Desperate Measures

by Cindy Cromer

  “Nah, thanks anyway, Mr. Martel. I’m just gonna head on home and get some sleep.”

  Scott closed the door. Alexandra, wide awake, charged out of the bedroom yelling, and jumped into her father’s lap. “Daddy, Daddy.” Her attention turned to the remotes for the Wii lying on the table, and she forgot all about Daddy. “Bowl. Let’s bowl, come on!” She bounded off her father’s lap, gripped his hand and led him to the TV to set up the program.

  “Okay, okay give me a minute to set it up.” Unfortunately Chad continued to sleep. While he struggled with a tangle of wires, Scott looked up at Tomas and said, “Maybe it might not be that hard to keep them in for most of the day, but this TV’s going to be tied up. Make sure you keep track of that hurricane, either in your room or on your blackberry. I saw the report this morning and nothing significant has happened overnight. Tomorrow, Caitlin may get her wish. We might get some of the outer bands, gusts of wind, and rain.”

  * * * *

  The American Airlines ticketing representative took the passport and travel itinerary from the passenger in front of her. Her nails clicked on the keyboard as she punched in the confirmation numbers and seat assignments. “You’re all set, Mr. Zegar, once I check your bags. Your reservation has a Mrs. Barbara Zegar and a child, Mary Zegar, traveling with you.”

  “I only have one bag to check. This one’s a carry-on. The other passengers are my wife and granddaughter. They’ll be checking in a little later. I needed to get here a bit earlier. I have to meet a client at his gate for a brief meeting between his connecting flight back to California.”

  “That’s a little big to carry on isn’t it?” the agent asked.

  “Not really. I have some loose light items in here, the bag folds up. It’ll probably be full of souvenirs on the way back and will have to be checked.”

  “Well okay, it should fit under the seat or in the overhead compartment. Let’s weigh that other bag and get you on your way.” The scale registered forty-eight pounds, under the fifty-pound limit. “Just made it, take your suitcase over there to the right and proceed to your gate. Have a nice trip to St. Kitts.”

  “Oh, I will and thank you.”

  At the same airport, the Bucklin jet eased out of the hangar, ready to take off once the solitary passenger arrived.

  * * * *

  Steve stood on the ladder and drilled the last hurricane shutter into place. The Albrights lived far enough west of the coast so the mandatory evacuations didn’t apply to their residence. They weren’t taking any chances and planned to go to Steve’s brothers’ house in Gainesville, which should be out of the path once the storm made landfall and crossed the state.

  The house boarded up represented one check off his to-do list. Next on the agenda, Steve had to swing by the labs and office, and ensure the staff had everything secured and stored. He had to test the generator and make sure that if the power went off, it would immediately kick in. Certain research labs couldn’t be without electricity for more than a few seconds, specifically the microbiology lab and the specimen storage refrigerator.

  Steve put the ladder and tools back into the garage and walked into the kitchen. Ellen stacked boxes full of their important documents and irreplaceable pictures. She slammed a box on the counter and turned to him, her face scowled in anger.

  “Steve, I went to the bank this morning to take out money so we’d have cash on hand. Our account is running low. What the hell are we going to do? That damn real estate deal you invested in is killing us.”

  “Ellen, I really don’t need to hear this right now. We’ve been over this before. I told you it’s a temporary setback in the market. Once things get going again, the project will be taken off hold and we’ll make a fortune. I make a damn good salary. We just need to make it through this crunch.”

  “How do we do that, Steve? You’ve mortgaged our house to the hilt. Hannah’s medical bills are overdue. The private tutor we hired to keep her from falling behind costs a fortune. I’ve even had to cut Billy’s private tennis lessons back to two days a week.” Ellen stated her concerns.

  Hannah, their twelve-year-old daughter, had recently been diagnosed with diabetes. At the beginning, the doctors found her case to be a medical challenge, since each and every insulin dosage they’d prescribed failed. Once the proper protocol and treatment regime had been isolated, Hannah resumed her life as a normal kid, but had some catching up to do first.

