by Sam Cade
“That prick has good taste. Burnham gave us number 811, a penthouse apartment looking out over the sea. The building’s gorgeous,” said Broyle.
“Fuck him,” said Luis. “Yeah, fuck him,” said Javy.
As the truck stopped, Broyle was looking at flights and hotels on Kayak. “I see some good rates on flights leaving Monday from DFW. And there’s a Hilton within a block of the condo. That’s perfect.”
Maribel was listening to the men. “I say we cut his balls off and throw the bastardo off the balcony.”
132
9:30 P.M. JAKE WAITED FORTY-FIVE MINUTES IN THE ER for Keith West to show. Jake had known West since middle school. He was also a tight end on their state championship team. The guy never dropped a pass.
“There’s the man, now”, said Jake as Keith strolled in the ER like he owned the hospital.
They shared a handshake. “It’s been way to long, Jake.”
“Sure has. But thanks for coming. Almost had to call Kimbo and meet him at the vet clinic.”
“Well, he’d treat you right.” West moved close to Jake eying the lacerations from several angles, a highly focused look on his face. “Hmmm. He got cha alright. Smile for me.”
Jake did. Keith touched his face lightly on both cheeks. “Feel that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. No nerve damage.”
“As far as I’m concerned this is the most important surgery of your life, Keith.”
“Right, right. Hold on a sec.”
Keith stepped away, pulled a large-screen cell phone from a scrub pocket. With a few taps he brought up a facial laceration repair on YouTube. He watched it a moment, then stepped towards Jake while it continued to play. “Might need you to hold this for me while I try this. The only time I stitched up initials it was on some frat boy’s ass down for spring break.”
Jake looked at the screen and howled.
An hour and fifteen minutes later Dr. West said, “Sixty-two sutures, Jake. It’ll look pretty good but now you’ll have a little character. But you’ll still be the best-looking guy in town.”
Garrison and Grissom escorted Jake out of the hospital. It was almost three hours after Lucky ran out of Burnham’s office. Clear black sky. Stars. Temps dropping.
“I screwed up, guys.” Jake was humiliated, embarrassed. But mostly pissed. “Damn, I fucked up.”
“I don’t think so,” said Garrison. “Unexpected circumstances. Hendrickson wouldn’t have been around tomorrow. I’m sure of that. But I wonder. Was it pure dumb luck or was it planned? Hendrickson got us over a barrel with this friggin’ art walk.”
“They call him Lucky. But he planned every inch of this,” said Jake.
133
Mobile Bay
9:45 P.M. LUCKY SWAM NORTH THREE AND ONE-HALF MILES from his entry point until he reached the red clay cliffs in Montrose, a high-end residential area located just north of Black Point. He spotted a pier with a lone dim bulb. Reaching the end of it, he climbed onto the walkway from a wooden swim ladder. Weather-burned switchback stairs led forty feet to the top of the bluff.
He took a moment to rest. He mulled over the town bearings in his mind. Then started out in a leisurely jog off the property onto the edge of the dark neighborhood streets. For five and a half miles Lucky avoided lights, hid from automobiles, and covered himself in shadows. He stayed off the main drag.
Reaching the grass airstrip, he surveilled the area around his plane. Quiet. A splash of light soaked one side of the plane from an old barn lamp. Lucky ran to the Caravan, slung the cargo door open and hopped in. He switched on a cabin light then changed into dry clothes stored onboard.
Lucky placed his hand under one of the passenger seats. He felt it. A plastic bag containing a smartphone. He powered up the device and situated himself in the pilot’s seat. The Foreflight app was tapped open. Digitally, Lucky filed and opened a flight plan originating from the tiny Perdido Winds Airpark in Elberta, Alabama, located at the edge of the Alabama-Florida border. The destination was Tampa, Florida, flying across the open Gulf of Mexico.
Lucky ran his checklist then fired up the turboprop. He eased the plane to the end of the dark airstrip. Lights of a convenience store could be seen in the distance. County Road 48, an easterly extension of Black Point Avenue, ran perpendicular to the end of the strip. Vehicle headlights brought perspective for the takeoff.
Lucky braked the plane. Ran the engine’s RPMs up. Dropped the brakes. The Caravan raced down the dark runway towards a used car lot directly across County 48. He pulled back on the stick. The plane cleared the power lines by forty-five feet. Crop duster close.
The plane was flying south. Lucky banked the plane westward, continued a loop, and began a northwest heading. The lights of downtown Black Point came into view ahead of him. He was flying low. Real low. Two hundred feet off the deck. He maintained his heading.
MONTOYA, GARRISON, AND GRISSOM REACHED THE TAHOE in the hospital parking lot. Grissom clicked the electronic door locks. Each man had a door open when they heard the racket. It was coming fast and loud and low. A single engine turboprop.
Barely over the treetops, Lucky buzzed the hospital parking lot at 220 miles-per-hour.
“Call it in, Grissom. That plane’s going down,” screamed Garrison.
Three seconds later the plane buzzed downtown, straight over the clock courtyard. The Cessna was over Mobile bay in three more seconds. Lucky pulled back on the stick, gaining altitude.
