by P. L. Gaus
“Did Miller tell you why you were going to see Conrad Render?” Branden asked.
“Only thing he said was that he knew ‘this fellow’ was a bad man, and this was going to be his big payday. If I had known it was Conrad Render we were chasing, I’d never have been driving him around.”
“You didn’t know?” Ricky asked, surprised and not bothering to hide it.
“I just drove him where he said to go. He’d go in somewhere, and I’d wait in the truck. When he came out, he’d have someplace else for us to go. We chased all over like that, looking for him.”
“When did he tell you it was Render?” the professor asked.
“He didn’t,” Clark said. “I didn’t know he was looking for Render until I saw Old Connie pull up beside us at that intersection.”
“You still sure it was Render?” Orton asked.
Clark gave a weary sigh, and muttered to himself, “I’m keeping the company of imbeciles.” Then louder, he said, “I promise you boys. If I had known it was Render, I’d have just put a bullet in my own head, and saved myself the trouble of running for the rest of my miserable life.”
Intending to encourage the man, Ricky said, “The sheriff has boats on the river, and the Coast Guard is patrolling the coastline and the bays. Someone will catch him.”
Showing the fatigue of pain, Clark asked, “Don’t nobody listen no more? He’s not out on the water.”
“I don’t think you’ve told anyone that,” the professor said.
“I’m telling you now! He’s in a warehouse in Cortez! Beside one of the fish plants on the south side. He’s holed up in a warehouse at the waterfront, where he can put his boat under cover. That’s where Jacob Miller found him. In a waterfront warehouse in Cortez. We barely made it back over the bridge before he gunned us down!”
“Why haven’t you told anyone?” the professor demanded.
Sighing heavily, Clark mumbled, “Morons,” and looked around the room as if he were searching for an escape route. Then he said, “Because, boys, if you’re really gonna go after him—like really going to try to catch him this time—then I need you to get him for sure. Otherwise I’m a dead man.”
A nurse arrived with a stern expression and marched up to Clark’s bedside, saying, “That’s enough. Mr. Clark needs to settle down.”
“Just a few more questions,” Ricky insisted. “Just one or two more.”
The nurse stepped back and folded her arms, saying, “I’ll stay here. Two questions and then you’ll have to leave.”
“Are you sure he’s still there?” Ricky asked. “Maybe he’s cleared out by now.”
“Warehouse! Waterfront! Cortez!”
“That’s enough,” the nurse stepped forward. “You’re going to have to leave.”
Standing fast, Ricky said to the nurse, “He can draw us a map.”
“Morons!” Clark shouted. “Get me some paper.”
34
Saturday, October 10
FIRST LIGHT
THE PROFESSOR attempted to train his binoculars in the general direction of the waterfront warehouse doors, but the rise and fall of Orton’s thirty-foot skiff on Sarasota Bay lifted his line of sight up and down, and all Branden saw was rhythmic flash-by glimpses of the warehouse, as the skiff rode the chop on the water. They were tied at anchor over a sandbar, two hundred yards out from the warehouse, which fronted the water on massive wood pilings east of the big fish company’s docks in Cortez. At water level, the warehouse presented a maze of enclosed docks, with articulated garage doors in front of each bay. Branden was struggling to hold his binoculars on the third bay from the left.
To the north, boats large and small strained on their moorings near the fishing pier at Bradenton Beach. A strong onshore wind cast a haze of salt spray over the turquoise water. A flight of five pelicans came gliding low over the water in front of the skiff, oblivious to the drama that was unfolding on the bay. All around the boat, whitecaps danced in front of the wind, as the sun came up over the trees to Branden’s right, with an early morning promise of intensity and heat.
Between the skiff and Render’s location stood three Coast Guard vessels, two of the fast orange RBSs and one of the larger UTBs. To the south, other boats blocked the routes to the Gulf through nearby Longboat Pass and at New Pass between Longboat and Lido Keys. To the west, two Coast Guard helicopters, deployed from the Clearwater station, hovered over the waters of Bradenton Beach, just offshore. The sheriff also had men in boats at the drawbridge to the north, clearing early fishing craft from the area, in case any of the action ran in that direction. The activity repeated to the southwest, in the popular waters around the drawbridge at Coquina Beach.
