Shake the Trees

by Rod Helmers

  The tires of the Camaro rumbled over the cobblestones of the driveway as Tillis approached the seven-stall double deep stone carriage house that he had built to match the style and appearance of the cottage. The structure housed the collection of 1960s and 1970s era muscle cars that he’d purchased and meticulously restored over the years. Tillis left the Camaro parked outside and climbed out of the low-slung vehicle, inhaling a deep lungful of pine-scented air and pushing his fingers through a thick head of wavy black hair. Only a few silver strands belied his fifty-nine years on earth. While his green eyes, strong jaw and six foot two inch well-muscled frame matched T-Bone’s, his hair and darker than average complexion found their origin in his maternal line.

  Tillis’ direct paternal ancestor had marched into Florida nearly two centuries earlier to fight in what would become known as the Seminole Indian Wars. The native people were driven to the south. Remnants of the tribe would eventually take refuge in an area called Ten Thousand Islands. This seemed satisfactory, because it was clear to all that no white man would ever choose to live there. Unfortunately, Congress occasionally forgot to appropriate funds to bring the troops home. Some men found their own way back, while others, like Tillis’ ancestor, settled in the still sparsely inhabited northern part of the peninsula. Those that stayed earned a living as crackers, a reference to the sound of their whips, herding cattle between grassy patches interspersed amongst the vast and dark flat woods.

  Tillis’ mother was an Alvrez. The middle “a” lost to history. Or at least to a strong southern drawl. Generations earlier, Spain had carved land grants out of the northern third of the Florida peninsula. The Sanchez family received a huge tract on the western side of the peninsula, and the Alvarez family was allocated a similarly generous swath on the eastern side. The fact that there were still a lot of redneck crackers running around North Florida with the last name of Sanchez or Alvrez seemed odd to many. But to Tillis, it was his heritage.

  As Tillis reached into the backseat of the Camaro to retrieve a box, one of the huge double front doors of the cottage swung open. The one hundred year old doors had been carved out of four-inch thick slabs of longleaf pine and weighed a ton, but were perfectly balanced and posed no impediment to the small grey-haired black lady who now stood in the doorway with her hands on aproned hips. Alma Clemons had been Tillis’ housekeeper at Longleaf for more than twenty years, and took her responsibilities there seriously.

  “Tillis!”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Did you forget to turn your telephone on?”

  Tillis pulled a BlackBerry out of the bagged-out pocket of his worn leather jacket. He normally filed an IFR flight plan, which required him to turn his cell phone on and close out the plan after he had landed. But today was beautiful with unlimited visibility and he was in no hurry. He’d chosen to fly VFR and navigate the old fashioned way by dead reckoning and reference to landmarks on the ground. By varying his normal routine, he had forgotten to turn his cell on.

  “Yes, ma’am. I guess I did.”

  “Well don’t that beat all. The Governor’s been lookin’ for you.”

  “Aw, shit.”

  “Tillis! Watch your mouth.”

  “Sorry, Alma. But a call from Chuck usually means trouble.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Sam’s elbows rested on Marc’s glass and polished nickel desk. His face was buried in outstretched hands. Wondering how he could have been so stupid. Wondering if he’d just experienced the worst day of his life. Even worse than San Diego.

  Sam had moved into Marc’s office only six weeks earlier after Marc had begged him for help. Marc had sat at this very desk and cried as he admitted to Sam that he was addicted to prescription pain medication and booze. He was checking into a world-renowned rehab facility in Palm Beach; his mother was devastated. The treatment plan would last for three months, and he would be unable to communicate with the outside world for the first eight weeks.

  Sam had agreed to accept the responsibilities of Acting President and CEO, in addition to his duties as Director of Marketing and Sales. He was not intimidated by the task. Marc had been ignoring his post, which was now understandable, and Sam thought he could move the company forward in several important respects. But his world had come crashing down around him on that bright and sunny Friday morning. The Director of Finance and Investments had frantically attacked him as he entered the building. One hundred and fifty million dollars was missing from the money market accounts.

