Nantucket Penny

by Steven Axelrod

  Todd turned away. He had to go, he had to move.

  He crouched down and scuttled away from Darling Street, crossing the patio, breaking for the hedge. Someone came out onto the back deck, some kid in madras shorts and a white University of Nantucket T-shirt.

  “Hey, you! Hey—!”

  Todd put on a burst of speed—through the gate, slipping between the two parked SUVs, and gone, sprinting up Hiller’s Lane toward Fair Street. He forced himself to slow down. There could be cops around the corner, raw-nerved, hyperalert cops, triggered by the sight of a wild-eyed running man.

  A car eased by him as he walked along, trying to catch his breath. Not a cop car, just a car. Ten feet away from the Darling Street incident, life was normal. Todd was part of that life, one more tourist touring the tourist town. He pulled out his phone, pausing to take a picture. What a picturesque little street!

  There was an anonymous missed call on the screen. He had silenced his phone while he staked out the Kennis house. The call had to be from Sippy.

  Sippy!

  This was Sippy’s fault—it had to be. Sippy had set this craziness in motion somehow. This was the “business” he’d been talking about when Todd met his plane three days ago. Todd wanted to move on with the plan: kidnap Jane Stiles, get out to Coatue, and start the trial. But Sippy had other ideas, other priorities. He always had his own game running.

  “What business?” Todd had demanded.

  “My business. And no business of yours.”

  Todd took a guess. “Is this about the Ed Delavane jailbreak?”

  “Nice. Very shrewd, Frakes. Yes, it is. But it’s a very sensitive situation. Extremely sensitive. I have a lot of balls in the air right now, and neither of us will be happy if I drop one of them. Leave it at that.”

  There was something terrifying about Sippy when he said that. He had changed. The crazy side of him had calcified somehow. He was stronger. His killing spree had changed him in a chilling but simple and obvious way: he was a killer now—he was willing to kill, he could kill anyone, and he might kill Todd as easily as anyone else.

  His last words: “Keep your phone charged. I’ll call you from my burner when I’m ready.”

  And now Sippy had called. Now Sippy was ready.

  Todd approached the plane carefully from the far side of the field where he had cut the fence a few days before. Sippy had given him the precise route to avoid the CCTV cameras. “They may have you on film already, Frakes. You don’t want to be seen coming here twice. A limp and a fake beard only take you so far.” He had duly changed his disguise today, walking normally, sporting a Patriots cap and sunglasses. He hoped that would be good enough.

  Sippy was sitting in the pilot’s seat of the Cirrus jet, studying the console, when Todd climbed inside. It was cool in the cabin, the air conditioner running against the unseasonable heat of the autumn day outside. The space was cramped but luxurious with a pair of seats set against the back wall, a small table between them and the control panel. Mini fridge, wet bar, dense-weave gray carpet, padded arched tube cocooning them, big Lexan windows showing the empty tarmac, faint smells of leather and jet fuel.

  Sippy swiveled around to face his friend. “That was quick.”

  “What’s going on? What did you do?”

  “I used the available resources to expedite the desired result.”

  Todd heard himself shouting. “What are you talking about? What did you do?”

  “I got Delavane out of jail. My plan involved some trade-offs. What was your plan?”

  “I don’t understand this.”

  Sippy sighed. “I did some quite wide-ranging research. I found an LAPD detective named Roy Elkins whom our police chief arrested several years ago in Los Angeles. Elkins melodramatically swore vengeance on the loved ones of his enemies. That would include our Jane Stiles, which made him a perfect instrument. I gave him an escape plan that involved calling in many favors from across the span of his law enforcement career. People are the best weapon, Frakes. Elkins didn’t understand that. He had to be instructed on how exactly to weaponize the people in his life.”

  “But—you said…he was in jail. How did you even contact him?”

