Seminole Bend

by Tom Hansen

  Lew nodded, then said, “Let me take the controls, Pancho. Phil is badly injured and we need to get him to a hospital.” Pancho moved aside as Lew fired up the Johnson outboard, then guided the boat back towards Phil. Weeds became tangled in the propeller, but the motor hung tough and Lew beached the hull onto the shore. As carefully as they could, Lew and Pancho lifted Phil into the boat and laid him on the deck. Phil winced in pain for a short moment, then fell back into oblivion.

  Pancho slashed away the weeds from the prop and climbed back into the boat. Lew shoved the bow off the white sand and grassy landing, climbed aboard and used the oar to guide the boat away from the lily pads before restarting the motor. He needed the propeller free and clear to maximize speed across the lake to the Taylor Creek locks and back to Bennett’s Airboat Palace. From there he would use the rental car to transport Phil to the hospital. Lew wasn’t sure when he would tell Pancho what happened to his friend Miguel.

  CHAPTER 45

  Thursday, March 11, 1982

  3:00 a.m.

  L ew paced restlessly in the waiting room at Gregorson General Hospital while Pancho snoozed in a fake leather chair. No one could answer any questions because the hospital was on full alert and panicking, thinking about the arrival of the airplane crash victims. Doctors and nurses were scampering from room to room and all three ambulances had been dispatched to Angler’s Delight, which would be the staging area for the tragedy. Lew wasn’t sure how much care his buddy Phil was getting, if any.

  There was a pay phone in the hallway, so Lew decided to try and call his house in Pennsylvania to see if his wife had returned home. He was shocked that someone picked up on the first ring, seeing it was in the middle of the night.

  “Berry’s house!” declared the agitated voice on the other line. “Lew, I hope that’s you?!”

  “Ralph, is that you?” inquired Lew. He recognized the stressed and nervous tone of his neighbor, Ralph Kline. “Why are you at my house?”

  “Man oh man, Lew. Bad news. I don’t want to tell you over the phone. Where are you? Can you come home?” Ralph was firing out sentences without stopping for a breath of air.

  Finally, Lew interjected, “No, I can’t get home. What is it, damn it? Tell me Ralph!”

  “Janet knocked on my door yesterday. She said she just returned from the Poconos and was leaving for Florida in a couple of hours. She said she couldn’t get ahold of you and asked me to keep trying to call you because she was heading to the airport. She wanted me to tell you she was coming to meet up with you. Dang, dang, dang it, Lew!”

  “Calm down, Ralph, you’re not making any sense. So my wife came home from the Poconos and is headed down here. That’s great, so what’s the problem?” Lew was wiping sweat that had formed on his forehead. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to that question.

  “Lew, she couldn’t get a direct flight and she said she would be transferring planes in Chicago. Oh damn nag it, Lew, dang it, dang it, dang it!” Lew could hear Ralph pounding his fist on the countertop.

  Lew was becoming irritable. “Ralph, damn it. Get yourself together and tell me what you want to tell me!”

  “Lew, she said she was flying Heartland Lakes and there was a midair plane crash an hour or so ago and I’m worried Janet was on the plane! Oh man oh man oh man! News is reporting that one plane that crashed was flying from Chicago to Tampa. There is no news about the jet they hit. Oh God, Lew!”

  “Hold on, Ralph. Janet thinks I’m in Miami. She wouldn’t be flying into Tampa.”

  “Lew, the plane was scheduled to stop in Tampa, then fly on to Miami, its final destination. Oh man, oh man!”

  Lew dropped the phone and began banging his head on the wall. The voice coming from the receiver that was hanging by a cord was shouting, “Lew, Lew, what happened? What’s the matter? Lew?” A nurse rushed over to Lew and sat him down on the floor. Lew had made quite a dent in the sheetrock and his forehead was bleeding and bruised.

  As an orderly came rushing in to help the nurse get Lew to a vacant room, but Lew put his hand up and motioned them to stop. “I’ll be okay, don’t take up any bed space for me. You’re going to need all the beds you can get real soon.” He stood up and grabbed the receiver that was still hanging from the phone. “Ralph, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.” He hung up the phone and started pacing in the waiting room.

