by Glenn Trust
He nodded again. He had no doubt that Stanton James would not be a member of the group much longer. He knew what that meant. He felt no guilt at his role in inviting James to the fictional cabin meeting. The only emotion he felt was relief. Relief that someone had not just made the call to him.
Puckett unfolded his long body from the sofa and walked out. PT Somerhill sat quietly at his desk staring out into the bright sunlight. It took several minutes to control his breathing sufficiently so that he could call his secretary and ask her to bring him the case file he would be working on the rest of the day. He would be working, there in his office, and nowhere near his north Georgia cabin.
George Mackey stood outside the small brick office adjoining the metal sides of the hangar at the Everett airport. Overhead, the Cessna circled and descended in its approach. At a distance, making the turn towards the airport, the small plane seemed to float as if on the breeze. George watched the pilot level the wings, making small adjustments occasionally as the plane approached the end of the runway. At about a hundred feet, the descent seemed to slow until the Cessna touched down onto the asphalt with barely a change in momentum, the tires rolling smoothly as they met the pavement.
It took several minutes for the plane to taxi back to the office and hangar after the rollout. George stood waiting, feeling slightly impatient. He hadn’t really thought about it, and it surprised him a little that he was looking forward to seeing Sharon. They had worked well together in their previous assignment. She was easy to talk to, maybe easier than any woman he had known, and surely easier than his ex-wife. He thought about that as he watched the plane slowly approach. He was trying to remember how her voice sounded when the plane pulled noisily up to the building, and he caught sight of her seated beside the pilot wearing an enormous set of headphones. He smiled.
The single ground crewman came out of the building and directed the pilot to the portion of the apron where he could park the aircraft, then gave the signal to cut the engine. A mocking bird called in the sudden quiet as the engine stopped abruptly.
Tommy Jones, the airport’s only ground staff, walked around placing chocks around the plane’s tires. When that was done, the pilot jumped out of his cabin door and walked over to Tommy, shaking his hand briefly, and asking about fueling arrangements and tying the aircraft down if necessary.
George watched Sharon remove the headset and climb a bit awkwardly from the right cabin door. Feet on the ground, she stretched her legs and lifted her knees a couple of times, getting her ground legs back. Turning her head, she noticed George watching. She smiled.
“You gonna give me a hand with my gear, Mackey? Or just stand there gaping?”
George walked over to the plane where Sharon stood, arms folded in mock annoyance.
“Hey, Sharon. It’s good to see you.”
“You too, George,” she said putting one arm around him in a sisterly hug.
“Where’s your bag?”
“Behind the seat here.” She reached back into the plane to retrieve her roller bag.
Leaning in behind her, George lifted it out of the tight space. As it came over the seat, their arms and hands touched and Sharon turned. They stood, faces inches apart, unexpectedly but not unpleasantly, not knowing what to say and not wanting to move away. It was several seconds before George continued lifting the bag completely out of the plane’s cabin and set it on the ground. Embarrassed, Sharon went about pulling the handle out and swiveling it around ready to roll.
“I see you got it out.” Rince came around the front of the Cessna to the passenger side. He put his hand out to George. “Hi. I’m Johnny Rincefield. Call me Rince, she does,” he said with a grinning nod towards Sharon. “I’m assigned to you.”
George took the old pilot’s hand, noting that the grip was firm and strong despite the man’s slight stature. “George Mackey,” he said. “Assigned to me?”
Sharon chuckled. “Not you, George, us, the task force. Rince is here to provide special transportation, aviation support as needed.”
“Oh,” George said nodding. “Never had aviation support before. Never been part of a task force either for that matter.”
“Me, neither,” Rince said with a grin. “Kind of looking forward to the experience.”
“Okay, so what’s first?” Sharon asked, impatient and ready to move.
“Well, first, I guess we ought to get you both checked in to the Colonial in Everett. Then I’ll show you the Farrin crime scene.”
