He tossed the document into his marble ashtray, flicked the zippo, and lit the corner of it. It flamed up, slowly at first, then quickly the fire burned it to ash.
“Now,” James said, smiling, “let’s talk about what the new draft of that announcement is going to look like.”
Gil felt a shiver threaten to creep up his spine. This deal was getting worse with every passing day. He wondered if politics was really for him, and considered just dropping it all and walking away. But he was sure James Hardy would never let that happen. The boat would reappear, and the murder would be all over the papers. Gil would be in jail forever… if not sent to death row.
No, he’d made his bed. And he would damn well lie in it, flea infested as it was.
Brant Reginald had Googled Aliah Ranchero and had found three-thousand two-hundred and forty results. After sifting through fourteen pages highlighting the famous Tex Mex chef, he found what he was looking for… the obituary.
It was painful to see her grainy black and white photograph, but thankfully, the obit had left out the details involving the pain and drama that had played out after he healed her. He hadn’t planned on extorting money from her, but she’d been so ecstatic about her new lease of life that she’d been easy to coerce into donating it all. And it had been a tidy sum… enough to complete the new television studio inside the church.
That’s really when his ministry took off, and he knew deep down inside that he owed that legacy to her. Ironically, she had also been the hammer to bring it all down. And if he took that logic all the way to its conclusion, she was responsible for his new pilgrimage. He began to internalize and truly see his changed direction as his epiphany… his reconnection with God. And to show his gratitude, he would find her remaining kin and let them know that her life and eventual death had, in fact, come to serve a higher purpose.
He also learned in the obituary that Aliah was survived by her husband Manny and her daughter Jackie. Another quick search found the last white pages’ listing for them in Alabama, and he dialed it. Disconnected. More digging revealed Manny had died of heart related stress, and that Jackie was living in Florida. She was some sort of political intern, bouncing from office to office under different candidates. Her last bounce landed her in the office of up-and-coming Senator, Gil Dickerson… soon to be Governor Dickerson, he read in the Miami Herald.
He dialed the office of Senator Dickerson, and got an unusual answer. Jackie is on leave, and unlikely to return before the election. That’s odd, he thought. “I’m an old friend of the family,” he added to no avail.
“I understand, sir,” said the girl, presumably another intern, “but we wouldn’t be able to give out any personal information anyway. But we thank you for your support in the upcoming election.”
He Googled a little more to find information on Jackie’s husband, and dialed him also. He was a little more forthcoming, though not exactly friendly. He shouted something about how her internships had wrecked their marriage and that she wasn’t welcome back in his house. He’d slammed the phone down after that.
His next call was to Remington. Predictably, he got his son’s voicemail.
“Son, it’s your dad.” He felt a lump forming in his throat. “I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t mean much to you, but the Lord has changed my path. I hope you’ll forgive me for all I have done to you. I’m no longer with the church in Alabama… actually, I’m no longer with the church at all. I’ve been defrocked.”
He took a deep breath and realized tears were streaming down his face.
“God has given me a new direction,” he continued, “and I’m beginning my pilgrimage today. I will be starting my journey this afternoon. I don’t know where it will take me, but I do know that I’d like to see you.”
He felt a calming presence come over his body. The Lord was truly with him. He continued.
“If you hear this and if you’ll let me come—” His voice broke, and he paused. “ If you’ll please let me come and see you, son. I love you.”
He hung up the phone. Composing himself, he figured the best course was to let God guide his steps. He knelt and prayed and waited. After a few minutes, his knees got sore, so he sat up in his chair. He clicked into his email and found that he still had access to the church email address. It couldn’t hurt to just see what was going on.
The first seven emails were hate mail directed both at him personally and at the church. The next two were threatening to sue. The tenth email was junk mail from Greyhound offering reward customers (the church used them to bus people in from all over the country) a free ticket to anywhere in the continental United States. There it was… his sign.
