“Dammit.”
“Did you try calling Joe again?” Troy asked.
“I’ll try now,” Jack said, pulling out his phone.
Then he saw it. Out by the gas pumps and banging up against the dock was a small metal Jon boat with the words RENT ME printed on the side.
Jack pointed at it and looked at Troy. “What about that one?”
Troy looked and shook his head. “We’d never make it out there in that thing. Besides, I’ve had bad juju with those things ever since… well, for a long time now.”
Jack put his mouth back to the phone. “Yes, now listen. This is Jack Colpiller. Don’t put me on hold and do not hang up.”
Troy could hear the person on the line try to protest, but Jack interrupted. “You tell Joe Bond that my daughter is being held captive by a murderer out at the yellow and green Stiltsville house. They can’t just show up, or he’ll kill her. But if they’ll send out the Coast Guard, I’ll get word when she’s been rescued and let you—”
The voice apparently interrupted him. “Rescued by Remington.”
The voice asked another question.
“Remington Reginald,” Jack said, getting frustrated, “the investigator I sent after them.”
He listened to the voice for a second, then blurted, “Wait, wait, wait, don’t—”
He held the phone up to show Troy. “She put me on hold,” Jack said incredulously, “can you freakin’ believe that?”
Troy shrugged. Jack clicked the phone angrily and shoved it in his pocket. “Well,” he said, “what the hell do we do now?”
“I guess we’ll just have to wait,” Troy said, taking a deep breath, “and hope Remington is able to get Mindy out safely.”
“Dammit!” Jack yelled and walked toward the floor to ceiling windows looking out at the ocean. “If only the damn pilot was here.”
Troy perked up. “Pilot?”
“Yeah, he’s usually here during the week,” Jack answered, putting his hands on his hips, “but his sister has an engagement party, or something like that. Hell, I had no idea I’d need—”
“Wait, a pilot for what?”
“The chopper, of course,” Jack said, and pointed up.
“You’ve got a chopper?”
“Yeah.”
“On the roof?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, you mean to tell me that you can fly a chopper?”
“Yup,” —Troy was already headed toward the private elevator door— “learned how back in Afghanistan.”
“Hot damn,” Jack said running after him.
“You said it.”
The private elevator opened up to the long flat roof on top of the Grand Bay Resort and Residences building. To the right Troy saw the skyline of Miami across Biscayne Bay starting to light up as night fell. He saw a row of gigantic cruise ships lined up and ready to sail passengers out to a plethora of tropical locations. Beyond those he saw high-rise condominiums and office buildings with deco colors and mirrored glass. South Beach was starting to pulse as well, with partiers from all around the world starting to get their groove on. But the only sound he could hear was the wind in his ears and the waves crashing on the beach. He grabbed his hat as a strong gust threatened to steal it off his head.
To the right, he spotted the lower Ritz-Carlton building, and past that the various smaller hotels and apartment buildings. He could almost make out his crap-hole place from up here too. At the end of the long row of sunset reflecting buildings, he could see the Towers of Key Biscayne looking like something out of a Tolkien novel. Past that, it was jungle… mangrove… the wild. He couldn’t see the lighthouse from this angle, as it was hidden by the Towers. But they were going to the other side of the island, out to Stiltsville.
“Here,” Jack said, holding out a key.
Troy took it and looked down at it. He’d flown the seaplane for his brother down in Key West without incident, but he hadn’t flown a chopper since the war. Not since the incident with Harry Nedman. He hadn’t experienced any PTSD symptoms—no nightmares, no tremors, no fear—since he’d come back from Afghanistan… until now.
Looking down at the key, he noticed his hand begin to shake. It was just a small tremor at first, but it became so violent that it shook the key right out of his hand.
He looked up at Jack. “I don’t know if…”
Jack Colpiller took Troy’s hand and held it tight. “Soldier,” he said calmly, “this is not the time to flake out on me.”
Troy nodded, but he was still shaking.
“Son,” Jack said in a commanding voice, “your unit needs you. You are the only one who can get out there and save them. You, and you alone, stand between their life and their death. Do you hear me, son?”
“Yeah,” Troy said weakly, “I hear y—”
Jack poked his finger into Troy’s chest with force. “I can’t hear you! Do you hear me, son?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Troy reflexively snapped a salute.
And that was all it took. He reached down and grabbed the key.
“Good!” shouted Jack. “Now, get your ass in that chopper and get us in the air!”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Troy said, and ran over to the chopper.
The helicopter perched on the slightly raised pad was matte black with two glossy gray stripes running up diagonally along the tail. It was smooth and sleek and futuristic looking. He lifted himself up into the cockpit as Jack ran around to the other side.
Once inside, Troy grabbed the headset, laid his hat aside, and placed them over his ears. He started a pre-flight check and was amazed at the high-tech dash in front of him. This thing was amazing.
Seeing him staring at it, Jack asked, “You okay?”
Troy glanced over at him. “I’m good now. Thanks.”
“Good,” Jack said and put on his headset. “Now, can you fly this bird?”
“Hell yeah, I can.” Troy clicked a few more switches. “What’s she called?”
