Mid-Life Friends and Illusions

by Jeffrey Freeman

  “We purchased air time weeks ago.”

  Weeks ago? I just returned Walter’s money days ago. A frown crept over Samuel’s face. He wasn’t yet as adept at concealing his emotions as Senator Ramirez. “Do I get to see the ad before it airs?”

  “Absolutely not,” Short replied. “That would be against the rules. There can be no direct connection between us.”

  “But we’re meeting, in public,” Samuel protested.

  “That’s allowed. But for you to be seen as having influence on what the Committee puts out, that would be bad for both of us.”

  “You’re right, of course.” Samuel stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m running late.”

  Short stood. They shook hands. Samuel shuddered. For some unknown reason touching the man was suddenly unpleasant.

  It was windy in downtown Tampa, a not uncommon occurrence. As Samuel reached for the car door his itinerary blew from his hand. “Shit,” he exclaimed.

  “Something wrong, Senator?” the driver asked.

  “What’s the closest beach?” Samuel asked.

  “Indian Rocks. Redington. Treasure Island. It depends on how you go.”

  “No, it’s Palm something.”

  “Palm? Hmm, well there’s a beach at Palm Harbor.”

  “That must be it. Take me there.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Early evening, October 28th.

  The Range Rover was hitting more bumps. Samuel’s back pain was nearly constant, forcing him to remain awake. It was clear they had turned off the Interstate and were on some secondary two-lane highway. It was dark. There had been no conversation. He had no idea where they were or where The Jock and Agent Rhodes were taking him.

  Howard was turning out the office lights when the phone rang. He checked his watch. Six-twenty. Jean and Susan had been gone for more than hour; still no word from Beth. The phone rang again. He was tempted not to answer it. Samuel and anyone directly connected to him would know to call Howard’s cell. On the third ring, he picked up.

  “Senator Winters’ office,” he answered perfunctorily.

  “Mister Mills?” The was a southern drawl in the voice.

  Howard’s interest shot up. “Yes. Who is this?”

  “This here’s Walter Bensen. I want y’all to give the good senator a message for me. Tell him I don’t like being stood up.”

  “Stood up? Is he not with you? Or rather, he should be on your plane.”

  “No.” Walter’s voice shifted from harsh to concerned. “He was a no-show.”

  “And you are just now calling? You were supposed to rendezvous hours ago.”

  “Now, looka here, Mister Mills, I called his cell phone. There weren’t no answer. That happens in some spots in Florida. So I waited. I take it y’all haven’t heard from him lately?”

  “Not since his meeting with Senator Remirez.”

  “Well this is more than a little peculiar. I suggest y’all call somebody. It’s not like Sam ta just drop outta sight for a bit, is it? I mean, he doesn’t have a drinkin’ problem or anythin’?”

  “No, he certainly does not and it is very unlike him not to stay in constant contact with one of us.”

  “Well, I’m stayin’ at the Palm Coast house tonight. I assume y’all have caller ID so you the number. Y’all call if I can help in any way.”

  The phone clicked off in Howard’s ear. Strange, but he thought he detected a tone lighter than concern in Walter’s final comment.

  He called Samuel’s office cell. “The number you have dialed is not in service,” came the automated reply.

  He dialed Samuel’s personal cell. It was ringing. “Hello? Hello?” No connection. He could have sworn someone answered. He dialed again. Again, the computer answered, “The number you have dialed is not in service.”

  Now he was starting to panic. He called Samuel’s home number.

  “Winters’ residence,” came a familiar voice.

  “Sara? Is your father there?” Howard asked.

  “Who is this?”

  “Sorry, it is Howard.”

  “No, he’s not home.” She called out, “Mommy, where’s daddy?”

  Jane took the phone. “Hello, this is Missus Winters.”

  “Jane, Howard.”

  “Howard, isn’t he supposed to be winging home on a private jet about now?”

  “He is supposed to be but Walter Bensen just called. He never made their meeting.”

  “Sara, call Ed,” Jane said, not bothering to cover the speaker. “Hold on a minute, Howard.”

