
device almost made her laugh.
However, from the noise of the chopper blades, as the
gray and white clouds of gas filled and swirled over the rear
deck, she wasn’t in a position to see or hear the forward
deck hatch fly open.
Farley emerged. He shouldered the AR-15 and sighted
the woman in.
The pilot saw him, but a moment too late.
“Gun,” he cried, accelerating his rotors and pushing
hard over on the stick. Yvette Monroe never heard him.
The AR-15 spewed stuttering fire.
Yvette’s eyes were just raising when she heard the helicopter’s rotor’s accelerate and the skid pitching up beneath
her. Three lancing darts of heat struck her stomach, left
breast, and shoulder. Her instincts were to duck and roll,
but in the next moment she was falling forward through a
cold cloud. Her face impacted hard against polished wood.
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As the helicopter tipped to the right and soared away,
Farley was out of the hatch and running across the top of
the boat. He saw the woman topple forward onto the rear
deck of his boat. He thought he hit her, but he knew he had
to finish the job or they’d never get away. There were only
two people in the helicopter, and without another gunner,
the pilot could do little to stop them from making it to Cuban waters in less than an hour. While it was true they were
taking on water, that would stop as soon as they were back
up to speed and flying over the tops of the waves. The bilge
pumps would take care of the rest.
He ran to the broken windshield, looking down in the
white mist of carbon-dioxide and saw the woman in white,
with green stained knees, laying in a sprawl. She wasn’t
dead. Oh, no, she was moving.
Farley Houston shouldered the rifle and squeezed. The
AR-15 belched fire and copper-jacketed slugs in a deadly
line, coughing spent brass to his right. Wood splinters flew
up from the deck, then blood spots opened up on the
woman’s right leg, hip and pelvis and up her torso.
Her right arm jerked up with something in her hand.

Below decks, Ev still held the fire extinguisher in his
trembling grasp. Shallow gasps rasped in and out between
clenched teeth. A moment ago, as the helicopter roared
away, he had heard the heavy thump of a body falling on
the rear deck, then the sound of frantic feet screeching and
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scooting over the wood, as if someone were attempting to
crawl away. When Farley’s feet disappeared out of the front
hatch, both his and Jenny’s eyes followed the sound of Farley’s heavy foot falls tromping overhead.
They heard the automatic fire of the AR-15, as the pungent aroma of burnt cordite filled the air. Two distinct reports of a small caliber weapon rang out and the AR-15
went silent.
Jenny and Ev looked at each other in mutual wide-eyed
glares of panic when they heard a heavy groan they knew
came from Farley, and then another heavy thump as a body
impacted with the decking above their heads. Something
heavy, metallic and plastic sounding, presumably Farley’s
rifle, clattered against the wood and slid off the boat,
splashing into the water. And then all went silent, save the
lapping of the waves against the sides of the boat.
Ev and Jenny continued to stare at each other, paralyzed. None dared to even breathe. Each of them feared the
worst, especially as far as Farley was concerned, but didn’t
know what to do next. Was the woman dead? Was Farley
hurt or dead? If she was alive, did she still have a gun?
Could they hide?
No, they couldn’t hide. There wasn’t time. Water was
still seeping in through the large bullet holes on the side of
the boat, spitting, peeing, and gurgling. Soon they’d be underwater, and neither Ev nor Jenny had any idea where they
were.
The silence was broken by the hoarse voice of a
woman, yet filled with venom, commanding, “Get out here
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and get me that briefcase, you little shits, or we all drown
together.”
That voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard to
Jenny. She cringed. It reminded her so much of a harsh,
shrill voice she’d heard most of her life, telling her what her
place was in society, what was right, how to act, what was
fittin’-and-proper, to obey without question. It was a voice
she had fled from quite recently for dear life, and never ever
wanted to hear again. Two days ago, it was a voice she
would have felt compelled to blindly obey. But not now.
Everything had changed. She had changed. She’d tasted
freedom, and still wasn’t looking back.
She forced her eyes open and whispered, “Now what?”
Ev was thinking, or trying to, “She has to be hurt, or she
wouldn’t need our help.”
“So what are we going to do?” Jenny’s nostrils were
beginning to flare with each blast of breath.
Ev stood up and looked around. And then he saw it.
On the wall, in a plastic case by the stairs which lead to
the rear deck, was a flare gun. He threw the fire extinguisher on a nearby bunk and ran to the clear plastic case.
Jenny followed, “What are you planning to do with that
thing?”
He broke the barrel open and inserted a cartridge,
closed it, and then handed it to Jenny, whispering close to
her ear, “Not me. You.”
“Me?” Her eyebrows went up.
“Can you do it?” he asked softly, his eyes pleading.
“Come on!” the shrill voice from up the stairs shrieked.
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“That’s an order!”
Jenny winced at the shrillness of the sound, firmly gripping the handle of the gun. She set her teeth and nodded
once.
He didn’t give her time to say anything else, whispering, “When you hear the bells. Just do it.”
She nodded again.
Ev turned and headed up the stairs with his hands raised
in surrender.
“Get out here!” the woman bellowed again, then
coughed and gagged.
Ev slowly emerged from the gangway, calling meekly,
“Whoa! Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot! W…w…we give up.”
The gaze that met him was pure rage, barely controlled
rage, the desperate look of a cornered animal—a cornered,
wounded, animal. He didn’t know if he could do this, but
the thought of his injured son down below and a beautiful
stranger who was counting on him kept him moving forward.
Duty? No. A choice of love.
The woman had pressed herself up against the port side
wall, her head in the corner, half laying on her side, half on
her back. She was alive, but Ev didn’t know how that was
possible. She was covered with blood, more of it oozing
and pumping out of open wounds, made all the more grotesque to behold in contrast to her once-white clothing.
Bone, muscle, sinew, and viscera was visible all over her.
Yet amazingly, her right arm held her trembling pistol
aimed directly at Everett’s face, measuring his every move
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at point blank range.
Heavy streams of blood trailed out of her mouth and
nostrils, which slurred her words, wet and grunting, “Untie
the briefcase, smart guy, and bring it to me.”
“OK,” Ev pushed his hands at her, making his way up
the steps slowly. “Take it easy. I’ll give it to you, and then
we’ll call for help. You need a doctor.”
“Where’s your girlfriend?” Yvette slurped more blood
out of her mouth, which ran down to her upper chest.
Ev reached the top step and moved slowly toward the
corner of the deck on the starboard side, to the flagpole
holding the briefcase. There was no turning back now.
He answered her, “She’s downstairs taking care of my
son. You guys shot him. He needs a doctor too. Real bad.”
“Right,” Yvette bobbed a curt nod, half a voluntary motion, half spasm. “He’ll get to a doctor as soon as I have the
briefcase.”
Ev’s hands reached the white yarn. He held the bells
quiet as he untied it. They had always been for luck, and he
needed all the luck he could get at that moment. The bloody
woman in white’s eyes never left him, nor did the barrel of
the gun. When the strings finally came loose, Ev took the
briefcase down, holding it on either side in both hands,
careful to keep his elbows bent, the case against his chest.
