by Rod Helmers
Sam’s eyes came open slowly as she stood. He watched her fingers turn each button of her blouse aside and push the glinting circles away. He watched her blouse and then her bra slide to the floor, and met her gaze as she worked her jeans past the swell of her hips.
Then she was over him. Matching each deliberately drawn breath to the rise and fall of his chest. Sam tugged at his tethered arm, hoping somehow to free himself and roll onto her. Sandi’s lips lifted into the beginning of a smile and she slowly shook her head.
CHAPTER 48
Tillis, Sally, and Special Agent Charles Broderick sat together in a conference room on Thursday morning watching a big box TV perched atop a black metal stand. The technical people at the FDLE lab had highlighted the arthritic old lady and the sandy-haired man. A circle two or three shades lighter than the rest of the screen enveloped the man and woman whenever they appeared.
The presentation ended with a long view of the cemetery. In the distance an unrecognizable figure was walking away. That figure had been highlighted as well. Tillis held up the remote and turned off the screen. Then he studied Broderick’s impassive features.
“I understand that the facial recognition software is pretty reliable. But I’m the only one who got that close. I sat next to her. I looked her in the eye. That wasn’t her.” Broderick said confidently.
Tillis stood and walked over to the electronic equipment, removed the disc that had just been viewed, and inserted another. After retaking his seat, he raised the remote and the screen again came to life. It was the same scene of the cemetery. But now most of the screen was filled with an image of the distant figure - digitally enhanced and brought into focus. It was the old woman.
The highlighted circle impatiently pushed the elderly woman along as she slowly made her way to the street. After crossing to the other side, she paused momentarily and turned back toward the graveside tent. As if silently assessing all that she had seen. Then as if touched by healing hands, the bent body, crippled by age and disease, straightened to full height and briskly walked away. Sixty years having fallen away in a split second.
Broderick shook his head dejectedly. “She missed her calling. She could have been an academy award winning actress.”
“I’m sorry, Tillis. I let you down.” Now it was just Sally and Tillis. Charles Broderick had left the conference room.
“I don’t blame you for anything. I can’t even really blame Broderick. Instinct can’t be taught. It’s God given. But he needs to recognize that. If you’d been on that balcony, the shit would have hit the fan. Just like at that café. Luck of the draw.”
“It’s eating me up.”
Tillis gave her a rueful smile. “Been there. And normally I’d blame myself. For not dragging my ass down there.”
“Normally?”
Tillis nodded thoughtfully. “Elizabeth Ellen Hayes is a talented actress. I really don’t think my being there would have made any difference. Not as far as she is concerned. But we learned something else from this piece of surveillance.”
“Bubba?”
Tillis pursed his lips and ran both hands thru his thick hair. Mostly black on top, but with more silver spears appearing on the sides every day. “You know that Bubba Williams and I have been friends for a very long time.”
Sally nodded. She sensed vulnerability. Tillis had always been strong. One step ahead of everybody else. A smartass. Suddenly she understood that sarcasm was his antidote to emotion. “I remember. From the fish fry. He taught you how to fly.” She answered softly.
“More than that. He and T-Bone. They taught me more than that.”
Sally stayed silent.
“When Bubba laid his hand on that coffin. On Marc Mason’s coffin. I saw the look on his face. I knew something wasn’t right.” Tillis paused. “The other videographer caught her reaction. She saw it too.”
Sally was momentarily confused. “Ellen? I mean Elizabeth?”
Tillis nodded. “Her instincts are incredible. She saw it. I’ve known Bubba all of my adult life, and I almost missed it. But she saw it.”
“And if you’d been there?”
Tillis shook his head. “He never would’ve let his guard down.”
“But you can’t be sure about any of this. What would The Mouth call it? Conjecture and speculation? I know that you don’t believe in coincidence, but you’re building a case based on coincidence. Coincidence piled upon coincidence.” Sally argued.
Tillis offered a strained smile. “Let me tell you about a friend of mine. His name is DeWitt Dukes.”
“So Bubba’s mother and James Mason’s father were brother and sister?” Sally asked.
“The only son and the only daughter of James Marcus Mason. The first James Marcus Mason. The founder of The Rebel Life Insurance Company. A Grand Dragon of Florida. The original owner of the S&W Model 1917.”
“I knew there was a reason that gun gave me the creeps.”
Tillis looked puzzled. “Magistrate Judge James Mason and Bubba were first cousins. But Bubba barely gave the dearly departed Judge the time of day at the funeral. He mourned for Marc Mason. His cousin’s son. And based on everything we know, Marc Mason wasn’t an easy person to like.”
Sally shrugged. “There could be a lot of reasons for that. Most families, especially extended families, are pretty screwed up. Disputes. Grudges. But I have to agree it’s strange that Bubba never told you he was related. That seems odd. Like he was ashamed. Or embarrassed. Most people like to brag about the judge or corporate executive in the family.”
“We may know more soon. DeWitt sent out a pre-auction letter on the S&W Model 1917. He pulled Bubba’s e-mail address off a website for retired military. Bubba’s already responded. He wants an opportunity to inspect the gun before DeWitt puts it up for e-auction.”
“When?”
“DeWitt told me that he’s meeting him at Lake City for lunch. Today.” Tillis replied.
