Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  There were a couple of people at the far end of the hallway, but they took no notice of the limping man with the cane. Shannon knew he had to get rid of the washcloth, but couldn’t risk dumping it in the hotel garbage. He folded it and put it in his back pocket.

  In the room next door to Worthington, unbeknownst to Shannon Michaels, two Lauderdale detectives were stretched out on their double beds reading. They heard nothing but the continuing sound of the television newscast that Lance Worthington was presumably watching.

  It crossed Shannon’s mind to take the stairs back down to the lobby, but he rejected the idea. He wanted to blend in with the crowd and a hotel stairway was a lonely place. The elevator stopped twice on the way down, and Shannon followed three people into the lobby—two rather overweight women squeezed into tight shorts, and one bellman. The bellman, who was actually an undercover cop, was distracted by the sight of the corpulent women, and did not notice the bent-over man in the polyester jacket as he limped slowly through the lobby. Shannon remained bent over, and avoided eye contact with everyone. Jackson Davis spotted him again but again thought nothing of it. Just another guest, he thought.

  When Shannon reached the revolving door that led out of the lobby and into the open air, he straightened up just slightly. He limped into the triangular space slowly, staying in character. He didn’t see the two young children a few yards in back of him running frantically toward the doorway.

  Suddenly, they crashed into the glass behind Shannon, pushing the whirling door into the back of his legs. He stumbled and the door’s circular motion propelled him hard into the small outside courtyard. Trying to stay upright, Shannon missed two beats on his limp. Watching from the Mercedes, Ashley Van Buren saw the missteps.

  “Tommy, look! That man there! He was limping badly a few minutes ago when he went inside the hotel. But he just about leapt out of the revolving door.”

  Tommy O’Malley was out of the car in two seconds. Shannon Michaels, who had quickly resumed limping, noticed movement in the parking lot. He turned his head and immediately saw a big man racing toward him. Instinctively, he knew it was O’Malley. And O’Malley left little doubt. “Hey, hold it right there,” he shouted in his authoritative cop’s voice. Shannon Michaels, briefly unglued, took off.

  Ashley Van Buren was also running, but she was heading for the lobby. She wanted to alert Jackson Davis and the rest of the police. She didn’t want Tommy O’Malley to confront a possible killer alone.

  Shannon Michaels, now sprinting for his life, believed he could outrun O’Malley, but feared that the cop would shoot at him. He was just crazy enough to do something like that, he said to himself. He again heard O’Malley’s loud voice screaming at him to stop. He never looked back.

  Shannon zigzagged, running between the rows of cars in the covered valet parking lot. He did not want to give O’Malley a clean shot. His eyes were on the short row of hedges about fifty yards away. He would be there in seconds, and then into his Cadillac. In case a quick exit was needed, he had purposely left the car doors unlocked. As he ran, he reached into his front pants pocket for the keys. He found them, but as he removed his hand, the surgeon’s gloves, which were in the same pocket, fell out. Shit. Physical evidence, he thought. But he couldn’t stop to pick up the gloves. Stopping would mean certain capture.

  Tommy O’Malley, losing ground, realized he could not catch the fleeing man. But his rage drove him onward. He strongly suspected he was chasing Shannon Michaels but could not make a positive identification. He figured the man had a car waiting. O’Malley had to see the car.

  Jackson, Ashley, and four Lauderdale undercovers ran out of the lobby in time to see Tommy a couple of hundred yards away and running hard. Jackson then made a decision. “Let’s get the cars,” he yelled. “Tommy won’t catch him on foot. We’ll drive over and pick him up.”

  Shannon, having reached the Cadillac, was pulling out of the small parking lot when Tommy came crashing through the hedges. Shannon looked back, gave a slight wave, and then floored the vehicle. It bolted onto Marriott Drive, tires squealing. Tommy leveled his pistol and fired at the car’s right front tire. He missed.

  Jackson Davis, with Ashley Van Buren in the backseat, screeched to a halt on the Drive and Tommy ran toward the Mercedes. Directly behind the car, two unmarked police vehicles came to a stop. Everyone had seen the Cadillac take off. Radio calls were already being made to Lauderdale police cruisers citywide.