  Billy, their fourteen-year-old son, and a promising tennis player who’d won the state championship last year in his age group, stood a good chance to receive an athletic scholarship. They both encouraged their sons’ natural talent and hired a private tennis coach.

  The medical bills and tennis lessons didn’t infringe upon the Albright’s financial security at first but then Steve’s foolish investment crippled them. Who would’ve imagined the real estate market could drop so drastically?

  “We have a good insurance policy that covers Hannah’s condition for prescriptions and supplies. What’s behind in payment?” Steve asked.

  “It’s the hospital stays. Don’t you pay attention to any of the bills or what goes on around here? Hannah was in and out of the hospital for the first eight months because the doctors couldn’t get her insulin regulated. You do remember the seizures and 911 calls don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I remember. Can we please table this conversation for another time? We have a hurricane coming right at us and we have to get the hell out of here. I’m leaving for the office for last minute storm preparations. I’ll be back in about two hours, have everything packed up and ready to go!”

  * * * *

  Barry arrived at New York JFK Airport early, dropped his luggage at the Bucklin hangar, and instructed the taxi driver to take him to the American Airlines terminal. He wasn’t a ticketed passenger but his credentials and identification allowed him access to the boarding area. He studied the surveillance at the gate for the flight to Puerto Rico, the same flight Ian Yates had booked passage on.

  Barry immediately spotted the undercover agents, his and theirs. After the phone call from Chris and Pam last night, Barry dispatched his own team to partake in the operation. He was confident that the casual observer would notice nothing other than what they appeared to be, ticketed passengers waiting for their departure. The problem being they weren’t dealing with a casual observer but a master of manipulation who wore many masks of deception.

  He logged onto his computer, it booted up; no e-mail updates. Ian hadn’t checked in yet. The plane was scheduled to leave in a half-hour. The agents, FBIs and PIs, would then station themselves at the gate for the St. Kitts flight, departing in three and half hours.

  Barry left the main terminal, went back to the private hangar, and entered the luxury jet. He settled himself in the spacious cabin and questions thrust into his thoughts. Where the hell is he? He obviously had no intention of getting on that plane, so how the hell is he getting back on the island?

  He couldn’t come up with a single answer, so he opened his briefcase to look at the picture he took everywhere with him; the same picture that sat on his desk in the office. The familiar emotions consumed him. He missed Sheila, the hurt and pain had dulled, but remorse remained as his loyal companion. He never should’ve let her take his place that night. Why did he do it? The scene played back in his mind. If only he could hit the pause or stop button, the situation might’ve turned out differently.

  Sheila had also been an investigator in the Monmouth County, New Jersey District Attorney’s Office, where she and Barry met, fell in love, and got married. They were scrupulous about not letting their personal lives interfere with their profession; that was before the night Sheila was shot and killed.

  Thirty-five years ago, late in the afternoon of a blustery cold and snowy January day, Barry stopped at his wife’s desk before leaving the office. Sheila looked up from the stack of paperwork she’d been absorbed in. “Barry, what’s wrong? You look deathl
y ill. You’re sweating bullets and it’s freezing in here.” She walked over to him and felt his forehead. “My God, you’re burning up. You better get home and go right to bed!” Sheila ordered.

  “It’s nothing, just coming down with the flu that’s going around. I’m heading home. I just have to make a quick stop and interview a witness in Asbury Park.”

  “The hell you are! Which case is it? I have a meeting near Asbury. I’m leaving in a few minutes. I’ll cover the interview for you.”

  “No, no. I’ll do it. It’ll only take a few minutes, cut and dry. Minor drug bust, I just have to get a statement on record that the witness actually saw the deal go down and can positively identify the guy we have the case against.”

  “Sounds pretty basic. If it will only take a short time, I’ll be home in plenty of time to pamper you. Give me the police report and I’ll take it. Please go home,” Sheila pleaded.

