Ford sighed, letting out a long breath of air as he sat back in his chair.
Charlie, he thought, closing his eyes. What in the hell have you gotten yourself into?
Chapter 34
Tonawanda, New York
The next morning was somewhat overcast, reminding Richard of the harsh winters that enveloped the area during the early fall, winter, and spring. The humid weather meant a storm was inbound, but it didn’t stop Richard from researching what he was thinking.
Richard finished up his morning jog down in the Town of Tonawanda near the canal, taking in all the small boaters and late morning people walking around. He saw kids to families to professionals, all getting ready to gorge on pizza and nachos and sausage later as Canal Fest ramped up. He made a point this morning to run the entire area multiple times, observing the distances from the band stage to parking, to food vendors and bathrooms. Richard walked the exact parade route as a kid wearing a Cub Scout uniform and knew the area well enough to run it without a map.
Richard spent most of his walking time in and around the Canal Fest Beer Tent on Sweeny Street, swallowing bottled water and observing the craft beer vendor set-ups and how they operated. He checked out trash, security, entries and exits, and even electrical power. No one questioned him as he observed everything he could at the Fest.
Complete with his morning exercise and observations, he sat down on a park bench on the corner of Webster and Sweeny streets near the bridge, looking at the congressional office schedule on his phone for the coming week. It was an app-based schedule that displayed what the staff was doing in the office for the day, their hours, and the location of a meeting. He scanned across to see each of the 18 people and stopped, spotting what he was looking for.
Next to him on the kelly-green wooden park bench, a little girl was crying because her ice cream scoop fell off the top of her cone. As the ball of vanilla hit the pavement and splattered, Richard laughed without compassion as the mother shot him a death stare. In all capital letters, the app read: “VACATION – CANAL FEST, BEER TENT, 7pm to ?”
He got up from the bench, bumping the kneeling mother as she attended to the crying girl with rudeness. No apology was offered as Richard stomped off in a hurry.
Chapter 35
Lansing Residence, Sanborn, New York
Richard returned to the farm from his scouting trip and run close to lunchtime, leaving behind on the driver’s seat a sweaty residue on the cracked leather seats of his older model Ford Econoline van. The pungent, foul odor trailed him as he got out and shut the driver’s door.
Returning back to their large acreage of land, Richard watched a murder of black crows in the open backyard field that extended past the barn to a distant tree line. The next closest neighbor was close to a mile away, and the Lansing family had enjoyed the working farm while Mr. Lansing was alive. They did not have any livestock since he passed, once owning chickens to horses to cattle, but now the land sat empty. The dilapidated barn structure stood upright, but was buckling in decay and looking weathered through the years. Richard gave it a good look from afar, then got out of the van through the mud and went down his steps.
“One. Two. Three,” he performed, opening the three locks in their proper order to enter his apartment.
Starting his precise evening routine, he showered first, got dressed, then went through his pattern of behavior. But something new was on his mind. His new idea that he had to work on, to hammer out, make smooth and seamless. Practice. The new sequence would demand it, ensuring that the practice made him better.
Now showered and clean, Richard returned to his living room and sat as he had so many times, in silence. He practiced a few iterations of his “Stomp, turn, extend” routine and then walked into his small kitchen. Grabbing a plastic half-gallon milk container, Richard returned to the area with a plan to change up his routine a bit.
Simulating pouring some milk onto a rag and leaving it next to him, he sat thinking of what to do next. In his head, he formed the plan, then rehearsed a new mantra, now “Pour, stomp, turn, extend.” He liked it, nodding his head, and practiced some more. He said it over and over and over. Out of the blue, he blurted out loud, “Roman History for two hundred, Alex.”
Upstairs, he could hear the old ceiling creaking from his mother shuffling around. One final rehearsal, and he felt he was complete. Bruce will love this. He pretended to pour some milk on a rag, stomped his left foot on the wall, turned to jump over the couch, extended his arms.
Chapter 36
Hart House Office Building, Hearing Room, Washington, D.C.
Six tables of press were lined up in the back of the room, able to hold at least 72 reporters at any one time, and today, the seats were full. On the front on the elevated stage were seats for all nine BRAC commissioners, along with their staffs behind them. Down in front of the BRAC commissioners were the photographers, and just behind that were the witness tables.
To the uneducated viewer in the room or on television, it looked like events on Capitol Hill were live and spur of the moment, full of unrehearsed raw emotion. The perception of Americans was that lots of work was being accomplished, but in reality, the hearings were modern-day theater. Each question and answer were pre-staged and set up ahead of time, with today’s public hearing covering a few military base topics fully planned and choreographed.
On the covered easels were base maps, statistics about locations, how much money each base provided in annual salaries, and how much business money they inserted into the local economy. All the data that the decision-makers could ever want was provided by the BRAC staff and local base lobbyists. And with lobbyists came money, donations to certain campaigns and people, so things always didn’t look as they seemed. Behind the scenes were backroom deals, payoffs, favors, and shenanigans that would make the front cover of the Post in a nanosecond if they were ever disclosed.
