So much the better. He moved quickly out of the cinderblock building and walked down the jogging path into a stand of trees.
Ken walked through a path amongst the trees to remain out of sight. To avoid any questions from the border guard Ken threw his good clothes into a nearby garbage can.
I can easily replace them in the States. He told himself as he climbed into the truck, placing the pliers in the small tackle box he had set on the seat beside him along with the fishing rod.
The truck again started with little effort and drove down a residential street. Ten blocks later Ken turned onto Huron Street and joined the short lineup at the border crossing. The guard was a thin, middle-aged man with an expressionless face. The guard waved Ken forward when his turn came and the handle fell off just as Ken finished rolling the window down when he came up to the booth. The border guard starred at Ken’s swollen and blue lips, the expressionless face broke out in a smile. “What in the hell happened to you?”
Ken bowed his head slowly. “Had a bit of a run in with a guy’s fist at the bar last night.”
The border guard shook his head. “Where you headed?”
Ken gestured to the fishing equipment on the seat beside him. “Thought I would spend the day fishin’ and healin’ on a quiet river.”
“Where to, and for how long?”
“My buddy told me to try the Black River for trout. Just goin’ for the day, gotta see the dentist tomorrow.”
“All right, but no trouble now.”
“Don’t worry, I think I’ve had enough trouble.”
Ken drove straight down Highway 75 for about one hour before he switched to secondary highways. As he worked his way through Michigan and Indiana, Ken decided to head straight for Florida and rent a sailboat for the final leg of the journey to his island home. As he neared Louisville, Kentucky music came from the fishing vest he had tossed on the ripped vinyl seat. He pulled into a service station lot and pulled the phone out of the side pocket of the vest.
Ken checked the caller ID and recognized Eric’s number. “How’s it going, biker boy.”
“Not worth a shit. I had a run-in with a local hick in South Dakota.” Eric relayed the story to his brother.
Ken’s heart started to race. “Are you hurt?”
Eric was sitting outside a bakery in a suburb of Minneapolis, Minnesota munching on a croissant. “No, but I have to tell you that I got out by the skin of my teeth.”
“At least you have teeth.”
“Huh, what does that mean?”
“Never mind. I’ll explain later. Are you still taking a cruise to the Caribbean?”
“Christ, no. I want to avoid people as much as possible. I’m just driving south through Minnesota. How about you?”
“Heading south also. I’ve got an idea on how we can avoid the public and get home quickly and safely. Are you in?”
“What do you think?”
“Okay.” Ken parked and pulled out a map of the United States and studied the area just above Florida. “Call me when you get just south of Birmingham, Alabama. I’ll be in some out of the way campground tonight. Bro, we’re heading to Florida.”
“Right, call you then.” Eric hung up the phone and jumped back on the motorcycle, driving right on the speed limit to avoid any confrontations with the police.
Ken filled up the truck and added two quarts of oil. He purchased three extra quarts and tossed them under the seat of the truck. Careful to avoid anybody seeing him he bought some snacks at a vending machine and headed for Birmingham.
* * *
Both brothers drove all-night. After reaching Alabama and pulling the bike onto a roadside rest area, Eric called Ken. They met in a small park just south of Birmingham late the next afternoon.
Ken climbed out of the old truck and shook hands with his brother.
Eric looked at Ken’s swollen face. “What the hell happened to you?”
Ken rubbed his tender lip. “I had to come up with a new look.”
Eric slapped Ken on the back. “I’ll slip into a drug store and get something to cover some of that up.”
After sleeping for four hours Eric and Ken placed the motorcycle in the back of the truck and continued on their journey to southern Florida. They alternated driving the small, smelly truck. Despite the bald tires and constant thirst for oil, the rusty truck ran well. The further south they went, the more confident they were that they would not be recognized. Outside of Orlando they stopped in a restaurant and enjoyed their first hot meal in days. They topped up the oil in the tired engine and continued down secondary Highway 523 until it joined Interstate Highway 95. Ken slept while Eric drove the last leg of the journey on the mainland of the continent. Later that day the Clellands pulled into a small airport outside of Miami.
Chapter Twelve
Thorpe and Collins paced in the office of the Edmonton Chief of Police. They knew the Clelland brothers left Edmonton. Where they were was unknown, but they did know the direction they were heading. A body found at Madge Lake, Saskatchewan led local police to believe the Clelland brothers were there. Six witnesses described the van as similar to the one in the news. A photo by a tourist at the lake had the van in the background. The detective’s only lead was the link between the Clelland brothers and the island of St. Kitts.
The head of Edmonton’s PD was on the phone to the chief of the St. Kitts Police Department. “Yes, Chief Ryan, I understand that this is unusual, but these are very dangerous men and I’m sure you don’t want them in your country.”
The Edmonton Chief paced, showing his frustration. “Yes, thank you, I’ll stay by the phone…thank you.”
The Chief slammed down the phone. “They work at a slower pace down there. He doesn’t see a problem with you two going down there, but he has to get clearance from upstairs, wherever the hell that is. He’s the Chief of Police. Get packed. I’ll call you when everything is approved.”