Rince’s eyes lit up. “Crime scene? We’re going to see a crime scene? What crime scene?”
George looked at Sharon, question marks in his eyes. She shrugged, as if to say, ‘why not?’
“You have any duties, Rince? Anything you need to see to with the plane?”
“Nope, she’s all set. Talked to Tommy over there, seems like a good guy, he’s gonna top the tanks off for us in case we need to head out quick. Other than that, I am at your disposal.” Seeing the hesitation in their eyes, he added, “I’m with Georgia Department of Public Safety Aviation Division. I’m a pilot, sure, but they sent me through the state police academy. Job requirement they said.”
George was amazed at how many words the man could cram into just a few seconds. Sharon just smiled at the pilot’s exuberance. “Okay then, come along. Might learn something.”
They clambered into George’s county pickup, Rince taking the back seat with the bags, while George lowered the prisoner screen. Pulling away from the airport for the five-minute drive into Everett, George considered the whirlwind of events that seemed to have crept up slowly and then sucked him in. Timmy Farrin’s murder. Task force. Aviation support. Working with Sharon again. The whirlwind was blowing things around. They would need to slow it down and take control of events, somehow.
He became aware of a flowery scent and realized it was breezing his way from Sharon and out his open window. It was soft and pleasant and made him smile. He wondered why he had not noticed it when they had worked together before.
The big metallic-blue four by four cruised into Everett about mid-morning. Sim Lee was awake only because Quince had roused him about twenty miles out so that they could get the lay of the land. The plan was for Porter Wright, owner of the Everett Gazette and sponsor of Timmy Farrin’s ‘Term Limits’ blog, to disappear, permanently.
Lee and Quince were Puckett’s choice for this assignment because of their prior experience. In addition to carjackings, they had a number of successful kidnappings to their credit. They had proven themselves not just with the Marswell task, but also in numerous other assignments. Puckett had no doubt that they would carry out their duties in the matter.
“What do you think?” As always, Bill Quince deferred to his partner.
“Let’s scout around. Find his house, where he works. See if we can spot him and figure a routine of some sort.”
“Right,” Quince said steering the big truck smoothly around Everett’s courthouse square. Not nearly as out of place in Everett as it was on the city streets of Atlanta, the big Dodge was newer and shinier than most. But in Everett it had lots of company in size and off-road ability.
“Once we figure where he is and have an idea where we can pick him up, we’ll go scout around and find where we can get way back into swamp country. We do this right, there won’t be nothing left of him but alligator shit.”
“Alligator shit,” Quince said, smiling appreciatively at Lee’s imagery as he calmly steered the truck down a residential street on the outskirts of Everett where Porter Wright was supposed to live.
“Yep,” Lee chuckled, pleased with his own humor. He sang a little song he made up as they drove. “Ole gator might, take a bite, of Porter Wright, and have a big shit tonight.”
Lee thought it was hilarious. Quince, not quite as appreciative of his partner’s rhyming skills, did laugh loudly whenever the verse came around to the gator taking a shit. If anyone had noticed, they were just two buddies out for a drive, having a good time an
d scouting around the county, probably looking for a good fishing hole.
41. Thank God It’s You
Hugging the centerline, the little Italian sports car took the winding switchback curves at sixty miles per hour. The whining of the engine seemed out of place in the green mountains and back roads of north Georgia. The surrounding valleys and hollows were more accustomed to the deep rumbling echoes of logging trucks and heavy-duty pickups.
Stanton James down shifted and accelerated up a long winding curve. Low and close to the road, he felt the asphalt rushing by just inches below his ass. It made him feel on top of the world. It made him feel powerful. The little Italian job always turned heads wherever he drove. He liked that. He also liked the way younger women looked at the car, and, secondarily, at him when he was behind the wheel.