The bells were still nestled in the palm of his left hand. His
right arm was hurting so bad, he feared he’d drop the case
before it was time. The bandage Jenny had put on his
shoulder was soaked a dark crimson, as dark as the shirt of
the woman lying before him. Drops of his own blood
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dripped from his elbow and dotted the deck beside his foot.
“That’s it,” Yvette rasped, her eyes beginning to glaze
and wander. “Nice and easy. Slide it over to me, and
then…get your happy ass…on that radio.”
It was time.
Their eyes met again. And Everett Manning did what he
had to do.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ev said, as he relaxed his left hand and
dropped the bells.
Yvette’s eyes followed them down to the deck. In her
eyes, they descended in a surreal slow-motion, jingling as
they bounced on the splintered wood.
It was just enough distraction.
With both hands Ev heaved the briefcase directly for
her head, like passing a basketball, in line with the muzzle
of the pistol, and then ducked.
Yvette saw the sudden movement and fired.
A hole appeared through the center of the tan leather,
but didn’t stop its progress. All Yvette could do was close
her eyes and brace for impact. The heavy case slammed
into her. She batted it away with her gun hand, dropping the
weapon in the process, which sent it skidding across the
bullet riddled decking.
Those frantic movements prevented her from seeing
someone else charging up the stairs. Just as her eyes were
opening, she saw another puff of gray smoke in her peripheral vision. Something hit her in the throat, just below the
chin. Her last sensation was of intense, hellish heat and
light, consuming her, eating her, torturing her. In her nos475
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trils was the stench of burning flesh and hair.

Everett Manning lay on his right side, his wounded
shoulder screaming in pain. He had seen it all happen. This
was but one more horror to add to the litany.
As he knew she would, Jenny had done her part. It
never even occurred to him that she might chicken out and
leave him up there for dead. From the look in her eye he’d
seen before coming up the stairs, he knew she would come
through. Yes, as soon as the bells hit the deck and the case
left his hands, up she came bolting headlong up the stairs,
holding the bulky flare pistol out in front of her in both
hands. Without hesitation, she had just pointed it and fired.
It’s phosphorescent missile hit the woman in the head
and exploded. Soon the whole corner of the rear deck was
on fire. The woman’s arms and legs were thrashing in the
flames, but soon grew still.
Jenny just stood there, watching the tongues of fire,
with her hands fallen at her sides, eventually letting the
flare pistol slip from her grip and clatter on the deck. In the
back of her mind, the voice, the old voice, the shrieking
voice which sounded so much like her mother, reluctantly
faded away. As the fire consumed the woman on the deck,
so too did it consume the old voice, with its shrill and
plaintive wails, burning it into silence.
From that moment forward, Jenny never heard that
voice again.
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The deck fire also got Ev’s attention. He got to his feet
and bolted past Jenny, back down the stairs, and retrieved
the fire extinguisher. He was back with it in a few seconds,
spraying white clouds on the charred body and deck planks.
The chemical flames didn’t die easy, but eventually succumbed.
When all but a few glowing orange embers remained,
he handed the red canister to Jenny, “Here, keep spraying
this until its all out.”
She nodded, her lips pulled tight inside her teeth, determined not to burst into tears again.
Ev went to the radio and grabbed the microphone. He
keyed the talk-button, “May Day, May Day. We need help.
If someone can hear us. Please! We need help. Someone,
please! We need a doctor. Please, can anybody hear me?”
A voice answered, “This is Captain James Thompson of
the U.S. Coast Guard. We are on route to your location.
Help is on its way. Hold your fire. Repeat. Do not fire upon
us.”
“Are you going to stop shooting at us?” Ev pleaded.
“Please advise the status of Commander Monroe?” the
captain asked.
“If you mean the redheaded lady in white who’s been
trying to kill us…sorry, but she’s dead.” Ev spoke into the
mike, wary of another impending battle, just minutes away.
He was fresh out of ideas.
The captain advised, “If that’s true, then the shooting’s
over, son. Just hang on. Medical help is on its way.”
The radio microphone fell out of Ev’s exhausted hand.
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Inwardly, he was praying what the captain just said was
true. It was over.
But was it?
Ev looked up, and saw Farley’s body laying just beyond
the broken shards of the windshield. His boots were facing
Ev, the soles and heels well-worn. Hot tears filled Ev’s eyes
once more and his chin began to quiver. This was too
much. He was about to just let go and fall into a sobbing
heap when he heard a groan. A chill ran up his spine.
Was he…?
The fingers on Farley’s right hand twitched.
“Oh, my God,” Ev gasped, using the captain’s chair to
climb over the dash and slide over to Farley’s head. He
called back to Jenny, “Jenny, help me. He’s alive! Hurry,
he’s alive. Get the first aid kit!”
The fire extinguisher hit the deck with a metallic clank.
Jenny grabbed the blue plastic box with the red cross on it
that was still sitting on the dash, and raced over to the captain’s chair.
Ev was on his knees at Farley’s side. Farley’s eyes were
open wide, staring up at the sky. A dark bullet hole was in
the left side of his neck, well off-center from his windpipe.
Shiny sheets of blood were oozing out of the hole in thick
pumps, soaking into his shirt, all over his left shoulder and
chest. Ev was thankful the bullet hadn’t hit Farley’s carotid
artery. If it had, blood would have been shooting out in a
three foot geyser. Nevertheless, the bullet had obviously hit
some minor vessels and was bleeding badly enough to require immediate medical attention.
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Ev’s right hand flew down to apply pressure. “Hurry!”
Jenny climbed up on the captain’s chair, as Ev did, and
stepped across the broken windshield, “Here!”
Ev kept his hand firmly in place, “I can’t take it from
you. I gotta hold this or he’ll bleed to death. Just get me out
some gauze, if there’s any left.”
Jenny knelt down and began pawing through the box.
Another deep cut was along Farley’s forehead, heading
over his temple and the top of his ear, scorched black along
the edges. Ev surmised the bullet which had made that deep
gouge was aimed for his forehead, but only managed to
graze him as he spun to the left after impact of the first
shot.
“Oh, my God,” Ev repeated. “Oh, man, can you hear
me?”
Farley’s eyes drifted over to Ev, and blinked twice. A
faint shadow of a smile appeared at the corner of his lips.
He whispered, “Hey, it’s just a scratch. Flesh wound, like
they say in the movies…” His eyes moved over to Jenny as
tears trickled out of the corners of both, “…even with my
head blown off.”
At that exact moment, no one knew why, but simultaneously all three of them burst into laughter. They were still
laughing when the sound of rotor blades thundered above
them.
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CODA
Sixteen Weeks Later
Sugarloaf Key, Florida
Special Agent Donny Mellor sat at the beach-side bar in
Sugarloaf Key sipping a rum and Coke. The bar technically
wasn’t open for business yet that day, but would be in about
fifteen minutes. His wife Terry and their two daughters
were already down on the beach, playing in the waves and
building sandcastles. It was a nice bar, brand new, only
opened for business a week earlier. Sugarloaf Key was convenient to Key West Naval Air Station, where an anonymous federal administrator kept an eye on the new bar and
its two new owners. The quaint seaside tavern had been
completely paid for, exotic Caribbean decorations and all,
with federal dollars from the FBI’s Witness Protection Program.