He printed the voucher and decided to walk to the bus station. He would take nothing with him from his past. He would be Job. He would leave his possessions behind—everything except his Bible—and follow Him. He walked out to the end of the church driveway and turned left toward the interstate. It was hot as hell, but he knew that was part of his penance, so he just kept walking.
As he took a few steps onto the ramp leading him to 98 South, a car honked behind him. He waved it around, but it pulled over in front of him and rolled the window down. A meaty, tattooed arm beckoned him.
Brant looked up at the sky… Is this more of God’s handiwork? He took a few steps toward the car—an older model white Buick LeSabre with peeling paint and a missing hubcap on the rear driver’s side wheel—and saw a faded and torn bumper sticker that read: Jesus is my copilot.
God does work in mysterious ways, he thought. The large man inside the car leaned over and opened the passenger door. Brant stuck his head down to look inside.
He was sweaty… like, are you sure you didn’t just step out of a shower, sweaty. His hair was salt and pepper—with more salt than pepper—and tied back in a long, stringy ponytail. His face was plump and his cheeks were rosy. It was hard to tell what his eyes looked like because they were hidden behind rose-colored glasses and large, caterpillar eyebrows. The radio was blaring a song Brant recognized as Me and Jesus (Got Our Own Thing Going) as recorded by Sundance Head—the most recent winner on one of those TV music competition shows.
He was wearing a dingy wife-beater style tank top (also soaked with sweat) and what appeared to be multi-colored, tie-died swim trunks. On his chest dangled no less than three wooden cross pendants, all hanging on shoelaces or string. No gold or silver.
“Hello, friend,” he boomed in a voice that was somehow both high-pitched and resonant, “where you headed?”
Brant was about to politely decline the obvious invitation to share a ride and walk away, but if this wasn’t a sign from God, he wasn’t sure what was… He’d been asking for a sign, and the Lord had provided. So he stayed, and said, “Well, I’m just trying to get to the bus station over in Mobile for now. Florida from there.”
The man laughed, a boisterous, jolly laugh that Brant thought Santa Claus would laugh be proud of… if he were real. “Friend,” he smiled broadly, revealing surprisingly healthy-looking teeth, “you are in luck. I’m headed down to Lake Okeechobee to meet an old friend for an old-timey tent revival. You know, lots of singin’, lots of preachin’, lots of savin’. I can take you that far if you like.”
“I’m headed all the way down to Key Biscayne,” Brant said, “but Greyhound is actually pretty reasonab—”
The man interrupted him. “I’ll take you as far as you want to go with me and you can decide when we part ways. How does that sound?” He swept his hand over the passenger seat, brushing some random fast-food napkins, and the remnants of whatever meals he’d consumed recently, onto the floor.
Brant slid in beside the man. The seat was hot and sticky, but beggars can’t be choosers. He closed the door.
“Sounds like a fair deal to me,” he said, holding out his hand toward the man, “name’s Brant. Brant Reginald.”
The man’s eyes twinkled as he shook Brant’s hand. “Oh, I know who you are, Pastor Reginald.”
In al
most any other circumstance, Brant might’ve felt a little creeped out by what the man had said… but he didn’t get that vibe from this guy. He seemed so… genuine… and nice.
“I’ve followed your messages on TV for quite a few years now,” he said, and pulled the car onto the ramp headed toward the interstate, “and I loved the series on David and Goliath. You really got that one right.”
“Thanks,” Brant said, settling in for the ride.
“Name’s Christopher,” he said as they got up to cruising speed, “Christopher Saint Juneau.”
“Pleased to meet you, Christopher,” Brant said, and felt himself smiling.
“Call me Chris,” he said, “all my friends call me Chris.”
Brant nodded. “You got it, Chris.”
“Oh, by the way,” —Chris jerked a knob on the dash back and forth— “the AC’s been out since Albuquerque. Hope you’ll be okay with that.”
“Fine with me,” Brant said, and felt sweat start beading on his forehead, “I’m just happy for the ride.”
