by Tom Hansen
CHAPTER 54
Friday, March 12, 1982
8:10 a.m.
T he German shepherd’s brain was soft, spongy and very tasty, and its eyeballs were a sheer delight. The alligator wanted more of that delicacy. The dog’s torso was lying in the muck just a few feet away and the gator opted for a canine dessert over the human variety that he had pinned underneath his belly. As he crawled off Willy with his giant webbed feet, the gator’s claws dug deeply into Willy’s posterior, puncturing the hulking man’s dense skin and muscular trunk. But Willy was relieved to have the immense weight of the reptile off his back, and now he could finally lift his face out of the moist feces that had spilled over from the outhouse.
Willy scrambled awkwardly to his knees and cleared the feculence from his mouth with his equally filthy hands. The detestable stench made him dizzy and the repulsive taste made him vomit. The gator was contently chomping down on his furry pabulum. It was time to go. Willy searched in the sludge for the metal box he had stripped from the steering column of Brett Berry’s pickup truck. It was now lying next to the powerful tail of the beast.
The scrapes from the hibiscus shrubs combined with the claws of both the German shepherd and alligator had butchered Willy’s ebony skin raw, so he figured he had nothing to lose, except perhaps his life. He grabbed the box and ran down the seashell and white sand driveway, across the road, and all the way back to Everglades Estates. He didn’t stop until he reached the Nash Rambler, where he collapsed onto the back seat and fell asleep. The blood, sweat and feces slowly dried and clung to Willy’s ripped clothing and frazzled epidermis. The connective tissues and lymph vessels beneath the skin were shredded and a bacterial infection was rapidly cultivating. Willy would need antibiotics very soon.
* * * * *
“How does a dead man drive a truck?” inquired Lew with a look of skepticism. “What you really mean is that someone shot the man immediately after the accident, right?”
“Think about this, Lew. First, as I mentioned earlier, a shooter wouldn’t be trying to kill the driver of a moving vehicle with shotgun spray,” replied Agent Jones. “If that was the case, the shooter would have to be close to the truck to penetrate the windshield, and then the vehicle would most likely run the shooter over. Second, if the man had just been involved in a spectacular fiery crash, why would anyone bother to stick around and light up his body with shotgun pellets?”
“What are you getting at, Jack?” Lew wasn’t connecting the dots.
“Lew, I need to say this one more time. This is highly confidential. The only reason I’m telling you is because of your personal losses and to secure your complete cooperation. But you must not tell anyone, got it?”
“Yes, yes, come on Jack. What are you trying to say?”
“Whoever broke into your son’s truck at our impound lot this morning either unscrewed or yanked a metal box that was attached to the steering column. We compared pictures of the truck’s interior that were taken immediately at the scene of the accident with those taken today. Our lab processed the film as fast as possible, but that is what delayed me, which was why I was late this morning. Anyway, the metal box was in the pictures taken at the scene, but not in the pictures from this morning.”
“I still don’t get it,” said Lew anxiously. “What is in the metal box?”
“We’re not a hundred percent sure, but we believe it’s some sort of radio receiver that was used to drive the vehicle from a remote location.”
“This sounds like science fiction if you ask me!” exclaimed Lew shaking his head. “How does it work?”
“Radio waves are transmitted from a controller to the box by way of an antenna. A circuit board inside the metal box receives signals from the transmitter and activates electrical impulses that can turn the wheel left or right.”
“But how can the person controlling the truck see the road?”
“That’s a great question, Lew. Our theory is that whoever installed the box to the steering column also installed a video camera to the front grill, which allowed the controller a clear view. However, the entire front end was demolished and the sheriff’s department didn’t find any remains of a video camera at the sight. But in all honesty, they weren’t looking for a video camera. They found broken glass and plastic that they assumed came from the headlights, grill and windshield.”
“How do you know the sheriff’s investigators weren’t looking for a camera, Jack?”
“What do you mean by that, Lew? Why would they be looking for a video camera at that moment? The radio transmitter theory is ours and no one but us and you know about it.” Now Agent Jones was confused and curious. What was Lew thinking?