  Speeding along the small hotel road—the one that runs parallel to the 17th Street Causeway—Shannon tried to clear his head. He was in deep trouble, and his only chance of getting away was the airport. He had to get there and hope his escape plan was good enough to throw off his pursuers. “Goddamnit!” he cursed, “again that fucking O’Malley.”

  Tommy dove into the front passenger seat of the Mercedes and, before he’d closed the door, Jack had put the car in motion. The fleeing car was in sight, about a quarter of a mile ahead. Tommy was perspiring heavily and hyperventilating, but his senses were acute, and he forced himself to be calm. “I think it’s him. That bastard, Michaels. Just keep him in sight, Jack,” Tommy said. “Just keep him in sight.”

  Ashley Van Buren wisely said nothing. She was stunned by how quickly things were unfolding. She nervously checked her seat belt. This was going to be a hell of a ride—maybe even a dangerous one.

  The traffic signal ahead was red, but Shannon Michaels was not stopping for anything or anyone. He pumped the gas and the Cadillac shot through the light and across the causeway. An oncoming car braked hard but not in time, hitting the side of the Cadillac’s back fender. Shannon didn’t give it a glance.

  A sports car appeared directly in front of him. Shannon swerved to the right but hit the sports car almost directly in the gas tank. After the collision, he braked, reversed the car, and floored it—out of reflex as much as anything else. The tires screeched, and the Caddy lurched away from the crunched sports car. Shannon then hit the brakes hard and jammed the gear into drive, speeding down Eisenhower Boulevard past Joe’s Bel Air Diner.

  Jackson Davis, despite police sirens wailing behind him, still had to slow his Mercedes down to get across the causeway. By now, police cars were racing toward South Fort Lauderdale from all directions, but no one knew exactly where the fugitive was heading. And, as yet, no one knew exactly what the fugitive had done.

  Tommy’s portable phone rang. It was Julio Lopez, his voice tense. Lance Worthington had been found lying on the floor of his hotel room. His throat had been cut.

  “He got Worthington,” Tommy said to Jackson and Ashley. “Cut his throat right under our eyes. I can’t believe it. That fuckin’ Michaels. Don’t lose him, Jack.”

  Jackson Davis was annoyed by Tommy’s order. It should have gone unsaid. But Jackson understood. He knew that Tommy wasn’t thinking about words. He was obsessed with capturing the man in the Cadillac.

  Shannon Michaels willed himself to think clearly. He was outrunning the pack, but knew there would be more cops up ahead. As he sped down Spangler Boulevard toward Route One, he decided he would not surrender. He could never spend a day in prison. He would rather be dead.

  Shannon’s Cadillac was doing ninety as he approached a major intersection. Directly ahead was State Road 84, which would lead him to the Lauderdale Airport. But he had to cross over Route One to get to the State Road and that was a problem. At least ten cars were stopped at the intersection light, and Shannon was bearing down on them.

  When he saw the Cadillac’s brake lights suddenly illuminate, Jackson stared in disbelief: The Caddy had swerved onto the sidewalk at a tremendous rate of speed, plowing through garbage cans and over front lawns. On the corner of the intersection was a self-service gas station. The Cadillac turned into it and roared through the narrow space between gas pumps, sideswiping at least two cars. Cursing, Jackson was forced to stop behind the cars lined up at the intersection waiting for the light to change. He could not jump the curb for fear of hitting civ
ilians.

  Shannon glanced in his rearview mirror and saw that the police caravan had momentarily stopped. He sped out of the gas station and turned the Cadillac south onto Route One, going the wrong way on the divided highway. The cars coming at him desperately swerved away trying to avoid a head-on collision.

  Shannon sped into the intersection that had stopped his pursuers and turned right. The Cadillac bolted quickly into a stream of oncoming traffic going north on Route One. Once again a car clipped the Cadillac’s bumper, this time knocking it completely off. Shannon’s response was to floor the gas pedal. He rocketed onto State Road 84, heading west.

  As cars, hearing the sirens, pulled over in front of him, Jackson got moving again. But he had fallen back. Tommy was cursing wildly and slamming his huge fists into the dashboard. Ashley was mute. Jackson had lost sight of the Cadillac and knew they would now have to count on the local police to close in on all sides. This is not some goddamned movie, Jackson told himself. I can’t endanger innocent lives to catch a murder suspect.