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Donny smiled at the bar’s proprietor, “You make a nice
drink there, barkeep. You don’t skip on the rum. I like
that.”
The man once called Everett Manning in another life in
what felt like another galaxy far, far away, smiled, “Thanks,
Donny. That one’s on the house. And you know, as long as
you come here, you’re money’s no good.”
Donny Mellor took a sip, “You better be careful with a
promise like that. This is a great place to bring the wife and
kids every summer. I could run up a pretty steep tab on you.
Might even bring Marty along, just to piss you off.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Ev was icing down a case of
beer for the lunch time rush.
Donny leaned back, looking around, “All things considered, you did a good thing, Mr. Jennings.”
Ev laughed, “Jennings. I’m still trying to get used to it.”
“Well, you better get used to it, because it’s official,”
Donny announced with regal aplomb. “New birth certificates, passports, Social Security cards, Florida driver’s licenses, new credit report, paid-in-full mortgage on this
place and your beach house, the works. Never forget, the
late Everett Manning died tragically... in an aircraft disaster, officially determined to be a mechanical problem with a
faulty fuel pump—two checked suitcases of plastique notwithstanding.”
Ev stopped what he was doing for a second, “Did that
woman really bomb that plane trying to kill Walter Clark?”
Donny shook his head, “No. She didn’t. Much to my
own surprise, it was our good friend Walter Clark himself,
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or whatever his real name was. He bombed that plane himself to cover his own death. Believe it or not, he wanted to
get away and start a new life as badly as you did. And in his
case, he needed to be considered very dead to do it. He
might have got away with it too if you hadn’t stepped in.”
“No shit?” Ev shook his head in disbelief.
“No shit.” Donny stuck his finger in the air with finality, “But I’m serious, Ev. Whether you realized it or not,
and I know you get tired of hearing me say it, but you really
did do your country a great service.” He looked around the
bar, “If this little place is all you wanted as our thanks, then
we sure as hell got the better end of the deal.”
“I still can’t believe it all happened,” Ev closed his eyes
and shook his head. “Or that I’m even here now. I spent the
first half of my life dreaming about a place like this. I’m
hoping the next half I just get to kick back and enjoy it.”
Donny smiled, “Keep your mouth shut, and you can.”
Ev stood up, sighed with relief, then leaned against the
bar, “The hardest part is trying to believe that it was all
worth it.”
“Ev, believe me when I say you helped stop a very bad
thing from happening. You know I can’t tell you what it
was exactly, but with what you had hidden in that briefcase,
we were not only able to stop a lot of bad things from happening, but also clean up a lot of messes from the past that
should never have happened in the first place. Let me tell
you, my friend, some very high-rollers’ heads have rolled,
if you’ll pardon the pun, in the past few weeks. And in a
couple of cases, I mean that literally.”
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“No shit?” Ev looked him in the eye.
“No shit,” Donny nodded, “A control officer at one of
those three-letter acronym intelligence agencies, who
turned out to be Monroe’s control, put a gun in his mouth
last Friday and redecorated his office with his brains.”
“I’m never going to know what was on those disks, am
I?”
“Sorry, Ev, the truth is, you don’t need to know. You
don’t want to know. Take my word for it.” He changed the
subject, “You ever hear from Farley?”
Ev nodded, “He calls almost every night. He was back
on the road the day he got out of the hospital. He’s somewhere in Northern California this week, but plans to be
back down this way next month.”
“You know, he could have come in the program with
you,” Donny noted.
“He knows that,” Ev replied. “But that isn’t what he
wanted. He’s driving his new truck, free to enjoy the country, and everyone he meets. That’s who he is. And personally, I think that was the best way for him to handle
everything that happened.”
Donny shook his head in wonder, “Did you know he
even refused all the money we offered to reimburse him for
damages and everything? He could have sued the shit out of
us, and won. Come to find out the guy was richer than Midas.”
Ev was suddenly reminded of a happy painter in Dallas
named Bill. “Like I said, he’s doing what he wants to do.”
Donny took another sip of his drink, “I guess so. So
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how’s that boy of yours doing?”
Ev cracked open the cardboard flap of another case of
beer. “He’s getting by one day at a time. The therapist at the
Air Station has been really good. Physically, they say he’s
going to be all right. But it’ll take him a long time to get
over what happened to his mother. I’m so glad he can’t remember much of it happening. Hell, I still can’t quite believe it happened at all. You guys wouldn’t let us go to the
funeral, so there’s still some loose ends for us there.”
“Couldn’t be helped,” Donny noted. “You know the
rules.”
Ev nodded, “I know. But it’s really weird. Just between
you and me, Donny, and I’m not proud to admit this, but
there were so many times I prayed that woman would get
run over by a bus or fall down an abandoned mine shaft.”
Donny’s eyebrows went up.
Ev raised a defensive hand, “No, I know what you’re
thinking. And it’s not that. Deep down I never meant it.
That was just the frustration talking. I loved her once. I
couldn’t live with her anymore, and she was a royal pain in
the ass all the time, but I never meant her any harm. Honest
to God. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. I keep
thinking that if I had never taken that briefcase, then she…”
Donny cut him off, “Then she might still be alive and
many more people would be dead in her place. A lot of
other people. Is that what you wanted?” Donny didn’t give
him time to answer, “Just stop that shit right now, man.
We’ve had this conversation too many times already.
You’ll drive yourself nuts. You didn’t make Walter Clark
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do what he did. What happened, happened. That’s it.”
Ev lowered his eyes, still feeling the tightness in his
chest.
Donny was quiet for a while, content to sit and enjoy
his drink. He knew these feelings were just something the
new Everett Jennings had to get out of his system so he
could be Everett Jennings. Donny found it flattering that Ev
felt close enough to share those feelings with him. Over the
past six weeks Donny and Ev had become very close. Both
Donny and Marty were assigned as case officers for Ev and
Jenny, overseeing all the Witness Protection briefings,
helping them make the difficult transition.
When Donny’s glass was empty he held out his hand,
“Well, I guess I’ll see you around, Mr. Jennings. You know
the family and I will be enjoying the waves for the rest of
the week, despite all the kids yelling ‘Shamu, Shamu’ and
trying to push me back into the water…”
That made Ev laugh.
Donny grinned, “So I’ll probably stop back by a little
later for happy hour.” He winked, “Unless the wife’s feeling a little frisky, if you know what I mean. That salt air…it
just does something…wicked. Love it. So you take care
now. And you know who to call if you need anything.”
Ev shook his hand, “Thanks, Donny.”
Donny Mellor turned and walked out of the bar, shaking
his head in a mixture of disbelief and wonder, a little bit of
pity, and a trace of envy. The red and green Christmas bells
hanging from the door handle jingled as he left.