He knew it wasn’t the type of car that one would drive to a mountain cabin, but it was the one he always took. His wife drove the SUV, and the pickup in the garage was for chores. This was his car. It made him feel good to drive it, which meant that it bolstered what little self-esteem he had. Today that self-esteem needed as much bolstering as possible.
To say that he approached the strategy meeting in the cabin with some anxiety, even apprehension, would have been an understatement. He was scared shitless.
Frightened by what they had planned and done to this point and by what they were going to do, James felt as if he was drowning, held under water by the powerful men and egos in the group. He was not so unaware to not understand that the others regarded him as weak. This frightened him also.
He had tried to show them he was one of them, a player, someone to be reckoned with, but he knew they saw through him. He had introduced the trusted James family associate, Bud Thompson, into the group to gain credibility with them. Weak as James was, Bud was solid, big and strong physically, and mentally tough enough to carry out the assignments that would come. Bud Thompson was important to the team, and that made James important. Still, the sense of apprehension had haunted him since Sunday when the plan had gone into its execution phase.
He looked up at the dappled sunlight filtering through the soft green spring leaves on the trees. James had lowered the car’s ragtop for the ride. The breeze blowing through the cockpit felt good on his face. Rushing fresh air blew away some of the alcoholic haze that had surrounded him since Sunday.
Taking a deep breath, he upshifted as the car came around a bend and onto a long straightaway. The pavement hugged the side of the mountain that rose from the edge of the road on his left. To the right beyond the guardrail was a drop of several hundred feet down a rugged rock face. Pressing the accelerator harder, the sports car surged forward, forcing his ass deeper into the seat and sending a thrill through him. God he loved this car.
Reaching the end of the straightaway, he released the accelerator and downshifted. The car’s positive control and ability to hug the roadway, even in the tight curves, sent another thrill through him.
Exiting the turn, he prepared for another quick acceleration along the straightaway. His foot hesitated on the accelerator seeing the man in the roadway two hundred yards ahead. He was waving his hand slowly in a downward motion directing James to slow down and stop. Shit!
Stanton James’ world started to gray out as the panic and fear that were never buried very deep in his fragile mind erupted to the surface. His lips mouthed words that he could not force from his throat. ‘Oh god…oh shit…this is it…oh shit…oh god…this is it…’
The car rolled slowly towards the man in the road. James thought he was going to lose consciousness and somewhere inside thought that would be a good thing.
Shaking his head to clear his panic-stricken vision, James watched the man approach him. He was paralyzed. Stanton James’ true character had taken over. He could do nothing but watch the man, almost curiously wondering what would happen next and unable to prevent it.
The man smiled. The haze of fear cleared a bit from his eyes. Thank god. Oh, thank god.
“Bud!” James shouted the name in relief as the panic began to subside slowly from his brain. “Bud! What are you doing here?”
Big Bud Thompson smiled like a protective uncle. “They got me watching the road, making sure no one is followed. Guess this must be a pretty important meeting.”
James struggled to get his breathing under control. “Thank god it’s you, Bud. I saw someone standing in the road…” Words poured out of him in a torrent of emotional release. He had been pulled back from the precipice of fear and despair by his longtime family friend. He had known Big Bud since his childhood. “Thank god it’s you. I didn’t know what to expect…saw you standing there…couldn’t see who really…just someone in the road…”
“Calm down now, Stanton. Things are going to be fine.” Bud smiled again. He leaned into the car’s cockpit over James head and, reaching down, turned the ignition key off.
“What are you doing, Bud? What…” James’ head bobbed and swiveled, the panic rising again. He saw Thompson’s pickup parked on the narrow shoulder beside the mountain. “Bud, what’s going on? I mean,” he screwed up his courage as far as it would go, “what the HELL is going on?”
And then any pretense at courage evaporated at the same moment that Stanton James’ bladder emptied into the leather seat of his Italian sports car. Words froze in his constricted throat. He could make no more than a wheezing, gasping sound through lips that opened and closed spasmodically like those of a goldfish taken out of water.
