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 as 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 left side of his head was streaked with blood and his eye was black and nearly swollen closed. The back of his head had a knot the size of a baseball poking through his hair. Remington’s mouth was also swollen and bruised, and he looked like he’d had a ridiculous plastic surgical lip plumping to match the girls down on South Beach. In his lap, of all things, lay a skunk. And in his arms, he clutched a doll, and Brant recognized it as the doll his son had bought for his Gram when she’d been in the hospital. It was then he realized the pain his son had been holding onto for all those years. The suffering he’d experienced when losing his grandmother had only been multiplied when he’d lost his dad… when Brant had sent him away.
Brant raced to his side. “I’m here, Remi,” he said, touching his son’s arm.
“Dad?” Remington groaned. “What took you so long?” Remington’s face curled into what might’ve been a smile. Brant crouched down and gently hugged his son. Even so, Remington winced in pain.
“We have to get you to a hospital,” Brant said, pulling out his phone.
“No,” Remington said, “there’s no time. I can feel it.”
“Feel what?” Brant continued dialing 9-1-1.
Remington grabbed the phone from his father’s hand and slung it across the room.
“It’s too late, Dad.” Remington wheezed and a trickle of blood ran down his chin. “Something inside my skull is broken. I can feel it ripping apart.”
“Son, if we get you to the hosp—”
“Dad, stop,” Remington said, interrupting him. “Just be with me. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Brant reached down and stroked the hair on the Gram doll. He could see his mother, Remington’s grandmother, lying in the hospital bed… slipping away.
“She loved you so much, Remi,” Brant said softly. “Those Sunday afternoons with you were her favorite.”
Tears began to stream from his son’s eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” he said. “I miss her so much… and… I miss you, too.”
“Son, what happened with her wasn’t your fault,” Brant said. “She had lived her life. Even the doctors said that the fall shouldn’t have hurt her that much.”
“But, I—”
“Shhh,” Brant said. “I should never have turned you away. I was hurt and angry and sad and all of that clouded my judgment.”
“You were always judging me,” Remington said.
“The log in my own eyes,” Brant quoted, “I was wrong. I knew I was wrong the minute you left.”
Brant knelt beside him. “You are my son. You are the person God made you to be, and that is why I love you so much.”
He put Remington’s hand in his and prayed. He knew another miracle was too much to hope for… too much to ask. Brant felt as if God was leveling his final punishment against him. Job had lost everything, and this was his last real possession… his son.
Remington closed his eyes. Brant felt his hand go limp. Behind him, he heard the door of the apartment slam open and someone shouted, “Paramedic! Call out!”
“We’re in here,” Brant yelled back.
Two men ran into the room and immediately began to work on Remington. When they were sure he was breathing and had enough of a pulse, they hauled him onto a stretcher and wheeled him out.
Brant grabbed a nearby messenger bag. He tucked the doll into it and gently lifted the anxious skunk into it as well. They all piled into the back of the ambulance and squealed out of the parking lot.
Two days later, Remington woke up. His doctor was checking his vital signs and shaking his head.
“I have no idea how you made it, Mr. Reginald,” the doctor said as he laid a chart down on the bed at his feet and began listening to his heart. “You should’ve died. The trauma to your head should’ve given you severe brain damage and maybe even spinal cord damage.”
Remington smiled and looked at his dad. Brant winked at him.
“How you managed to drive that boat onto the beach is a miracle,” the doctor said. “You should be really glad that bartender found you there. What was his name?”
“Gino,” Remington said through a throat that felt like sandpaper, “I think he said his name was Gino. Pretty good looking.”
He looked up at his dad, whose eyebrows rose, and then settled down above a broad smile.
“Well,” —the doctor wrapped his stethoscope around his neck and picked up his clipboard— “if you get a chance, you really should thank him.”
“I will,” Remington said as the doctor walked out.
“Good looking, eh?” Brant asked.
“Just giving you a hard time, Dad.”
Brant lifted the bag to the bed and opened the flap. The skunk jumped out, and crawled immediately onto Remington’s lap. He curled up into a ball and promptly went to sleep.
“How did you come by this little fella?” Brant asked.
“He found me,” Remington said. “I call him Pepe.”
Brant nodded. “I had to bring him along. I was afraid he would spray me if I didn’t.”
Remington laughed and then coughed a few times.
“Easy son, you’ve got a long recovery ahead of you.” Brant rested his hand on his son’s arm.
“I’m just glad you’re here, Dad.”
“Me too.”
Remington inhaled slowly. “So, what’s next for you, Dad? I know you’ve got a lot of choices for your next preaching job.”
Brant shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m not sure that’s what God wants for me. I might try to find a little place to rent and just have a few small group meetings. You know, just take it slow.”
“That sounds good,” Remington said. “Where are you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” Brant said, “maybe something down in Coral Gables or over in Doral. They have great golf out there, ya know?”
“High dollar places, Dad.” Remington sucked his teeth.
“Yeah,” Brant said, “I may have to start small, but I might be able get an investor or backer.”
Remington appeared to consider this. “How much are you looking for?”
“Not sure,” Brant said, “maybe a hundred grand?”
“Remington smiled. “I think I know where we can get that.”
Brant arched an eyebrow.
“It’s good to see you back, Dad,” Remington said.
“It’s good to be back, son.” Brant touched the medallion on his chest with the engraving of St. Christopher. “And it feels like I’ve finally made it home.”
31
Throw Down
Troy knew Taz woul
d’ve heard the helicopter and would know he was coming. And to get into the lighthouse, there was only one way… up the stairs and through the hatch. He stepped as lightly as he could, but the metal spiral staircase seemed to ring out loudly, with every single footfall echoing throughout the structure.
On his way to the top, Troy tried desperately to figure out some kind of plan. He’d been so quick to get up here that he’d forgotten to grab his gun. He also thought that he might wait for the Coast Guard to arrive… but he gave up on that thought quickly. Taz had to know they were closing in on him, and in his desperation, he might do something stupid… if he hadn’t already.
Troy reached the top step and saw that the hatch had been unlocked and hung open.
“I hear ya, Mista Bodean,” Taz’s voice echoed through the opening, “so ya might as well come on up.”
Troy poked his head slowly into the room. There was a smoldering pile of ashes in the center of the room and the air was heavy with smoke. Through the haze, he could barely make out Taz’s shape, holding Mindy by the hair. He didn’t see a gun or a knife… that was good.
As if reading his mind, Taz said, “I’ve gotta gun. I grabbed it off ya friend back in Stiltsville.”
Dangit, thought Troy. He raised his hands as he climbed all the way up into the lighthouse’s upper room.
“I’m unarmed, friend,” Troy said, “so just let the girl go and we’ll all walk away.”
Taz laughed a wheezing, hacking laugh. Sounded like the smoke had gotten to him.
“Yeah,” he said, “that ain’t happenin’.”
He tugged on Mindy’s hair, and she cried out in pain. Troy took a couple of slow, steady steps toward him.
“Easy, friend,” he said, “let’s just not do anything stup—”
“Shut the fook up,” Taz growled. “Here’s the deal. Me and chicky here are walkin’ outta here tagethah. We’re gonna get on that choppah, and you’re gonna take us down to Cuba.”
“Taz,” Troy protested, “you know I can’t do that. The Coast Guard will be here any second and—”
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 69