Lew didn’t think now was the time and place to discuss his hunch about Al Bonty and the Seminole Bend sheriff’s dereliction of duty. He needed more proof that Sheriff Bonty was involved in illegal activity and he needed to find Willy Banks to make that happen. But first he frantically needed to know if his wife was on the downed Heartland Lakes flight. He decided to tell Agent Jones about his conversation with next-door-neighbor, Ralph Kline.
Perhaps the FBI would have more luck getting through to Heartland Lake’s customer service than he had.
CHAPTER 55
Friday, March 12, 1982
12:00 noon
G ray saliva drooled out of Willy’s mouth onto the back seat of the Nash Rambler. He lifted his head slightly off the vinyl and tried to recall where exactly he was lying. Until he noticed clumps of dung driveling onto the worn out carpet of the car, he had assumed it was all just a dream. Unfortunately, that was not the case.
Willy could feel the sting of the heeling claw marks on his back. He sat up in the car seat, reached his arm around and touched the base of his neck. When he brought his arm back there was a gooey, yellowish brown substance on his fingers. Pus was oozing from his wounds. That could be a good sign, Willy thought. The pus was now engaged in a fierce battle with bacteria and perhaps he would avoid a mortal infection.
Willy picked up the metal box he had ripped off the steering column of Brett Berry’s truck and tossed it in the front passenger seat, then he slowly moved into the driver’s seat. He bent forward to keep his posterior wounds from rubbing against the back support. He needed water to rinse out his mouth and clean up his filthy body, but he didn’t know where to go. Willy’s clothes were grungy and torn to shreds and the smell of his body was outright obscene. He needed to find a place where no one would see him.
That’s when Willy noticed a sign in front of a model home a few houses down that gave him an idea:
Flamingo Model: Four Bedrooms and Three Baths
(A Touch of Paradise in Paradise)
Willy looked up and down the street and could see no vehicles anywhere in sight. He drove slowly and parked in the model home’s driveway. It was noon on Friday, the height of business hours, and he could see no salesperson or realtor around. He assumed the model homes were not ready for sale yet. But was the plumbing installed and ready to go? Willy grabbed his crowbar, walked around to the patio door in the back and smashed the pane of glass into a thousand pieces. He paused for a moment to listen. No security alarms. Willy reached through the broken glass and unlatched the sliding door. He tried the light switch, but nothing happened. He moved into the house and tried another switch. Nothing again. The electricity had not been turned on.
Willy went into the kitchen and tried the sink. The water was on and flowing smoothly. He turned it back off and looked in the cabinet under the sink. There was a plastic pail, a sponge, paper towels and Formula 409 Carpet Cleaner spray. Willy put the items in the pail and headed for the master bedroom.
The marble-tiled shower area was colossal and had two shower heads: a his and a hers, Willy guessed. He turned the faucet handle on one of them and water gushed out from the spout. With no electricity, the water was cold, but Willy didn’t care. He ripped off his clothes and stepped underneath the shower head, filling up his mouth with water, swishing
it around and spitting it out. He repeated that several times. It was better, but Willy couldn’t completely clear the aftertaste of feces.
Willy then grabbed the carpet cleaner and sprayed his entire body from his forehead down to his toes. Using the sponge, he rubbed the degreaser deep into his pores. It wasn’t soft and pure like bar soap, but it did the trick.
Willy then made a spot decision and ran with it. He pointed the nozzle of the Formula 409 sprayer into his mouth and squeezed, using his tongue to block the liquid from seeping down his throat. He swished the putrid and poisonous solvent around his mouth and spat it out. He repeated it several times, then filled his mouth with water and rinsed the disgusting vile substance from the soft tissue of his cheeks and gums. Then Willy stuck his forefinger into the back of his mouth until it made contact with his uvula. He vomited, clearing whatever toxic waste remained in his stomach. After a few more mouth rinses, he stepped out onto the tile floor.
Willy unwrapped the paper towels and dried himself off. He left the grimy clothes and used paper towels on the floor in the master bathroom. It was doubtful anyone would bother trying to figure out who broke in and the realtors would simply assume it was a local vagrant. They would have to draw straws to see who got clean up duty.
