Mandy pointed the gun at Chuck. “Turn around and put your hands behind your head.”
“R?” Chuck said, eyes wide.
“Now, Flyboy,” Mandy said.
Chuck did as Mandy had told him, turning his back to Mandy and putting his hands on his head. He stood at an angle to me.
“Now,” Mandy said, “on your knees.”
Chuck glanced over his shoulder as he lowered himself to his knees. Once kneeled, he became ridged, focusing straight ahead, staring at the horizon.
Mandy pointed Wilbur at the back of Chuck’s head and gave me a sideways smirk. “This is because of you, Conklin.”
Mandy is killing everyone I come in contact with.
Chuck remained taut, although his breathing increased, becoming rapid and audible.
“Wait!” I yelled. Chuck flinched and Mandy snapped his head in my direction. “You’ve only got two cartridges left. You sure you want to waste one on Chuck?”
I saw the confusion on Mandy’s face as he glanced at the gun.
“Did you check the magazine? Ruth only had four cartridges,” I said. “Count what you’ve used. There’s two left.”
Mandy frowned and moved his lips, almost imperceptibly, probably doing the math in his head. Would he now go for the .38 snub nose he threw away? If he could even find the weapon, he’d have to drag Ruth with him along the jagged, volcanic rock ground, and it was a long distance back.
As he contemplated his options, I expected Mandy to take a quick glance back, trying to remember where he had thrown the weapon. But he didn’t. Amateur Hour for Mandy. He had become fixated on the outcome and no Plan B existed. To put it simply, tunnel vision. Getting to the end of this thing as fast as possible was his primary goal. Lucky for us, he’d forgotten about the .38.
After a moment, Mandy straightened and said, “Two is enough. But don’t move, Flyboy, or I will waste one on you.”
Chuck closed his eyes as his entire body slumped.
Mandy pointed the gun back at me. “Remember what I said, Conklin. Two is enough.”
As I breathed a sigh of relief in keeping Chuck alive, a faint siren sounded in the distance. A police truck appeared from around a bend headed straight for us. It skidded to a stop behind the plane, and Arabella and James jumped out with their weapons drawn. They carefully made their way toward Mandy, spreading out as they approached so he couldn’t aim at both simultaneously.
“That’s far enough,” Mandy said before they got close to him. He moved closer to the plane, turning around and placing his back against the fuselage to keep Ruth between him and the cops.
Arabella and James were on Mandy’s right side, Arabella being forty-five degrees and James ninety. With me in front, we formed a makeshift semicircle around Mandy. If only I hadn’t surrendered the .38.
“Drop your weapon,” James said. “Put your hands behind your head and lay on your stomach. Do it now.”
Arabella’s chest heaved with every breath, her eyes wide, glued to Mandy. I tried to imagine her thoughts. Training had kicked in, and she was assessing the situation. The worst nightmare for any cop was arriving on the scene and realizing the victim was a family member.
“Drop it,” James said, again.
Mandy didn’t drop the weapon. One by one, he jabbed the pistol in each of our directions. “Three against one. That don’t seem too fair.” He looked at me. “Or should I say, two and a half against one.”
“How about I even the odds a little?” He aimed the weapon at me and paused a few seconds. Without moving his head, he shifted his eyes toward Arabella. Before I could say or do anything, he spun to his side, a shot rang out, and Arabella stumbled two steps backward.
She raised her left hand to cover her right shoulder like a mirror-image Pledge of Allegiance. She bowed her head, blood seeping between her fingers, and staggered a step sideways before falling hard on her butt, feet straight out in front of her. She wheezed two breaths and, as if in slow motion, lowered her upper body onto the molten lava ground, coming to rest on her back.
Ruth screamed and struggled in Mandy’s arms. He hit her on the side of the head with the butt of the weapon, this time hard enough to cause her scalp to split open. Blood soaked her hair and ran down the side of her neck. She went quiet.
Frozen in time, I watched the blood ooze from Arabella’s chest, soaking her uniform in red. Her hand still clutched the Walther P-5. Her sunglasses lay on the ground as the wind blew her hair across her face.
