Caribbean Rain

by Rick Murcer

  The jet leveled for a moment, then dropped once more. Chloe heard herself cry out again, this time Josh joined her. It was the only sound she could muster, and she was pretty sure Josh had nothing else to say either.

  The pilot’s voice came over the cabin speakers.

  “Okay, guys. This is it. We’re down to about twelve thousand feet, and Cleveland has a spot for us. I’ll do my best to get us down in one piece. It won’t hurt to pray a little.”

  Managing one last glance in Josh’s direction, she saw the grin on his face, but his eyes told a different story. He had to be thinking about his boys, his wife, and maybe more than all of that, what came next, if they didn’t make it. Chloe was thinking the same way. She wanted that life with Manny, that fairytale dream every girl thought about. Meeting Jesus sounded wonderful, but she wanted a good long drink from this life first. She prayed harder.

  Fingering the crucifix draped around her neck, she contemplated the worst. She knew about the afterlife. Most good Catholic girls did, but putting her faith on the line at a time like this was harder than she ever imagined it would be. But she’d try; she had no choice.

  Slipping her hand into Josh’s, they waited together. She squeezed harder as the ride down got crazier. It felt like the jet was coming apart at the seams. Josh squeezed back. Then he asked her a question.

  “So, did you ever get Williams into bed?” His voice shook in rhythm to the vibrating plane.

  She spit out laughter and managed, “No, and if I go like this, I’m coming back one time to nail him.”

  “Good girl.”

  The vibrations grew even more intense in conjuncture with the rolling, rocking jet. The next second, they hit something with an impact she didn’t think possible. Before she could scream, it happened again. She felt the left wing bend, then watched it dislodge, taking part of the fuselage with it. Instantly, Josh and she were engulfed in an incredible cold. Making matters worse was the fast-moving snow that stung her face mercilessly like so many angry bees. She bent her head close to her knees and hoped that God held Josh, the two pilots, and her in the palm of His hand. The plane hit the tarmac again, spun right, did a three-sixty in what seemed like slow motion, then suddenly reversed direction. Chloe felt her body tremble and shudder. The torque made it feel like she was coming apart.

  Out of nowhere sailed a white splinter of metal. It hammered the side of her head, and then Chloe Franson felt nothing at all.

  Chapter-8

  His Cessna X darted some fourteen thousand feet above the Caribbean Ocean, and Randall Fogerty watched the sun reflect off the water’s surface. There were over three hundred thirty-five days of sunshine per year in the Caribbean, and today was one of the more spectacular days. But those circumstances did little to improve his mood. He fingered the new phone. With each attempt to reach Amanda, his temper, the real pissy one, rose a notch.

  She’s ignoring me, and no one ignores Randall Fogerty, not even my daughter.

  He swirled the glass of Caribbean rum in his left hand. This particular bottle cost more than most indigenous residents of the islands made in a year, but wasn’t even a tiny blip on his daily spending radar. The “distribution” business had been good to him—and to Amanda.

  The business hadn’t come without risks. Risks that a poor white boy from the south side of Detroit hadn’t minded taking, especially after the life, or so called “life” his screwed up parents had pawned off as an acceptable existence. By the time he’d reached eleven, he’d robbed several rich-bitch types, at gunpoint no less. He would have robbed neighborhood stores, but there was an unwritten law to leave them be. He honored that for a while, until he decided he didn’t give a rat’s ass about unwritten laws.

  At age thirteen, he knocked off Teachout’s Convenience Store, and to blow a lid off it, old man Teachout had recognized him. He had no choice. Never batting a proverbial eye, Randall Fogerty made his first kill by pumping three bullets in the tall man’s chest, then grabbed the fifty-eight dollars off the counter. Ten minutes later, he sat in a fast-food dive, ordering and eating whatever he desired.