  Pancho was still asleep on the chair as Lew turned on the TV that was fastened to the wall. Every major network was now reporting live from rain-soaked Angler’s Delight. They had dispatched news helicopters from Sarasota and West Palm Beach and were jostling in the storm for the best filming position. The World Broadcasting Network decided to commandeer a large pontoon boat whose owner had left the key in the ignition. The news giant was now broadcasting via satellite to locations all around the globe from the deck of Lake Okeechobee’s largest party boat.

  A cluster of marine rescue boats could be seen with their flashing blue and white lights reflecting off the lake while raindrops pounded the surface. The camera panned to an assortment of ambulances lined up from the boat ramp back to the marina’s entrance. They had come from Moore Haven, Belle Glade and Clewiston to help out. Gregorson’s three ambulances were the first in line.

  “This is Jessica Hoyt reporting live from our WBN studios in New York. At approximately one a.m. Eastern time, a Heartland Lakes Airway’s flight from Chicago destined for Tampa, collided in midair with a Sky Tropic Airways jet from Kingston, Jamaica. At this time there is no report on how many passengers were onboard, or if there are any survivors. Authorities at the FAA office in Florida are confirming that both aircraft were circling Tampa in severe weather waiting to land, but were on a holding pattern due to a radar malfunction in the control tower. John Merrick, our local correspondent, is at a marina on Lake Okeechobee where marine patrols and local fishermen are ramified in a furious attempt to find live bodies. John, what do you have for us?”

  “Jessica, this is a terrifying picture from south central Florida. An intense storm is dumping rain on Lake Okeechobee as we speak, seriously hindering rescue attempts. Although it is very dark, we can make out shadows of floating objects in the distance, most likely debris from the airplanes. We are on a pontoon boat and will be moving onto the Kissimmee River shortly for a better view.”

  “John, according to the FAA, the cause of the Trans South Airlines and PanMexico jets that collided in midair about a month ago over the Everglades was due to “unavoidable pilot error”, however, unconfirmed reports are saying that there was a radar malfunction at the time of that accident, too. Wasn’t that correct?”

  “Yes, Jessica, at least those are the rumors that have contradicted the initial findings reported by the FAA. Interesting, though, there were severe weather conditions in Miami as there was tonight in Tampa and planes were placed on hold prior to both midair collisions. Seems this is a horrible and highly improbable coincidence for the state of Florida. But it’s also difficult to understand why the jets were so off course, even during a holding pattern. Tampa International is about 150 miles from Lake Okeechobee. My guess is they were trying to avoid the storm as much as possible.”

  “Yes, that’s the most probable conclusion. Thank you, John. We will be returning to you in a moment. We are now cutting to Chicago for a live statement from Ted Banner, Heartland Lake’s director of public relations who just arrived at his O’Hare office.”

  Without finding fault with his company’s disintegrated airplane, Banner did his best to comfort family members with compassion and even a few tears of his own. He ensured listeners that Heartland Lakes Airways would comply fully with the FAA, and would demand that a thorough investigation be conducted.

  Bob Cummings, director of the Miami office of the National Transportation Safety Board, had been rudely awakened at 3:15 a.m. from an incredible dream where he had just received a medal from the president for single-handedly rescuing everyone stranded on Gilligan’s Island. But reality hit him like a slap
on the face.

  “What?!” exclaimed Bob into the bedside telephone. “You’ve got to be kidding me! The damn radar malfunctioned? Okay, I’ll head up to Tampa right away.” He slammed the phone down and walked groggily to the master bathroom and turned on the shower. An hour later, Bob’s red Corvette was blazing across Alligator Alley with a portable flashing red light magnetically clamped to the roof.

  While Bob Cummings was blistering northward, Lew Berry was scarpering southward in the Trans Am rental back to FBI headquarters in Miami. He had made umpteen calls to Heartland Lakes Airway’s customer service number, but every call rang busy. Lew needed to find out if Janet Berry’s name was on the flight manifest for the downed jet. If he couldn’t get through to Heartland Lakes himself, he guessed Agent Jones at the FBI might have better luck. With the accelerator floored, he would be there when they opened for business.