  Initially Sam displayed a calm air of leadership, assuming that a computer glitch was the culprit, and that the crisis would be resolved before lunch. But each of the three banks that had held the missing funds confirmed the worst. The monies had been wired offshore. The accounts were password encrypted and could only be accessed by the American Senior Security server. The bank executives were firm and brusque - this was his problem not theirs. A wave of nausea and fear settled into his gut.

  Finally he shook free of the fog of confusion long enough to see if Dr. Bob was in. They had become close friends over the past few months. He had shared everything about his life with him. If anybody could figure out what happened to the money, Dr. Bob could. But he wasn’t in, and he wasn’t responding to his BlackBerry.

  Sam’s twenty-year-old secretary suggested they call the police. After all, she explained, when somebody broke into her apartment last year, her dad immediately called the police. Why was this any different? Sam nodded in agreement and had her make the call.

  A detective from the Tampa Police Department eventually appeared in his office, and Sam gave him the scant details. The detective said he would fax his report to the FDLE, and Sam should remain available. Sam asked what the FDLE was. The detective explained, but also said that the FBI might investigate the case since the funds had apparently been wired across state and international boundaries.

  Now there was nothing else for Sam to do but wait and worry. And try and find Dr. Bob. But all he could think about was Sandi. She had known this wasn’t going to work out. She had said the whole thing didn’t feel right to her. She was going to bring Dustin out in two weeks, and they were all going to Disney World together. How would he explain this to Dustin? ‘Sorry, but we can’t go to Disney World. I have to go to jail instead. Why? Because I’m an idiot, that’s why.’ He had failed again. All over again.

  After the report was faxed to the FDLE, it immediately found its way to the desk of Commissioner Ron Alcorn, who called the Governor, who called Tillis. Tillis had his difficulties with past Commissioners. Most knew he had turned down the top spot at FDLE, and resented what they interpreted as arrogance. And a generous dose of envy was thrown into the mix as well. Most had attempted a showy display of their authority, and it had always ended badly for them. Alcorn was different. He understood the workings of a bureaucracy, and he realized that the Governor usually assigned the cases that posed the greatest risk to his career directly to Tillis. That took him out of the loop, which was just where he wanted to be.

  Governor Chuck Lord was known as “the People’s Governor”, and a few black leaders had even labeled him “Florida’s First Black Governor”. But he wasn’t black. Hell, he wasn’t even a Democrat. He was a Republican. And he was a genuinely nice guy, as well as a remarkably optimistic leader. A leader with an approval rating of nearly eighty percent. He had future President of the United States written all over him. He even looked the part. Tillis had backed him from the beginning. From his run for the State Senate, for Education Commissioner, then Attorney General, and finally Governor. He had flown him all over the state. From small town to small town. From fish fry to fish fry. In the process, they had become the best of friends.

  Tillis punched the speed dial button for Governor Lord, who answered on the first ring. “Tillis, how have you been?”

  “Just fine, Chuck. Sorry I was out of pocket there for a while.”

  It was said that Chuck Lord never failed to recognize a face or remember a name. Wh
ich was true. He could also read people, and especially his friends, by the look on their face or the tone of their voice. “What’s the matter, Tillis?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Come on.”

  “Well, I was in Orlando today. Negotiated the last ten year extension on the lease.”

  “Did something go wrong?”

  “No. Not at all. Everything went as planned.”

  “So you improved your cash flow by a few million dollars today, and in ten years it’s all yours. Improvements included. What’s up?”

  “It just made me think, you know, about how much time has passed. I thought I had created a legacy, but that never happened. When this lease expires, I’ll be over seventy.”