“Cool,” Chris said and burst out laughing. “Or not cool, actually!”
He laughed until he started coughing, with tears forming in his eyes. It was an infectious laugh and soon Brant joined him. This was going to be an interesting trip for sure. He pulled his phone out of his pocket—no messages from Remington. Maybe a little prayer would help. He opened his Bible and started tracing his finger over a well-worn page in Acts.
“That’s a good one,” Chris said, “I always did like that one.”
“Me too.”
The song on the radio changed and Chris started singing along.
In his head, Brant did too. He always did like The Old Rugged Cross.
18
Dead Zone
When the shock of what had just happened slowly ebbed away, and the light of day began to stream into the lighthouse’s windows, Mindy Colpiller began to assess her current situation. Her hands were bound with a shoestring, her mouth was covered with a strip of duct tape, and her throat was parched and dry. It was cool now in the early morning, but she knew as the sun rose higher that the window-surrounded room of the lighthouse would become a super-hot greenhouse. The windows were about six feet above the floor, so even when she stood up she couldn’t see above the wall out to the ocean and the island behind. Her hands ached from being bound so tightly, and her lips were raw from rubbing up and down on the tape.
Exploring the room brought almost nothing of value. An old box marked OIL, a trap door style hatch that had no handle on the inside, and her. That was it. The room smelled awful and rank, like something rotting. She noticed that the smell seemed to be coming from the oil box, and thought maybe some left over fuel had gone bad, or a rat had died inside, or something like that—but the box looked new, likely a reproduction, with a brand-new Stanley padlock holding the lid tight.
Upon closer examination, she noticed that one of the hinges on the box’s lid was slightly loose and a corner of it jutted out a little. Inspiration hit, and she crouched down, turning her back toward the loose hinge. She was able to feel for it and get it lined up with the shoelace holding her wrists together.
Slowly, she put the string against the bottom of the hinge, and jerked upward. It seemed to snap back against her wrist, but she couldn’t tell if it was damaging it or not.
She continued pulling the string against the hinge, over and over again. It seemed like she’d worked for hours with no discernible result, but then she felt it… a small fray in the string. Strands were starting to come loose, and it gave her the incentive to keep working, keep cutting, keep—
Suddenly the string snapped, and she tumbled backward over the box, pulling it over with her. The hinge broke loose from the lid and her hands were free. She tore the duct tape from her face, sat upright, and rubbed her red raw wrists gently, easing the circulation back into her fingers.
Immediately, she jumped over to the hatch in the floor. It was just a two-foot by two-foot opening with no handle on the inside. She tried desperately to get her fingers into the edge and pull up on it, but all she accomplished was demolishing her fingernails and causing her thumbs to bleed. She kicked hard on the trap door with one foot, and then jumped up and down on it with both feet… knowing that if it somehow broke loose, she could potentially go tumbling through and down the stairs of the lighthouse. But it would not give way. She was truly trapped.
Sweat had formed on her forehead and started to drip down her nose… the heat was coming. She followed the shadow around the room, sitting in the shade as the hours ticked by and her thirst grew.
Finally recovered from her exertion, she began to wonder about the only other contents of the room… the box. She noticed that the lid had opened slightly on the side where the hinge had fallen off. She also came to the conclusion that the box wasn’t empty, as it hadn’t sounded hollow when she tumbled over it.
She walked over to the box and tried to lift it back upright… it was really heavy. Definitely not empty. She tucked her sore fingers into the small crack by the broken hinge and pulled. It didn’t give at all—the other hinge apparently strong enough to hold it closed. She tugged harder, wedging the broken hinge into the opening, but it still didn’t budge.
“Dammit!” she called out to the empty room, and only an echo replied.
