by Sam Cade
He closed the screen as the waitress approached with his food and beer.
I’ll be seeing you soon, Uncle Jack.
78
Orlando, Florida
Saturday, July 20, 2019
LUCKY PAID FOR A WEEK AT THE FAIRFIELD INN, Lake Buena Vista, with a prepaid debit card. It was only minutes from Disney World. Lucky wanted to pack in amongst the masses.
He went to a snack bar by the pool and bought a sandwich and chips. A hat and shades covered his face. He hadn’t shaved in a week. At an isolated table he went online with his iPad and reviewed the photos from Kimbrell’s ranch, studied the satellite images and Google Earth. He ate slowly as he constructed his mission. He marked a mental X on the Bermuda grass between the pools.
Finished with his sandwich, he decided to do some recon.
KIMBRELL’s RANCH WAS OFF 192, ALMOST TO KISSIMMEE. Lucky wanted to make a quick run-by to make sure he knew how to get there. Kimbrell’s place was on a lightly traveled cul de sac off the highway.
He passed by the gates to four estates before he reached Kimbrell’s place at the end of the road. Perfect. Couldn’t see the house from the road. Ornate entrance with a metal gate mounted between two large beige stucco columns surrounded by blooming summer flowers. Video cameras focused on the gate from each column. Lucky made a smooth turn in the cul de sac, didn’t stop, and drove back to the hotel.
Sunday, July 21, 2019
7:43 A.M. LUCKY APPLIED A VINYL POOL COMPANY LOGO to the van and proceeded out to Kimbrell’s dude ranch.
The Crystal Blue Pools van came to a stop at the ranch gate. Zeus was remotely disarming the gate video from precisely 9:00 to 9:20. Lucky leaned out the driver’s window, tapped in the code 358853 on the keypad. The gate swung open. The white van entered the property. In the rear-view mirror he watched the gate close as he eased his way toward the house.
At 9:10, Zeus, using Kimbrell’s personal code, entered the computer at Orlando’s PanVision Security to disable all the cameras at the home, both interior and exterior.
The ranch was all class, everything well-designed, and impeccably maintained. According to Zeus, there were supposed to be no caretakers until tomorrow. The horses were boarded off-site at another stable when no one was home.
Lucky parked the van behind the house next to the pools. He grabbed a shovel, a folding chair, and a cooler from the back of the truck.
One pool was large and asymmetrical with slides and islands and a walk-thru splashpad to enter one section of the pool. The other pool was a rectangle with luxurious weathered teak and hand-woven wicker furniture with colorful cushions mixed between the chaise lounges.
Lucky threw his shovel on the grass and walked back to the van. He came back with his camera bag and pulled out a tripod and the Canon. Punching on the video, he slowly panned the home, stable, and pools. He brought the camera back and focused on the single shovel on the golf-course worthy lawn. Killed the video.
He grabbed a shovel and chopped in the grass basically outlining an area to dig slightly larger than the coffin-sized box in the van. It would be a big hole, so he ate a Clif Bar, downed a couple of slugs of Gatorade from the cooler, picked up the shovel, and then got to it.
In one hour and thirty-five minutes, Lucky created an elegantly simple hole in the ground.
79
KIMBRELL’S EMBRAER TOUCHED DOWN AT 4:10 P.M. at the Orlando Corporate Airport on the north side of town. He made a quick call to Hertz from the plane.
Two passengers deplaned, Kimbrell and his chef. The pilots were returning to Vegas to pick up the ladies to arrive tomorrow. Fifteen minutes later, two four-door Jeeps appeared by the plane, one white, one red. Kimbrell signed off on the paperwork.
KIMBRELL STUCK HIS ARM THROUGH the open window of the Jeep and tapped in the code to open the gate. It took them almost an hour to reach the ranch.
Lucky had moved the van onto the driveway and was sitting next to it in a folding camp chair with a Gatorade in his hand. It was 92 degrees and he had sweat stains on his shirt.
His cargo shorts had a taser in one pants pocket and two pairs of nylon flex cuffs in the other. A nine-millimeter pistol was stashed in his waistband at his mid-back under his shirt.
The Jeeps pulled to a stop next to each other, both drivers eyeing Lucky. He saw Kimbrell’s eyes go to the van logo. Kimbrell and Gaudet hopped out.