Ev picked up the empty glass and carried it to the
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stainless steel sink and began to rinse it. Jenny came around
from the back storeroom carrying another case of beer.
“Here,” Ev moved toward her, “Let me help you with
that.”
She shouldered past him, “I don’t think so, Mister. I’m
not helpless, and you know the doctor said you’re not supposed to be doing any heavy lifting till that shoulder’s
completely mended. Remember?”
“I know,” he backed off and watched her set the box
down.
She stood up and came over to him, wrapping her arms
around him and kissing him warmly. “Is it all really true?”
Ev knew what she was asking. She asked every day. He
looked around at the small bar, the tables, the chairs, the
little stage for local talent to play music, the Caribbean
decorations, all of it. “Yep. All courtesy of the U.S. government, as long as we promise to forget what happened
and live happily ever after. I’m up for it. How about you?”
“Yeah, but I’m still not sleeping well,” she whispered.
“And my stomach’s been upset a lot lately.”
“Even after your spectacular aneurysms?” he joked.
She pushed him away playfully and started unloading
the beer bottles into the galvanized trough of ice. “You
know what I mean. I’m still having nightmares.”
He nodded, “I know. Me too. I was just telling Donny
how I wish I had come down here to the islands a long time
ago and done something like this. I could have saved myself and a lot of other people a lot of grief.”
She shrugged, “But then you wouldn’t have met me.”
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He gently patted her bottom, “There’s certainly something to be said for that.”
She playfully slapped his hand away, then grew quiet
for a moment, staring at her bare feet, frowning, “Yeah…I
wish I’d met you a long, long time ago too.”
He took her in his arms, lifting her chin toward his, “All
right, enough of that. We can either make ourselves sick
looking in the rear view mirror, or we can just be happy that
after all the shitty hands life dealt us, we finally drew a
winner. Right?”
Jenny sighed, “I know. You’re right. It’s just that I can’t
believe how many years I wasted being married to that
monster, too stupid to see it and do something about it. It
didn’t have to be that way. I’d like to say that I didn’t know
any better, or that it was just how I was raised, or it was all
just what my mama or my sisters or my friends all said and
did, but I can’t. Because deep down I always knew there
was something else for me…” She kissed him, “…and
someone else for me.”
Ev closed his eyes and smelled the freshness of her hair,
“Yeah, I know what you mean. But it still floors me to
think of all the people I know still stuck back there in their
little rodent cages they call lives, still running around as
fast as they can go in their little hamster wheels, day after
day, until they die. It’s so pathetic when you think about it.
And yet, all my life, just like all of them, that’s what I was
well-trained and led to believe was fully expected of me,
my duty, my responsibility, no exceptions. Any consideration of departing from the status quo was heresy.”
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Jenny announced, “OK, like you said, commiseration
time for today is over. We’re here, dammit. Regardless of
what it took, or where we came from. You’re right. All that
shit is behind us now. Remember? Just Margaritas and sunsets?”
Margaritaville…at last.
And with a firm nod, Everett “Jennings” finally felt he
was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing what he
was supposed to do, with the people he wanted to do it. In
the past couple of weeks, as they’d worked through the
grand opening, he’d discovered running a bar was hard and
tedious work. There was sweat involved, heavy lifting, long
hours, and menial labor, inclusive of washing lipstick stains
off the glasses and dumping cigarette butts. But it was good
work, honest work. Work he felt good about and enjoyed. It
wasn’t a life for everyone, but it was his, the one he wanted,
the one he chose, and he loved it.
Oh, that it might never end, he wished.
Jenny just gave Ev a quizzical look, not really understanding at that exact moment why Ev suddenly looked so
happy and content. Perhaps, like her, he was merely delighted to drink in the warm fragrant salt breeze drifting in
off the sea through their open front door. Day after day it
was so hard for her to take her eyes off the beautiful grandeur of the sea, the pristine white beaches, the lustrous
blues and hypnotic greens of the waves, the endless expanse of sun-filled sky, the laid-back easy-going people, the
songs, the music, the laughter, and serene sunsets so rich
and resplendent they could make you cry. And not a single
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Alabama pine tree as far as the eye could see.
Oh, that it might never, ever end, she wished.
Jenny “Jennings” didn’t think she could possibly be any
happier. She was wrong. In another three weeks she would
learn of the new life growing within her womb. It was a
boy, who would be named Tim.
Our life is made by the death of others
Leonardo Da Vinci, 1500
Life is half spent before one knows what life
is.
French Proverb
The world is round and the place which may
seem like the end may also be only the beginning.
Ivy Baker Priest, Parade, 2/16/58
If you enjoyed this novel by Robert E. Gelinas, then be sure
to get a copy of his Sci-Fi/Alternate History/Thriller novel
THE MUSTARD SEED, book one of The Mustard Seed
Trilogy, also available from ArcheBooks Publishing. The
following is a free preview of the Prologue and first
chapter.
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THE MUSTARD SEED
Prologue
Rub Al Khali Desert, The Empty Quarter
257 Statute Miles Southeast of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
“We breached the chamber six days ago.” Andrew
Duncan adjusted the boom microphone closer to his
chapped lips, allowing his thick Australian accent to be
heard more clearly over the roar of the helicopter’s rotors.
“You won’t believe the size of the complex. We’ve mapped
it all out over the last several weeks. Most of it by hand,
mind you. Even used composite infrared scans and lowlevel seismic and radar sensors, so we didn’t miss any hidden rooms or passages. Obviously, GPS and satellite thermal imaging is bloody useless to us that far underground.”
“So what went wrong?” Helen asked.
“Dunno. That’s why you’re here. We expected possible
booby-traps, primitive self-defense apparatus and such…”
He clenched his eyes shut. “…but what happened to the
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first team that went in there. It just isn’t physically possible.
Two of them died in minutes. The third isn’t expected to
make it through the week.”
Dr. Helen Knight listened carefully, but her eyes remained mesmerized by the pale sterile bareness of the desert floor rushing beneath them a thousand feet below. As
they cleared a long ridge of dunes forming the eastern horizon she squinted against the first harsh rays of the dawning
sun glaring directly into her eyes, momentarily burning a
bright cascade of yellow spots into her vision. She turned
back to Duncan rubbing her eyes and yawning, still tired
and stiff from the long journey from New York that began
fourteen hours ago.
“And there’s no natural explanation for what happened
to them?”
“No.” Duncan shook his head. “Helen, I’ve been in the
energy exploration business for over forty years. Sunk more
than my fair share of wells. The only thing I’m aware of
that can put out that much lethal radiation so fast is a few
thousand active fuel rods reaching critical mass during a
meltdown, or pure weapons-grade plutonium a few nanoseconds before the big boom. Every REM1 counter we have
gets pegged a few seconds after the chamber door is
opened. It’s like they walked right into the core of an unshielded nuclear reactor, but with no warning.”
“Good God,” Helen murmured.
REM – Roentgen Equivalent Man, a measurement of radiation
dose levels.