I wanted to go to her; to help her. But my mind couldn’t will my body forward. My feet felt riveted to the ground. All I could do was stare at her, not believing what had happened.
She raised her head, ever so slightly. Her lips moved, but there wasn’t any sound. Then she closed her eyes, moaned, and lowered her head. She went silent, and the weapon fell loose in her hand.
Numbness overtook me.
Waves crashed against the rocky shoreline, and the wind blew across my face. Light pulsed from Spelonk Lighthouse. On the other side of the island, boatloads of divers were jumping into the sea, savoring their vacation and enjoying life. Vinny’s had cold beer, a good view, and Ole Blue. ME N RC would be there, waving me up to the bar.
Off to my right, Arabella lay motionless, blood running down the side of her body, soaking the jagged, rocky ground.
How could I have let this happen?
“Ain’t that a shame,” Mandy said.
I slowly turned my head in his direction. He had one cartridge remaining. A single shot could do a lot of damage, though. I had to get word to James, but in doing so, would that prompt Mandy to shoot me? Or worse yet, Ruth?
One option was to yell at James, and rush Mandy, let him waste the last cartridge on me. He might still panic and shoot Ruth. That would be unacceptable. I couldn’t let her get hurt. All I wanted to do was tear Mandy limb from limb. But I had to maintain control and figure a way to beat him.
With the weapon, Mandy motioned toward the plane. “Get in and start the engine. You, me, and Red here are going for a little plane ride.”
Somehow, he knew I was a pilot. Maybe Lester told him. Or possibly Tiffany.
Mandy turned to face James. “Don’t get any ideas or I’ll kill them both.”
James didn’t know the whole story. He had seen Mandy shoot only once and, as far as he knew, Mandy’s weapon still contained a near full magazine. Standing motionless, breathing heavy, alternating his gaze between Mandy and Arabella, he wanted to take a shot, but he couldn’t risk it. Chances were, he had never been in a situation like this before. Most cops go their entire career and never draw their weapon in the line of duty, let alone fire it. Punching holes in targets at the range was vastly different from drawing on a moving, breathing person capable of shooting back.
“Fucking move, Conklin,” Mandy said. He jabbed the weapon in Ruth’s neck and kept her in front of him using her body as his protective shield.
Taking a last look at Arabella, I climbed into the pilot’s seat. I fumbled with the seat belt as my shaky, sweat-soaked hands made it difficult to buckle. I had no intention of taking off, but I wasn’t yet sure how to avoid it.
Mandy kept his eyes on James, who had taken a couple of steps toward Arabella. When James took another step, Mandy said, “That’s close enough. I have nothing against you, so don’t make me kill you.”
James held his ground.
Mandy yelled into the cockpit. “Start the fucking engine.”
I opted to skip the pre-start checklist and turned the ignition key while pumping the throttle control. The propeller spun, and the engine fired to life. I set the RPMs to idle.
A thought went through my mind. If I was the only pilot on the plane, which I believed to be the case, I should be able to exert a level of control over the situation. I’d give Mandy the ride of his life and maybe jar the weapon out of his hands. Unless he knew how to fly, he couldn’t shoot me while we were in the air. Suicide on his part.
But he could still shoot Ruth.
“Okay now, Red,” Mandy yelled over the sound of the engine and the force of the prop wash. “We need to get in the plane. I’ll back in, and you climb up on my lap.” He cupped a hand around her waist and smiled. “Feel free to enjoy yourself as I wiggle us into the plane. But don’t try any funny stuff. If you allow Asshole over there a shot at me, I’ll shoot you first. Do you understand?”
Ruth was having trouble keeping her head up, her eyes barely open, but managed a slight nod. For a few seconds, as they squirmed through the door of the plane, Mandy would have his back to me. I searched the plane’s interior for something to use as a club. Unfortunately, unlike the condition of his apartment, Chuck kept a clean, sterile airplane cockpit. Only the essentials.