Collins grabbed his jacket and followed Thorpe to the parking garage. “Drop me at the hotel. I can be packed in five minutes and catch some shuteye. Call me when you get the word and I’ll meet you in front of the hotel.”
“Okay.” Thorpe dropped Collins off and drove home.
Five hours later Thorpe received a call from the chief indicating that they had the go-ahead and tickets are waiting for them at the airport. Thorpe picked up Collins and relayed the information that the chief had sent detailed descriptions and pictures of the suspects to Chief Ryan in Basseterre asking him to dispense them to all the departments on St. Kitts. Ryan indicated he would compile a list of leads and have a local detective available with whom Collins and Thorpe can work.
The detectives left Edmonton International Airport that afternoon. They settled into their seats for the long flight to St. Kitts.
Collins read through the files they had printed off for him. Thorpe read through them on his phone.
“I hope we’re right that they’ll return to St. Kitts now,” said Thorpe.
“I’m convinced of it. First, one of them was living there long enough to get comfortable enough with the local way of smoking pot that he brought the habit with him. Second, the island was almost certainly chosen because it is so distant and isolated. Frankly, if we hadn’t got this lead from the cigar paper, we wouldn’t have a clue where they are. They probably feel they’re completely safe and after all they’ve been through would seek just such a place.”
“Well, we’ve moved quickly on this. If they are heading back they’ll have to use extreme caution. Every cop at every point of exit in Canada is watching out for them. Besides, we know they are heading roughly in that direction and by vehicle, at least part of the way. If we’re really lucky we’ll get there before they arrive and catch them by surprise.”
The detectives changed planes in Houston and arrived in Basseterre where a tall, black man with a friendly round face greeted them. “Welcome to St. Kitts gentlemen. My name is Corporal Jarred Smith.”
“I’m Detectiv
e Thorpe and this is Detective Collins.”
“Pleasure.” The policemen shook hands. “Please, call me Jarred. We’re informal on these Islands.”
“Jim.”
“Andrew.”
The policemen climbed into Corporal Smith’s police car. “I had a look on the Internet at what happened in Edmonton. I can see why you want these two.”
Smith handed Thorpe and Collins folders of the local leads they had so far. “None of these are strong leads. In St. Kitts there are a lot of tourists who surf and scuba dive, thus there are many men that fit their description. But twins, that’ll stick in someone’s mind. By now there’re probably more leads at the police station. We can have a look at them and start checking them out.
“How about this making joints in cigar wrapping? Should we concentrate on the area near the cigar manufacturer” asked Collins.
Smith laughed with a force that rocked the car. “Hey, finding someone who doesn’t smoke pot that way would be easier. It’s popular because cigar wrapping is inexpensive.”
Collins shook his head. “Damn, we thought this Rasagla cigar band would help us focus in.”
Smith stopped the car and looked at Collins. “Did you say Rasagla cigar wrappers?”
“Exactly.” Collins shows Smith the picture of the cigar band.
Smith stared at the picture and shook his head. “Well, these fellows have far too much money. Those cigars go for seventeen dollars each. Perhaps our first stop tomorrow is the Rasagla factory, yes?”
“Will the staff remember their customers that well?” asked Thorpe.
Another large laugh from Smith. “Staff? Mrs. Rasagla and her son are the business. They roll every cigar and sell them out of their small store on the edge of Charlestown on Nevis, the south island. She knows almost all of her regular customers by name. I can tell you the surfers and scuba divers shy away from smoking. So, if they go there together as twins they’ll likely stand out in her memory. However, these cigars and the traditions that go with them are part of their souls, so we might not want to divulge that customers of theirs are tearing the wrapper off and using them for marijuana.”
Thorpe nodded. “Okay, let’s get to headquarters and have a glance at those leads.”
Collins was still concentrating on the file. “Jarred, can we get a copy of property sales on the islands to foreigners in the last twelve months?”
Easy, they keep close records of those transactions, trying to prevent foreign dominance of our island. I’ll have that within the hour.”
The three policemen pulled up to a one-story brick building surrounded by palm trees set in a quiet main square in the centre of Basseterre. The surrounding shops were open and people, dressed in colourful, light clothes, enjoyed the warm sunny weather. The station was surrounded with open-top police cars, also designed to take advantage of the warm climate. The policemen walked into the station and met several members of the force before settling into a conference room to start going through the leads. As they studied the files the fax machine spit out several sheets of paper. A secretary glanced at the papers and handed them to Jarred Smith.
Smith read through the pages. “Well, well, this looks interesting.”
Smith highlighted one real estate sale and handed it to the Canadian detectives. For the first time in days Collins and Thorpe smiled.