Willy entered the Nash Rambler wearing only his birthday suit. He knew going into a clothing store or a restaurant would be out of the question. Just the vision brought new meaning to “no shirt, no shoes, no service.” He turned on the ignition and started to pull out of the driveway when something caught his eye. Willy picked up the metal box he had tossed in the front seat and looked closely. Engraved on the side was:
صنع في آل القادر
The characters, symbols or design was just gobbledygook to Willy. But he swore he saw the same markings somewhere else. Then it hit him.
“Sam Dulie,” muttered Willy to himself. “The satellite dish. That’s it. Where did I put that paper I etched? Shoot, what did I do with it?!” Willy thought about the last place he saw the paper and remembered dropping it on the floor at the Tamiami Police Department, and Officer Mel handing it back to him. He had stuck it in his pants pocket.
Willy ran back into the house and up to the bathroom where he had left his pants. He reached into the sordid right pocket and pulled out the piece of paper he had etched the markings from the satellite dish. The paper was wet and the pencil lead had faded into a gray smudge making it impossible to discern what was written.
It was time to pay Sam Dulie’s workplace another visit to inspect the satellite dish and compare the markings with those on the metal box. Newfound torque imbedded into the Nash Rambler’s gears overcame the rotation resistance and the old car darted down Tamiami Trail to US 1. The Rambler then maxed out at a personal world record of seventy miles per hour as the floored vehicle raced southbound towards Homestead. If stopped by the police, Willy “Godiva” would have a lot of explaining to do.
Ten miles from Homestead, Willy noticed a Goodwill collection bin inside the boundaries of a grocery store parking lot. He cut sharply across traffic and turned into the lot. Oncoming cars slammed on brakes and honked horns. The middle finger was rather long sticking out of the closed fist of one driver.
There were too many customers going in and out of the market for Willy not to be seen by someone. At this point, he really didn’t care. He jumped out of the car, flashing two elderly ladies who covered their mouths in astonishment, but stared reverently at his gargantuan naked body. He pushed the bin’s hatch open and grabbed the first sack he could find. It was children’s clothes. Next, he pulled out a plastic garbage bag and glanced inside. It was men’s clothing, but he didn’t have time to be picky about fashion. He climbed back into the driver’s seat and quickly sifted through the clothes. He found a pair of thirty-four by thirty-two-inch blue jeans, faded quite a bit, but in good shape. Willy’s size was forty by thirty-four, but these would have to do. With all the strength he could muster, he yanked the pants up. But his massive thighs posed a huge problem, so Willy took the car keys and ripped the jeans open from mid-thigh to the knee, and then from below the knees to the ankles. That worked, but the pant legs came up to his calf and the waist was too tight to snap shut. It would just have to do. He found a large t-shirt with a stenciled drawing of an angry Elmer Fudd emblazed on the front. Elmer had one finger raised high in the air and inside a cartoon word bubble it said: Just wait ‘til I get my hands on that scwewy wabbit! Willy ripped off the short sleeves from the shirt and pulled it over his head. It was tightly drawn over his muscular frame and reached only to his belly button. He didn’t have time to see what else was in the bag, so he punched the Rambler’s accelerator and continued on to Homestead.
Willy slowed down and parked a half-mile away from the DNR parking lot. He exited the Rambler and snuck alongside a hedge of bushes until he saw the building in the distance. The two DNR pickup trucks were nowhere to be found, meaning the field rangers were most likely working the swamps freeing egrets from discarded monofilament fishing lines.
Willy crept slowly towards the satellite dish in his taut blue jeans and t-shirt, holding the front of his pants closed with his left hand. He wanted to make sure the marking on the dish was the same as the metal box before confronting Sam Dulie. When he was close, he crawled on all fours and scrooched behind the dish so he was blocked from Dulie’s window. He peeked his head around the huge saucer and didn’t see anyone in the administrator’s office, so he began searching for the imbedded inscription.