“Mr. Kimbrell?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Jerry Tate from the pool company. Did Pete get you on the phone this morning?”
“No, who’s Pete?”
“One of our managers.” Lucky approached Kimbrell with a smile and his right hand extended.
Kimbrell took it and returned a hearty handshake. “Good to see you, Jerry. What did Pete have to tell me?”
“A pipe has broken underground between the pools. It has shut down the filtration systems and now both pools have a huge bacteria count. Need your advice before I fix it.”
“How long before you can get it right?”
“I can have you rolling again in three hours. I’ll get the filtration running again, throw a shock treatment in the pool and you’ll be swimming by morning. But before I can do anything, I need a decision on how far you want me to go on pipe replacement. You’ll see what I mean.”
“Well, hell, let’s go take a look, get this job going. We’ve got a busy two weeks planned. Come on, Michael.”
The men came to the edge of the hole. Lucky pointed down. “See that? That’s the problem.”
After a good look, Kimbrell’s head swung back to Lucky, a puzzled look on his face. “It’s a box. Where’re the pipes?”
It was quick. Lucky’s right hand came out of his left pants pocket holding a squat little gun that looked like a beefed-up derringer. Two barbed darts blasted from the gun, lodging in the chef’s chest. Fifty-thousand volts of electricity raced through the man’s body, throwing him to the ground. His muscles ripped into spastic pulsating waves while he screamed.
The nine-millimeter pistol was in Lucky’s right hand, pointed at Kimbrell’s chest.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” Kimbrell’s instant anger was evident by the flush of his face.
“Get on the ground, Kimbell, before I blow three rounds into your face.”
“Do you know who the hell you’re messing with, you scrawny piece of shit?”
A nine-millimeter hollow-point round blasted right through Kimbrell’s right shoulder sending him to the grass. Kimbrell began squirming and wailing uncontrollably.
Lucky leaned over Kimbrell with the pistol pointed at his nose. “Yes, I do know who you are. I know exactly who you are.” He dropped two pairs of flex cuffs at Kimbrell’s feet. Ankles first, then your hands.”
Gaudet, the chef, was flat on his back on the ground regaining some composure. Lucky pointed the pistol at him. “Walk over here to the pool deck and get on the ground.”
Gaudet crawled over.
Lucky grabbed two more pairs of double flex cuffs from the cooler and tossed them to Gaudet. “Ankles first, then put your hands behind you and pull them over your wrists.” Gaudet did as he was told. Lucky cinched the high-tensile nylon.
Kimbrell was still moaning but he applied the cuffs as he was told. Lucky walked back, bent down and cinched them tight. Kimbrell’s hands were on his frontside. “I need a hospital you crazy son of a bitch.”
“I’ll get you there soon.”
Lucky took the Canon off the tripod and began filming the men. He stepped to the edge of the hole, filmed the wooden box which was lined with waterproof painter’s plastic. He looked at Kimbrell. “Good thing we brought a pool liner for the new baby pool. Can’t have that water leaking into the dirt.”
Lucky placed the camera back on the tripod, walked over to Gaudet on the pool deck, leaned down and rolled the man to the edge of the pool.
“Nooooo, noooo, please, noooo, I didn’t do anything. PLEEEEASE!”
“Bon voyage.” Lucky gave a f
inal nudge. Gaudet was in the pool.
Lucky grabbed the Canon once again, went to the edge of the pool, and started filming. Gaudet was frantic. He undulated like a porpoise trying to keep his head above water. He turned to his side, began undulating towards the steps. Lucky was impressed. He did similar training as a SEAL. Fear of drowning is stark terror. Lucky stopped filming. He got the skimmer and pushed Gaudet to the center of the pool. Started filming again.
Gaudet was swallowing water, trying to breathe, coughing like he’d vomit. Then he did vomit. Lucky caught it in living color.
Lucky sat on a chaise lounge and kept filming. Wouldn’t be long.
Gaudet’s heart rate pounded and his stomach muscles were on fire. He was swallowing more water. He tried to maintain his face up. A final vomit. The putrid contents went onto the water’s surface, and also deep into his lungs. The chef was finished.
Kimbrell watched with a look of stark raving terror. “Hellllp. Hellllp. Somebody Helllp.” Too far away for anyone to hear.