I leaned over and ran my hand under the two front seats, finding nothing, not even a dust bunny. Same result from the tiny, useless glove compartment. The back seat was empty, but I noticed a bulge in the pocket on the back of the copilot’s seat. I remembered the small fire extinguisher Chuck kept there within easy reach of the pilot. When Mandy moved into the cabin, I’d grab it and smash his head. For good measure—and some payback—I’d continue pummeling him until someone pulled me away.
Mandy backed up to the passenger-side door. I reached into the pocket and gripped the fire extinguisher. He pulled Ruth in his direction, but she straightened and kicked him full force in the shin, perfectly placed directly below the kneecap. Mandy screamed in agony, bent sideways, and reached down, grabbing his knee. His grip on Ruth loosened; she twisted sideways and elbowed him in the jaw as she slipped away.
Mandy was exposed.
A shot rang out, and Mandy flinched. James hadn’t moved, nor had he fired. He remained in the same spot, frozen, eyes wide, his weapon still pointed at Mandy.
Mandy staggered a couple of steps, caught himself on the wing strut, and leaned against it for a moment, gasping. Blood dripped from his mouth. He closed his eyes and wavered back and forth.
The bullet had struck and passed through Mandy, drilling into the motor compartment. Smoke began leaking from beneath the plane’s cowling. The engine sputtered and the propeller, although still turning, did so in a herky-jerky fashion, shaking the plane in the process.
Mandy opened his eyes and spied the weapon still in his hand. He used his non-gun hand as leverage on the wing strut and pushed himself to a standing position. Straightening, then staggering a step forward, he wavered as he tried to maintain his balance. Blood stained the upper portion of his shirt and trickled onto his pants. His mouth opened, and he mumbled something unrecognizable, crimson-colored drool dripping from his lower lip.
He pointed the weapon at me, his brown eyes glossy, the dark spot in the white of his left eye noticeably clear. Unique and somewhat distracting.
My heart pounded. I pulled the fire extinguisher into my lap and repositioned it, bringing it even with my right shoulder so I could throw it at Mandy, maybe knock Wilbur loose.
“James,” I yelled, “waste this sonofabitch!”
Two more shots rang out in quick succession. Mandy flinched twice.
Double tap.
James still hadn’t fired.
Mandy slumped and fell forward over the wing strut, into the sputtering propeller. I grabbed the fuel control knob and pulled it back, shutting off the fuel, starving the sick engine of gas.
But it was too late.
A semicircular spray of blood whisked across the plane’s windshield and cowling as the propeller sliced through Mandy’s head and neck. It took five seconds for the propeller to come to a complete stop.
Mandy was dead in one.
A spinning propeller can ruin a vacation.
I jumped out and ran to the passenger side of the plane, passing in front of the blood-splattered propeller. The ground below the prop was a swamp of minced bone, brains, and human tissue. Nothing remained of Mandy’s body above the shoulders.
James knelt beside Arabella and Ruth stood in the shadow of the Cessna wing. Arabella lay in a prone position, head up, arm extended and holding her Walther P-5. When our eyes met, she smiled and lowered the weapon.
I had to pry it from her grasp.
CHAPTER 51
MY MORNING SWIM complete, I sat at the end of the pier across the street from the YellowRock. Several green and red parrot fish rode the mild surf, circling the pylons scavenging for food, their dorsal fins occasionally breaking the surface. It was Saturday, and a few children bounced and played in the shallows along the small beach. Several of them wore brightly colored masks and snorkels.
A Boeing 737 flew low overhead climbing for altitude, having just departed Flamingo Airport, its massive turbofan engines momentarily drowning out the sound of the ocean and the nearby kids. Full of tourists headed home after a vacation in paradise; the sun glared off its wings as it made a gentle turn to the northwest, pointed toward the good ole USA.
Exactly one week ago, I leaned on the fender of my Wrangler in the airport parking lot. I finished a beer and watched an identical jet, also full of departing tourists, roar down the runway and lift off into the Caribbean sky.
Buried somewhere in the cargo hold of that plane were two coffins.
Tiffany’s parents were also on board, along with Lester Jeffrey’s sister. Although none of us had known each other for more than a few days, it had been a tearful goodbye. A kinship existed between us. We all had loved ones in those coffins.