  “I made an appointment and arrived at the prison in a six-thousand-dollar charcoal-gray three-piece Brioni suit, six-hundred-dollar Ferragamo cap, toe Oxford shoes, and a twenty-four-hundred-dollar Tom Ford briefcase. No one questioned my authority for a moment. People believe what they see. Mr. Roy Elkins has extensive contacts on both coasts. In exchange for duplicating his escape plan for the benefit of Mr. Delavane, I told him about Ed’s buried stash. He helps Ed escape, they share the wealth, and Elkins leaves the country without touching his own bank accounts. His real money is overseas. Everyone gets what they want. Elkins gets to kill Jane, and—”

  “Wait, what about me? What about the trial?”

  “Jane was never going to testify at your trial. I was never going to let that happen, Frakes.”

  “But why not? I thought the whole point was that she—”

  “I won’t let her tell what happened that night. No one will ever know about that. No one. Ever.”

  “That night? What? You mean the Lock-In?”

  “That night is gone; I have plucked it out of history. No one knew but me and Jane, and she’s dead. She had to die, so I made sure she did. Simple as that. Our night died with her.”

  “No, no, this doesn’t—”

  “Listen to me! The plan was a perfect little machine, Frakes. I set each little set of teeth spinning, locked into the next, like a Ducati gearbox. Sweet. Elkins arranges with our old pal Hamilton Tyler to frame some local wetback that Ham’s been jonesing about for years. Full circle—Ham gets rid of this landscaper person he hates so much, Elkins has perfect cover for the murder, and we get Ed Delavane delivered right into our arms. Or should I say our bear trap. That must have hurt.”

  “But I mean…how does Elkins get away from Nantucket?”

  “On this jet. That’s the last part of my plan. Directly from here to St. John’s Airport in Newfoundland. VIP treatment all the way. We travel like rich people—this jet is just like my lawyer suit. It smooths everything over. Elkins has papers and cash in Montreal. Once we land, he’s on his own. It’s a twenty-three-hour trip, including the Port aux Basques ferry across the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. Lovely drive, though. And then he’s free and clear. What?”

  Todd stared at him. “Jesus Christ.”

  “What?”

  “You have no idea what happened.”

  “I know exactly what happened. Elkins can tell you the details. He’ll be here any minute.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “Todd—”

  “You tried to steal Jane away from me, and you failed.”

  “No, I tried to bag Ed Delavane for you, and I succeeded.”

  “You tried to take my trial away.”

  “Come on. She’s dead. That’s all that matters.”

  “No, it isn’t. Not to me.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to adjust your expectations.”

  A grating moment of silence.

  Then: “Remember The Great Escape, Sippy? Remember how much we loved that old movie? We wrecked three VHS tapes watching it over and over, back in the day.”

  “So what?”

  “So who got away and who didn’t?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Think about it. The guys with the fancy suits and the papers and the train schedules—they all got caught. The guys who got away? They stole a bike, or found a rowboat, or hoboed on a train or whatever—simple shit. Under the radar. Complicated plans fail, Sippy. That’s the lesson. There’s too many moving parts, too many little gear wheels, like you said. No one can keep track of them all. You out-think yourself with your big brain. Everything depends
on everything else, everyone depends on everyone else. But people aren’t dependable.”

  “My plan didn’t fail.”

  “Are you kidding me? Are you fucking high? Your plan went to shit. I was there—I saw it happen. Jane is safe! She’s fine. I’m not sure what happened to Elkins, but I’m betting he’s dead. Some lady I never saw before nailed him right there in the house. I heard gunshots, and she came out and he didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “Someone figured out what you were doing. It was that lady, I bet. She looked like a badass.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Then where’s Elkins? You said he was coming. He should be here by now.”

  “No! No, no, no, no, no! I won’t let this happen.”

  “It happened. But it’s okay. We have Ed; we pulled that one off. Time’s running out. The cops will be coming after Ed. People will miss the others. It’s a small island, we have to act fast. Regroup, drop back, and punt, like your dad used to say. We can improvise—we can make this work.”

