by Bryan Koepke
“Cox wants to give that psychopathic murderer immunity? You just got to love the way the FBI does business,” Reece said.
“I hear you, Culver. If we get to him first, maybe that won’t happen.”
“There’s no maybe about it,” Reece said, opening the right-side door of the Cessna 172. “Have a seat and I’ll get the preflight done.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, it will go faster if I just do it alone.” Reece walked around to the left wing of the airplane and started his inspection. On his way around the plane he noted a spot on the end of the elevator where someone had used a generous helping of silver duct tape to keep the plastic end cap on. He wasn’t worried since the fiberglass was merely decoration, and if it did decide to come off in flight, it would depart in the slipstream of the airplane and not harm anything.
Reece climbed into the airplane and, after fastening his seatbelt and ensuring Haisley had done the same, he pulled the red mixture knob all the way out and then screwed it in three turns. He pulled the black throttle knob out, then using the first digit of his index finger as a gauge, pushed the knob back in about a quarter of an inch. Reece flipped a switch and heard the whine of the fuel pump and studied the fuel pressure gauge priming the fuel injected Lycoming engine. With the switch flipped off the whine ceased. Reece turned the ignition key with his left hand while pushing in the throttle with his right. The engine caught and chugged a few times before roaring to life with a pleasing spurt. Reece let the engine warm and eyed the oil temperature guage as the small white needle climbed into the green.
He reached up to the stack and tuned the communications radio to frequency 135.575 for the Automated Terminal Information Service. A recorded voice read off the weather conditions, winds, and other information and at the end of the recording announced, “You have information Romeo.” Reece turned the radio frequency to 121.8, pressed down on a small black button on the front of the control yoke and started speaking: “Eagle ground, this is Cessna 5484 Kilo with information Romeo. We’re at Bronson FBO and would like to taxi to the active for takeoff .”
“Cessna 5484 Kilo taxi to runway 27 and hold short. Contact Eagle tower at 119.8, good day.”
They taxied toward the west, and he listened to the radio chatter on his green David Clark headphones.
“You ready to go flying?” Reece asked as he pressed down on one of the rudder pedals and swung the tail end of the Cessna around so they were facing into the wind. Reece ran through his preflight checklist and gave Haisley a thumbs up, “Eagle tower, this Cessna 5484 Kilo ready at 27 with Romeo for takeoff.”
“Cessna 5484 Kilo, you are cleared for takeoff on runway 27. Winds 220 at 13,” the eagle airport air traffic controller said. Reece looked over at Haisley with a smile, taxied onto the runway, and pressed the black throttle knob all the way into the dashboard. The one hundred and sixty horse powered engine spooled up, and the Cessna roared down the nine thousand-foot runway.
Once airborne, Reece headed east toward the town of Vail. As the mountains passed below, he scanned the ground for the type of house he figured Shanks might inhabit. He turned to look at Haisley, and saw his bald black head moistening with beads of sweat.
“Is there any way to get some ventilation in here?” Haisley asked. Reece reached over and turned the vent near the top of the door on the right side of the airplane and felt a blast of crisp cold air.
“The best time to fly is early in the morning or late at night. I’m afraid it will be bumpy like this for most of our flight,” Reece said, rolling the plane right into a bank and looking down at the tree-covered terrain below them. He glanced back toward the folded map on his thigh.
“That looks like Line Shack Road there. You see that big house with a rock wall around it at the end of that road there on the left? Looks like the sort of place Shanks might use to hide out.”
Down on the ground several men were standing next to a black SUV that was parked next to two semi tractor-trailers, and other men were unloading one of the large trucks. The plane rocked sideways, hitting some bumps, and Reece pulled the throttle out, lessening the engine’s RPM and causing the airplane to begin a descent.
“Feels like we’re dropping,” Haisley said, looking over worriedly at Reece.
“We’re not dropping. We’re descending so we can get a better look.”
“Is that safe?” Haisley said. “I mean, is it okay if we go this low while we’re over the mountains?”