“She’s a Eurocopter EC135,” Jack said, smiling, “twin-engine rotorcraft. It can be alternatively powered by a pair of Turbomeca Arrius 2B or Pratt & Whitney Canada PW206B engines. Quietest bird in her class and fast as hell. Cost me over four mil.”
Troy looked over at him and smiled. “No, I mean… what do you call her?”
Jack laughed. “I call her Betty.”
Troy gave him a thumbs-up and nodded. “Me likey.”
And as they lifted off the platform, he began humming the tune of Black Betty by Ram Jam.
The chopper swooped off the building and Troy found that yes, Betty was indeed fast as hell. The structures lining the beach of Key Biscayne whizzed by on their left and people on the sand below waved as they passed overhead. The sun dipped below the horizon and left Troy flying almost solely by instruments.
“We’ll head down past the Towers and then head west,” Troy said and pointed toward the buildings. “The mangroves should mask our sound a bit. Once we get across, I’ll get up pretty high and we’ll wait ‘til we hear from Remington.”
“Good plan,” Jack said, taking out his phone. “Nothing yet.”
Less than fifteen minutes later they were circling the group of houses known as Stiltsville. It was dark, but flying this low they could still see well enough to make out the individual homes.
“Jack,” Troy said, “which one did he say again?”
“He didn’t,” Jack answered, sweeping his head around to check all the houses, “but there’s no one out here. And I don’t see my boat.”
“Could he have it hidden beneath one of them?”
Jack shook his head. “Nah, it’s too big. It would have to be parked dockside. It’s not here.”
“Dangit,” Troy said, and swept the chopper back around.
Below them the houses perched on stilts above the shallow waters were dark, quiet and abandoned. No lights shone, and there were no boats parked anywhere. No one was here.
> “Call Remington,” Troy said.
Jack dialed the phone. He waited a while, then shook his head.
“Voicemail,” he said.
“Crap,” Troy said, “what now?”
“Hell, I don’t know.”
“Try calling Joe back?”
“That gets us nowhere,” Jack said, “besides, if he got my message, he’s probably got the Coast Guard headed out here anyway.”
“Jack,” —Troy pointed at a number on the screen in front of him— “we’re gettin’ low on fuel.”
Jack nodded. “Head back. We’ll fuel it up and try again.”
Troy nodded, but he knew it was hopeless. This time of night, they’d have no visuals on the ground or the water. It was pitch black down by the mangroves with no residual light from buildings, streetlights, or cars.
Troy swung around in a wide arc to head back to the Grand Bay. In the distance he could see the Cape Florida Lighthouse. The low flickering of its light dancing off the faceted windows of…
“Jack,” Troy said, and pointed the chopper toward the tall building.
“Yeah?”
“Do you see that?” Troy stuck his finger out.
“The lighthouse?”
“Yeah,” Troy said, “and am I crazy, or is there a light on in there?”
Jack peered through the windshield at the dark shadow of the lighthouse. Orange light danced across the glass.
“I think you’re right,” Jack said, “but there shouldn’t be… there’s no light in there anymore.”
“Somebody’s up there…” Troy said.
His voice trailed off as he remembered something Joe had said about the shoe the police had found with Caroline’s blood on it. There had been a bum brought in for creating a nuisance down at the lighthouse. They’d found the shoe in his things.
“It’s Taz,” Troy said.
“What?” Jack’s face showed confusion. “How do you know that?”
“No time to explain,” Troy said, swooping the chopper in low over the mangroves.
He flew past the lighthouse and out over the water, then circled back. There was definitely a light coming from inside the lighthouse, and down on the beach, resting up on the sand, was a small boat.
Troy pointed at it. “That yours?”
“That hunk of junk?” Jack asked. “Hell no. Mine’s a lot bigger than that.”
Troy had guessed as much, but wanted confirmation.
“Okay, then Taz is here,” he said, “and he’ll have heard us coming.
Jack nodded and started to say something. “I—”
“You’ll be staying in the chopper,” Troy interrupted, “and getting Joe, the Miami P.D., the Coast Guard, Remington, and anybody else with a gun and a badge to get their asses down here pronto.”
Jack closed his mouth and nodded. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna get your daughter back.”
30
Redeemed
Brant Reginald could hardly believe the events of the past few days. From his fall from grace at the Heavenly Father’s Holy Sanctuary Church of Fairhope, Alabama, to the apparent… alleged… miracle of raising Jackie Ranchero-Doral out of her supposed permanent coma, and finally to the media and social wave that had lifted him back into a respected position in the church.
The same afternoon that the news report had come out detailing the events that happened in Jackie’s room on that fateful night, the church had reinstated him. He had received no less than one-hundred-forty-seven offers from churches around the country to take over as their spiritual leader. Sifting through the hundreds and thousands of messages from people all over the country, something became abundantly clear to him… people were hurting—physically and spiritually. His message going forward would be one of honest, faithful, and genuine redemption… not actors pretending to be healed. Any healing that took place would be by the power of God, and not by the power of good production values.