  Shannon Michaels had no such compunctions. His life was on the line and he knew it. He sped wildly, going west on State Road 84, passing over a set of railroad tracks, and turning left on Southwest Fourth Avenue heading south toward the airport. Two police cruisers coming from the opposite direction spotted him and took up chase. He had a couple of hundred yards on them.

  Jackson saw the police lights turn left and again gunned the Mercedes. He now had it up over one hundred miles per hour. Though he was closing fast on Michaels, he was worried. The police cars had turned into a residential neighborhood.

  It took Shannon Michaels just seconds to reach Perimeter Road, where again he briefly reviewed his plan. He would smash through the gate he had prepared the night before and drive onto the airport runways. Once there, he would kill his lights and proceed quickly across the field in darkness. Upon reaching the south side of the airport, he would crash through the other gate he had tampered with.

  After driving another hundred yards or so, he would abandon the Caddy, sprint across the highway bridge, and proceed to the Ford Taurus he had left in the parking lot of Something Fishy. With luck, the police would lose him momentarily inside the airport and have no idea he had a second car waiting. And, once free of his pursuers, he would drive north to Georgia using local roads. There he would assess his situation. Shannon knew that he could never go home again. But at least he would be free, he had some money in bank accounts outside the country, and Liam Mooney had promised to help. Perhaps he could live quietly in Ireland.

  Shannon again glanced in the rearview mirror, noticing that the police cars were gaining on him. Jesus, they’re really moving, he thought. He saw his turn coming up. Without braking, he jerked the car to the left, taking the corner on two wheels. He once again floored the gas pedal and blasted through the weakened airport gate. It shattered in two directions. Step one of the plan had worked perfectly.

  “I can’t believe it. He’s going into the airport,” Tommy O’Malley said. “Why the hell is he doing that?”

  Jackson Davis did not reply. He was rapidly closing the distance behind him and the two police cars closest to the fleeing Cadillac. But in his mind, Jackson was beginning to see what was developing. The airport is a big space. A big, dark space.

  The runway on the north side of the Fort Lauderdale Airport is nine thousand feet long and handles the biggest planes that land there. Seven minutes before Shannon Michaels sped across it, a Delta Airlines 727 coming in from Atlanta had used the runway for a perfect landing. But when Shannon reached the concrete strip, it was empty.

  The police cars chasing the Cadillac did not pause at the broken airport gate. They drove right through it. But now the police had to slow down. They were on unfamiliar ground and visibility was limited. The only lights were on the ground, lining the three runways. As Jackson Davis drove through the gate a few seconds later, he noticed that the cruisers were bunching up. “Look at that, Tommy,” Jackson said. “That’s just what the bastard wants: us to be tentative.”

  “Get him, Jack. Don’t slow up.” Tommy was concerned about Ashley, who was uncharacteristically quiet in the backseat. But he knew they had to take the risk. They had to speed through the darkness hoping they would not drive off the north-south tarmac. Jackson, by gunning the Mercedes again, overtook the police cars. Tommy strained to see in front of him, barely making out the outline of a dark speeding car a couple hundred yards ahead.

  It was Shannon who saw the light in the sky first. It was coming in fast from the west. He had no way of knowing it, but a Lear Jet, model 35A, was cleared to land on the General Aviation runway that loomed a half mile in front of him. On the Lear were three businessmen from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, one pilot and one co-pilot. The Lear, traveling one hundred and fifty miles per hour, would be down on the ground in forty-five seconds.

  At first, Shannon shuddered when he saw the plane coming in, but then he saw an advantage. The cops would now have to stop cold in order to let the plane pass safely in front of them. If he could beat that Lear across the runway, he could escape. The police would never catch up to him or find him. He would win.

  “Jack, look at that.” Tommy O’Malley’s voice was tense. “It’s a plane. It’s gonna land right in front of us. Shit.”

  Jackson Davis hit the brake, slowing the Mercedes, and looked up to his right. “No way the Caddy beats that across,” he said.

