And this would be difficult. He would have to give up much. His wife. His family. His home. His career. Almost everything.
Except his freedom. That he could retain. Of course he would have to lose himself, become a new person, find a place where he could live unaccosted, free from fear of arrest. There were places that would offer him that because he could offer them something. Much was locked away in the only vault no one could ever search.
But to do all this he would need something. Something to get him places, to trade for favors, to sustain him. And he would need it now. Cash. Total liquidity.
He did not have it in his home, and he could not chance a large withdrawal at the bank. He had no great sum of money available for immediate use. But he knew where he could get some.
Epilogue
Stars
It was amazing what one week, a few stitches, and two and a half pints of blood could do to restore the vigor to one’s step. And though Art Jefferson would not be throwing curve balls for some time to come, he was alive, and with his wife, and fulfilling a promise he had made to himself before all hell broke loose.
This, he knew, was for Anne.
“Take a left up ahead,” Art said from the unfamiliar spot of the passenger seat. Behind the wheel, Anne followed his directions perfectly, her eyes focused on the country road ahead, the gleam he’d come to love not yet back. She was still grieving.
“Where are you taking me?” Anne asked.
Art, both Arms in casts and practically laced across his chest in slings, kept his expression serious. He hoped to God she would understand.
“A nice place I used to visit,” Art answered as convincingly as he could. This was not hard. The funeral had been hard, seeing an empty casket lowered into the earth next to those of his parents. Art had really started asking himself if this was right just about then.
But it was right. For Simon.
“What brought you out here?”
He looked out the window, at the trees and the green fields, and the old barns teetering on the edge of collapse but obstinately defying the elements and physical laws to remain upright. It had been years since he had been here, to this place in the country, but he loved it.
It was the right place for this to happen.
“Turn again,” Art said. “Left. It’s a kind of dirt road.”
The Volvo lurched as Anne steered it off pavement and onto the mix of gravel and dry earth. “Really?”
“It’s worth the drive,” Art said.
The lane wove through a field, with split rail fences on either side, and swung right past a gathering of old buildings that looked as though the next winter would do them in. A minivan was parked behind the tallest of the structures, a barn with more angles to its roof than Anne could count, and standing outside the vehicle was…
Anne slammed on the brakes, the skidding tires drawing a dust cloud from the earth and throwing forward of the Volvo.
“Simon!” she yelled, fingers wrapped so tight on the steering wheel that Art could imagine her snapping fist-size pieces off at any second.
“Well? Are you going to stay here, or go see him?”
Anne looked at Art, her eyes at first severe, then quizzical, then disappointed, then they simply melted into two big brown puddles and she jumped out of the car and ran to Simon.
Art had to use the tip of his shoe to unlock the door, and then he got out. As he reached the front of the Volvo, watching Anne embrace Simon nearer the other vehicle, Mr. Pritchard walked over to greet him.
“Agent Jefferson,” Pritchard said, the blue of his suit far too formal for the setting. “This was your condition, correct?”
Art nodded and leaned on the warm hood of the Volvo. The night sky above was clear, unburdened by clouds. One could see for miles and miles. “They found Kimura’s body two days ago. The fish got to most of her. I saw the pictures.”
“They’re raising the rest of the wreckage tomorrow, I understand,” Pritchard commented.
“How did you pull it off?”
A snicker slipped from Pritchard’s mouth. “I used to be Airborne, Agent Jefferson.”
“Parachutes?” Art asked with quiet incredulity. “Simon?”
“A tandem rig,” Pritchard explained. “It’s used commercially all the time to give the experience of a jump to those who can’t make one on their own.”
“Sean?” Art wondered aloud.
“An extremely experienced man at leaving perfectly good aircraft in mid-flight.”
So that explained that, but not everything. Not how Kimura had found him. Art wasn’t sure he wanted, or needed, to know more than he did. “I’m not going to ask you what I could ask you.”
“I never intended…” Pritchard began, staring briefly at the casts on the man’s arms, before looking back toward Simon.