  Sippy had seemed to be on the verge of tears, his eyes squinting, his mouth turned down, his whole face crumpled. But now he calmed down suddenly. The level, assessing stare, the easy little half smile. It made Todd nervous.

  Sippy was in charge again.

  “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen, Frakes. You’re going to take Jane despite whatever extra security they have on her, because you can’t not do it, you can’t keep away. And when you get her to the shack, everyone dies. You, me, Lonnie…Jane, Ed, Haden…all of them, all of us.”

  “Wait a second, that can’t—I set it up with Lonnie, he has a boat there, he’s taking it to Hyannis afterward. He has papers and money, a whole new identity. He’s getting a fresh start. A second chance—”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I promised him.”

  “Too bad. Everyone dies, like they should have died in the school fire. Which you failed to set.”

  “But how—?”

  “This plane, Frakes. This Cirrus Vision SF50 single-engine light jet, designed by the good people of Cirrus Aircraft, Duluth, Minnesota, USA. I’m gonna take it up, circle the island, and come down hard right on top of that little shack, and between the impact and the burning jet fuel, there’ll be nothing left but the crater, some scorched metal, and the ashes. Then they’ll know. Then they’ll understand what happened. That’s my plan, Mr. Peanut. Simple enough for you?”

  “You’re insane.”

  “So are you. So are most people. So what?”

  “You’re not doing this. I won’t let you.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  Todd felt Sippy’s unearthly calm and confidence like a puncture, small but poisonous, the thorn on a rose. Surprise, pain, anger—and disappointment, the sharp prick of betrayal. Somehow he had his gun in his hand. He pointed it at his friend. “I mean it.”

  “You have to be kidding. You’re going to shoot me now?”

  “Stop this. Come with me. We’ll take Jane and do what we planned.”

  “That’s over. It’s falling apart, Frakes. That little scheme is history.”

  “It isn’t. It doesn’t have to be. Just help me. Let’s finish it together.”

  “You trust me?”

  “Promise.”

  “And you’ll believe me?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Fine. I promise. Okay? The trial will go on as intended! Happy now?”

  “You mean it?”

  “You said you trusted me.”

  “I do. I have to. I mean…you’re Sippy.”

  “Yes, I am. More than ever.”

  “We’re really going to do this?”

  “Put the gun away.”

  Todd lowered his arm, and the moment the barrel pointed at the floor, Sippy pounced, throwing himself across the six feet of the cabin with a paralyzing animal shriek of rage, cannonballing his head into Todd’s stomach. They reeled backward and fell against the passenger seats. Sippy got his hands up and clamped them around Todd’s neck. The grip was powerful, relentless, welded. Todd couldn’t budge it. He only had one hand to pry the fingers loose. His other hand still clutched the gun.

  The gun!

  He was blacking out—he had seconds to act. He brought the gun up to Sippy’s head, mouthed the word “Sorry,” and squeezed the trigger.

  The explosion was deafening, ear-puncturing. It catapulted Sippy backward in a spray of blood, dumping him on the gray carpet like a shovel full of dirt. It felt like the recoil had snapped Todd’s wrist.

  Silence, echoes.

  Todd slipped down to the floor, his back against the edge of the passenger seat. He stared at Sippy’s cratered temple, blood pulsing from the scorched hole, the face bizarrely intact, still wearing that benign, hideous, invulnerable smile. The cabin stank of cordite and burning hair, and the meaty, stomach-turning reek of blood.

  The silence was louder than the gunshot. It felt like someone had jabbed ice picks into Todd’s eardrums. He was moaning and keening, but he couldn’t hear himself. He was deaf, but the silence roared on, filling his brain like the white noise of a jet engine. The jet, he was in Sippy’s jet—how far was it from the terminal building? Had anyone inside heard the shot? Could they hear it? Could they mistake it for something else? A nail gun on a construction project, a car backfire? Did cars even backfire anymore? Was anyone on the tarmac? He’d know soon enough. One 911 call, and the airport would be swarming with cops. They’d surround the jet, storm the cabin, cuff him, and pull him out. He’d kill himself before that happened. He lifted his hand, stared at the gun.