Lucky walked over and looked down at Kimbrell. “Jack, what the fuck happens in a man’s life to turn him into a piece of shit like you? You’re one of the sickest motherfuckers walking the earth.”
Lucky walked to the van to retrieve a wooden top that would cover the makeshift coffin. He went back to get a five-foot length of three-inch PVC pipe and a hammer and nails.
Kimbrell saw it and started blubbering. “Money’s no object...how much, name a figure, you can have it tomorrow. Just name it. We can forget this whole thing.”
Lucky picked up the PVC pipe and swung it like a baseball bat. He squatted into the batter’s stance. Swoosh. Another big cut. Kimbrell’s eye’s bulged. Squatted again. Swoosh. “That would have been out of the park. I was a decent player back in the day. I had a good glove. Batting average was fair. Wonder how far I could whack your head? Ahhh, but don’t worry about the plastic pipe. Too gentle, really. I wanna show you something super cool.”
Lucky lifted his tee shirt, slid a knife out of a custom leather scabbard on his right waist. He held it in his palm, showed it to Kimbrell. “Now this is dangerous, very dangerous.”
Kimbrell cocked his head off the grass and eyed the knife with fear in his eyes.
“It’s a Karambit knife, a warrior’s weapon. This was custom-made by a soldier buddy of mine in California. Mayo Sexton’s a true artisan with steel, he really is.”
The knife was a curved, beautifully sinister weapon with an exotic hardwood grip. The steel curved like a raptor’s claw.
“Here’s how you use it. Put your thumb or pointer finger through the ring so you don’t lose the knife while slashing. And you slash with sort of a backhand movement, like this.”
Lucky whipped the knife through the air. “Across the neck, slicing the jugulars.” He squatted. “A guy comes at me, whoosh, I rip upward, taking the femoral apart in his thigh. And, man, that sucker bleeds.” Lucky knelt with one knee on the ground. “I put my knee on the chest, then I start slashing the belly.” Lucky theatrically slung his right arm left and right. “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. Blood, belly guts, and shit going everywhere, Jack.”
Lucky stood. “You’re a lawyer, you get what I’m talking about, decimating somebody.”
“Twenty million...fifty million...anything.” Kimbrell was almost unintelligible between sobs.
Lucky shook his head.
“What, dammit, anything, what?”
“The children. Remember them?” Said Lucky.
Kimbrell’s sobbing stopped. His face went pale.
“Yeah, the server in the Netherlands, Jack. We found it.” Lucky shook his head.
Lucky bent and placed his knee on Kimbrell’s sternum. He reached down to unhook Kimbrell’s belt. Kimbrell was unable to breathe with Lucky’s weight on him. The lawyer began to buck and fight and roll over.
Lucky stood, pulled the pistol and fired a round into the lawyer’s ankle. “No fighting, Jack. I’ve got more ammo.” Kimbrell moaned like a dying cow.
Lucky straddled Kimbrell at the level of the knees, bent and grabbed the man’s pants and underwear and tugged them down to just above the knees.
“This knife was good to me in the Middle East.” Lucky picked up the karambit blade. “I took three men down in close quarters combat. Guess we’ll have to add dick amputation to the website selling these things. A present from the kids, Mr. Kimbrell.” Lucky grabbed Kimbrell’s dick and balls with his left hand and sliced the blade across the base. “Told you this blade was the bomb.”
Kimbrell moaned. Tried to go into the fetal position. Lucky took his foot and pushed him flat on his back.
He dropped the soiled knife to the ground, bent, and started rolling Kimbrell to the hole. One final push and Kimbrell went into the box landing hard on his back, face up, pants down to his knees. Lucky dropped Kimbrell’s bloody penis on his chest. He picked up the Canon, shot some video.
“Okay, let’s put the top on, slam a few nails in. Don’t worry, Jack, I’ve got a pipe for air. Safety first, buddy.”
The wooden top slammed the box with a thud. After hammering in four nails, Lucky pushed the PVC pipe through the perfectly cut round hole. Then he started shoveling, covering the box with dirt. “Don’t worry, Uncle Jack, there’s plenty of air coming through the pipe.”
In twelve minutes Lucky had a mound of dirt overlaying the box coming up into a triangle mound around the pipe.
Kimbrell begged nonstop as the dirt covered the box.
