Shake the Trees

by Rod Helmers

  Sam walked around the chair and sat down. Then grabbed the chrome bar that had appeared before him and again pulled his form to a standing position. He leaned over and put his ear next to his mother’s lips. And waited. But there was only silence. Silence and the barely recognizable ringing of a telephone so very far away. Far away. In a place he dreaded - dreaded even more than the silence.

  Sam shook the fog from his brain. Then looked down. It was Sandi. He flipped open his cell phone, but immediately regretted his action. He hadn’t thought about what he would tell her. How he would explain. He’d only thought about her reaction and the rejection that would surely follow.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s me.”

  Sam could tell that she’d been crying. “Sandi, what’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Sam. It’s terrible.”

  Sam’s limbs felt like lead and his stomach fell into his bowels. “I know. I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. Sandi, I don’t know how this happened.”

  “Sam, without water this place is worthless. But it means everything to my dad. I don’t know what will happen to him.”

  “What?”

  “Huh?”

  “Sandi, what are you talking about?”

  “I thought you said you knew.”

  “I’m at work. Uh. We’ve had some problems. I thought you were talking about something else. I’m sorry. What’s happening there?”

  Between sniffles Sandi explained the events of the morning. Sam listened as his anger mounted. This was a problem that could be solved.

  “Sandi, you have water rights. Bartholomew Citron is very good. He’ll take care of this. You just have to be strong until Monday afternoon. You have to be strong. Not just for yourself, but for everyone else too. I know it’s hard, but you have to.”

  “I just don’t understand what these people are thinking. Ned Ron must have lawyers too. Shouldn’t they know better?”

  “Ned Ron?” Sam answered as a kernel of dread and fear began to grow and swell into full-fledged panic.

  “Ned Ron Incorporated. That’s the corporation that bought Chubb’s place.”

  “Ned Ron?”

  “Ned Ron.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sam?”

  “Yes, Sandi?”

  “Do you promise? Do you promise that everything will be all right?”

  Sam paused. Somehow he knew that nothing was going to be all right. “I promise.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Tillis looked at the forlorn Ford LTD with disgust. He’d landed at a small airport near Marco Island, which sat at the northern edge of Ten Thousand Islands. Most general aviation airports had a loaner vehicle that was made available to pilots for short local day trips. None of these vehicles were ever fancy, but most were mechanically sound. This relic had taken the category to a new low.

  Tillis looked at the apprehensive face of Sally Cummings and tossed her the keys. “You said you’d always wanted to drive a seventies-era classic.”

  “I was talking about your 1970 Hemi-Cuda.”

  Tillis shrugged as he quickly wound down the passenger side window. The sun, heat and humidity of South Florida had faded and cracked every non-metal component of the car, and had also fostered the growth of an eye-burning mildew that had burrowed into the vents and cloth interior.

  “Don’t turn on the air,” Tillis advised.

  “Why? I’m burning up.” Sally screwed the knob around to the full on position. “Oh my god! What is that?” Sally gasped as she quickly turned the dial back to the off position.

  “A living organism. Don’t turn that on again. It just pisses it off. I highly recommend the redneck air conditioning.” Sally nodded and wound down her window as well.

  Twenty-five minutes later Sally turned off of Alligator Alley and the pair bounced down a dirt trail for another fifteen minutes before arriving at the crime scene. The wind-burned team was met by a smiling Billy Bob Williams. Billy Bob was now over forty years old. He carried a huge pot belly, as well as a large plug of tobacco between his gum and cheek. A stream of brown liquid rocketed out of his mouth before he spoke.

  “I see that the budget cuts are hittin’ you FDLE boys pretty hard.” Billy Bob rubbed the stubble of both of his cheeks with a single open palm as he leaned into the open window of the LTD. “Hold on a minute now. I think this was one of my patrol cars back in eighty-four. Smells like it.” Billy Bob began to laugh at his own joke, but then inhaled a bit of the chaw and his laughter devolved into a paroxysm of teary-eyed coughing.