  A moment later. “Howard,” Jane said firmly, “Ed hasn’t spoken to him since he landed in Tampa.” Jane’s response to stressful situations was not to panic, unless it involved Sara. She focused laser-like on the problem, spoke quickly, and demanded only factual responses from others. “Who do we call? To whom should we report that a United States senator is missing?”

  “Missus Winters, I …” Howard took a breath. “The campaign. If we are wrong. If he is not missing. Perhaps a car broke down. God forbid, an accident. We do not want to over-react.”

  “I never do,” Jane shot back. “You’re the Washington expert. Call someone.”

  “I think probably the Secret Service gets involved in cases like this, if indeed it is a case.”

  “Then call them.”

  “I have a friend at the FBI. I think I should call him first. If it is nothing, he can likely keep it under wraps until after the election.”

  “And if it is something?” Jane demanded. Her tone shifted. “You don’t think dirty tricks?”

  “Thomas’s people? No, that would not make sense. He is still leading in the polls.”

  “Call your friend. Call me back. I want to be kept informed,” Jane demanded.

  “I’m going,” Sara called from the background.

  “Going where?” she shouted back.

  “Florida. That’s where daddy is.”

  “Call me,” Jane reiterated to Howard and hung up.

  A few minutes later, Sara came down the stairs with her backpack.

  “You’re leaving now?” Jane asked.

  “I’m driving to Boston. Catch the five a.m. flight.”

  “Why not Hartford? It’s closer.”

  “Boston is two hours quicker.” She brushed past her mother and was out the kitchen door in a flash.

  “Be safe,” Jane called after her.

  Howard hesitated before placing the next call. He then picked up the office phone.

  “Special Agent Hernandez,” Howard said, knowing that whoever answered would see on caller ID that the call was from Senator Winters’ office. It took less than a minute to connect to his friend.

  “That is all I know for certain, Frank,” Howard said, finishing the whole explanation.

  “Look, Howard, I’d like to help, but with what you’ve told me, I don’t think the Bureau can get involved at this point. Not officially anyway.”

  “What if our suspicions are right?”

  A moment’s silence, then, “Look, I still have friends in the Tampa field office. I’ll make some calls but I can’t promise anything.”

  “Thank you, Frank. Let me give you my cell phone number. I will be on the first flight in the morning.”

  The Range Rover stopped, idled. Samuel could hear what sounded like heavy gates opening. The Rover went on. The gates closed.

  The Jock held Samuel’s arm tightly while Agent Rhodes locked the door behind them. It was a large house, Samuel could tell that much from the foyer; ten-foot ceilings, possibly more. Spanish motif, floor tile everywhere, a curved stairway to the second floor.

  Each holding an arm, they walked Samuel to a screened-in lanai. It was clear they were next to a lake of some sort. To his left, house lights extended from several hundred yards away, growing smaller as they followed the shoreline. The view to the right was blocked by thick, tall trees. The Jock and Agent Rhodes let go of him.

  “You’re free to wander about the house,” Th
e Jock said. “Couple of things to keep in mind.” He pointed down at the lake. “Gators, lots of them. They feed at night. They can get ten, twelve feet long. Get hold of your leg. Pull you under in a death spiral till you run out of air.”

  “Get out,” Samuel exclaimed.

  “It’s true,” Agent Rhodes assured him.

  “Didn’t you ever watch those Tarzan movies where Johnny Weissmuller wrestles crocs with a knife in his teeth?” The Jock asked.

  “Those were crocodiles, not alligators,” Samuel protested.

  “Same species,” The Jock said. “And if those don’t get you.” He pointed at the trees. “Down there, in the reeds, out in front of the trees, water moccasins. They come right up on the grass. See those tree roots?”

  Samuel squinted trying to make out the roots in the dark that seemed to spread over much of the yard near the water.

  “Hard to tell the roots from snakes in the dark.” The Jock laughed.

  “Cottonmouths, kill you with one bite,” Agent Rhodes added. She flipped the catch on the back screen door to the lock position. “I wouldn’t get any ideas about escaping out the back stairs. Cottonmouths like to crawl up and sleep on them at night. They’re cold blooded. The stairs are warmer than the wet grass. You might step right on one. Probably make him madder than normal.”