After answering what seemed like two-thousand questions from the press, he’d had some time to hang out with Jackie. The hospital was keeping her there to be sure that everything about her recovery was okay, and by all accounts, she appeared to be in perfect health… except for the minor issue of the memory loss. She’d seen the sad news that her former boss, Governor Gil Dickerson, had apparently died of a major heart attack. She couldn’t remember much besides a feeling that she had liked him. Doctors said she might regain some of her memories, but given the miracle that had happened, told her not to worry about it if they never came back.
Brant took Jackie’s hand and said he needed to tell her something… and ask for her forgiveness.
“Forgiveness?” Jackie asked in surprise. “Are you kidding me? You gave me my life back. What in the world would I need to forgive you for?”
Brant inhaled deeply. He told her the story of his church and how they had slid into the habit of creating false miracles—for the greater good of showing people the power of Jesus—and how he had met Aliah Ranchero. He admitted that he, along with the board of the church, had conned Jackie’s mother into believing she had been healed and further convinced her that her money… all of her money… should be given to the church, since God have given her this miracle.
Jackie remained stoic through his telling. He couldn’t read what she was feeling. Her face was a mask. He finished with the story of having left Alabama in disgrace. He bent down on his knee beside her bed and tears began to fall from his eyes.
“And so,” he said, “I must beg you for forgiveness… because… I am responsible… I alone am responsible for your mother’s death.”
For a long moment, Jackie said nothing. Brant kept his head lowered and began to pray. He heard Jackie sniff, and looked up to see tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I remember,” she said. “I remember the joy we felt when she came home and said she’d been healed. I never put it together that it was you.”
Brant expected her to throw him out. Jackie said nothing. He stood up.
“I’ll… ” he began, “I’ll go now. I just wanted you to know how sorry I am. I—”
“No,” Jackie said, “you have nothing to be sorry about. If it had been in His plan to heal her, she would’ve been healed. We can never fully understand what the plan is… whether we happen to be a preacher, or just a follower.”
Brant could not believe what he was hearing. As she spoke, he began to come to a greater truth in his heart.
“The time I had with my mother on this earth,” Jackie continued, “was precious and priceless. Maybe God needed her in Heaven, and took her home at just the right time.”
Brant began thinking about his son, Remington, and how he had thrown him out after the unfortunate accident with his grandmother. Jackie’s mother had been taken from her by death, but Remington’s family had been taken from him… by ignorance and shallow emotions. The tears came freely and his heart started to pound.
“You know what you need to do, Pastor Reginald,” Jackie said, and smiled.
“I do.” Brant took her hand, and kissed it.
He told her goodbye and made sure she knew how to get in touch with him after she was released from Raulerson.
“I look forward to seeing your new church,” she said as he turned to go, “and the miracles that will flow from your ministry.”
Brant nodded and held up a hand to wave goodbye. But his thoughts were on just one thing now; Remington. He opened his phone and saw that he had a missed message from his son.
-Dad?
He quickly typed out a reply.
-I’m here, son
-I need you
An image of a map with a pin in it popped up on his screen. Remington had sent his location.
-On my way
Brant ran out to the parking lot and found the Saint Juneau’s old white Buick LeSabre still parked where he’d left it. He jumped in and set the G.P.S. He wasn’t sure how he knew… but he knew Remi was in trouble. He drove as fast a
s the Buick would go, and raced down Highway 27, slowing only to navigate through the tolls. Thankfully, the Saint Juneaus had a Sunpass mounted in the windshield, so he didn’t have to dig up the change he needed to get through. He mentally added this to the list of things he’d repay them for when he got the chance.
An hour and a half later, he found the pinpoint on the map at a small apartment building in Hialeah. He jumped out of the car and ran into the lobby and found an older woman sitting in a dark green club chair held together with several strips of duct tape on its edges watching a daytime talk show. She looked up and gasped.
“Well, as I live and breathe,” she crowed, “if it isn’t the honorable reverend Brant Reginald. I absolutely adore your TV show.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, but didn’t bother to explain that he didn’t do that anymore. “I need to know which apartment Reginald Hoyt Remington is in.”
“He’s in 3B,” she said, pointing at the elevator, “but you might want to cover your nose. Skunk.”
Brant had no idea what that meant, but he ran to the elevator and punched the button. As he waited for the ridiculously slow car to arrive, he heard the woman calling a friend, bragging how she’d just met the Pastor from Fairhope.
Finally, the doors slid open and Brant got a shocking whiff of what the old woman had been talking about. The smell of skunk did fill the decrepit, dirty elevator, but that was the last thing on his mind. He punched the number 3 and waited. He stepped out of the infernally slow elevator and jogged down the hall, noticing the odor of skunk getting stronger and stronger as he approached 3B. He found the door left slightly ajar, and saw a bloody smudge on the doorknob and four bloody finger impressions on the jamb.
He shoved the door open and ran in.
“Remi?” he shouted into the apartment.
He ran toward the bedroom, but there was no sign of his son in there.
“Remi? Where are you?” he shouted into the air.
Listening, he heard a moan come from the other side of the apartment. He saw another door with more blood smudged on it and edged through it. Inside, he found his son. Remington looked as if he’d been in a car wreck or a really one-sided boxing match.
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 61