James looked up at Big Bud who simply rested his beefy hand on James shoulder keeping him in the wet seat of the sports car. Through the panicky haze, he saw Bud smile. Why was he smiling?
42. Facts Not Conspiracy
Leaning against the fender of the pickup, George watched Sharon walk the scene where he had discovered Ray Cross’ body. The bright spring sunshine felt good, warming his back and neck through the brown uniform shirt.
Rince squatted in the sawgrass beaten down by the body and the activity in investigating and removing it from the scene. He peered closely at the stains left on the blades of grass.
Grimacing slightly, George shook his head. He had no desire to get that close to the dried fluids that had leaked from Cross’ shattered skull.
They had stopped briefly at the spot where Timmy Farrin had been rundown and thrown against the oak. George had described the measurements he had taken of the tire impressions and footprints, showing Sharon the notes he had made in the little book in his breast pocket. But the real evidence, if Timmy’s death was a murder, was here.
Circling the spot where the body had lain, Sharon took her own notes from each perspective and snapped photos with a small digital camera. Eventually, she directed Rince to back away, and she examined the spot where the body had lain, taking a few more photos.
Leaving Rince to continue his morbidly curious examination of the site, she lifted the yellow crime scene tape and walked to the truck. George unwrapped a piece of gum, popped it in his mouth, chewing vigorously.
“No tobacco?” she asked walking up to where the deputy was leaning on the fender.
He shook his head. “Gave it up.”
She looked at the driver’s door of the pickup. On her last visit, it had been spattered with dried brown tobacco juice where the wind had carried it out of the truck, only to spatter it against the door.
“Good. Nasty habit,” she said, smiling.
“I miss it.” He gave her a grin. “But it was time, I guess. Been chewing since high school. Time to put it aside.”
Sharon nodded and looked down at her own notes. “So, where’s the body?”
“Morton’s Funeral Parlor, in Everett.”
“Just sitting there?”
“Yep, on ice. Not wanting to sound too flippant about poor Ray’s death he added, “In the cooler, I guess.”
“Nobody’s following up? Sheriff didn’t call the GBI to assist? No medical examiner?” The tone of her questions made them sound more like s
tatements. She knew the answer already.
“Nope.” George looked at her evenly, chewing his gum. “What do you think?”
“I think our good friend, Richard Klineman, is very concerned about his chances in the upcoming election. Murders are not good for campaigns, especially election campaigns for sheriffs.”
“Yep. I would say that your analysis is accurate.” He continued looking into Sharon’s eyes, noting for the first time that they were green. “So, what’s next, Agent Price.”
“Well, here’s where we’re at.” She looked around at Rince who scooted under the yellow tape and walked over, all ears. “Rince, you are assigned to this task force, right.”
“Right.” The pilot nodded enthusiastically.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and include you in this briefing, if I have your word that you will keep it and anything else you see or hear during this investigation confidential.” She peered intently into his face and received a solemn nod in return.
“No matter who asks, Rince. Understood?”
“You have my word, Agent Price. I’m just a pilot. Don’t think anyone will be asking me questions, but if they do, I am assigned to the task force. I will refer them to you.”
Satisfied, Sharon nodded. “Okay. This is a quiet spot, out of the way and as good a place as any to bring you up to speed, away from Klineman’s ears.”
Rince walked to the pickup and leaned against the fender beside George. Sharon stood in front of them like a quarterback, explaining the next play.
“So, we have two murders of high profile victims. They seem to be unrelated. They come from different worlds. One a conservative state senator from old money who served decades in the Georgia legislature. The other a liberal civil rights attorney who had served as a superior court judge for almost as long. No apparent connection, except…” She paused to make sure they were following. “Except that both had become disgruntled with the political structure of both parties and both were involved with a blog called ‘Term Limits’. They were active in opposing candidates from both political parties because they felt that the answer to the current state of politics was to vote out all of the incumbents. That’s the short version.”