1
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“Dr. Cromwell, the only one of the team who’s still
alive, and barely so, mind you…he managed to uh…tell us
how they all, like…began choking and vomiting within a
few minutes after entering the chamber. And they also experienced, like this… Oh, how did he describe it?… Incredibly fast and intolerable rise in air temperature as well.
Sounded to me like they got thrown into a fucking oven,
combo convection and microwave! He said they couldn’t
have been inside for more than five minutes before he realized the danger, turned on his heels, and ran for his life. He
only made it up as far as level five on his own. By then he
couldn’t walk…or see anymore. Helen…” Duncan swallowed hard, “…over ninety percent of the man’s body is
completely cooked. Inside and out. We don’t know how
he’s still breathing, or why. The bodies of the other two
are…presumably still in there somewhere. We couldn’t find
them.”
Helen felt a tight twinge in her stomach. “Was that
Brian Cromwell?”
“You know him?” Duncan asked.
A thick lump swelled in her throat. She nodded with
some difficulty, recalling the faint memory of a lovely dinner after a nuclear regulatory conference in London years
ago. It was a delightful night filled with laughter, followed
by a slow walk hand-in-hand through a quaint little park on
a chilly autumn night, highlighted by a brief and exceedingly rare, albeit most welcome, kiss good-night from a
very sweet man.
“An old acquaintance. The Egyptologist from Cam492
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bridge, right?”
He bobbed a curt nod. “Right. The bloke that published
all those landmark studies in the eighties on the sister cities
of Heliopolis. The well known one in Egypt near Cairo, and
the much older Baalbek site in Lebanon. He also did all the
groundbreaking work on Tanis in the Nile Delta and Tilmun in the Sinai. Believe me, he’s the best that money can
buy. All of them were top leaders in their fields. With a find
as massive and unique as this, we had to have the best.” He
shook his head in frustration. “Poor bastards.”
Helen did her best to push the image of Brain Cromwell’s kind face out of her mind and concentrate on the urgent task at hand. She could see the massive complex
approaching as their pilot slowed the aircraft, banked
sharply, then circled in preparation for landing. Below them
lay a vast array of oil exploration machinery and industrial
drilling equipment, all deployed around a central ten-story
drill rig, an imposing iron skeletal obelisk painted fireengine red. The rig was flanked by neat rows of metal
Quonset huts, tilt-up warehouse facilities, a regimented encampment of beige tents, stacks of forty-foot steel cargo
containers, and a generator plant that looked like it could
support a small city. A small fleet of trucks and jeeps
swarmed in all directions leaving clouds of dust in their
wake. The bright red Duncan International logo was emblazoned on the side of each and every one. In an open sector
near the south side of the complex, apart from all the machinery and other structures, stood a towering pyramid of
sand, dirt, shale and pulverized rock.
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The twenty-five acre site was surrounded by a gleaming
ten-foot chain-link fence, topped with coiled razor wire.
Elevated guard towers marked each of its four corners. Uniformed guards, who looked to Helen more like heavily
armed Special Forces soldiers than mere sentries, patiently
patrolled the perimeter. It resembled a prison camp. An
oddly formidable sight, she thought, considering that the
remote desert location was over a hundred miles from any
semblance of civilization. What were they guarding? And
from whom? On the other hand, there wasn’t anything
overtly recognizable about the place that indicated it was no
longer an energy exploration operation, but had instead
been transformed into the topside base camp of what was
surely about to become the most significant archaeological
discovery made in over a hundred years—located almost a
mile below the earth’s surface.
“Andrew, who else have you invited to this party?”
He licked his dry lips and offered a brief glimmer of a
smile, the first one she’d seen on his face since he’d met
her personally at King Khaled airport in Riyadh just three
hours earlier. “Well obviously we’ve had to keep an extremely tight lid on everything that’s happened here over
the last several months. Hundred percent top secret, don’tcha-know, tighter than a frog’s asshole. I mean, if the
Saudis had any idea of…” He stopped himself and let out a
wary sigh. “Well…let’s just say we’d be shut down in a
hummingbird’s heartbeat. Guaranteed. Only two individuals, other than yourself that is, have been called in for now.
One is an old friend of yours, I believe. Dr. Jason Wise,
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sharp young fellow out of Pittsburgh. And I’ve also called
in a subject matter specialist.”
“Yes, I know Jason,” she nodded, but with a puzzled
look of recollection. “He’s an A-List astrophysicist. Works
a lot of NASA contracts. I first met him when I helped him
with some of his dissertation research at Carnegie-Mellon.
But that was almost ten years ago. I’ve consulted with him
on a few projects since then, but we haven’t really kept in
touch. What’s he doing here? And who’s this…specialist?”
Andrew Duncan hesitated before answering, either
choosing his words carefully, or lying. Helen wasn’t sure.
“The specialist is Dr. Else Friedrich, from Munich. She
bills herself as an anthropological investigator. Also a top
linguistics expert. Has her PhD in ancient cultures and languages. Bizarre bitch, I promise you. Gives me the willies,
if you must know. But she comes very highly recommended
in her field, with top references from everyone from the
British Museum to the Vatican. They’re both already on
site waiting for us.”
A pang of realization swept over Helen. The hairs were
standing up on the back of her neck. “Andrew, wait a minute. You didn’t fly me halfway around the world on a moment’s notice just to help you contain this radiation
phenomenon. You think you’ve found something else.
Something—”
“Just stop right there, m’lady, and don’t jump to any
rash conclusions.” He shrugged. “The fact of the matter is,
we don’t know exactly what the hell we’ve found. It’s a
complete mystery. That’s why I’ve brought in the best
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minds I could find, in a variety of areas.”
She started to say something in reply.
He didn’t let her, explaining, “Look Helen, I’ve invested over ninety million American dollars in this dig over
the last eleven months, and I’m prepared to spend that
much again and more, if need be. Yes, we came here for
camel crude. But I’ll settle for high-concentrate uranium
ore, the treasures of King Tut, the Tower of Babel, or even
a goddamn flying saucer. Who knows, maybe all of the
above. But I don’t intend to walk away from this dig empty
handed, or let some pimple-assed goddamned government
bureaucrat steal it out from under me after I’ve taken all the
risks and seen precious lives perish in the process. I’m telling you, I’ve hit more than my share of dry holes from
Perth to Sydney, from Texas to the Ukraine, and all over
the Sinai and Persian Gulf. My gut’s telling me we’ve hit a
big one here. Something. I don’t know what it is yet, but
something. And my gut’s rarely ever wrong.”
Helen’s gut was alarmingly queasy at the moment.
Andrew Duncan’s smile reemerged as he patted her
knee with a wink of confident assurance. “As far as the radiation containment work goes, you’re the nuclear expert
here, my dear Dr. Knight. So that’s one-hundred percent
your department, no questions asked. Anyone gives you any
shit about that, you come straight to me. As I told you,
you’ll have whatever resources you need to get the job
done—bar none. Everything you requested when we spoke
two days ago is already here on site, checked out, and ready
to go. Even your Iron Maiden and its Chariot from Houston
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are here.”
“Excellent,” she nodded.