  “The wire on top of the wall and the gate.” The Jock pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Electrified. Probably won’t kill you but I wouldn’t want to test it.” He laughed the nasty laugh of a bully.

  It finally penetrated Samuel’s fuzzy brain. These people had no connection to the FBI. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” he asked. “You’ve kidnapped a United States senator.”

  “No, we haven’t,” The Jock assured him. “We rescued one.”

  “From a really bad car accident,” Agent Rhodes added.

  “People don’t get shot in car accidents. The authorities will know something is up when they investigate,” Samuel argued. “Two people dead.”

  “Road rage,” The Jock countered. “Happens all the time in Florida.”

  “Could have been a confrontation. The other driver felt threatened by that big knife she was carrying. Stand your ground law prevails,” Agent Rhodes conjectured.

  “Then who shot Carlos?” Samuel asked.

  “The driver that got away.” The Jock smiled. “They’ll find the gun and the empty truck. They’ll concoct some cockamamie theory. Spend months trying to piece it together before it gets dropped in the cold case file.”

  “So what do you plan to do, hold me for ransom? Kill me?” Samuel asked.

  Again, The Jock laughed. “Why would we want to kill you, Senator?”

  “You can’t let me go. I’d tell them everything,” Samuel said without thinking.

  “Tell them what?” Agent Rhodes asked.

  “Everything,” Samuel reiterated. “You shot Carlos, the girl, kidnapped me.”

  “Really?” Agent Rhodes asked. “Did you actually see anyone do the shooting?”

  Samuel shook his head.

  “We rescued you,” The Jock explained. “We just happened on the accident. The girl was already dead. We recognized you. You asked us to get you away from the scene. Something about having two car accidents right before your election. Wouldn’t look good to the voters. Hell, your own daughter questioned the first one.”

  “How did you …” Samuel didn’t finish the question. It didn’t really matter.

  The Jock answered anyway. “We’ve been following your career.”

  Career? So this isn’t just about the election, Samuel speculated in his mind. He stared hard at The Jock. Something clicked. “I know you. You were at the sugar-on-snow. You’re Bruce.”

  Agent Rhodes broke into laughter. “Bruce,” she said mockingly.

  “Something wrong with Bruce?” The Jock asked, unable to control a smile.

  “Not Bruce,” Samuel said. “Mike? Steve?”

  “Nah, Bruce’ll do just fine,” The Jock replied.

  Looking at the two of them together, something else clicked in Samuel’s mind. “You,” he said to them, “were on the beach at Palm whatever. You were patting her down.”

  “Yeah.” Bruce smiled slyly.

  Agent Rhodes smacked Bruce on the back of the head.

  “What the hell?” he yelled, more surprised than hurt.

  “That’s for enjoying the patting a little too much,” she told him.

  “You’ll never get away with this, whatever you’re planning,” Samuel said.

  “Get away with what?” Bruce asked. “We offered to take you to a hospital. But you insisted, no hospital. So we brought you here. A nice little retreat our employer keeps.”

  “Shut up,” Agent Rhodes snapped, ready to smack him again.

  The smile drained from Bruce’s face.

  Rhodes, Samuel thought. Dusty Rhodes’ daughter? He looked at her. It was possible. She could be twenty-five. But that would mean they were working for Walter. Why would Walter want him kidnapped?

  “So he’s not Bruce and you’re not FBI?” Samuel said to Rhodes.

  “Don’t sweat it, Senator. You’ll be out of here in a couple of days,” Bruce said.

  Rhodes pulled a pistol with a silencer from inside her leather jacket. She jammed it into Bruce’s back. “I told you to shut up. One more word and the gators are going to eat well tonight.”

  Bruce raised his hands. He slowly stepped away, holding his hands high above his head until he passed through the open patio door.

  Jesus, Samuel thought. She killed the girl. But why? His mind raced. Who was the girl? Who was she working for? Why two days? Then it struck him. The debate. This was all about his losing re-election. Walter wants me to lose. Wants it bad. Not bad enough to kill me. Not kill a senator. Unless it’s by accident--gators, snakes, electrified.