  Everything he’d been taught said he should have felt guilt, remorse, even condemned for sending the old man to his grave, but he hadn’t. Not an ounce of culpability had touched his thought process, or more importantly, some would say, his heart process. Instead, he had found himself embracing the power, the control of taking whatever he wanted. He drained the rum and handed the glass to Braxton for a refill.

  The most striking memory of that evening had taken place when he laid down the money to pay for his meal. He realized he’d never have to go hungry again. Never feel his stomach grind and twirl because of meal-less days. Never wear dirty clothes again or shoes that looked more like rags than something to strap on his feet.

  “Thoughts, sir?” asked Braxton, that deep, Barry White voice bringing him to the present.

  “Nothing too serious. A little reminiscing about the good old days.”

  Braxton nodded. “We all do dat, from time ta time. Keeps ya grounded, my momma use ta say.”

  He smiled. “Your momma knew a thing or two.”

  “Yes, sir, dat she did.”

  His right-hand man reached into his pocket and brought out the leather-bound notebook, already anticipating his boss’s next thought. Fogerty asked anyway.

  “Are all of the shipments on time?”

  “Dey are, sir. No su’prizes. No heroes and none a dos new entrepreneur types yet, today.”

  “Good. We don’t want our South American friends to get nervous because I take a day off to hunt down my disobedient daughter.”

  Dialing the phone again, and getting the same no-answer result, he slipped the phone into his shirt pocket, removed his shades, and bent closer to Braxton. “We’ll not be going through this shit again. The risk of her being away from my umbrella leaves too many opportunities for my enemies. She’s chosen this route by not staying in contact with me. I’m already tired of her married life. Understand?”

  Braxton’s wide jaw broke into a tooth-filled grin, and he pulled the gleaming, nine-inch dagger from his belt. “As perfectly as one a dem fine tailored suits fittin’ dat frame o’ yours.”

  Fogerty laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Braxton, you get it.”

  “I do, sir, I do. No worries ‘bout dat.”

  The plane began its descent to San Juan International, and Fogerty’s smile slowly turned to a different expression—the one that wasn’t good for anyone who got in his way.

  Chapter-9

  Staring at his cell phone screen, Manny felt the most God-awful déjà vu. The screen bellowed, call disconnected. He wasn’t sure if the message was intended for his eyes or his heart, until the latter threatened to explode into so many indefinable pieces.

  No God, not again.

  He redialed Chloe’s number, glancing at Mike and Gavin who’d stopped walking. He had a Crosby at each side, both peering intently at him. Chloe’s voice mail kicked in after one ring. He dialed again, voice mail again.

  “What the hell’s going on?” asked Gavin. “You look like you’re going to pop a blood vessel.”

  “Chloe just called and said the plane carrying her and Josh was in trouble and couldn’t find a place to land. Then the signal went dead, and I can’t reach her.”

  “My God! You’ve got to be kidding,” said Mike.

  Manny shook his head, pacing to the front door of the restaurant and back. “She sounded terrified, and I don’t know what that freaking noise was just before her phone went dead.”

  “Don’t panic. Let’s try Corner’s phone,” urged Gavin.

  “You’re right.” Manny dialed his good friend’s number. More voice mail.

  He shifted his feet, closed his eyes, breathed a prayer, and tried again. This time, the phone rang longer, and then he thought he heard a voice. But his imagination had played a cruel trick on him: Josh’s message system sprang to life, again.

  “I have Corner’s nu
mber. I’ll keep trying him, and you keep on with Chloe’s,” said Gavin. He turned to Mike. “Call the airport, ask for Hannah Prisby, and tell her I need any info she can find about that jet. The Feds had to file a flight plan, so she should know something.”

  “Will do,” answered Mike.

  Running his hand through his hair, Manny was struggling to speak; instead, he nodded in appreciation to his long-time friends. Emotion could be as cumbersome as any obstacle when it came to expressing oneself, but often, a glance, a wink, a touch of a hand would convey more than a thousand words—like now.

  A few minutes later, he slammed his smartphone into the palm of his hand. “It’s no use. I can’t get a signal through to the jet, and the damn weather isn’t helping.”