In the VIP waiting room off to the side, all nine BRAC commissioners got together in private and held index cards in their hands. No other staffers were in the room, no lobbyists, and without question, no press. They went around the small circle, talking in hushed tones about what their intentions were for the day. The fifth person in the circle today was Al King, and his index card full of pencil scribbles, pen cross-offs, and talking points.
“Al, what you got?” Scott Matthews, the commissioner, asked.
“I need Niagara to close. Shut it down,” Al told him.
“What? No, those guys are great. The 914th Air Refueling Squadron just came out to March by me in California. One of those civic leaders’ flights,” Scott said
“Insignificant,” Al replied. “Don’t care. Calling in a favor, and it gets shut down.”
Scott nodded, understanding that their circle of members wasn’t having a debate, but relaying orders from someone more powerful than they were. Even their recommendations to the president would be understood that it was politics at its best and had far from military capability or cost savings. “Okay, Al, Niagara closes.”
Al spoke up once more. “Hold up. I also need parked in the next Defense Policy Bill Provision follow-on money. Maybe you want to talk with House Approp Mil Construction subcommittee, but I need follow-up funding on the back-end, okay?”
One of the other committee members spoke up. “Jesus, Al, you are closing the base and need more money?”
“Yeah, more funding, okay? Need money to build something in place of it, but keep some of the runways. I don’t know, call it a joint use airfield… maybe on the existing civilian side. But I need funding. Big funding.”
The member understood. “Yeah, yeah. Ok. I’ll talk to Mil Construction, and we’ll get something.”
“Thanks. And today out in the floodlights, no one makes the dopey hollow-force argument. It will be on the front cover of all the newspapers if one of you goes down that route. Keep it tight,” Al told them.
> The group of powerful former members of congress, all of them losing their last election, stood in the small circle. The party knew they had both deep pockets and connections, so appointing them to the Commission was the right political move. Continuing to stand around as if they were at a casino craps table, one of them nodded for the next person to speak up. “Okay, what do you have?”
Chapter 37
Annual Canal Fest, Tonawanda, New York
Later on that evening, Richard drove his mother’s car, a low-key four-door black sedan, and parked it in his scouted parking lot from earlier. She rarely drove it, so it was in near mint condition, including the new car scent. He opened both back doors, double-checking the child locks were enabled. The sun was getting ready to set in the next hour or so, so he left the car wearing a hat and sunglasses, and joined the thousands of other western New Yorkers at the street festival.
The air provided whiffs of both beer and sweet cotton candy while live music could be heard in the streets. He wandered around, turning self-consciously to check if someone was following him. Arriving at the beer tent, Richard continued to walk on the outside of it, circling the exterior. The dirt was soft from the previous rainfall and made the earth squishy, so he stopped going in one direction and turned around. The band was loud now, and the crowd was feeling their alcohol. Local police continued to wander, ensuring the patrons behaved themselves.
Richard’s heartbeat jumped tenfold when he spotted what he came for. Hello, my pretty. He turned sideways so that he could slip through the crowd easier, moving around people and chairs to get closer. To mask his upright military demeanor, he hunched over to reduce his appearance. The baseball hat with fake long hair helped to conceal his body language signature, and in this crowd of western New Yorkers, he fit right in.
Standing close to the person he had targeted, he listened for a voice among the many and could hear the slurring of her words. Drunk, he thought. Good! He passed by them a few times, and knew by monitoring the time and their conversation that they’d be leaving soon. Richard kept his eye on the group from afar, watching one of them like a lion ready to pounce on a hare. Soon.
When Richard heard the last call announcement and the band’s encore, he brought the sedan around to the pick-up line that was for ride-hailing cars. He was hoping his person of interest would be leaving alone.
Yes, Alex, I’m doing it.
Richard spotted who he was looking for with a few other people.
No. No. Can’t be traveling together. Need to be alone.
He saw her fumble with her phone a bit, then look up, then back down at the phone, enthralled with her social media. She turned to say something to her girlfriend, but back to the phone again.
Alex, I’m busy, not now.
It was now or never, he figured, so he placed the car in drive and crept forward slowly.
She wasn’t looking at him or the cars, which he was thankful for, so she couldn’t check his license plates.
Richard put down the passenger window and yelled out with a deeper voice than normal. “Pick up for Holly Hayden.”
One thousand and one. One thousand and two. One thousand and three, he counted silently.
Richard heard the back-passenger door open, and she got in. Glancing in his rear-view mirror, Richard was relieved. Holly was alone.
Holly didn’t say anything, and neither did he, the normal practice for any ride-share company. Richard started driving through the chaotic mess of people riding the brakes due to teenagers walking in front of their cars. Some kids ran across the street at the last minute, making him halt. He even braked hard at one point, and Holly braced herself from the seat in front.
Richard pulled up to the red light, and while he waited, he unscrewed the liquid container that arrived in his mother’s name and placed it on the seat next to him. When the light turned green, he made a turn, targeting the employee parking area in the immediate rear of the closed retail strip of stores. With it being near pitch black, it would be difficult to see inside the car unless you were right on top of them, peeking in with a flashlight.