  Tillis had enjoyed some wonderful female companionship over the years, but nothing had matured into a lifelong commitment. He loved women. He loved them well and he loved them often. Like a kid in a candy store, he just couldn’t make up his mind. Chuck Lord had found himself in a somewhat similar, but also very different situation. He had briefly married as a young man, but had been a bachelor for almost twenty-five years. He often said that he was married to the State of Florida, but many thought a beguiled America would soon steal his heart.

  “Tillis, I understand. I know that others who have observed your nearly forty-year long hornyfest might be less than sympathetic, but I understand. Time sneaks up on us all, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “Legacies are highly overrated, Tillis. They can have terrible consequences for the generation they are meant to benefit. I’m sure you’ll do a great deal of good for the people of Florida with that pile of money.”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “You ready to talk business?”

  “Go.” Tillis barked.

  “Have you ever heard of a company called American Senior Security?”

  “As a matter of fact I have. I question whether their business plan is actuarially sound.”

  “Well, even if it was before, it sure as hell isn’t now.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “One-hundred and fifty million dollars went missing out of their money market accounts this morning. Apparently wired overseas.” Governor Lord answered in an even tone.

  “What the hell were they doing with that much cash in money market accounts anyway?”

  “Apparently they were in the process of resolving a dispute with the Department of Insurance and were liquidating several high risk assets.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Here’s the immediate problem, Tillis. About a thousand elderly Floridians will be thrown out of their assisted living facilities within the next thirty days because this company can no longer meet its obligations. These are people who are largely unable to speak for themselves. This Governor speaks for those Floridians unable to speak for themselves. As we speak, I am drafting legislation to require these facilities to give six months notice before they can kick my folks out of their homes.”

  “Is that even constitutional? It’s retroactive and it sounds like a taking without compensation.” Tillis mumbled while deep in thought.

  “I’m expecting you to fix this before the Supreme Court is able to answer that question.” Lord responded sternly.

  “Jesus, Chuck, I’ll try my best.”

  “Fix it, Tillis.”

  Tillis heard a click and pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it with both annoyance and a little disbelief. He turned to Alma who was hovering nearby pretending to dust an already pristine end table. “I think my best friend just hung up on me.”

  “That may have been your friend who you been talking to, but that’s not what hung up on you. The Governor’s what hung up on you. And he sounded pissed.”

  Tillis studied Alma for a moment, and then hit the speed dial for Commissioner Alcorn.

  “Have you talked to the Governor?” Alcorn answered.

  “Just now.”

  “He’s pissed.” Alcorn sounded concerned.

  “I know. Tell Sally I want an appointment with the President or CEO or whatever the hell he calls himself of this American Senior Insecurity at seven sharp tomorrow morning. Along with the rest of his top management. And I don’t give a shit if it is a Saturday. Have her pick me up at Peter O. Knight Airport at 6:30. That’s the one over by Mac Dill Air Force Base. Tell her to bring Starbucks.”

  Sally Cummings was Tillis’ so-called “partner”. Tillis was notoriously difficult to work with, but there was always a rookie who was willing to give it a try for the opportunity to learn from the best. Sally was his latest victim.

  “Tillis, Sally’s not your secretary. She’s a Special Agent.” Alcorn pleaded.

  “She volunteered, Ron.”

  “I’m not asking for much here, Tillis. Just a little consideration for a fellow agent.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Thanks. Let me know if there’s anything you need.” Alcorn offered.

  “I need background on this company and all of its major players. Tonight. I’ll check my e-mail every hour. I need a computer forensics team over there right now. I need Sally to get a list of all A.S.S. management top to bottom asap, and then I need you to flag the names to Homeland Security and all local law enforcement. If one of their people tries to leave the country, I need to know. If one of their people takes a piss in the park, I need to know.” Tillis growled.

  “On it.” Alcorn answered.

  Tillis hit the end button on his cell. He also needed a drink, a steak, and then another drink. He pulled himself out of a large cordovan leather library chair. “Alma, would you mind calling the club and telling them I’m on my way.”

