Crooked River (Jack Francis Novel)
Page 17
“Don’t get yourself worked up.” Colin interrupted me. “I never said it was over. You never know we might find something on Alex’s shooter.”
“What’s the point now? Alex is dead because no one knew when to quit. So many people were trying to cover their tracks and get revenge that innocent people had to die. I’m beginning to think its better to have this whole mess over with even if it does end this way. What is there to do anyways? Shaw and the Gilmores are sitting behind a fortress of money and political power, while people like Alex are paying for their actions.”
“Look Jack, I’m really sorry about Alex but my hands are tied when it comes to Shaw.”
“I know. I wasn’t trying to get on your case. I guess I simply need to vent one last time.”
“I promise I’ll work on finding Alex’s killer. In fact it is about all I can do unless someone comes forward with something on Shaw. Who knows maybe his wife will get pissed off enough to talk.”
“Let’s hope.” We sat for a few moments letting the vibe of the conversation cool. “Oh, I almost forgot.” I slid my keys across the bar to him.
“House keys?”
“Yeah, the key to the Austin Healy is there too.”
“To drive?”
“I need you to get it winterized before the deep freeze sets in, but until then go ahead and drive it. I’ll be coming back for it, so no scratches.”
“No scratches, I promise.”
“Maybe I should have given those keys to Katya.” I said as I reached back for them.
“No way. These babies are staying right here. The boys at work are going to love seeing me pull into the garage in your bachelor mobile.”
“Great, but keep them out of the driver’s seat.”
“Promise.” Colin made the sign of the cross over his heart. “Did you decide on where you’re going yet?”
“Not really. My flight from here will take me to Atlanta but I still need to decide on a final destination from there, probably some small island in the Caribbean or maybe Mexico. I even thought about seeing New Orleans. I haven’t been there since the Buckeyes’ loss in the National Championship Game.”
“Hit me up if you stumble on any fun. I’m long overdue for a vacation.”
“I will.”
“I spent another half hour talking to Colin and then said goodbye to him and Katya when she came in for her dinner shift. The early darkness of fall was beginning to encroach on the day as I made my way to Prospect Avenue to hail a cab for the airport. When a cab finally pulled up after a few failed attempts I heard a voice behind me as I went to get in.
“Mind if we share this one?” I turned to see a well dressed man behind me. “I’m heading to the airport too, if you don’t mind splitting a fare?”
“Sure, why not?” The two of us got in as the cabby threw our bags in the trunk. “Where are you flying to?”
The man turned directly at me for the first time and I noticed how dark the color of his eyes were. “Home to Indianapolis.”
“I probably should have guessed that from your strong Midwest accent. It has a touch of Indiana farm boy to it.” I said to him half jokingly.
“It still comes through huh?”
“A little. My name’s Jack Francis by the way.” I extended my hand out to him.
“Reagan O’Neil,” he answered with a shake of my hand. “Are you from Cleveland?”
“My whole life.”
“So where you headed?”
“Some place warm to escape the winter cold.”
“Sounds like a good plan. I’ll have to follow your lead someday.”
“I’d recommend it.” The small talk continued for the duration of the short fifteen minute ride out to the airport. When we arrived the cab driver unloaded our bags and we went our separate ways. The terminal was crowded and I had to wait to check in for my flight. As I waited I fumbled through my duffel looking for my one last connection to the night Alex was shot. Kershaw’s phone was towards the bottom of the bag and I stared at it in my hand for a moment, once again reliving the evening. I was awakened from my thoughts by the call to the check-in counter. I slipped the phone into my pocket as I moved from the line. The phone was a connection to that night and a major clue that had never been followed. Kershaw had left a number on it for us to find. The problem was I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to know who the number belonged to. I could have given the phone over to Colin and the FBI to trace, but a big part of me wanted this horrible moment of my life behind me.
After convincing the lady behind the counter that my bag was safe for flight, I walked empty handed to the security checkpoint where an agonizing long line confronted me. Above the noise of excited families on their way to Disney and businessmen talking loudly through their earpieces, I heard a ring coming from my pocket. Out of habit I grabbed for the phone and answered it, as I became even more trapped in the slow moving line. “Hello.”
“Jack, its Reagan O’Neil.”
“What can I do for you?” I began to answer before I realized I was on Kershaw’s phone.
“The look on your face is more than enough. It was nice to finally meet you.”
The phone went dead and from across the large room designated for airport security, I saw Reagan O’Neil lift a small bag from the x-ray machine and head down the concourse to his flight.
About the Author
M. P. Murphy was born and raised on the Westside of Cleveland. He attended Flagler College in Saint Augustine, Florida, where he also did freelance work for the Saint Augustine Record. He did his graduate work at the University of Tiffin, while publishing works on Ernest Hemingway and Southern history. Currently he resides with his wife in Charleston, South Carolina.
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