“Retirement was looming in a few years anyway,” Art said. There would be some loss of motor abilities in each arm. Not enough to matter much, but enough to bring his career with the Bureau to an end. “Have you found a place for him?”
“With a wonderful family in another country,” Pritchard said, adding, “It’s best you don’t know more than that.”
“Believe me, I understand.”
Pritchard smiled. “You know, if ever you are looking for some part time work.”
“I have your number,” Art said. He knew he’d never call.
“Well, it’s best we be going,” Pritchard said. “His new family is anxious to meet him.”
Art nodded and watched Pritchard walk away, watched Anne take Simon into her arms for the last time. He could have gone to him and stolen his own time, but they had had their moment together on the top of the world, as he liked to think of it.
When the moment came that Simon was back in the minivan, Anne walked back to Art, her eyes cast upon the ground. When she reached him, though, they came up to his.
“I think I understand this,” she said. “I think. So you will explain it to me someday.”
“I will.”
“Otherwise, I’ll beat you silly.”
Art had the urge to hug her, almost felt his arms reach for her. She knew that he would want to and leaned against the hood of the Volvo, her head easing onto his shoulder. They stood together and watched as the minivan’s lights came on and as it drove away and disappeared down the lane.
Anne sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand before looking to the sky. “A pretty night.”
Art let his own gaze drift to the heavens, to the wide field of stars arrayed above from horizon to horizon. “You know, my grandma used to say that on the eighth day God put the twinkle in the stars.”
Anne looked up from where her head lay on Art’s shoulder and said, “Your grandma was a brilliant lady.”
* * *
The man slunk out of the shed behind the Iowa farmhouse just before midnight, the suitcase Craig Dean had described to him safely in hand, his future secure.
But not the one he had envisioned.
“Hold it,” Darrell Dean said as the stranger emerged from his clinking and clanking around in the shed. He held a double-barreled shotgun, which was pointed at the stranger’s chest, and when he saw what the man had in one hand he was mighty glad he’d grabbed the old duck gun before coming to investigate.
The man nearly tripped over himself with surprise, the sight of those wide side-by-side barrels bringing the hair on his neck to attention. He had a gun, of course, but it was in a pocket, and he dared not venture for it just yet. Talk first. Reasoning.
“I suppose you’re wondering—”
“Put it down,” Darrell said, motioning to the ground with the muzzle.
The man complied.
“Keep your hands up and step over there,” Darrell ordered in a low, less than pleasant voice, its edges serrated with a nasal twang.
He raised his hands, just as the petty criminals did in grade B westerns, and side stepped away from the shed, away from the suitcase.
/> “Right there,” Darrell Dean said, already knowing how this little dilemma would be solved. He’d caught himself a thief, all right, red handed, mind you. But he could no more call Sheriff Jackson to turn this old bird in than he could tell him what it was he was stealing. This was the money. The money his brother, Craig, had…acquired.
Poor old bugger, Darrell Dean thought, then gave the thief both barrels in the gut, tossing him back into the dirt.
He replaced the suitcase of money where it had been hidden successfully for years. Then he dragged the thief’s body into one of his fields and, after digging a good sized hole with the backhoe, rolled G. Nicholas Kudrow in and covered him up.
In short order he’d plant corn over the spot.
If you enjoyed Simple Simon, all the books in the Art Jefferson Thriller Series are available from Amazon at the following links.
Cloudburst
October’s Ghost
Capitol Punishment
Simple Simon
About The Author
Ryne Pearson is the author of several novels, including Cloudburst, October’s Ghost, Capitol Punishment, Simple Simon, Top Ten, The Donzerly Light, All For One, and Confessions. He is also author of the short story collection, Dark and Darker. His novel Simple Simon was made into the film Mercury Rising. As a screenwriter he has worked on numerous films. The film Knowing, based on his original script, was released in 2009 and opened #1 at the box office, going on to gross more than $180 million worldwide.
He lives in California with his wife, children, a Doberman Shepherd and a Beagle Vizsla.
Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Epilogue
About
Frankie Aguirre and Art Jefferson - 03 - Simple Simon Page 24