“I can handle it. Just sit back and enjoy the ride, Averton,” Reece said. “Looks like they’re either moving in or out.”
“My guess is they’re moving out if those guys are who we’re looking for.”
Reece rolled the plane right again and added power, taking them north away from the large estate.
“That’s the Vail ski area down there,” Reece said as they overflew snow-covered trails carved into a forest-covered mountain. “There’s another big property over this way,” Reece noted, flying toward a large white-fenced property with a main log cabin and several smaller buildings. “I’m thinking we should head back over that first house with the moving trucks.”
They flew close to the first place they’d spotted, and he saw a group of men near the front of a black Range Rover. “Haisley, can you get our current position on your handheld GPS?”
“Already got it, Culver.”
Their mission accomplished, Reece called the tower on the radio and got clearance to land. Three miles off the end of the runway and a couple of thousand feet above pattern altitude, Reece dropped the left wing and pushed down on the opposite rudder, putting the Cessna into a forward slip and losing altitude at an alarming rate. A hundred feet above the approaching runway, he eased up and squeaked the wheels onto the runway in a smooth landing.
“Now I see why your nephew calls you the flying cowboy. That was one cool landing, Culver.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
After taxing back to the parking spot in front of the FBO, Reece started to tie down the airplane.
“Hey, take a look at this,” Haisley said, pointing at a hole punched through the left wing of the airplane about a foot from the tip. Reece bent down and looked up through the hole. There was blue sky on the other side.
“Looks like a bullet hole.”
“I’d say we found the hideout.”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Sam Shanks and Vinton Blackwell stood in the front yard.
“Who the hell do you suppose that was up in that airplane?” Shanks yelled, pointing his finger toward the taller man’s chest.
“I imagine it was just some flight students out doing maneuvers,” Vinton said calmly.
Shanks reached into his pants pocket for his ringing cell phone. He walked away from Blackwell as he answered his call.
In short order he returned. “Okay then, thanks for the call. I’ll make it up to you later,” Shanks said, ending the call.
“Who was that?” Blackwell asked.
“None of your goddamned business,” Shanks growled.
The two men stared at one another like dogs ready to fight. Shanks’ lower lip was twitching and Vinton pulled his hands into fists. Shanks finally turned his back on Blackwell, walking back toward the house. His phone rang again.
“Yeah, what is it?”
“You saw them too. What did you make of it?” Shanks said.
“Two men. Did you get a look at them?”
“Yeah, I see, so what’d you do a stupid thing like that for?” Shanks asked. “Remember our plan. We don’t want any attention. The last thing we want is someone reporting gunshots.”
“Who was that?” Blackwell asked, coming up behind.
“The gate guard. He took a few shots at the plane the second time it came over,” Shanks said, exasperated. “We’ve got to get all of this shit under control or we’re going to lose what we’ve all worked so hard for.” Shanks turned his fury on Blackwell. “Do me a favor. Get
that daughter of yours back in line and don’t let her pull any more stupid tricks.”
“You be careful what you say about Crystal,” Blackwell yelled right back. “If it wasn’t for her, your buddy Owen would have led us straight to prison. She’s sacrificed a lot for you, old man.”
“Who are you calling old? I’ve had enough of this. If you’re going to continue to work for me, you’ll get yourself together,” Shanks said. “When we get to South America, you and your daughter can do what you want, but between now and then you both still work for me.”
*
Later that day, Shanks stood in his upstairs bedroom, brooding about Blackwell and all he’d done to ruin Tracey Roberts’ life. He’d been thinking about her each night when he’d drift off to sleep and found the thoughts of a woman he once loved comforting. That’s not to mention what Blackwell had done to Owen Roberts. Owen had been a snitch but deserved better than to have been handcuffed to the steering wheel of a truck and gunned down in cold blood. Vinton Blackwell was a problem and needed to be taken care of.