  “Airport car. I hope you don’t mind us butting in on your territory here, Billy Bob.” Tillis said.

  Billy Bob loudly cleared his throat and spit a large gummy wad on the ground. “Hell no. Down here we don’t get into any of those titty-tatty alphabet soup turf wars you big city boys are so fond of. I’m just glad for the help, Tillis. But I do have a private contractor for the Department of Natural Resources who’s itchin’ to harvest the gator that done ate on that boy. You need to let me know when I can cut him loose.”

  “Relative?” Tillis asked.

  “Cousin.” Billy Bob replied.

  “How do you know which one?” Sally asked.

  “Which one what?” Billy Bob replied with both an annoyed and confused expression on his face.

  “How do you know which gator done . . .” Sally paused and then started anew. “How do you know which alligator ate part of the victim?”

  Billy Bob let another stream of viscous liquid fly, and placed both hands on the sill of the car door. Then leaned into the interior of the old Ford and gave Sally a big brown-toothed grin. “The one that’ll make the most briefcases for purty professional gals like you I expect.”

  Tillis got out of the dilapidated Ford and strode over to an older but well-maintained vehicle that resembled an ambulance, but was labeled Monroe County Coroner. The body had been retrieved from the water and placed in the running and air-conditioned van. Tillis opened the rear doors of the vehicle and climbed in, folding down a jump seat next to the unbagged body.

  The face was unrecognizable. The arms had been ripped from the body. There appeared to be very little information to be gleaned from the mangled corpse. A small cooler sat next to the body, from which Tillis removed an evidence bag. The bag contained two cleanly severed fingers, which bore the blackish residue of fingerprinting ink.

  After a few moments of contemplation, Tillis exited the vehicle and surveyed the area. Billy Bob and his team had already placed several evidence markers. The FDLE forensics team had not yet arrived, and Tillis didn’t want to disturb the scene.

  “Walk me through it, Billy Bob.”

  Billy Bob started with the marker labeled number one and proceeded numerically, discussing tire tracks, foot traffic, and the location of each finger, drag mark, and spent shell casing. He’d been thorough and Tillis was starting to feel guilty for underestimating him.

  “You missed that one. Next to where you found the fingers.” Tillis said after he’d finished.

  “Saved it for last. We found a pretty good bit of small white crystals. My taste buds confirmed it was salt.”

  “Jesus. He tortured the poor son of a bitch, didn’t he?”

  “Just plain mean.” Billy Bob nodded toward a muddy and bloated carcass near the water’s edge. “I figure that explains him shootin’ up that gator for no good reason.”

  “Cruel bastard,” Tillis said softly as he shook his head.

  “Guess that spic couldn’t swim too good. But with all that gator blood in the water, there was probably a feedin’ frenzy goin’ on.” One of Billy Bob’s deputies who’d been listening while standing off to the side had made the comment.

  Tillis gave the man a sideways glance. “Who’s the fat red-haired dumbass?”

  “New boy. Ain’t from ‘round here.” Billy Bob replied.

  Tillis had already made that determination, having placed the accent in south central Georgia. Th
e big red-haired man walked over to where Tillis and Billy Bob stood.

  “Who you callin’ a fat red-haired dumbass?”

  “Well, I see a couple of fat red-haired guys, but you’re the only obvious dumbass in sight,” Tillis replied.

  The man brought a pointed finger up, but his legs flew out from underneath him long before his finger ever made contact with Tillis’ chest. As he landed on his back with a loud thump, Tillis’ knee made contact with his sternum. Then Tillis grabbed the man’s Adam’s apple between the thumb and index finger of his left hand, and applied firm pressure. The big man’s pigmentless skin began to turn red and his eyes widened as he struggled to breathe.

  Two of the other deputies began to move toward the pair, but Billy Bob waved them off with the slightest movement of two fingers held at waist level. The deputies turned around and moved away, ignoring the scene and pretending that everything was as it should be.

  “We can either continue doing what we’re doing, or you can enter the diversion program for big fat red-haired dumbasses. It’s an educational program.” Tillis commented softly as slowly he released the pressure on the man’s throat.