On land, approaching the warehouse from the north, the Manatee County sheriff’s SWAT entry teams moved into positions on both sides of the warehouse. Sniper teams deployed on the rooftops of nearby buildings to the east and west.
Niell and the professor stood in the skiff forward of the wheel and Orton held a handset radio in the stern. “They’ll make soft entries from the sides,” he said. “Try to move people out of the building, before they close on Render.”
The professor pulled his binoculars over to the west side of the building and caught a brief glimpse of a SWAT team lined up outside a door, while the lead man knelt to try the knob. When the chop on the water next allowed Branden to see that spot again, the last member of the team was moving into the building, with his weapon trained forward to let the sights of his gun track the movement of his eyes. When Branden had found the other side of the building, he saw that the eastside SWAT team, too, had made its entry into the building.
As Branden fought the rise and fall of the skiff, trying to keep his binoculars trained on the building, Orton shouted, “There!” Branden took the binoculars down from his eyes and saw that the third garage door from the left had shattered outward, as if a blast had taken it apart. Charging toward them, two hundred yards away, was Render’s flame-painted cigarette boat, the wake behind his three outboard motors spraying thirty feet into the air.
Render came out straight toward Orton’s skiff, the hull of his go-fast boat lifted up high to fly, only the engines at the stern engaging the water. Branden watched the fast boat close the distance at an astonishing speed, and guessing Render’s intent, he knotted his fingers into the straps of Ricky’s life vest, pulled him down beside him and shouted, “Hold on to something!” just seconds before the orange and red flames of Render’s painted hull strafed past the skiff. Before Branden could secure a grip in the skiff, Render sliced past them and crashed against the gunwales so violently that the skiff rocked on edge and cast the three men overboard.
Branden lost his grip on Niell’s vest and was tossed several yards away from the skiff. He turned back to look for Ricky and saw that one of his shoes was hung up on a starboard gunwale cleat. Niell lay facedown in the water, with his leg held out of the water by the boat cleat. His limp body was knocking against the hull at the waterline, as the waves tossed the skiff up and down. Branden swam forward and kicked himself up to grab the high gunwale, but missed. He kicked again and caught hold of the cleat, but his fingers slipped as the waves tossed the boat up violently. He was thrown back into the water.
On his third attempt, Branden’s grip held, and he pulled himself up enough to wrestle Niell’s shoelaces free of the gunwale cleat, just before the next wave threw them both back from the skiff. Branden reached for Niell in the water and managed to turn him over. Neill coughed out water and gave a ragged groan, his arms floating limp at his sides. Branden tightened the straps at the neck of Niell’s life vest so that the padded collar would best hold his face out of the water. Then he turned toward the skiff to look for Orton.
At the stern, Branden spotted the white deck shoes on Orton’s feet just below the surface. The rest of Orton’s body was somehow pinned beneath the outboard engine. Branden tried to pull himself underwater, but his vest kept him afloat. He worked the straps loose in front, st
ruggled out of the vest, and kicked out of his shoes, as the waves tossed him up and down beside the stern.
He drew breath to dive underwater, but he was thrown against the driveshaft of the outboard engine. His forehead collided with the engine housing, and he tasted blood. He lay back and kicked away from the engine and floated on his back to catch his breath. Ignoring the gash over his eye, he rolled over, dove down, and swam forward underwater.
The straps of Orton’s vest were tangled in the props. Orton’s mouth was open, and his eyes were fixed with unconsciousness. With the engine and skiff lurching up and down, Branden surfaced and pulled Orton’s dive knife out of its ankle sheath. Then he dove back underwater at the props and cut the straps of Orton’s vest to free him. Losing air himself, and feeling his lungs burning, Branden dropped the knife, bunched his fingers onto Orton’s collar, pushed away from the propeller shaft, and kicked for the surface.