Andrew rested his hand on the back of Helen’s. “Helen,
your containment and clean-up work after those unfortunate
incidents in Russia, India, and Malaysia over the last twenty
years have been more than impressive. They’re the stuff of
myths and legends. Bordering on the miraculous. As far as
I’m concerned, your creativity and genius in conquering all
this kind of hazardous shit is second to none, and that’s exactly what I need right now—a bona fide dragon slayer.
Lives depend on it. One of whom might be my own. I’m
confident that if it can be done, you’re the one to do it.”
Helen suppressed the broad smile that was yearning to
bloom in the warm light of Duncan’s flattery. Professional
compliments and sincere appreciation were rare in her
business. Compliments in general in her personal life were
rarer still. She turned her gaze back to the intricate complex
below as the helicopter gently descended to alight on the
landing pad, creating its own minor sandstorm in the process. Helen’s brain was already its own churning cyclone of
conflicting thoughts and possibilities.
Like walking into the core of an unshielded reactor? A
mile below the earth’s surface? Impossible. What the hell
could be down there?
In less than three hours, she would see for herself.
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Part I
INTO THE ABYSS
“Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind.”
Albert Einstein
Out of My Later Years, 1950
“Science and religion, religion and
science, put it as I may, they are two
sides of the same glass, through
which we see darkly until these two,
focusing together, reveal the truth.”
Pearl S. Buck
A Bridge for Passing, 1962
“The supernatural is the natural not
yet understood.”
Elbert Hubbard
The Note Book, 1927
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CHAPTER 1
As the surface winch slowly lowered the two-man, yellow steel cage down through the first seven-hundred meters
of pitch black earth, Dr. Helen Knight kept repeating the
little mantra her therapist had given her years earlier to help
keep her knees from shaking.
“Safe in a cocoon, we’ll be out soon…”
So far so good.
Even after so many years, at age fifty-seven, Helen still
painfully fought to restrain the percolating screams of panic
bottled up tightly inside her. It wasn’t a condition she could
just wish away, nor something that even the seasonal rains
of time itself could erode and wash away. It was her constant demon. She could feel the frightening thorny pressure
building up behind her breastbone, moment by moment,
foot by foot, as the creaking cage descended deeper and
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deeper into the heart of the earth. She squeezed her eyes
tight.
She shuddered. “Safe in a cocoon, we’ll be out soon…”
It was her own little dark secret, but the fact of the matter was, Dr. Helen Knight had been chronically claustrophobic since childhood. She bore the unfortunate emotional
scars garnered one late summer afternoon spent with her
younger brother, Aubrey. It was a simple tragedy. He was
six. She was nine. They were playing too close to an abandoned wishing well. He fell in trying to retrieve the old
wooden water pail. She tried to help get him out and fell in
too. Just like Jack and Jill. And there she lay on top of his
cold, lifeless body, crying in pain and screaming for help
for almost a day and a half before being found. His neck
was broken, and so was her arm. The arm healed. Her soul
never did. And from that day forth, finding herself in any
dark enclosed space was potentially sufficient to trigger a
most violent and traumatic episode.
“Safe in a cocoon, we’ll be out soon…” she repeated
quietly, over and over.
“Didn’t copy that,” crackled the jovial and energetic
voice of Dr. Jason Wise in Helen’s headset. “Please repeat,
Helen?”
“Nothing,” Helen replied, muting her chant to a faint
mumble.
She was alone, of course.
It only made sense for her to go down by herself for the
first radiation risk analysis. Besides, they only had the one
EVA suit onsite. The special Extra-Vehicular-Activity
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(EVA) space exploration suit she wore was comfortable,
despite its phenomenal weight. Many elements of the suit
were of her own design and specification, developed as part
of a classified project she had completed for NASA two
years prior. The suit was completely self-contained, was
forced-air and liquid nitrogen cooled, electrically heated,
and crafted as impervious as modern science could conceive to protect its wearer from extreme temperatures, heat
or cold, X-Rays, Alpha and Beta particles, as well as
gamma radiation. The simple lead linings of earlier generations of radiation protection apparel had been radically updated with a unique new alloy of depleted Uranium-238,
one of the densest of all metals, fused with a multi-layer
fabric of lead combined with fibers of twenty-four karat
gold, interlaced with pure iridium.
It wasn’t physically possible to move about freely in the
suit except in zero gravity environments. Thus, it was
mounted in a gyroscopic transport unit—a high-tech, battery powered one-man chariot with two triangular-shaped
belts of titanium treads, one mounted on each side of the
vehicle instead of wheels. The gyro-unit allowed movement
in any direction, inclusive of climbing stairs up to a fourteen inch tread rise, merely by the rider leaning slightly in
the direction one wished to travel. Actually, the only thing
Helen could move freely inside the suit was her hands,
which hovered above two specialized control panels and
micro-keyboards, also contained within the suit.
Even Helen’s face and head were completely protected.
That is, there was no face mask or porthole from which to
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peer out. She could only see by wearing a pair of heads-up
display goggles beneath the shielded helmet that was sealed
to the torso of the unit at the neck, like a deep sea diver. An
array of exterior cameras and sensors fed her real-time images of what it looked like outside the suit. She had a variety of viewing choices from Hi-Definition full-color video
images to Infrared Thermal Imaging, or the pale greenish
and ghostly white images of Night-Vision. Any combination of the two could be divided or overlaid between her
left and right eye, as desired. The binocular camera array
gave the illusion of unfettered three-dimensional sight,
which helped assuage any perception of being locked inside
a lead sarcophagus or an Iron Maiden, hence the suit’s
nickname. Everything she saw, heard, said or did was relayed to the surface and recorded. Presently, there was
nothing to see or hear but the blur of earth and stone rising
around her as she descended down the long, dark shaft.
Temperature readings read forty-seven degrees Fahrenheit. She was just over halfway down.
“How you doing?” came Jason’s cheerful voice again.
“How about a quick system check for me?”
Helen interrupted her mantra for a moment. “All systems five-by-five. Rate of descent still smooth at five feet
per second. Temperature rising slightly. Now at fifty-one
degrees.”
“Any radiation?”
Helen punched a button on the control panel. A green
meter appeared in her vision. “Nominal.”
“Good to hear,” Jason noted. “Keep an eye on that one.”
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“Roger that.” She closed her eyes and her lips began
their quiet ritual once again. “Safe in a cocoon, we’ll be out
soon…”

The abrupt echoing impact of the yellow steel cage
reaching the stone floor at the bottom of the mile long,
forty-eight inch wide shaft popped Helen’s eyes open with
a start and a quick gasp. The monotony of her chant had
helped her doze off. It had taken twenty minutes to complete the journey from the surface.
She checked her readings and yawned, her neck popping as she cocked her head to the side. “OK, base, I’m
down. Temperature is…wow, a balmy seventy-six degrees.
Radiation levels…still normal.”
“Copy that,” Jason replied. “Good God, look at that.”
“Look at what?” Helen was still looking at a smooth
stone surface.
“Queue up your aft cameras,” Jason replied. “Or turn
around.”