* * *
The Clelland brothers discussed the options for the final leg of the journey. Ken wanted to charter a boat and relax, Eric simply wanted to get there quick by flying. Eric won the debate, so the brothers drove through the rows of hangers ringing a small airport. Small planes and jets buzzed overhead while the brothers scouted the numerous charter airlines dotting the road. Some charter companies listed only modern jet aircraft, clearly catering to a wealthy clientele. The brothers were after a different type of Charter Company. They slowed down as they passed a rundown hanger with paint peeling on the walls and on the sign. Two small twin-rotor planes sat beside the hanger, duct tape holding a small side window on the smaller plane while the tires on the larger plane neared the end of their life. A thin film of dust covered both planes. Through the dirty windows of the office Ken and Eric saw two men at a desk playing cards, while a woman sat at the reception counter flipping through a magazine.
Ken scratched his chin as he stared across the street at the office. “It’s perfect.”
“Great, go check them out. I’ll wait here.”
Ken drove around the corner from the charter company. “Be right back.” He put on sunglasses and a baseball cap. The long sideburns looked out of style, but made him hard to recognize. The door on the beat up truck squeaked as he slammed it shut. He walked into the office and the staff perked right up.
“Welcome. Can I help you?” The receptionist smiled up at Ken.”
“Perhaps. I’m looking for a charter to an island.”
The heavier of the two men in the rear of the room walked up to the counter. “I’m Hudson, the owner. Where are you looking to fly?”
“Puerto Rico.”
“Sure, we fly there, but it ain’t cheap.”
“What does it cost, I’m willing to pay to get there a.s.a.p.” Ken smiled. “It’s my sister’s birthday and I want to surprise her.”
Hudson returned a wry smile. “Your sister is it?”
“Let me rephrase, I’d like to visit a friend in San Juan and I’d just as soon not have my wife know about it. Are you available?”
“I’m available.” The receptionist looked over her magazine with a smile on her face.”
Hudson turned to the receptionist. “Don’t you have some filing to do?”
The woman pouted, gave Ken one last smile, and disappeared into an inner office.
“Now, where were we, Mr.?”
“Ah, Burrows is my name. Now, how much did you say it would cost?”
“I didn’t, but the price for a return trip is four-thousand dollars.”
“How much is one way?”
“Four-thousand.”
“Can we leave in three hours?”
“Sure, we just have to fill out the paper work.”
“Oh, yes, well, I would prefer there was no paperwork for my wife to discover.”
“I think we can make the arrangements for…say, five-thousand.”
“My word, that’s a lot of money.”
“It sounds like she’s worth it.”
“I see your point. I’ll be back in three hours.” He returned to the truck and accompanied Eric as he scouted the charter companies until they found one that would take Eric to San Juan. Eric, using the same cover story, was able to find a flight for four-thousand dollars.
The brothers arranged to meet in the Plaza del Quinto Centenario in the old part of the city at midnight.
Ken arrived at the Charter Company a few minutes early. The door was locked. It made Ken a little nervous because he paid cash in advance, and there was no paperwork. He smiled, wondering if the owners of the company had any idea what kind of person they were dealing with. All was well though, as the heavy-set man from earlier in the day appeared around the corner of the building.
He waved at Ken. “Come on back. We’ve got her warmed up.”
Ken walked behind the building with the man and was not surprised to see both planes were still sitting there. The other man, Jeb, was behind the controls of one of them.
The fat man opened the passenger door and helped Ken into the seat beside the pilot. “Might as well sit up front and enjoy the view.” Ken’s bag was tossed onto the floor behind his seat.
Ken’s door slammed shut, the ends of the strips of duct tape flapping in the wind created by the propeller.
The man outside the plane pulled the blocks out from behind the wheels and waved to the pilot. Smoke billowed from behind the engines as they accelerated towards the runway. The scratchy radio gave them immediate clearance so the pilot never slowed down as he turned south and sped up, took off, and leveled off at five thousand fe
et.
For the first half an hour the pilot said nothing and that was fine with Ken, who preferred not to give away any information that might give a hint to his real destination. After another ten minutes the pilot reached behind his seat and slid a dirty small cooler between their seats. He flipped open the lid and Ken looked down at six cans of beer sitting on ice.
The skinny pilot concentrated on his gauges and the dirty window in front of him, wiping his brow in the warmth of the small cabin. “Why don’t you open one for yourself, and one for me.”
Ken stirred the numbingly cold ice. “Isn’t that against regulations?”
“Regulations? Christ.” The pilot laughed. “I’m flying some guy to Puerto Rico without a flight plan, contract, or even a verified name. Do you think they’ll give a shit if I cool off with a beer? The airport we use is fifty miles outside of San Juan. You’re on your own as far as getting into the city.”
“I see.” The first can Ken opened foamed up and soaked into the dirty carpet. He gave it to the pilot and opened another for himself. “Well, we might as well enjoy the flight.”
Ken took a sip of beer. “By the way, are you able to land the plane after a couple beer?”
“Of course.” The pilot laughed and took a long drink. “After all, I was able to take off after having three.”
After two hours and three beers each the plane approached Puerto Rico. As the pilot banked to the right to prepare for the landing Ken noticed the runway wasn’t paved and appeared to be more of a field than a runway. Ken checked his seatbelt, nervous about the combination of rough runway and a drunken pilot. The pilot watched Ken and smiled.
Rough Business Page 14