  CHAPTER 46

  Thursday, March 11, 1982

  4:00 a.m.

  W illy couldn’t sleep. He tried, but all he could do was roll left, roll right and then stare straight up at the ceiling. Those two words were causing an anxiety outburst in his mind: “Buckwheat” and “Roy”. It was four o’clock in the morning, but Willy knew the night was over. He got up and went to the bathroom, splashed some water on his face and headed to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. It was going to be a long day.

  Folgers or Maxwell House? Both revived the comatose early morning risers equally well. Willy was drained but couldn’t sleep, so he mixed the two coffee brands together and put fifteen heaping tablespoons into the basket of his eight cup percolator, then placed it on the gas stove. Nothing better than strong coffee to stimulate the brain cells.

  When the percolator stopped bubbling, Willy poured a large cup of joe and headed for the porch. He took a sip, stared up to the eastern sky where dawn was about to break, and then sat down on the folding chair. He had claimed the chair a couple of years ago from the sheriff’s contraband warehouse that was connected to the jail. The chair had fallen out of the bed of a pickup truck whose driver was being chased for allegedly stealing property from a pawn shop. Willy was on duty and picked up the chair to keep it from being a roadway hazard, then brought it to the warehouse. No one from the pawn shop came to retrieve it, so after a year, Willy asked if he could keep it. The chair was the one and only perk he ever received from Sheriff Al Bonty. The legs were bent a bit from the fall off the truck, but it had a nice padding and could hold up well to the bulk of big fellas like Otis or Willy.

  Willy took a second sip and the caffeine, that miracle drug, kicked in. A game plan was beginning to form as his mind began to rouse. His first task must be to explore the recent puzzling deaths in Seminole Bend and connect the dots. There was no doubt in his mind that the “Roy” that Lance overheard the man in the phone booth mention was Roy Jackson. But who was the “Buckwheat”? Despite Martin Luther King’s mortal efforts to end racism, white folks in the south still used racial slurs to demean the black folks. There were many blacks that lived in or near Seminole Bend, but Willy knew of only two that Roy disliked. Willy’s nephew, Tyrone, had become a sophomore star on the Warrior basketball team, pushing Jimmy Jackson a notch further down on the prodigy list of local athletes looking for a full ride to a top tier, Division I college. Then there was Roy’s suspicions that Tyrone was secretly dating his daughter Jenny. Neither reason seemed like a good motive for hiring a hit man to kill Tyrone, but then again, Roy Jackson was not a reasonable person. The other black that Roy disliked was Willy and that was the obvious logical explanation for sending a goon out on a murderous mission. Roy needed to remedy some unfinished business. Willy had been left for dead in his swamp, but that hadn’t worked out as planned.

  Willy’s thoughts took another turn. He remembered his chat with Ernie Hyle, the obese Taylor Creek locks operator, the morning the Potts’ were killed. Ernie was almost certain that he saw a Mexican male go through the locks with Calvin’s boat that same morning. If that Mexican man had either borrowed or stole the boat, it was possible that the boat was the same Alumicraft vessel that was used to rescue Willy.

  But how could Roy Jackson’s goons know that the boat belonged to Calvin Potts? “That’s it!” Willy’s coffee was again working miracles. He was now talking aloud to himself. “The thugs that chased me and that Mexican dude out on the Kissimmee must’ve seen the boat number. If they tracked it and knew the boat was owned by Potts, they must’ve figured it was Calvin who saved me. They probably didn’t see that is was a Mexican guy driving! Damn!”

  It was now a little bit after five o’clock, way too early for anyone in Seminole Bend who wasn’t fishing to be awake. But Willy couldn’t wait for business hours, so he went to the phone book and found Deputy Johnny Murphree’s home number. He dialed and let it ring sixteen times, and finally he heard a voice on the other end mutter, “This dang well better not be a wrong number or I’ll deal with you later in hell!”

  “Johnny, it’s me, Willy. Sorry ‘bout the early call, but I need an answer fast. My life may be on the line here.”