Helen leaned to her right and backward. The gyro-unit’s
servos hummed as the left and right treads moved in opposite directions, rotating her one hundred and eighty degrees.
Her breath stilled yet again, eyes wide.
Before her lay a great cavernous hall.
It was oval in shape, roughly the size of a large aircraft
hanger. Evidently, the drilling shaft had penetrated the hall
at one extreme end, along a wall. The thought occurred to
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her that if Andrew’s crews had dug a few feet further to the
north, they might have missed it entirely. To her immediate
left was a portable electric generator and a rack of digital
radio relay equipment, all bearing the bright red Duncan
International logo. Helen could hear the gentle hum of the
generator. Tethered to it, via long black power cables, were
a series of industrial halogen light banks. The work-lights
were positioned along both sides of the hall at about ten
meter intervals, brightly illuminating the entire expanse.
The smooth stone interior was obviously no natural phenomenon. No, this was no cave, no volcanic bubble nor fissure. These walls were crafted of uniformly hewn and
dressed rectangular stones, tightly fitted and seamed without mortar, clearly the product of skilled masons and stone
cutters.
Every square inch of it was covered with pictographs
and glyphs.
Andrew Duncan’s voice broke in, “Helen, all the maps
of the complex are loaded into your NAV system. If you
punch up series one, it will indicate your current location in
real-time with a red dot. But for now, just exit the main hall
on the far end, and go straight ahead. Through the arch at
the other end you’ll find a central junction point of five corridors. Take the second one on your left until it ends. There
you’ll find a utility lift we’ve hung in what appears to be
some kind of vertical air shaft. That will take you directly
down to level seven. That’s where you want to make your
way.”
“Roger that.” Helen activated the gyro-unit’s mechani504
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cal arm to lift the yellow cage’s safety gate. When the arm
was fully retracted she leaned forward. The gyro-unit rolled
ahead, padding its way across the great hall on its miniature
tank treads.
It took another fifteen minutes for Helen to navigate
down the tall stone corridor as instructed, find the utility
lift, and then ride it down to the lowest subterranean level.
Visibility was extremely limited. After leaving the great
hall above there were no more portable work-lights deployed. However, Helen’s Night-Vision imaging showed
her that she was still completely surrounded by smooth
stone walls. The corridor itself was approximately ten feet
wide, but twice as high.
She glanced at her instrument readings again. “Temperature is constant at seventy-six degrees. Radiation still
normal.”
“It will be,” Duncan added, “until you reach the chamber door.”
“Is it sealed?” Helen asked.
“Not any more,” Duncan replied. “Just closed. It took
two days worth of cutting torches to get through it initially.”
“Why did you open it in the first place?” she asked.
“Self-explanatory. You’ll…uh…see for yourself,” came
Duncan’s hesitant reply. “Just keep following the main corridor directly in front of you a bit more. You’re doing great.
When you reach the end, you’re going to enter a large antechamber. More of a foyer, I suppose you’d say. A bit garish
and ostentatious for my tastes. But that’s where you’ll find
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the chamber door. Can’t miss it.”
Helen followed the main corridor for another hundred
yards, ignoring the unending series of elevated doorways,
grand arches, recessed alcoves, niches, colonnades, connecting passages and side corridors passing by her on either
side. At the end of the long corridor, as promised, stood a
majestic stone archway, soaring up almost three stories. Its
large stones were chalky white. Limestone, perhaps, she
figured, each weighing maybe two tons or more. The room
beyond the arch was equipped with another one of Duncan’s small portable generators along with two additional
banks of halogen work-lights. They were automatically activated by motion detectors, which illuminated as soon as
she rolled into the room.
Helen’s entire field of vision went white.
She squinted as she switched from Night-Vision back to
Hi-Def-Video mode, blinking several times until her eyes
adjusted. On the other side of the archway she stopped
abruptly, again staggered by what she saw.
Holy shit! Now there’s something you don’t see every
day…
The walls before her were no longer dull, cold, gray
stone. They were unmistakably covered with gold. The antechamber itself resembled more of an extravagantly overdone baroque cathedral or shrine—or perhaps a king’s
treasure chamber. A series of wide tables or altars flanked
either side of the room, covered with every manner of container and serving pieces. The artwork adorning everything
in the room, including the walls themselves, was stunning:
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high relief branches and leaves, vines and grapes, date
palms and olive trees, birds of prey and fishes, cattle and
livestock, exotic sea creatures and…oh, my God…what appeared to be some type of winged humanoids bowing in
supplication. Helen took a closer look at one such humanshaped figure. It certainly wasn’t the cherubic fat Gerberbaby angels of the Renaissance. No, these renderings were
larger than life-sized, perhaps seven or eight feet tall she
surmised, had they been standing.
“Are you getting all of this?” she whispered.
“Roger that,” Jason’s voice confirmed. “Unbelievable.”
“Can we get back to the task at hand?” Duncan’s voice
interjected.
Helen faced ahead and rolled forward. Twenty yards
further, on the opposite side of the antechamber, stood “The
Door.” The massive portal was at least ten feet in height
and almost that again in breadth, smooth and glimmering in
brilliantly polished gold with no visible seams. A constellation of twelve large gemstones adorned its center, arranged
in three even rows of four. The door itself was hinged to
Helen’s left by three gold exterior hinges, each almost a
yard in height. On the right side of the door, she noticed the
irregularly cut and discolored metal edge from Andrew’s
acetylene torches, as well as a broad pool of melted and rehardened gold spread out on the floor.
“OK, what’s the trick to get in?” she asked.
“Just pull,” came Duncan’s reply. “It’s completely inset
into its jam. The goddamn thing’s almost a foot thick. Can’t
begin to imagine how many tons it weighs. But you’ll find
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it’s balanced on its hinges so precisely and smoothly you
can move it with almost no effort. Picking up any radiation
yet?”
Helen glanced to the display meter. “No, nothing. All
readings normal.”
“OK. Are you ready?” Jason asked.
Helen took a preparatory breath. “As ready as I’ll ever
be. Let’s see what nasty things we can find.”
She activated a control panel beneath her fingertips and
with a hydraulic hiss the gyro-unit’s mechanical arm
reached forward. With the soft buzz of its servos, the motorized pincer stabbed into the crevice cut by the torches.
She used a trackball under her right forefinger to manipulate the arm, prying it with as much leverage as she could
muster from the angle she was positioned.
The door swung free with a deep whoosh of air.
As it came open, Helen felt a protracted series of dull,
throbbing, low-frequency waves begin to pass through
her—pulsing and pulsing, slowly rising and falling in intensity. It made her teeth and sinuses hurt. All sensor readings
remained stable. She rolled forward slowly, cautiously
crossing the wide threshold and entering the chamber. She
stopped inside to look around, bracing herself mentally for
the possible sight of two irradiated and decimated corpses.
Only darkness and silence lay before her, save the low
throbbing pulse, rising and falling.
She rolled forward.