But as Willy stood up, he froze in place and stared at the front door of the DNR headquarters. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Exiting the building were three men, all casually dressed in blue jeans and khaki button down shirts carrying what appeared to be heavy boxes and walking to the center of the parking lot. With Sam Dulie was Governor Daughtry, which was in itself rather unsettling. But the third man drew Willy’s undivided attention and complete bewilderment. It was his older brother, Tyrus.
CHAPTER 56
Friday, March 12, 1982
1:30 p.m.
T he sheriff was becoming frustrated as Oliver Harfield leaned back on his brown leather rocking recliner and read another article from the latest issue of Time Magazine. Bonty could tell that Oliver Harfield was paying no attention to him. He glanced out the window and noticed a silver DeLorean DMC-12 sports car buzzing up the driveway, then slamming to a halt near the front entrance to the mansion. Two gull-winged doors opened and the Jackson brothers emerged from both sides of the vehicle. The Jackson collection of expensive automobiles seemingly had no end, nor did the Jackson collection of wealth.
Ray and Roy Jackson entered Harfield’s home without knocking and moved directly to the study where Oliver seemed to be in deep thought.
“The Gormon boy is going to get a scholarship,” blurted Roy, not bothering with any pleasantries. “Jimmy has no chance at Florida. Brett shouldn’t have let Gormon play the second half against Martin Park. That’s what started it all, you know.”
“So your answer was to have Brett killed after the fact?” replied Oliver. Then he pointed his finger and waved it back and forth. “Not a smart move, Roy!”
“I didn’t want to kill Brett! I just wanted him to think Sheryl died in the crash. His death was an accident when the truck overturned on him. But Brett defied me, Oliver! I told him at halftime to bench Gormon. We made life good for him out here and he tested my authority. He knew we needed Jimmy playing basketball for the Gators so we could bring him into the circle. Only Florida men’s basketball players and coaches have access to the men’s locker room at the O’Sullivan Center. It just made sense to have someone who could come and go without raising any suspicions.”
“Who’s to say Jimmy would have come on board with us?” asked Sheriff Bonty. “From what I know of him, he’s a good kid. I can’t picture him being part of this mission, or any criminal mission, as far as that goes.”
“Jimmy wouldn’t have any choice,” replied Roy. “
I’m his daddy and down here in the south, you do what your daddy asks.” Roy glared at the sheriff and Al glared right back at him.
“You ain’t been no daddy to that boy and you know it,” stated Bonty angrily, then walked away to avoid a further confrontation.
“Alright, that’s enough,” said Oliver. “But now we need a Plan B. For our mission to work, gentlemen, Raymond will need some assistance up there in Gainesville.”
CHAPTER 57
Friday, March 12, 1982
1:45 p.m.
T he Sikorsky CH-53E Super Stallion helicopter hovered momentarily while Sam Dulie, Governor Daughtry and Tyrus Banks shaded their eyes with their hands. The huge and powerful military aircraft then landed gently onto the DNR parking lot. Willy crept up and hid behind a dumpster to get a better look. There was a United States flag and a Marine Corps symbol embossed on the body of the chopper. The cargo hold was enormous, and as soon as the helicopter landed and the seven blades attached to the main rotor were shut down, a dark-skinned man wearing blue jeans, a green t-shirt with Arabic writing scripted above a sword, and a red and white checkered kufiyah wrapped around his head emerged. The man walked over to Sam Dulie and they embraced, then kissed each other on both cheeks. Willy was aghast. “What the heck?” he muttered to himself.
“As-salamu alaykum, Abdul,” said the man from the chopper.
“Wa-alaikum-salaam,” replied Sam Dulie.
Willy was clueless as to what was being said, but it certainly looked to be some sort of greeting. He was no linguist, but he thought the words could be Arabic. The unidentified man then shook hands with Governor Daughtry and Tyrus. The boxes they had carried out from Sam’s office were loaded into the Sikorsky with the help of two more Arab men, obviously workers hired to handle the cargo. Then, the workers went back into the DNR building five more times and returned each time with boxes the same size and shape. The DNR supervisor, the governor and Willy’s older brother watched closely, and as soon as the chopper was loaded, they walked up the ramp and disappeared into the cabin. A short time later, the Sikorsky lifted off as gently as it had landed, then turned towards the south and was soon out of sight.