  “Diversion program,” the man croaked.

  “Good choice. First of all, you’ll notice the look on Billy Bob’s face. That is not a look of concern for your well-being. He’s concerned that this incident might generate unnecessary paperwork.”

  “God-damned right I am,” Billy Bob exclaimed.

  “You need to understand that if this incident generates any paperwork whatsoever, I will find you and pick up where we left off.”

  The man nodded.

  “Okay. Rule number one. The Golden Rule. A law enforcement officer always shows respect for the citizenry he is sworn to serve and protect. Especially victims. Especially victims of violence. And especially dead victims of violence. Do you understand?”

  The man nodded again.

  “Rule number two. You need to educate yourself about and understand the environment around you. Its people. Its animals. Its flora and fauna. Example. No man can out swim or out run a gator. And gators can’t really hear much, and they don’t see too damn well either. But they can sense small vibrations up to a mile away, and go straight to the source of those vibrations. That’s how they hunt. When that big gator was shot, I’ll guarantee you that it made a big scene; they never go quietly. The vibrations in this body of water would have been totally disrupted. If that poor boy had understood that, and if he’d been very careful, he might have had a chance to escape a horrible death.”

  “Rule number . . .” Tillis’ lecture was disrupted by the third overture of Beethoven’s fifth symphony.

  “Over there,” Billy Bob said while pointing to a crook in the branches of a gumbo-limbo tree. “In that tourist tree.” While the rest of the world called it a gumbo-limbo tree, most native Floridians called it a tourist tree because of its peeling red bark.

  Tillis looked over at Sally and held his hands up. She briskly returned to the vehicle and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then met Tillis at the tree. The tree was about thirty feet tall with a large crown. The trunk was huge at ground level, but at a height of only three or four feet branched out into several limbs about as big around as a man’s leg. After Sally had positioned herself properly and nodded at Tillis, he gave one of the branches a good shake. The BlackBerry made a perfect landing in her latex covered palms, but the music had stopped moments earlier.

  “I guess the perp put this up there for safe-keeping and forgot about it,” Sally commented as she walked over to where Tillis stood.

  Tillis studied the device. “Looks like someone left us a message. Or at least a return number.”

  “When you said we were going to shake a few trees, I didn’t realize you were speaking literally,” Sally commented.

  After donning latex gloves, Tillis retrieved the message while being careful not to erase it.

  “0101911,” Tillis repeated thoughtfully.

  “Digital emergency,” Sally responded. “All digital code is comprised of zeros and ones.”

  “Of course.” Tillis looked at Sally admiringly. “I think this belonged to Dr. Bob. Looks like his demise remains unknown in certain quarters. And therefore was not anticipated. It may have thrown a monkey wrench into things for the calling party.”

  “Double cross?” Sally asked in immediate response.

  “Could be.” Tillis commented thoughtfully.

  “What’s a monkey wrench?” Sally inquired of no one in particular.

  Tillis wasn’t listening either. “Make sure this belonged to Dr. Bob. Then run the calling number. Probably made from a disposable. If so, I want to know where it was purchased asap. Ping it, but don’t call that number. Whatever you do, don’t call that number back.”

  Sally rolled her eyes. “Come on, Tillis. Give me a little credit. Please.”

  “Sorry, Sally. But it wouldn’t be the first time a rookie spooked a perp.”

  Tillis walked away and stood quietly by himself. At first studying the trees. Then his eyes closed and his breathing slowed and deepened. Sally had heard about this behavior almost from her first day on the job at the FDLE. Because of his remarkable record in solving homicide cases, everyone said he talked to dead people. But nobody had ever asked him about it. Except for Sally. And she’d asked during her first hour as his partner.

  Tillis had laughed and explained. She remembered his words. “Look. How much of our brain do they say we actually utilize? Five or ten percent? No, I don’t talk to dead people. That would be too easy. I try to talk to my subconscious. I try and find out what the other ninety or ninety-five percent has been up to. Sometimes I get an uncomfortable feeling, and I know that it’s trying to tell me something. The hard part is getting my conscious mind to listen.”