“Danger. Danger. Excessive Radiation,” blared the robotic warning voice inside Helen’s earpiece. She halted her
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advance and glanced at the REM Counter. The digital graph
had gone from near zero to a reading pegged in the red
zone. Temperature readings shot up to almost two-hundred
degrees. She entered a quick command, resetting the sensitivity on the REM Counter down an order of magnitude.
The levels stayed maxed out. She set the calibration down
once more and the readings dropped to about three quarters
of the scale.
“Oh shit,” she sighed as she initiated an emission analysis program.
“How bad is it?” came Jason’s urgent voice, crackling
and somewhat distorted amid a hissing wave of static.
“It’s bad,” Helen answered. “I’ve never seen readings
like these. No living thing could endure this. They’d absorb
a lethal dose of gamma radiation in seconds. At these levels, even my EVA-suit won’t give me any more than twenty
minutes of safe exposure in here. And then I won’t be able
to come back for another twenty-four hours. Gotta move
quick. Starting countdown now.” Her fingers quickly
punched in the stopwatch settings and hit the START button. The digital timer in her upper right peripheral vision
began decrementing.
“Let’s hope that’s enough time to find out where it’s
coming from,” Duncan added. “And how to stop it.”
“Roger that.” Helen looked around, surprised to see that
the chamber was perfectly circular, roughly sixty yards in
diameter. She angled her cameras upward, observing that it
was a perfect hemisphere above a smooth, level floor, illuminated by a pale green light emanating from the walls and
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domed ceiling above, a light that grew brighter by the second. The chamber appeared to be empty, with the sole exception of a small dome in the very center of the room. It
was another perfect hemisphere, approximately fifteen feet
in height. She approached it. The throbbing low frequency
wave intensified as she drew closer.
“Hey lady, how’s your levels?” came Jason’s garbled
voice. The hissing static storm in her ear grew worse as she
moved further inside the chamber.
“Radiation is holding steady,” Helen noted. “Temperature is now over four-hundred and still rising. But I’m good
up to eighteen-hundred degrees, before it all starts to melt
and I burst into flames. There’s no visible or apparent
source of the radiation that I can see. I’m going to check out
this convex structure in the center.”
“Copy that,” Jason replied. The static in Helen’s earpiece made his words a buzzing garble of distortion.
Helen rolled forward. As she neared the small center
dome, she could see its surface was smooth, softly reflecting the green hue of the walls. She made one full lap
around it. It was opaque, with no other distinguishable features. A movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention.
“What the hell?” She looked at her instruments. The
REM Counter was holding steady at its hyper-lethal levels,
but the temperature was over eight-hundred degrees.
“What is it, Helen?” Duncan’s voice cut through the
hiss.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Hang on a second.”
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She angled her cameras down, not exactly believing
what she was seeing. All around the perimeter of the small
dome were rising ribbons of steam. She moved closer,
zooming in her camera’s resolution on the dome’s surface.
Beaded drops and tiny rivulets of what appeared to be water
were cohesively collecting and running off of the little
dome, vaporizing the instant they touched the superheated
stone floor.
“It’s melting,” Helen said out loud.
“What’s melting?” Duncan again.
“The dome in the center,” she replied. “It looks like this
thing is either made of, or covered with, a thick layer of ice.
The heat is melting it.”
Helen moved closer still, extending the mechanical arm
of the gyro-unit once more. She used the sharp pincer to
peck and chip away a small section of the dome’s surface,
confirming her suspicion. It was indeed ice, several inches
thick, but liquefying rapidly. Temperature readings were
now approaching a thousand degrees. Large pieces of ice
began breaking away and sliding off the convex surface,
crashing loudly onto the frying-pan-hot floor—fizzling,
dancing, seething, boiling, shattering, shrinking and popping until they were completely vaporized.
“How we doing on time?” Jason queried.
“I’ve been in here for…” Helen answered, glancing at
her timer, “…eight minutes. Ten more and I’ll need to head
for the exits.”
“Make it seven,” Jason advised, his voice now almost
gone.
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Helen circled around to a section of the small dome that
was now completely cleared of ice. “The inner dome appears to be made of a solid material. It’s reflective in nature
to light, but I don’t think it’s stone or metal. Actually, it
looks a lot like…”
“Like what?” asked Duncan.
“Like glass,” she replied.
As larger and larger pieces of ice continued to break off
and tumble away, Helen saw the soft green glow of the
room permeating the smaller dome. It indeed had a certain
degree of transparency, like a giant glass bowl turned upside down.
A loud rumble and a distinct thump to Helen’s left
brought her attention back to the golden chamber door. It
had slammed shut of its own accord. The floor beneath her
trembled.
Oh no.
A flash of panic gripped her heart. She immediately
started to roll back toward the door. The gyro-unit had a top
speed of fifteen miles per hour. However, before she could
reach the door, the dull low frequency pulsing sensation
ceased.
“Are you guys seeing this?”
There was no reply.
The static in her earpiece was gone.
“Hey, Jason? Andrew? Anyone? Can you hear me?”
Silence.
Helen’s eyes went to her sensor readouts again. Surprisingly, the temperature in the chamber was dropping fast.
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Radiation levels were falling as well. The Max-Temp indicator showed that the ambient air temperature had reached
just over twelve-hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and yet it was
now down to six-hundred degrees and still falling.
None of this made any sense to her.
Her initial sense of panic and deep desire to flee gave
way to a disturbing wave of confusion mixed with no small
measure of bewildered curiosity. She stopped, spun around,
and looked at the small dome again.
How interesting.
The glassy exterior had begun to cloud over. Soon the
green glow passing through it from the walls could no
longer be seen. She knew what was happening. The evaporated water molecules in the air were condensing on the
cold surface again and crystallizing. Soon its shroud of ice
would be securely back in place.
“Hello, upstairs,” she called out once more. “Can anybody hear me?”
No reply.
“Wonderful. OK. So let’s just finish up our little looksee, and then get the hell out of here,” she mumbled to herself as she punched up the Infrared Thermal Imaging camera. The room went bright red. The ambient temperature
readings were still above two hundred degrees, but continuing to plunge.
“How cold is this thing?”
In her heads-up display the small dome appeared as a
horizontal half moon of rich violet around its edges and
inky black throughout the center, quite distinct from the
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bright red heat signature of the walls and floor—with one
exception.
How curious.
From the very center of the dome shone a small speck
of white light. Helen moved closer. It couldn’t have been
any larger than a pinpoint, like a distant star in the night
sky, shimmering slightly, fading, pulsing, twinkling.
Helen’s headset suddenly crackled in her ear, then
squalled and shrieked with feedback.
“Oww!” She grimaced and shook her head in pain.
The shrill tone stopped as abruptly as it came. Her ears
were ringing. Her teeth hurt. The painful pressure in her
sinuses was building again, its sharp talons running down
the back of her neck.
And that’s when she heard it.
It wasn’t an audible sound in her earpiece. No, it wasn’t
a sensation that touched her ears at all. But heard it she did,
ever so clearly and distinctly. Yes, somewhere in the back
of her mind, it came through vividly, like a triggered memory, leaping forth with a sudden rush of urgent recognition.
It was a plaintive voice.
Help me.
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