It was getting really hot now, so she shoved and heaved the box until it was closer to the wall and in the shade. She slumped down beside it and caught her breath. She needed to see inside that box. There might be something she could use to get the hell out of there. Her eyes lit on the hinge shining on the floor in the center of the room. She glanced back at the box and the remaining hinge. It was held on by three small slotted head screws. Inspiration hit again.
She almost dove toward the hinge on the floor, grabbed it, and ran back to the box. Turning it sideways gave her a small, flat edge that she could use as a makeshift screwdriver on the other hinge… but the screws were tight.
“Ugh,” Mindy grunted, “of all the damn times for something to be well made.”
She continued to work on the first screw, but then switched to the middle one. It turned. She turned it again and again, and finally it fell free and clinked to the floor. She wiped the sweat from her cheeks and started on the last screw.
A few minutes later, she sat as far away from the box as she could in the lighthouse, arms wrapped around her knees. The lid was wrenched open exposing the contents. Tears streamed down through the sweat and grime on her face. She’d found her twin sister.
When the line went dead, Joe Bond punched a button on the tracer machine, turning it off. He connected a USB cord to it and then to his laptop. He typed in a code that Chris Collins at the C.I.A. had given to him, and waited. A window opened in a browser and Joe watched as it connected to a database of information that was very likely classified. Then the tracer machine started to flash, and a sound that reminded Joe of an old telephone modem started beeping out of it.
Thousands of letters and numbers flashed across the screen like a scene from The Matrix, and Joe watched as it opened another window showing a map of the United States. The lines of code continued to scramble on the side while the map zoomed in, quicker at first, then slower and slower. It finally stopped at street level, and a flashing red dot appeared on the screen.
An apartment building in Liberty Square.
“That looks about right,” Joe said out loud.
“Beg pardon?” Jack Colpiller was perched on the edge of his chair. “Did you find him?”
“We got him,” Joe confirmed.
He pushed a button and his printer whirred to life. It soon spat out a sheet of paper, and Joe grabbed it.
Jack jumped up too. “Mr. Colpiller,” he said and held up a hand, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait here. This is a very dangerous situation and I can’t have you anywhere near this guy.”
“But these are my daughters,” Jack said in a raised his voice.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Joe was walking out the door in a rush. “Please, wait here. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
Jack Colpiller was left alone in the office. “Well, I’m sure as shit not waiting here,” he said out loud, and stuck his head into the hall. He looked left, then right.
“Troy?” he called.
Joe Bond’s cruiser screeched into the apartment building’s parking lot, a second and third cruiser whizzing in behind him. He leapt out of his car and barked a few commands to the other officers. He sent some to the front entrance, some to the back, and still others to the street side of the building where the unit’s balconies faced.
Punching a button for the elevator, he smelled the obvious odor of a skunk. Damn things are everywhere this time of year.
The doors slid open and he stepped in… the smell was stronger inside… almost gaggingly strong. By the time he reached the first floor, he was holding his breath. He practically jumped out of the elevator into the lobby and inhaled deeply. Good God, it was strong. One must’ve got into the building.
He jogged over to the wall holding the mailboxes for each unit. There were twenty-four of them, six units on each floor, four floors. The other uniformed officers came in from different doors, leaving one partner to cover the door while the other would search with Joe.
“Greg, you’ve got the first floor. Derek, you’re on two. I’ll take three, If we haven’t got him by then,” Joe directed them, “we’ll hit the fourth floor together. Got it?”
They all nodded. Greg started to push the elevator door and Joe stopped him.
“I’d take the stairs if I were you,” he said, “the skunk smell is strong in there.”
He found the smell in the stairwell to be almost as bad.
Greg made quick work of the first floor. Everyone was home, nobody was Taz. Second floor was the same. Derek reported they were all as old as Methuselah’s balls. Joe went door to door on the third floor, finding four units occupied by people who clearly weren’t Taz, one unit empty, open, and obviously vacant. The last was locked, with its owner apparently not home—the skunk smell was stronger than ever outside the last door. No wonder there’s nobody home, Joe thought.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 61