“That plane’s not going down. That’s Hendrickson fuckin’ with us,” said Jake.
134
FLYING NORTH, LUCKY SKIRTED THE EASTERN EDGE of Mobile, Alabama. Forty miles later, he rolled the plane into a lazy banking turn to the east and then south. The Cessna Caravan was now on a heading that would take the plane directly over Perdido Winds Airpark, the originating location of his flight plan.
Lucky locked in the coordinates on his autopilot. The same coordinates had the plane heading towards 380 miles of open sea, straight towards Tampa, Florida.
He unbelted, stepped to the rear of the plane, strapped on a military-style steerable parachute, and placed goggles over his eyes. With his feet, he moved a medium-size canvas duffel to the front of the large side-door at the rear of the plane. He strapped the duffel to his chest. He unlatched the door, slung it open. Cold air blew hard into the plane.
Directly over Perdido Winds Airpark Lucky launched into a black, clear, fifty-degree night. Free-fall 10,000 feet. He used the runway lights as a guide. He spotted the large metal hangar. Small planes tethered to the ground came into view. He jerked the ripcord at 2000 feet. Lucky steered his landing onto soft grass.
He bundled his chute, situated the duffel across his shoulder, and began a slow jog towards the empty, silent parking lot. The twelve-year-old Suburban he planted was unlocked, keys under the seat.
Lucky fired up the truck, zipped out of the lot, and headed north for I-10.
He had $250,000 in cash in his duffel. His cold cryptocurrency wallets held $76.2 million. Zeus gave him the passwords for the wallets. He changed those passwords the same day. Now, only he had access to the fortune.
Two hours later, the Cessna Caravan sheared apart as it crashed into rising six-foot seas in the Gulf of Mexico.
Exactly where Lucky programmed it to disintegrate.
FOUR DAYS LATER
The signature on William Burnham’s will, dated six-and-one-half years ago, was almost perfect. It should be. Wild Bill started having his most trusted ally, Liz Donovan, sign his name a decade ago on documents in an effort to increase office efficiency.
It took Liz approximately ninety minutes last night to create this masterpiece. The major beneficiary was Colleen Burnham, the former Mrs. William Burnham, and Liz’s only sister. Wild Bill generously left her his major real estate holdings, $33 million in trailer parks that generated $4 million in cash flow yearly, and a stunning bayfront home in Point Clear valued at $2.9 million.
Liz was part
icularly pleased with what the court would read at the bottom of page three.
“To my dear friend, a colleague who helped make all of this success possible, I leave my FAANG Portfolio at Vanguard to Elizabeth Donovan.”
FAANG. Wall Street term. Facebook. Apple. Amazon. Netflix. Google.
With the stroke of a pen, Liz owned a technology portfolio worth $22.7 million.
She felt nothing but air under her feet as she locked the office front door and headed to the probate court.
TWENTY-ONE DAYS LATER.
Waddell Skipworth, a man who never allowed painting to get in the way of his drinking, stood beside US 98 in front of the convenience store next to the Sherwin Williams paint store in Black Point. It was 7:10 on a crisp morning. A hard eastern sun shone on his back. Waddell had a half-full tall-boy Budweiser balanced on the ground between his boots, a payphone headset to his left ear, and a scrap of paper with the direct line phone number to the Black Point Police department in his right hand, scribbled in pencil.
Kaitlyn Sheffield fielded his call.
“I need to speak to the chief. About to solve a murder for you.”
Kaitlyn walked to the chief’s office, smiled. “You need to pick this one up.”
Pike Tatum picked up the handset, punched line one. “Chief Tatum.”
“I seen the killers, Tatum. I know who done it. I know who got Dude and Wild Bill, both of ‘em. What’s the REE-ward?”
“That you, Waddell? You drunk at seven in the morning?”
Waddell hung up. He chugged down the rest of the beer and walked towards Sherwin Williams to grab his paint. Rung the outside trash receptacle with his empty Bud can.
“Boom. Three-pointer.” He danced a little jig.
“About to be rich. Yessirree, ‘bout to be rich.”
TWENTY-NINE DAYS LATER
JAKE MONTOYA HAD HIS FEET ON HIS DESK at the Hoover building when he heard a double knock on his door. Normally he operated with his office door wide open. The door hadn’t been open a single day since he’d gotten back to D.C. His mindset vacillated between sullen and angry. Anger was winning.
“Come in.”
An efficient administrative assistant entered the office with a single sheet of paper in her hand. “For you, sir. It just came in on the fax.”
It took barely a moment for Jake to read it.
United States Coast Guard
155 Columbia Dr., Tampa, Florida
Re: Lucas Knight Hendrickson D.O.B. 07/19/1976
ACTIVE SEARCH SUSPENDED: PENDING FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS
He crumpled the sheet and threw it in the trash.
One thought raged through his skull.
The earth is not big enough for you to hide, Hendrickson. I’m coming!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sam Cade lives on the Gulf coast with his wife and their Golden Retrievers in Fairhope, Alabama. He works full time in medicine, plays tennis three or four times a week, and squeezes in time to daydream and write.
Sam loves to speak to readers.
Contact him through his website samcade.net
Or email directly at [email protected].
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