The one bright spot was when Tiffany’s mom told me that Tiffany’s cousin and his wife wanted to adopt Ozzie. Maybe the kid would have a chance in life after all.
I dried with a beach towel and slipped on a T-shirt while crossing the street toward the YellowRock. Erika hung up the phone as I entered the office.
“That was the hospital,” she said. A tear formed in her eye, but her smile told me it was a tear of happiness. “Arabella can now take visitors.”
Erika walked over and hugged me. I hugged back. “I’ll be back in a little while.” I kissed her on the top of the head and headed for my apartment. I needed to change before going to the hospital.
“Mr. Traverso called,” Erika said before I left. “He needs to talk to you.”
I shrugged, shook my head. No doubt he wanted information about Mandy Driver and the murders. The Rockford team was tying Mandy to the identity of Wayne Dow Jr., and because Mandy’s head was destroyed by the airplane propeller, identifying him by dental records was impossible. Fingerprints were inconclusive because Dow Junior’s prints weren’t in the system. Penn said they were going to use DNA and try to prove a family connection.
It wasn’t my problem anymore, and I hadn’t paid attention as he rambled through an explanation a few days ago on the phone. As Schleper had said, I was retired. Besides, I didn’t care about any of that right now. All I wanted was to get to the hospital.
I walked the hall of the hospital and thought about the last time Arabella was here. Doubtful any evidence would be recovered linking Mandy to the sabotage on my Wrangler. But it didn’t matter. Not anymore.
Ballistics had confirmed Wilbur was the weapon used to kill Malfena, which implicated Mandy for the murder and, subsequently, the theft and arson of the rental car. Somehow, the only prints on the weapon were Mandy’s, and the police were unable to trace Wilbur to Ruth or anyone else. A complete dead end for them.
A complete luck-out for Ruth.
Regardless, it was over.
Arabella would be fine.
Mandy was dead.
Arabella sat in her bed, resting against the back, propped at a forty-five-degree angle. Face gaunt, hair matted to her head, there were identical tubes running into her body connected to the same machines as before. As far as I could tell, the same numbers were on the screens, and I still had no idea what any of it meant.
Ruth sat in a chair near the open window. When I walked in, I caught a few brief words of Ruth’s reprimand to Arabella. Ruth immediately went qu
iet when she noticed me.
Arabella saw me and smiled. “Conklin.” Her voice scratchy, forced through dry, chapped lips. She glanced at the two brown paper bags I set on the sliding tray alongside her bed. A bag for her; one for me; none for Ruth. The grease spots gave away their origin. “Burgers!” She tore into one of the bags, spilling fries onto the sheets.
I sat sideways on the bed, careful not to cause any undue motion or agitation to Arabella, and placed my left hand on the side of her face. I leaned close and kissed her on the lips. “How was your nap?”
“I’ve had better,” she said, not bashful about talking with her mouth full.
“I’m proud of you.”
She blushed.
“You saved the day,” I said. “Not to mention my life.” I motioned toward Ruth. “And your sister’s.”
“Thanks,” Ruth said.
I wasn’t sure whether Ruth was thanking me for mentioning her or thanking Arabella for saving her life. Either way, I ignored her.
“I’ve made a decision,” Arabella said, glancing at Ruth and back to me. She dipped some fries into a mound of mayonnaise. “I’m not going to take the inspector test right now.”
I didn’t say anything, as the predictable beep of the medical equipment paced off the seconds. A small blood spot had dried in the center of her shoulder bandage. “I wouldn’t make that decision right now. Give it some time.”
“No, I think it best.” She reached up with her right hand and placed it on my shoulder. “It would mean leaving you, and I do not want to do that. Not now. Not ever.”
I held her hand and removed a spare key to my apartment from my pocket. I slipped it into her palm, rolling her fingers into a fist. “Hier is mijn sleutel.”
Her eyes widened. She opened her palm and held up the key. “I never …”
I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She set the burger on the table, then wrapped her one good arm around my neck and squeezed.
“Ik hou van jou,” I whispered in her ear.
She squeezed harder and said, “I love you, too … R.”
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