Lucky attached a green garden hose to a spicket at the house, turned on the water to a very slight flow and walked it over the grass to the gravesite.
He threaded the hose down into the PVC pipe. He stuck his mouth up next to the mouth of the pipe and had a final message.
“The kids felt like it was their turn to throw the party, Jack. Enjoy your swim.”
80
Black Point, Alabama
Wednesday, July 24, 2019
4:55 A.M. CLYDE BOLAND AND BROYLE WILLIAM wore ball caps, running shorts and tee shirts as they cut off De La Mare into the alley that approached the back of Bill’s office. They looked like other Black Point runners who hit the day early for a workout before the office, except these two carried a rough edge about them.
Friends of Luis, Javy, and Maribel, they arrived from Ft. Worth four days ago with the need for information. They watched the Rusty Anchor and Dude Codger’s trailer. Nothing.
Bill Burnham’s office might provide some clues.
A sodium vapor lamp provided orange-tinted light in the alley. Clyde removed his small runner’s backpack, tossed Broyle a tightly folded pair of Walmart coveralls and a black balaclava mask. He grabbed his out next. Both men suited up, leaving off their masks. They placed latex gloves on their hands.
“Let’s get behind this dumpster and wait. Probably have twenty minutes before he gets here,” said Clyde. They’d watched Bill’s arrival for the last two mornings.
Broyle checked his watch every three or four minutes. At 5:24 they heard footsteps. They slipped the masks over their head and adjusted their eye and mouth holes.
Wild Bill reached the door, placed his briefcase on the ground, and fumbled with his keys. Broyle held the back of his hand up in front of Clyde’s face. Not yet.
Burnham twisted the key in the deadbolt, stepped into the building, leaving his briefcase on the ground. He turned off the alarm.
Broyle saw the top of Bill’s head as his hand reached back through the door frame for the briefcase. He gave Clyde the signal. It only took a moment to race across eighteen feet of pavement to reach the door. Clyde bull rushed Bill backwards into the hall. Broyle grabbed the briefcase, closed the door and twisted the deadbolt.
“Do exactly as we say and you won’t get hurt,” said Broyle.
“Oh shit, don’t kill me, don’t kill me, don’t kill me.” Bill was shaking. Clyde had a firm grip on Bill’s shirt at the nape of his neck.
“Let’s go to your office.”
“Okay, okay, it’s upstairs. Don’t hurt me.”
Reaching the office, Bill said, “What do you want? Anything you want, okay? Just tell me.”
“What I want is for you to answer my questions. Got it?”
“Yes, okay. What?”
“Are your case files on paper or computer?”
“Computer. Everything. I swear.”
“Question two. Business bank statements. Paper or computer?”
“Computer.”
“Personal bank statements. Paper or computer.”
“Computer. I don’t do anything on paper.” Sweat beaded on Wild Bill’s forehead. A paleness infused his skin. Voice shaky.
“You aren’t going to pass out, are you?”
Bill shook his head, eyes bulging open.
“Do what I ask, and this will go quickly. Don’t do what I ask and we’ll kill you. It’s that simple. Got it?” Said Clyde.
“Yes, yes, yes. Tell me what to do.” Bill dragged his right forearm across his brow wiping off sweat.
“I want to see one case file. Just one. So, sign on to your computer.”
Bill moved to sit in his executive chair behind his desk. His fat fingers stumbled logging on. Clyde was right behind him looking over his shoulder, hand clenched on Bill’s shirt collar.
The screen came alive. “Okay, what case?”
“The school bus crash.” Said Broyle.
“Wait. Why?” said Bill.
The smack was quick. Clyde took his latex-gloved right hand and bitch slapped Bill hard across his right face. Bill screamed, touched his cheek.
“Get the fuckin’ file,” said Broyle.
Bill scrolled through documents, punched it up quickly. Codger vs. Gemini Busing/Hendrickson Trucking. “Here it is. Everything. All investigations. All court testimony. Video from courtroom consultants. Don’t hurt me. Anything. I’ll give you anything.”
“Get up.”
Clyde jerked Burnham out of the chair. Broyle sat down. He knew what he was doing around computers. He dropped two flash drives on the desk then grabbed one and stuffed it in the computer’s USB port. Clicked download. The single case data fit easily on the one terabyte drive. It loaded in three minutes.