  Gavin rubbed his jowls and nodded. “You’re right. What about someone in Quantico? Do you have someone else you can call?”

  “Yes. Josh’s boss, John Dickman.”

  “Do it.”

  Searching his contacts, Manny called Dickman. Just when he thought he was going to get another Godforsaken voice mail, Dickman answered.

  “Williams? Make it fast. We’ve got a problem,” his voice as gruff as his wrinkled exterior.

  “I know, sir. I got a call from Agent Franson that their jet was in trouble, and now I can’t raise her or Agent Corner on my cell.”

  The silence on the other end was one of those situations that sends one’s mind clambering to exit the body, so it wouldn’t have to hear or see what was coming next. He clutched the phone and waited, unable to exhale.

  “It, the jet, went down at Youngstown-Warren Regional while they were trying to land through an unexpected, fast-moving snowstorm.”

  Not sure he had the strength to ask, he did it anyway. “What do you mean ‘went down’?”

  The assistant director of the FBI cleared his throat. “They made an attempt to land, and the plane apparently hit hard a couple of times, then lost a wing and hit a barricade at the end of the runway, moving fast.”

  Manny didn’t think it was possible for his heart to drop as far as it did. He gathered more strength. “Shit,” he said softly. “Were there . . . is everyone . . . okay?”

  “We don’t have all of the information, but there were at least two survivors. We don’t know if there were . . . fatalities. They’re still searching. Before you ask, I don’t know which is which or who is missing. I’m sorry, Manny, I know you’re close to Franson and Corner, but I don’t have any more specifics.”

  The screaming in his head came from his soul, and if he didn’t run away from the negative thoughts, he’d be insane in a few minutes. He did his best to shift to cop mode. It helped. Then he made a decision, because waiting just wasn’t on the table.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m about four hours from there, so I’m on the way,” he said quietly.

  “Are you sure you want to— Wait, I have another call from the Cleveland office,” said Dickman.

  If silence were a dagger, he would have been cut to ribbons in the first five seconds of that horrendous wait. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t keep his mind from running down the road where doubt was so willing and able to lead him. He tried focusing on his daughter Jen and that helped some, for a moment. But to lose Chloe, and Josh, especially like this, was a prescription written by insanity.

  Finally, Dickman came back to him. “Williams?”

  “Yes.”

  “They found the other two and are doing all they can, but it’s touch and go. I can’t discuss the details because I don’t have them all, but get your ass on the road. You can meet with the Cleveland people at the hospital.”

  Manny was already out the door, Gavin and Mike in tow. “I’m leaving now, sir. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  Dickman’s answer was strange, at best. “You’re the profiler. You got a couple of hours to think about this call, so profile me. Meanwhile, do what you’re told and get to Youngstown.”

  The line went dead. Manny stared at the phone. He briefly wondered what it took before people just ditched their emotions and opted out of the rat race. Losing Chloe would do that for him.

  Dickman was right. He was the profiler, and if he’d read the man’s voice correctly, he had little time to see Chloe or Josh alive.

  Chapter-10

  Hiking through the wilderness of El Yunque was as close to a legitimate paradise as Rainer Johns had ever imagined. He was familiar with the concept of Heaven, but what could be better than this? The smell of the Tabonuco trees and the Sierra Palms combined with the lush, green essence of the forest caused him to stop, close his eyes, and attempt to grasp it all.

  When Rainer finally opened his eyes, the view had evolved to something even more stunning. He’d heard that the vistas were ever-changing at El Toro’s peak, and he had previewed the unimaginable beauty of the north and east parts of El Yunque, but this was living proof. The landscape caused his heart to skip a beat.

  Shifting the position of his long legs a little wider, he could barely contain himself. Even the high-rise hotels waving in the distance proved to be little or no reminder of civilization. Braced against the clear blue sky, they looked more like paintings than anything tangible.