* * *
Coast Guard seamen pulled Sergeant Orton out of the water and administered CPR until he coughed up seawater and spat out indignation. Flopped over onto his stomach and belching more water onto the deck, Orton struggled to curse out enough bravado to cover his embarrassment, but eventually he lay flat on his belly, happy just to breathe.
They handed Ricky Niell up to the deck of the UTB and then hoisted Branden, too. Ricky sat dazed on the deck of the boat, fumbling to unhook his life vest, but a bo’sun’s mate stopped him, saying, “You’re gonna want to leave that on, Sergeant.”
When Ricky next saw Branden, he was back in a vest, too, so he stopped working on his straps and sat back to try to understand what had happened. He knew he was on the stern deck of one of the UTBs, and although his hearing was impaired, he could feel the vibration of the diesel engines beneath him. He wasn’t quite certain how he had gotten there, but he knew to cling to the engine hatch as the boat picked up speed.
Branden stood up on the deck beside Niell, clutching the railing and trying to let his knees take the pounding of the deck, as he watched toward the south, where they had told him Connie Render had fled down the bay. He heard the radio squawking in the wheelhouse, and the captain responded by thrusting forward on the throttles to lift the boat up for speed. Soon they were pounding over the choppy water, spraying water and sea foam off the bow, racing in a long arching curve for the shoreline near Longboat Pass, where pleasure craft were gathering early for a lazy day in the shallows, several boats floating at anchor near the sandy beach, others pulled up on shore, with people in swimming suits carrying picnic supplies to land.
The UTB slowed near shore and broadcast emergency instructions for skippers to beach their boats and clear the channel. Another UTB came in behind and stood off in the channel, to help block the passage out to the Gulf. The professor’s UTB then went on south toward the chase, and over the radio, Branden heard that the Coast Guard had managed to turn Render around at Lido Key. He was headed back north on Sarasota Bay, and orders to engage had been issued, giving permission to shoot at Render’s engines, at which point the chase boats were ordered to back off and make way for the helicopters to come in low with their guns.
When he noticed Ricky trying to stand, Branden handed himself along the orange railing and helped Ricky up. Then, standing together in the stern, their view ahead blocked by the wheelhouse, they held onto the railing, trying to let their legs adjust to the pounding of the hull.
Their boat threw spray to starboard and maneuvered a tight turn a hundred yards offshore, at the northern tip of Longboat Key, and then the engines dropped to idle, and the stern lifted as the bow bit into the water and the UTB coasted to a stop.
From the south, white dots high over the water marked the positions of the helicopters. Beneath them, the men could see Render’s go-fast boat careening to left and right, as it sped up the bay, trying to shake the helicopters trailing it.
The action came closer, Render flying over the water in front of the helicopters, and Branden and Niell could see Render’s engines churning the water as he came forward, slashing close to other craft, rocking boats tied at their moorings, and spraying water as he swung back and forth, trying to evade the guns on the helicopters. But the helicopters drew steadily closer to Render, and one set up in front of Render, matching his speed, swinging left and right as it came on sideways toward the UTB carrying Niell and Branden.
Commands to stop blared from the helicopters as they chased the go-fast boat up the broad waters of the bay, but Render kept coming. Warning shots went into the water over Render’s bow, and still he charged, engines screaming on a straight path now. The second helicopter came in to flank Render’s boat and dropped low for a shot at the engines, the gunner hanging in a harness from the bay doors on the side of the helicopter. Still the cigarette boat came on, gathering speed where the waters grew smoother, and the gunner opened up on the engines with his slug gun, muzzle flashes and smoke thumping out of the barrel. The first rounds missed, and Render came forward. The helicopter drew down the distance, coming in to hover over Render’s stern again, and a second volley of slugs pierced two of Render’s engines, sending the boat careening to port, with only one engine still operating. Then another shot hit home, and Render’s boat burst into a ball of flame and blew apart like a matchstick model, with a geyser of water pluming boat parts into the sky, before the charred hull fell back and sank on the spot where it had been taken.
35
Friday, October 16
10:05 A.M.