  “You sure? It’s freezing out and supposed to snow again later tonight.”

  “By the time it starts snowing, I’ll be home. Just hand me the report and go. You’re white as a ghost, and you need to get that fever down. It feels like you have a 103 temperature.”

  Barry conceded defeat and handed over the report. “All right, here it is. You can see from the single page, the witness interview won’t take you long, open and shut case. Love you, I’d kiss you but I don’t want you to get this crud.”

  “Love you too and don’t worry. You know our rule, no kissing in the office,” Sheila reminded her husband and ushered him out the door.

  Barry didn’t know that would be the last time he’d tell his wife he loved her. When Sheila knocked at the witness’s door, she received no answer. She heard the television and knocked again, identifying herself. The door burst open. Sheila not only saw the dead witness but came face to face with the murderer. She’d been shot in the forehead and died instantly.

  The killer turned out to be part of the mafia and the hit a misunderstanding.

  The witness, after observing the exchange and sale of a bag of pot, gave his statement to the police. He walked home down a dark, deserted, unsafe street filled with warehouses in Asbury Park. A mafia hit had been taking place at the same time. Two gangsters exited a desolate building and saw a lone figure walking the street minutes after they’d shot their target.

  They followed the guy home and obtained his identity in case he saw or heard something. The mafia boss’s well paid informant in the police department alerted him that the guy was scheduled to be questioned by an investigator on an unrelated matter. The mafia leader sent his men to take care of the problem.

  Both Sheila and the twenty-year-old witness became collateral damage in a fatal situation that had no relevance what-so-ever to either of them.

  The Bucklin jet flew through a patch of turbulence and the plane jostled, shaking Barry back to reality. He’d never permit his past to be repeated by his staff and agents and strictly enforced his intercompany relationship policy. The co-pilot announced that the plane would be on the ground in forty-five minutes.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Impatient for the message, Tomas fidgeted and switched from one mindless duty to the next. He checked his cell-phone, no missed calls and the bars indicated he had reception, and then he went back to the computer, no e-mails. Nothing to do but wait as time lagged on and on. It drove him crazy. When the phone finally jangled, he jerked to attention and snatched it up. Showtime, this was the call. He answered without a greeting.

  “Bad news, boss,” FBI Agent Rich Gilbert, stationed at JFK airport, said.

  “Rich, no show, right?” Tomas asked.

  “You’ve got it. No Yates to San Juan, and no one appearing to fit his description boarded the St. Kitts plane. The St. Kitts flight did have an unusual situation. Passenger Zegar checked in by himself. The reservations also include his wife and granddaughter, but they never showed up and Zegar didn’t board the plane.”

  “What have you got on this character and what about any luggage he checked?”

  “Not much so far, he didn’t get on any other commercial flight from JFK yet, and all we have now is an address for him in Maine, Mackenzie Zegar. Should have something more in about an hour. Once the alert was raised, we delayed the flight and retrieved the checked bag. Nothing suspicious in the suitcase: bathing suits, some cotton island shirts, flip flops. That’s about it,” Rich recited.

  “What about any other local airports, LaGuardia, Newark Liberty?”

  “Working on it but nothing so far, Tomas, hold on.” Two seconds later Rich shouted into the phone. “Holy shit, Tomas! I’ve got to go, something serious just broke. I’ll call you back from Yates’s New York apartment.”

  “Wait a damn minute! What happened?”

  “Yates just showed up at his apartment, supposedly he’s been in Maine for the past two weeks. An agent’s questioning him now. I’ll call you back. Gotta go.”

  “Jesus Christ! Maine came up twice in that short conversation.”

  “What about Maine?” Scott asked.

  * * * *

  Following the morning weather update, Jack didn’t hesitate to make two plane reservations for the first flight to Atlanta, scheduled for the next morning, for his son and wife. He’d just hung up the phone when Dean came out of the shower.

  Constance called them both into the kitchen for breakfast.