He stared at his image in the dresser mirror in his bedroom. Blackwell had to be taken care of but how? Shanks liked the idea of Ecuador, but he wanted a sure thing. He considered the plan for the upcoming burglary. He thought about tipping off the police so that Blackwell would be caught inside the home red-handed.
“No good,” Shanks said out loud. That would only bring the police back here.
“Vinton Blackwell is a dead man,” Shanks said out loud, grinning at himself in the mirror.
He heard a creak outside his bedroom door and turned to see who was there. The door to the laundry room squeaked just down the hall. Shanks walked to his bedroom door and looked down toward the adjacent door. He caught the scent of cigarette smoke and went down the hall to see who had the nerve to smoke in the upstairs of his home. Before he’d taken his second step, he knew who’d be there. Shanks thought of his earlier comment spoken out loud. He cringed, not wanting a confrontation.
Blackwell emerged from the laundry room with a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
“I heard you to talking to yourself in there. You crazy bastard, are you losing it or what?” Blackwell said with a knowing smile.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Reece thought about the phone call he’d just received from Haisley’s wife, Mavis Averton. The Toyota dealer in Tulsa had contacted her the day before. They’d been trying to reach his mother Helen to let her know the Camry was ready to be picked up. Mavis didn’t seem too worried about Helen and mentioned maybe she’d gone out of town for a few days with one of her lady friends. She’d gone on to tell him that Helen and her friends were selling canned fruits at local swap meets to make extra money. Reece had asked why the dealer called Mavis. How the dealer had gotten her number? She’d told him they found a small phone book in the center console with her number in it.
It seemed weird to him that his mother didn’t answer her cell phone. Reece picked up his phone and dialed his mother’s number once again. It went right to voicemail like the phone was turned off.
“Mom, it’s Reece. When you get this, give me a call. I hope you’re doing okay. I love you.”
Reece propped himself up with two pillows at the head of his motel bed and paged through his notes on his laptop. He still wasn’t clear about whether Tracey Roberts was alive and if so, where she was hidden. At least they’d gained some clarity. It made sense that Blackwell and Shanks were working together at the enclave in the mountains, and the bullet hole in the wingtip of the rented Cessna confirmed that he’d been flying over the right place.
Reece felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket and pulled it out to answer.
“Hello.”
“Reece, it’s Natalie. How are things going up in the mountains?”
“Good. I think I’ve figured out where Sam Shanks and Vinton Blackwell are holed up.”
“Do you want me to set something up with the local sheriffs office so you guys can go in?”
“No, let’s hold off on that until I verify we’ve got the right place,” Reece said. “So, what’s going on down in Denver?”
“I did a little more digging and found an arrest of Vinton Blackwell in Santa Barbara County, California, back in 1997,” Natalie said.
Reece sat up abruptly. “That’s great. How much time did he serve?”
“One week in the county jail and then he was released on a technicality,” Natalie said.
“A technicality?”
“They forgot to Mirandize him,” Natalie said. “They had to release him, and by the time they got to a point where they could charge him with another crime, he’d vanished.”
“Interesting. Does the case file tell who he assaulted?”
“Tracey Roberts,” Natalie said. “Isn’t that the name of your missing person?”
Reece ended the call and sat staring at his phone. So Tracey Roberts is alive, or was back in 1997. I wonder where she is now.
Chapter Seventy
Vinton Blackwell stood at the kitchen counter of his Minturn villa, contemplating a hunch he’d had for the last week or so. The house was quiet. He headed up to the second floor, on his way to Crystal’s bedroom. The scent of her perfume pleased him. He thought of how nice it was having her living with him. It was good to have a woman around.
On the table beside her bed he spotted a thriller novel. Blackwell picked the book up and paged through it, not sure what he was looking for. He considered looking under her mattress and then dismissed the thought. No one puts anything under the bed anymore.