  “The girl,” Samuel asked, “the one you shot. Who was she?”

  Rhodes sneered. “The competition. Not a worthy opponent.”

  Samuel turned back towards the house, wanting to sit. The turn brought instant pain that put him on his knees. He cried out. Then asked through clenched teeth, “Do you have any Aleve?”

  Rhodes got a bemused smile on her face. “I’ll see,” she said and walked away.

  He crawled the few feet to the doorway on his hands and knees, every movement sending stabbing pains to his back. As carefully and as slowly as he could, he pulled himself up by the door casing.

  From inside the house, Rhodes called, “All there is is aspirin.”

  “Shit,” escaped from Samuel’s lips. The pain was becoming increasingly unbearable.

  Rhodes stood at arm’s length from him, holding the aspirin bottle like candy to a child. “Tsk, tsk. Profanity from a senator? What would the ethics committee think? Would you like water with your treat?” she asked, a mean smile spreading cheek to cheek.

  He didn’t answer. He reached a hand as far as he dared but it was still inches short. She did a couple of fake underhand throws of the bottle at him, taunting him, before dropping it in his hand.

  He struggled to remove the childproof cap. He had barely gotten it off when she returned with a glass of water. He popped two pills and took the glass with a shaking hand. Raising it to his lips sent more pain down his back.

  “Come in when you’re ready,” she said. She walked to the kitchen.

  Bruce was opening cabinet doors.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  Continuing his search without looking at her, he replied, “Booze, wine, anything alcoholic.”

  “It’s in the living room, you idiot,” she told him. “Try the liquor cabinet. Duh.”

  He slammed the kitchen cabinet door shut, started to say something but thought better of it.

  Then she noticed a cell phone on the kitchen table. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing.

  “I found it in the back seat. Sneaky bastard must have had two.”

  “Shit!” She s
tomped a foot to emphasize her displeasure. “Get rid of it.”

  “What’s the big deal? It’s turned off. I checked.”

  “Don’t you read? The NSA can track it even if it is off.”

  “Yeah, but the NSA isn’t going …” The look on her face stopped him mid-thought. “Well, they can’t track it under water. I’ll toss it in the lake.” He took two steps toward the living room and stopped, waiting. When she didn’t say anything, he turned to look at her. She had a look that made him think she was mentally calling him an idiot. “What?” he asked.

  “What if they are already tracking it? What if they have coordinates and the signal ends here? Do you want them knocking on the front gate?” The sarcasm dripped from her lips.

  “So what do you want me to do with it?”

  “The water’s a good idea just not here,” she said. “Go back to the main road. Turn left. A few miles down the road forks. Take it left. You’ll come to a long bridge over a lake. Toss it there.”

  “Isn’t that still close?”

  “No, it’s ten miles, two or three towns away. Even if they are tracking it, it’ll take them days to search back this way. And what could they possibly be looking for, other than the senator? Tire tracks? They’re smart enough to match them up to a full-size SUV, maybe even a Rover. But ours is in the garage and there aren’t any tracks.”

  “Good thinking,” he said admiringly.

  “Take the Mercedes,” she instructed him.

  Samuel groaned from the other room.

  “I’m not going to listen to that all night. Get a mattress from upstairs before you go,” she said.

  He held up the cell phone. “I thought this was hot.”

  “Fine,” she acquiesced. “You ditch the phone, I’ll get the mattress.”

  He walked out whistling softly.

  Moments later, Rhodes slid a mattress from one of the twin beds down the staircase. It stopped part way down. She kicked it, twice, before it landed on the floor.

  Samuel looked at it, still holding onto the door casing.

  “Oh, Christ,” she exclaimed and dragged the mattress to his feet.

  He tossed down two more aspirin and the last of the water before trying to lower himself gently to the mattress. It hurt no matter how he moved. He tried not to appear weak to his captor. It didn’t work. He groaned and grunted at every movement. He finally managed to sprawl flat on his stomach. It hurt. He rolled to one side, hurting more. Ironically, the least pain came from lying on his back. He dreaded the thought of having to get up in the morning. He closed his eyes but sleep evaded him.