  Ashley Van Buren was also measuring the plane. “You don’t think he’ll race it across, do you, Tommy?”

  A worried Tommy O’Malley did not answer. If the Cadillac got across the runway before the plane, it could vanish into the darkness. Tommy’s phone rang. Julio again. “Do you see that fuckin’ plane?”

  “We see it!” Tommy shouted.

  “I’ve got units closing on the other side of the airport. And choppers on the way, but they’re still not in place.”

  “So if he beats the plane, he could disappear?” Tommy’s voice was rising.

  “We’ll get him, Tommy,” Julio replied. “We know the car.”

  “Jesus,” said Tommy, hanging up. “The bastard’s got a shot, Jack. We got to get him. Floor it.”

  Jackson Davis looked at Tommy O’Malley. “We got Ashley in the car. We can’t risk it.”

  “GO JACK,” Tommy screamed. “GO!”

  Jackson’s right foot drove the gas pedal to the floor. The eight-cylinder engine shuddered and the Mercedes instantly bolted forward. Ashley was pinned to the backseat, her right hand tightly gripping the doorjamb.

  “The pilot might abort the landing, Jack. We’ve got to stay on Michaels,” Tommy screamed.

  Up ahead, Shannon Michaels was trying not to look at the approaching plane. He was concentrating on driving as fast as he possibly could. The Cadillac’s speedometer read one hundred and twenty miles per hour.

  The Lear was going one twenty-five when its wheels touched the runway. The landing was a piece of cake, the pilot thought. Another great pay day. Off to his left, the copilot noticed police lights flashing. He had seen them on approach, but they had been distant, and air traffic control had not warned him about anything. Now the lights looked much closer. He wondered what was going on.

  Unable to gauge just how fast the approaching plane was going, Shannon saw it touch down and heard the jet’s engines begin to roar down the runway. But he couldn’t stop. If the cops saw his brake lights, they’d know his position. He gritted his teeth and pumped the gas pedal hard. The Cadillac was almost out of control. If he hit anything, the Caddy would surely flip over.

  It was the copilot who saw the dark blur first. “What the hell is that?” he yelled, startling the pilot. Both men’s eyes locked in on a dark object approaching the runway from the north at a high rate of speed. In a few seconds, the car would be directly in front of them.

  “Holy shit, it’s a car on the side tarmac,” the copilot screamed. “And there’s another one behind it, coming up fast. Can you pull up?
”

  “No,” was all the pilot could say as he struggled to slow down and control the plane on the runway.

  Jackson Davis made his decision instantaneously. Realizing that his Mercedes would not beat the jet across the runway, he yelled almost violently, “Hold tight!” Jackson braked, jerking the steering wheel to the right—his power side. The left side of the Mercedes lifted precariously off the ground. Jackson, his face a mass of perspiration, fought for control and prayed the car wouldn’t overturn.

  As the car tottered, seemingly in midair, Ashley screamed. Then it landed on its wheels with a thud, spinning a full three hundred and sixty degrees. Tommy peered out the front window, clearly seeing the jet and Shannon’s speeding car approach each other in a race of death.

  Shannon Michaels heard the plane’s deafening noise grow even louder, its two powerful engines being pulled back. But he continued straight ahead, pushing the car to the limit. Suddenly, the Cadillac hit a bump on the tarmac. It shot into the air. Shannon fought to keep his composure and control. The car hit the pavement and bounced. When it came down, it bounced again, losing speed. Shannon glanced to his right. The jet’s front light blinded him. In a flash, he was past it. He had made it. He had beaten the odds.

  But Shannon’s thoughts of victory suddenly vanished when he heard a loud thump followed by a crunching sound. All at once he felt a spinning sensation that disoriented him. He had indeed beaten the Lear Jet across the runway but, at the last possible moment, the speeding plane’s right wing had clipped the Cadillac slightly above the right rear tire. The car flipped over immediately and spun around like a huge, metallic top.

  Upon impact with the car, the Lear Jet veered sharply to the right. Its landing gear collapsed and the body of the plane met the concrete runway at a speed in excess of one hundred miles an hour. The intense friction ignited a shower of sparks that flew into the three thousand pounds of reserve fuel that had begun pouring out of the fuselage.