He noticed a jewelry box on the dresser. The box was finished in dark mahogany, a little bigger than a cigar box but with twice the depth. Vinton opened it and found a wad of folded papers. He went through them. They were the papers Crystal signed the day she transferred jobs at the Federal Center. He folded them back up and placed the sheets of paper back into the box. Pressing the lid down, he noticed it wouldn’t close all the way. The last thing he wanted was for Crystal to discover he’d been snooping through her things. He needed her for one last burglary. Especially now that Michael Zimeratti was no longer around. Crystal would be a perfect replacement.
Vinton pulled the papers and a tray of rings out of the box and set them to the side. He pulled out a second green felt tray that held an assortment of gold and silver necklaces. Who had bought all of this jewelry for her? Underneath, he found three taupe envelopes. He picked up the first one, examined the postage mark and noted that there was no return address.
Blackwell read the letter. Who ever wrote it was telling Crystal that she’d met a sophisticated man who was charming and was going to take her away. At the bottom of the letter he saw the name Tracey.
“That fucking bitch! I should have cut her throat when I had the chance!” Blackwell shouted. He thought of the last time he’d seen her. He’d done savage things to her, things that would drive a person crazy. The vein in his right temple was throbbing. He wanted to kill someone. Crystal. I’ll slit her throat. No, not Crystal. What’s wrong with me? I need her.
He stormed out of the bedroom and ran down the stairs to the kitchen. He was headed for the knives in the butcher’s block. He pulled out the meat cleaver and slammed it down against the marble counter leaving a white mark where the sharp edge hit the polished rock.
Maddened by his thoughts, Vinton picked the knife up and pressed his thumb against the blade, drawing blood. I should have ended that bitch when I had a chance. Another man. That’s what she did last time back in Santa Barbara. I thought I taught her a lesson. I put her in a god damned mental institution. Wasn’t that enough?
Chapter Seventy-One
After eating lunch, Reece climbed into the Tahoe wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a ski jacket. He and Haisley had filled Mobley in on what they’d seen from the air and their plan to go see what they could turn up on foot. Reece drove the truck west on I-70, following Haisley’s directions as they navigated to the waypoint he’d saved
on his handheld GPS receiver.
He hoped they’d get a chance to verify that Blackwell and Shanks were at the compound they’d seen from the air. He’d decided not to mention the bullet hole in the wing to Mobley, but because of it he’d brought along his gun, and a box of bullets.
“Take the Highway 24 exit to Minturn. It’s just ahead,” Haisley said, sounding like he was excited. Mobley had his window down, smoking and coughing in between puffs. It reminded Reece of Crystal’s Aunt Fletcher and her oxygen, and he thanked himself for never picking up the habit.
“You’re going to take a left onto Line Shack Road up here,” Haisley said. Reece followed his directions and took them onto the forest-lined road. The gravel ricocheted into the fenders of the truck, and he noticed the air coming out of the vents had cooled considerably since they’d left the hotel.
Reece guessed it was about ninety minutes or so before sunset, and was hopeful they’d have enough time to see something. He could feel his adrenaline building and was excited to be getting close to the man who’d murdered his father one and a half years earlier. The road turned to rough gravel, and after a mile or so they took a left at a place where it split off in two directions forming a Y. He heard Mobley rummaging through his backpack and wondered what he was doing. Reece eyed him in the rearview mirror, then glanced back ahead. The road was dropping downhill and traversed a series of sharp switchbacks.
“There’s a good spot up there on the left. It looks like an old logging road. Pull off there,” Haisley said. Reece put the truck into four-wheel drive and eased down the trail until they came to a spot where several trees had fallen, blocking further progress. As they got out of the truck, Reece noticed once again that Mobley had put on a bulletproof vest and a sidearm in a holster. Reece had to question if Mobley knew more than he’d let on.
They used the GPS to move up a hill on their right. Mobley lagged behind the whole way, wheezing and coughing, and Reece figured it wouldn’t be long before he turned back. He topped the hill with Haisley just behind—and saw a large stone house to the west. It was about a half mile away in a straight line, but probably a couple of miles by road. Reece took the lens cap off the camera and cranked the zoom, pointing toward the house.