NEARLY A week later, on a cold Friday morning, Bruce Robertson stood at the north windows of his office and watched light snow settle around the Civil War monument at Millersburg’s courthouse. He had just that morning printed guidelines from the Internet pertaining to proposals to the Department of Homeland Security for supplemental funding in law enforcement staffing. He had found the Internet files just as Rachel Ramsayer had taught him, and now that he was learning computers from an expert, he wondered what had been so hard about IT in the first place. Maybe Rachel was right. Once he got past his aversion to change, he could master computers as well as anyone could. So, I’ll work on that, he thought. Take lessons from Rachel, get modern with the digital age, and bring some long-overdue changes to the sheriff’s office.
Still standing at the window, Robertson heard Ellie come into the office, and he turned to watch her lay papers into the in-box on his desk. Smiling, he asked her, “Can you put any of that on our server?”
“I did some that way,” Ellie said, smiling.
“Good,” Robertson said. “I’ll look at it later this morning.”
Ellie studied the sheriff’s expression for signs of mirth and decided that Robertson was serious. “I can put a lot of this paperwork on the server, Bruce. You wouldn’t need to handle paper copies at all.”
“Let’s not get too crazy,” Robertson smiled. “I don’t want to frighten anyone.”
“Still working with Rachel?” Ellie asked at the door.
“When she can fit me in,” Robertson said. “Evenings, mostly, this last week.”
Ellie nodded her approval. “Ricky and the professor are in the squad room. You ready for them?”
Robertson stepped to his desk and took the Homeland Security documents off the top of a stack of papers. He handed them to Ellie and said, “Bring ’em both in, Ellie. Ricky’s had enough of a vacation. In the meantime, let me know what you think we can do with those supplemental programs from Homeland Security.”
* * *
When Branden and Niell came into his office, Robertson was parked in front of a twenty-four-inch monitor, studying photographs that Sergeant Orton had transmitted from Bradenton Beach—boat debris floating on the water where Render’s boat had exploded, and twisted engine parts that divers had brought up from the bottom of Sarasota Bay.
As Niell and Branden sat down, Robertson tapped the screen and said, “They pretty well blew this boat apart.”
Seated, Niell said, “I’m surprised there’s anything left of it. The gas
tanks blew when they shot out the engines.”
Robertson threw a few taps at his keyboard and looked up, saying, “Rachel is a genius. Once you have a decent monitor, you can actually use these things.”
Niell and Branden exchanged bemused glances, and Branden asked, “Did they find a body yet?”
Robertson pushed back from his desk. “No. Orton doesn’t think they will.”
“Are you going to close the investigation?” Branden asked. “Into Spiegle’s murder?”
“Haven’t decided,” Robertson said. “If I had a detective bureau, I’d stay on it a little longer.”
Niell shrugged and said, “The one man who apparently knew it all was Conrad Render, and he went down with his boat.”
Robertson stood and moved to the windows to watch the snow fall on the square. “I think Jacob Miller had figured it all out. Figured out that Render killed Spiegle and Winters. I think he went back down one last time to blackmail Conrad Render, and it got him killed.”
“Probably,” Branden said, “but we’ll never prove it. Anyway, Vesta thinks her father was using Spiegle’s past to pressure him. You know, pay up or I’ll tell Render where you are. That sort of thing.”
Robertson watched the snow for a moment and turned back to say, “Render might have found out Miller was asking around about Spiegle. Then, he could have just followed Miller up here and found Spiegle on his own. But, all in all, it’s not a very satisfying wrap on the case. Spiegle’s murder is going to have to go on the books as unsolved.”
“You’d let it go like that?” Branden asked.
“Don’t see that I have any choice,” Robertson said. “Besides, the more troubling matter to me is how we blew it on Crist Burkholder’s confession. Linda Hart pretty well handed me my hat on that one.”
“I don’t see what we’d have done differently,” Niell said.
Robertson sat behind his desk again. “Ricky, if we had a detective bureau, don’t you think we’d have processed Crist Burkholder more thoroughly? Maybe noticed that his hands weren’t bruised?”