  Jack announced the schedule. “I called the airline and you both are booked on the 8:00 a.m. flight for Atlanta tomorrow. I’ll finish putting up our shutters and check Caitlin’s house before I leave on the 5:00 p.m. flight.”

  “That’s silly, Jack. Why aren’t we flying together?” Constance questioned.

  “Because, I got you and Dean the last two seats on the morning flight, and was lucky to get the five o’clock for myself.”

  Jack ignored his wife’s suspicious gaze. He couldn’t look at her. His facial expression would betray him. He had no intention of flying to Atlanta.

  * * * *

  The short walk across the tarmac from the plane to Lukas’s waiting limo seemed an eternity to Barry. The Caribbean summer sun and humidity bore down on him with a vengeance and sweat drenched his thin cotton shirt. He charged past the driver, who held the rear door open, sat down in the back seat, and got straight to his immediate priority before shaking the hand of his host. “Lukas, I hope you have the air conditioner full blast. Damn this island’s hot! Every time I come here, it feels like the sun’s hovering two feet above my head.”

  Lukas laughed, extended his hand and replied to his guest. “Quit your bitching, Barry. The AC’s cranked all the way up. Yes, it’s hot here. We’re only thirteen degrees north of the equator, thus the feeling of the sun on top of your head. You had a comfortable flight I assume?”

  “Perfect until I walked into this furnace. Got anything to drink in this buggy?” Barry asked.

  “Full bar, help yourself.”

  “Water will be fine then an ice cold beer.”

  “The driver’s taking us back to the villa. You can drop off your bags, change, and then we’ll have a quick lunch. I have a tee time set up for 2:00 this afternoon,” Lukas stated and left no opportunity for discussion or debate.

  “Forget a beer. I need several to cool my system down before standing in this heat on a golf course.”

  Lukas pointed to the gun holstered on Barry’s hip. “You’re packing heat? This is a pleasure trip.”

  “Yup, never go anywhere without one gun on my hip and the other in my briefcase,” Barry answered.

  He studied Lukas to assess his demeanor. The old man’s question was odd. Lukas knew he never went anywhere without his weapons. When Lukas gleaned a satisfactory look, he sensed an ulterior motive behind the original inquiry regarding firearms. He decided to table the serious business talk for later when he cooled down, if that was possible in this inferno.

  * * * *

  The passenger that had checked in
as Mackenzie Zegar sat on American Airlines flight 1255 proceeding to its final destination of Robert L. Bradshaw Airport, St. Kitts. A Mr. Zegar certainly had not boarded the plane but Mabel Thompson did and occupied window seat C, row eighteen. Mabel looked out the window as they flew through a bank of clouds, with a grin on his face, thinking, This was the most difficult and risky part of the final execution of my plan. All I need to do is get through customs before they find her unconscious, then I’ll be home free. He patted the purse in his lap with Mabel’s passport. With no ID, she won’t be identified until she regains consciousness, which should give me plenty of time. The old bird shouldn’t waken for at least twelve hours with the dose I gave her. Now that I’m on this plane, what I’ve accomplished is ingenious! Once I hacked into the American Airlines flight roster, it was easy to find an elderly woman traveling alone. A single male passenger, the FBI would’ve had under the microscope immediately.

  Surely they caught onto the Zegar ruse by this time. Too late, oops, shame on you, FBI! Who would ever question little old Mabel, age eighty-two? From there it was simple, do a search on her, driver’s license info, height was perfect, tall at five foot ten, not a little old lady at all, and thin. The rest was a piece of cake after the phone calls, providing I could befriend her in the airport. A sneer of satisfaction formed on his face, the recollection vivid in his mind.

  “Hello, Mrs. Thompson?”

  “Yes, who’s this?” Mabel squeaked in a low, surprised voice.

  “I’m a customer service representative with American Airlines. I want to make sure you know where to go when you arrive at the airport to get an attendant with a wheelchair.”

  “Well aren’t you sweet! Yes, I do know where to go. No one has ever personally called me like this before.” Perfect opening.