Assured no one was around, he glanced up in the rear-view mirror and saw Holly was face down in her mobile phone and on social media. Holly had no idea where the car was going, as she was more concerned with viewing the evening’s photos for posting on apps than her surroundings. The selfie photos for her social media made the camera’s flash illuminate the entire interior of the car. The shutter sound kept repeating.
Click. Click, click-click. A flash.
Silence.
Click. Click, click-click. Another split-second flash of white light.
Careful to keep the liquid in its container, Richard poured a generous portion of the colorless, sweet-smelling liquid into the rag and held it in his hand. Chloroform, chemical symbol CHCl3, used through history as an anesthetic and sedative, would be perfect for tonight.
Okay, almost ready. Almost ready….
He hesitated.
Now! Now!
Just as he had rehearsed, he stomped on the brakes, jamming the car into park as fast as he could. The car lurched forward and rocked back and forth on its suspension.
“Pour, stomp, turn, extend.”
He just about crushed the front floorboards with his left foot, giving him the springboard and leverage to turn his body to the right and into the backseat. Now with his chest on the seat, he was half in the back, just as he had prepared for a thousand times. Next, he extended his arms toward Holly while holding the liquid-soaked rag, and with violence, shoved it hard into her face. With his other hand, he tightly held the back of her head and squeezed hard, the tendons on the top of his hand bursting through his skin.
Holly screamed as her head went back and looked up at the ceiling of the car, but her noise was muffled. Struggling, she attempted to hit Richard, tugging and scratching his arms, but the lack of oxygen and chemical rag over her face was just overwhelming. It was over in seconds, and Holly was out cold.
Richard pushed her sideways to lay down in the back seat, turned back to the front, and continued driving on the unlit Buffalo suburb road.
“I’ll take Medieval History for five hundred, Alex,” he whispered.
Chapter 38
Stevens Residence, Lewiston, New York
“The Canal Fest is this week. Guys at work told me they were having their opening night tonight. Maybe you want to go over tomorrow night?” Ford asked, sitting next to Emily at the house, the faint pink glow lighting up the clouds far off on the horizon.
Emily sat on the white sofa with a paperback, her cute baby bump exposed and showing, with Ford rubbing his hand on hers. He thought she looked great tonight, and he felt nervous about having a little one, but excited at the same time. Ford still had to convert an upstairs bedroom into the nursery, make arrangements at work for additional life insurance, and get a list going of baby supplies with Emily that he had no idea about.
“I don’t even know how to hold a baby,” Ford told her, laughing.
She grabbed his hand and guided it over her belly. “It’s easy. I’ll show you. Baby will need you to help. You’ll be fine, Pater. You’ll be a great father.”
Her sister and Mum had already sent newborn outfits over from England, and she was accumulating supplies in the corner of the dining room. The both of them, in addition to her Papa, saved up enough money to come for the delivery date. Everyone in the family was excited about the happy news.
“What should his name be?” Ford asked.
“My mum says we should name him after one of the royal family names, like Edward or Charles or Harry.”
“Of course she did,” he said, laughing. “Let’s do an American name?” Ford replied, smiling. “How about Ford? Ford Stevens, Junior?”
Emily grinned. “You bloke. Why after you?” laughing. “How about Wu? Wu Stevens.”
> Although Ford liked it, he thought fellow kids later in life would make fun of him on the playground. “Em, he’d get beat up. Think he’d make it at school or in the neighborhood as Wu-Poo? That won’t work.”
“We can always ask your parents and Charlie what they think. Family affair,” she replied, seeking to get their input, too.
Crap, Charlie! “Hang on, Em. Forgot to call Charlie. I need to talk to him.”
Emily was on her phone now, searching baby names on a website and not paying attention to him as he dialed.
“Charlie, hey, call me as soon as you can. Zeke’s got some video footage of you down on the flight line and wants to continue interviewing you. The perception is awful. Need to talk with you about the details before you talk with them. Important, alright? Call me back.”
Ford looked at her and bent down to her waist. “He didn’t answer.”
She looked down at the back of Ford’s head as he crouched over to listen to the baby with his ear.
“Love you, little baby,” he said. Then he looked up at Emily. He looked into her eyes and stared for a moment, giving him a heartfelt feeling inside. A flash of awareness, an instantaneous examination of how lucky Ford was to have her in his life, rushed over him. “Love you, too, momma.”
The pregnancy made Emily emotional, and she started to cry.
Ford thought quietly about how perfect everything was, especially the last few days since his recent struggles. He reflected about Emily’s pregnancy and becoming parents, but the one nagging thing he could not get out of his mind was Charlie.
Ford just could not comprehend the magnitude of the situation. The squadron commander’s brother was responsible for killing his aircrew? It was just something Ford could not get over, and he needed to be prepared for the FBI arresting him soon.
The Buffalo Pilot: A Ford Stevens Military-Aviation Thriller (Book 3) Page 19