  “Watch yourself, Tillis. You’re gonna need a clear head tomorrow.”

  Tillis grabbed Alma in a one-handed bear hug and kissed her on the forehead, but she broke away and put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you go gettin’ all soft on me, Tillis. Look at you all mushy cause you think you’re gettin’ old. Shoot. You ain’t even close to old. You just stick to business and I’ll let you know when you’re old.”

  Tillis chuckled. “You got yourself a deal, Alma. You got yourself a deal.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Dr. Bob’s head was pounding and he was sweating profusely. His hands were bound together at the wrists and his feet at the ankles. He was unable to raise his eyelids. Something was holding them down. His crotch was warm and wet, and his breathing was becoming increasingly rapid. He was beginning to hyperventilate.

  With great effort and concentration he began to slow the pace at which he drew each breath. He now recognized the mental fog he was experiencing as drug related. Been there done that. Soon the high-speed road noise entered his consciousness. But the sound was muffled. He was covered with something. Something that rustled when he moved. Then he remembered the bar.

  He’d been drinking at the Green Parrot again. His cell phone had rung. Unknown number. When he answered he heard the Judge’s voice, but he sounded strange. Distant. Metallic. “Meet me in the parking lot.” And the connection was lost.

  He’d knocked back the tequila rocks he was drinking and stood up. The guy sitting next to him smiled. He looked different from the rest. Soft. Polyester. Not the usual construction worker in jeans and a t-shirt. He’d walked out the door. Unsteady legs. A van pulled up and the side door opened. Somebody got out. Blurry. A man came toward him. Two figures, then one, then two again. Then everything went blank.

  His mind wandered aimlessly and he worked hard to reel it back to the present. He wondered how long it had been since the scene at the Green Parrot. Suddenly the road noise lessened, and soon the vehicle began to bounce and rattle. It had obviously left the highway and was on an unimproved road of some type. And then it came to a stop.

  After a moment a door up front opened and closed, and then he heard the latch of the door at his feet and the resisting squeal of a pair of rusty hinges. The smooth feeling fabric that had been co
vering him was abruptly pulled away. Suddenly he felt the burning pain of eyelashes, eyebrows and hair on the sides and back of his head being ripped out by the roots. Dr. Bob knew his fate was at hand.

  “Finally awake I see. You had me worried for while. Sorry about the tape. That had to hurt.”

  A full and low hanging moon provided the only light entering the open double doors at the back of the van. But it was painfully bright to Dr. Bob’s dilated pupils, and provoked a searing burst of pain that streaked through his brain.

  “How long?” Dr. Bob croaked.

  “It’s been a while. Almost twenty hours by now. My dumb ass brother overdosed your drink with GHB.”

  “Gamma-hydroxybutyrate?”

  “Jesus. That big brain of yours never quits working does it?” The man chuckled. “Yeah. The date-rape drug. But don’t worry. You haven’t been raped.” The man laughed again.

  Dr. Bob hadn’t thought of that, but was relieved nevertheless. As his eyes began to slowly adjust, he saw an IV needle stuck in his forearm. He looked up questioningly, though still squinting and hesitant to face the bright moonlight. The man reached down and ripped the needle and tubing from his arm.

  “Sterile saline solution. I was worried you might get dehydrated and I also wanted to flush the drug out of your system as quickly as possible. I told you. I’ve been worried.”

  Dr. Bob felt slightly reassured by the man’s familiar tone. He looked up again, and recognized his sandy hair and blunt features. But in his heart he knew that this man was really a stranger. That he didn’t know him at all.

  The man placed an open bottle of water in his hands; Dr. Bob’s wrists were still held tightly together with heavy grey duct tape. “Take a drink. Your throat sounds a little raw.”

  Dr. Bob did as he was told. The cool water felt good against his burning throat. Soon the man replaced the water bottle with a king size Snickers candy bar from which he had already removed most of the wrapper.