  Tillis broke from his reverie and returned to where Sally stood. “Something isn’t right here.”

  Sally looked questioningly at Tillis, but had nothing to offer. She moved to the shade and got on her cell. Tillis walked over to where Billy Bob stood. “Have you heard from Bubba lately?”

  “Hell yeah. He’s retired. Sort of. Flyin’ corporate big wigs around outta Tampa now. But he gets down here real regular.”

  “Finally done teaching snot-nosed kids how to fly fighters, huh?”

  “Yeah. But he says those insurance company execs are a bigger pain in the ass than the kids ever were.”

  Tillis looked oddly at Billy Bob for a moment and then spoke. “What insurance company is that Billy Bob?”

  “American something or the other. They also run some kinda old folks homes or some such. Hey! Bubba’s gonna be at Mama’s for our usual Sunday fish fry tomorrow. Why don’t you come by? I know he’d be tickled pink to see you again.” Billy Bob ran his tongue across the inside of his lower lip and turned slightly to leer at Sally as she approached. “And you can bring that girl agent with you.”

  “You know something, Billy Bob.” Tillis paused. “I think I just might do that.”

  Sally had returned in time to catch the end of Tillis’ conversation with Billy Bob, and a look of concern spread across her face. “Forensics is five minutes out,” she offered without enthusiasm.

  Tillis ignored Sally and continued speaking to Billy Bob. “One other thing, Billy Bob. Try to hold off on notification of next of kin as long as possible. Same goes for the press.”

  “I can probably hold off on kin till Monday. Proper verifications and all. And down here the press ain’t no problem till Monday neither.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Sam had returned to his leased condominium late Saturday afternoon. The pain in his gut had become severe as acid chewed at the lining of his stomach. A bagel before he left for work Friday morning was the last thing he could recall eating. A few saltine crackers had helped. At least he wouldn’t resort to alcohol like the last time. He doubted he could keep it down.

  He desperately wanted to call Sandi and tell her what was happening. But sh
e had her own problems now. And if he really was the cause of the water problems at the ranch, he wasn’t sure how she would feel about him. He opened his laptop and began to compose an e-mail in his mind. An e-mail was better he thought. That way if she didn’t want to talk to him she wouldn’t have to.

  It was at that moment Sam noticed a new message in his inbox. He moved the cursor to preview the message, but didn’t recognize the address. Then froze as he studied the subject line. “A Message From Dr. Bob.” Sam’s mind spun wildly. Was the message sent before he died? Was a mistake made? Could he still be alive? Or was this somebody’s idea of a cruel joke? With a shaking hand he moved the cursor to the message and tapped on the laptop.

  This message has been forwarded from a remote server at the request of the following subscriber(s): Dr. Bob.

  This message has been forwarded for the following reason(s): failure of subscriber to access server for a continuous period of time exceeding 48 hours.

  The subscriber has requested the following action(s): download attachment.

  Sam moved the cursor and began to download the attachment. He knew the file was large. Even with the new top of the line laptop American had provided and his high-speed broadband connection, it took several minutes. After the download was complete, Sam tried to open the attachment. A new message popped onto his screen.

  This file is encrypted and password protected. The password consists of between four and seven characters. After three failed attempts at password entry, this file will be permanently deleted. Please enter your password now:

  Sam’s mouth hung open as he stared at the blinking cursor. He didn’t have the password. Dr. Bob had loaded encryption software on his laptop, but he didn’t know the password. And he had only three chances to get it right. Somehow Sam knew that the password was his key. The key to a door that led out of the nightmare he’d stepped into on Friday morning.

  Sandi was sitting at the kitchen table in her cabin at wit’s end. She needed to do something, but there wasn’t anything to be done. Not until Monday. She looked at her doodles of earlier that day. Ned Ron Incorporated. Ned Ron. Ned Ron written several times in heavy block letters. Then she saw it. She scratched out the letters in reverse order in a hurried and angry scrawl and picked up the phone and called his cell.