  Taking out his new, high-end digital camera, he proceeded to take pictures of everything and from every angle. He zoomed out, zoomed in, and held the camera at arm’s length to take several shots of himself against the lush backdrop. He was sure his friends in Boston would turn green with envy when he posted the photos online. Especially Shari, his girlfriend. She had to work and couldn’t make this trip. He’d get his ass kicked after she saw what she’d missed, when he got home, but it would be worth it. He loved her, but getting one up was a nice benefit.

  “Nice? It’s just plain awesome,” he said out loud.

  Finally, he launched back down the trail, mud and all. It was getting late, and he only had a few hours before it would be a whole different trek as the Caribbean sun settled.

  After a quarter mile of muddy going, the path dried significantly, and he practically flew down the rest of the two-mile path, only stopping to snap an occasional picture of a green lizard or a red-legged thrush.

  Less than three hundred yards from his parked SUV, he did something very different for a man of his nature. He’d planned every moment of his vacation, but now he decided he should try to be, as Shari suggested, more impetuous from time to time. Impromptu. Spur of the moment. He usually steered clear of acting on those terms and phrases, but not today, not at this moment of pure randomness. What could go wrong?

  His eyes grew wide as he motored toward the less-maintained side trail that led farther into the jungle and the backside of the Bano de Oro trail.

  Why not? I’m not a child. I’m on my own time. I’m free!

  After ten minutes, he slowed and enjoyed the less strenuous alternative to El Toro. The path branched into several single-file trails where people would camp or just go off to commune with a side of nature not available in the northern states, especially in the winter. Stopping, he put his hands on his waist, just as the rain began to fall. Rainer turned his face to the sky and raised his hands to the new rainbow. This was just for him; this moment of Caribbean rain was his alone, and in a sense, eternally his. No one would or could experience what El Yunque was giving only to him. He felt himself getting hard and laughed out loud.

  That’s a new one.

  Then he heard it. He suddenly glanced in one direction of the trail, then the other. The noise hadn’t been born of the breezes and the trees. It’d sounded . . . guttural. Primitive. He swallowed hard. Those were words used on TV or in the movie theater and shouldn’t apply to his joyous trip to El Yunque.

  Standing rigid, he waited, his angst living just short of panic.

  He listened intently and heard nothing but the multiple voices of the rainforest. After thirty seconds, he let out a breath and chalked one up to imagination created from excitement. But then he heard it again, closer this time, accompanie
d by a slight rustling of the thick underbrush about fifteen feet to his left. He waited.

  A large mongoose unexpectedly burst onto the trail, dragging something he couldn’t quite make out. His heart fell to his stomach as he leaped back. He’d read that the forest service had made an attempt at reducing the rat population by introducing mongooses to the rainforest. It hadn’t worked, plus these vicious little vermin had a propensity for carrying rabies. But Rainer Johns seemed to be the last thing on this critter’s mind. It was pulling hard on its apparent next meal, trying to get it loose from some impediment. When the mongoose finally succeeded, the meal was not only freed, but flung into the air. Rainer’s eyes followed it, growing wider with recognition. He’d never seen a human foot detached from the body. Especially one half eaten.

  The last floodgate protecting him from total panic sprang open, and he ran in the opposite direction, veering off to one of the other side trails, running like Jesse Owens in the ‘36 Olympics.

  And he didn’t stop until he saw a large, camouflage tent and heard saxophone music.

  Thank God. There is strength in numbers. Everyone knows that.

  “Hey. I need some help. I think someone’s hurt,” he yelled as he hurried to the opened mouth of the tent. No response, but it didn’t matter. The music meant that another living soul was inside, and that was the important thing right now.

  Not caring if anyone would be upset, he bent low and rushed inside.

  Amanda Griggs stared at the entrance of the tent. Not unusual, except that her head was hung from the tent’s cross supports, her naked, drawn-and-quartered body scattered throughout the tent.

  This campsite hadn’t been Rainer’s salvation. Instead, when reality crossed the border from the realm of the unreal, something in him gave. He felt it.