  It took Johnny a few seconds to get his bearings and shake out the grogginess. “Willy, you doing okay, man? Still can’t believe Bonty let you go, dude. You was the best dep we had. You say your life’s on the line? What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you later, but I need to know something. You remember ‘bout a month ago, the day the Potts’ couple was killed?”

  “Never forget that day, Willy. Potts, they was killed first. You was recuping from that gator bite, but still managed to yank that goon through the window of his car down at BoldMart. That same car hits that old man and kills him, which is why you ended up fired and all. Ain’t right they blame you, man!”

  “So, do you remember if Jackson called Sheriff Bonty the afternoon before the crash? I’m talking ‘bout the day before?”

  “You mean the day they found you out at Angler’s Delight? No man, can’t say that I do, but that don’t mean he didn’t call him. Why you asking, Willy?”

  “Just wondering if Roy got a boat license number from your office, that’s all.”

  “That wouldn’t have happened, Willy. We don’t keep records of boats. The DNR down in Homestead keeps all them records.”

  “The DNR? Who down at the DNR would give Roy Jackson that information if he asked, Johnny?”

  “I believe his name is Sam Dulie. He’s the South Florida DNR supe.”

  “Can anybody just call and get that stuff? Is it public record?”

  “Don’t know. But not many folks working in public offices round here wouldn’t give old Roy Jackson anything he asked, now would they?”

  “Okay, Johnny, thanks man! You’ve been a big help, now go back to sleep.”

  “You think I can get back to sleep now? I’ll be wide awake trying to figure out the puzzle you just laid on me. Tell me what you’re doing, Willy.”

  “Later.” Willy hung up the phone. The first of the dots had just been connected. Willy guessed that Jackson’s assailants who chased him in the boat saw the license number and called Roy. Roy then made a call to Sam Dulie who must have provided him with the owner’s name from the registration information. Roy assumed that Calvin was Willy’s rescuer from the swamp and he feared that Calvin was a witness to his goon’s actions. And Roy didn’t want to risk that Calvin had said anything to his wife, so he had Agnes silenced, too.

  It was now making more sense. Willy figured the hit man in the phone booth saw Calvin go into the sheriff’s office, and he needed to kill him before any investigations took place, so he rammed him with the Ford LTD. The goon escaped, ran into Elmer’s Hardware Store and his life ended when his skull met head on, literally speaking, with a plumber’s wrench and a porcelain sink.

  Jackson’s thugs had shot Sam McCormick with a twelve gauge and killed both the Potts. That meant the only person left to testify to the illegal activity at the Jackson ranch was Willy himself. Roy tried to finish the task that the gators couldn
’t seem to accomplish, so he sent his goons out to follow him when Willy left the hospital, and then kill him at the first opportunity. They had their chance in the BoldMart parking lot, but didn’t get the job done, even though Willy was damaged goods at the time. There was no doubt Roy would continue his lethal efforts until Willy was silenced forever.

  Willy knew his assassination would be imminent unless Roy could be stopped. But no one else had a close encounter with Jackson’s gangsters and lived to tell about it. Then again . . . Willy had forgotten about the Mexican who saved his life. And Roy Jackson had no knowledge of the man because he assumed Willy’s swamp liberator was Calvin Potts. Could he find the Mexican guy? And if so, would he testify? Living a comfy life in the Witness Protection Program might appeal to him.

  Willy could hear the sound of several sirens in the distance. “Must have been quite a car wreck,” he thought. He went back into the house and woke Otis up from a snore-filled serenade on the couch. Willy’s new detective agency was about to hire its first employee.

  CHAPTER 47

  Thursday, March 11, 1982

  5:30 a.m.

  “W illy, I was dreaming ‘bout them lula girls in Hawaii, so why’s you messing with my sleeping?” Otis awoke slowly with one eye looking straight up at Willy, while the other one was still rolled halfway up in his eyelid.

  “They called hula girls, Otis, not lula girls. Sit up a sec, I have an offer for you.” Otis was reluctant to let those grass skirts fade from his memory, but he begrudgingly forced himself into a sitting position on the couch. Willy sat down next to him and offered a swig of his coffee. Otis took a gulp and his eyes bulged. The coffee expelled from his mouth onto the floor and spittle flew onto Willy’s face.