  Plenty of bullets left.

  The seconds ticked by, the minutes accumulated like snowfall—a dusting, then a sheath, then a carpet deep enough to soak your shoes. Footprints crunching, packing down the soft, white crystals. His mind was coming untethered.

  Footprints, leaving footprints.

  He sat up. The fight had pulled some muscle in his back, and the pain flared around his ribs. No one had come. He was safe for the moment, but—footprints, he had to cover his footprints. That meant…what did that mean? What could he do?

  Focus. Sippy’s death had to look like suicide.

  That meant wiping the gun, putting it in Sippy’s hand, stuffing that cold stiffening finger through the trigger guard—and firing it again. The gun left evidence on you when you shot it. He remembered that. He’d have to fire it again. No one seemed to have heard the first round, but if they had and dismissed it, a second one would set the alarms ringing. He had to take the chance. He couldn’t move Sippy, and he had nothing to muffle the sound.

  He pushed the lifeless sausage against the trigger. This time the recoil whipped the dead arm up and the gun barrel clapped Todd on the chin. He let out a startled yelp.

  Sippy’s final blow.

  He got to his knees—it seemed like every part of his body was hurting now and stood to inspect his handiwork. Not great, but it was the best he could do.

  He stepped to the cabin door, eased it open a crack, and looked out. The airfield was deserted except for a lone pilot walking his checklist around one of the bigger jets, marking a clipboard with a pen. He disappeared around the front of the plane, and Todd lowered the steps, scuttled down, and raised them again. He pushed the hatchway closed and set off on the diagonal route across the tarmac that Sippy had charted to avoid the surveillance cameras.

  In less than a minute he was at the cut in the chain-link fence, crouching down to push himself through. He stood on the other side, catching his breath, screened from the road by a grove of stunted pine trees. He had done it—acted boldly, saved his plan, and made his escape. Time was still against him, but he had gained some small advantages. With Sippy gone, there was no one to question or undermine him—Lonnie would always do what he was told. Someone would find Sip
py’s body soon, along with the evidence of his mission—the journal, the scrapbook, the Jane Stiles novels. Best of all, with Elkins and Sippy both gone—and Lonnie throwing suspicion on the famously inept and drunken Haden Krakauer—everyone would assume Jane was safe.

  The culprits were dead!

  The danger was past.

  Life could go back to normal. They would let their guard down. They would relax. But you never take your guard down. Musashi said it best—the old samurai had some great words of advice for Police Chief Henry Kennis and his friends:

  “When the battle is won, tighten the cords of your helmet.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Pennies

  Think of your life.

  Remember the years between 17 and 37—your twenties, your thirties, your youth, your prime, the memories you’ll take with you to light up the shadows of your old age—first love, marriage, your career taking off, the birth of your children, the glittering priceless illusion of immortality, your body fit and supple, your parents still alive and vigorous, the rich, delicious main course of your precious existence. Now imagine all of that stolen from you. That’s what happened to me.

  —From Todd Fraker’s deleted blog

  With the bodies removed, the crime scenes taped off, and the murder weapon in custody, I had more pressing problems to deal with. Haden Krakauer was AWOL, and not just him: a few phone calls made it clear that no one, including Billy Delavane’s daughter, his boss, and his good friend Mitchell Stone, had seen hide nor hair of him in the last twenty-four hours.

  On top of that, there was no one I trusted at the station to receive Roy Elkins’s gun. Monica Terwilliger was gone, also.

  What the hell was happening? A mass kidnapping? Some Madequecham Jam rave-up no one had told me about? The Rapture?

  I calmed myself down and tried to make sense of these most likely unconnected events. Monica was taking her accumulated personal days to deal with what Barnaby Toll—who had taken her call that morning—reported her describing as a “family emergency.”