“Lake City?” Sally asked with equal parts disgust and disbelief. Lake City was not quite a city, and was located in North Florida, near the intersection of I-10 and I-75. It was often referred to proudly by its own as the redneck capital of Florida.
“That’s as far south as DeWitt was willing to go.”
Sally smiled. “The farther south you go, the further North you get?”
Tillis nodded. “Bubba has a small apartment in Tampa, and keeps an old Cessna 310 twin tied down at Tampa International. Mostly to commute back and forth to Ten Thousand Islands. I assume he’s flying up to Lake City, since they’re meeting at the municipal field there.”
“Do you have time for a warrant? To record their conversation?”
“Probably,” Tillis answered. “But no cause. Conjecture and speculation. Remember? I’ll just have to rely on DeWitt.”
Elizabeth had seen Bubba Williams before, and knew he was the corporate pilot for American Senior Security. The web provided a wealth of information, all at her fingertips, and she soon discovered that he was the registered owner of a light aircraft. And that his given name was Mason Earl Williams.
She assumed that he kept the plane at Tampa International, where the corporate jet was based. While posing as a technician, she called the general aviation terminal and confirmed that the plane was on the field. Then she riffled thru the yellow pages, and made three quick stops on the way to the airport. At a uniform supply store, a hardware store, and an avionics retail business near the airfield.
She entered the busy general aviation terminal with her purchases, took a right into the bathroom, and found an empty stall. She quickly changed into the navy blue uniform she’d just purchased, tucked her hair under a matching blue baseball cap, and adjusted her sunglasses. With her clothes stuffed into a large plastic toolbox, and a huge wad of bubblegum shoved into her mouth, Ellen crossed the terminal and confidently joined a group of corporate pilots heading out onto the tarmac.
After spotting the tail number, Ellen veered away from the group and purposefully walk
ed toward the tie-down area. She soon found herself studying the exterior luggage compartment door in the nose of the aircraft. The flimsiness of light aircraft always surprised her, but she recognized the need to save weight.
Except for a new hand-held radio tuned to the tower frequency, the big plastic toolbox contained the most low-tech of equipment. Bent at the knees, nearly sitting on the upturned heels of her black running shoes, Ellen hovered over the toolbox and removed a short crowbar - a smaller version of something known to every carpenter.
After rising to shield the luggage door from view, she slipped the tapered end under the latch and popped it open. Then she used the claw end to break the latch from its rivets. The luggage door now hung open. A curved flap of fiberglass about three feet long and one foot wide gently swinging in the light breeze.
Again she bent down and rummaged thru the plastic toolbox, emerging with duct tape and a disposable cell phone. Ellen attached the phone to the interior fiberglass wall of the luggage compartment - two strips of duct tape crossing each other at perfect right angles held it tightly against the body of the aircraft. Then she stuck the bubblegum she’d been chewing where the latch had once fit, and gently closed the door.
Ellen stepped back and studied her work. She wasn’t an aeronautical engineer, but she understood simple physics. And she knew the power of wind filling a sail. While anticipating that an experienced pilot like Bubba could probably regain control of the aircraft and land, she accepted the possibility of a catastrophic result with a shrug.
Bubba walked to his plane. The Cessna 310 twin had been manufactured in the late sixties. It wasn’t pretty to look at, but it was mechanically sound. He saw to that. He wasn’t about to die in a puddle jumper after surviving a myriad of close calls in some of the most sophisticated aircraft in the world.
He quickly bled the fuel cocks - confirming that there was no water condensation in the tanks. He studied the leading edges of the airfoils and the main landing gear and tires. The preflight inspection was nearly complete as he moved to the nose gear. And then he abruptly stopped in his tracks.
The sweet and artificial scent of bubblegum drifted past his nose. He looked down at the asphalt, but didn’t find what he was looking for. He lifted each foot separately and inspected the soles of his shoes. Then he exhaled; relieved that he hadn’t inadvertently discovered the source of the smell.
With gum free shoes Bubba climbed into the cockpit and brought the old bird to life. The erratic growl of the high compression air-cooled engines at idle was sweet music to his ears - despite spending most of his life piloting jets, piston-powered aircraft still held a soft spot in his heart. After completing the engine run-up and the rest of the pre-flight checklist at the controls of the plane, Bubba contacted the tower for taxi and takeoff instructions.
Soon he found himself at the runway threshold with final clearance for takeoff and a straight out climb to seven thousand feet. After pushing the throttle controls forward and watching the manifold pressure settle in at maximum takeoff power, Bubba shifted his attention to the airspeed indicator. At the indicated rotation speed, he gently pulled back on the yoke and began a steady climb out as the landing gear retracted into the belly of the machine.
As he neared one thousand feet, he adjusted the throttle controls, and manifold pressure decreased three inches, from maximum takeoff power to climb-out power. The power reduction caused a slight vibration. Bubba reached for the controls and began to synch the props. But his ears were not met by the sound of the two blades biting into the air at precisely the same angle - singing in perfect harmony with each other. Instead, his ears were assaulted by a loud bang emanating from the nose of the aircraft.
As he pulled his startled hand away from the blue levers, the nose of the plane lurched skyward as air rushed into the forward luggage compartment. The craft was coming close to losing aerodynamic lift and stalling. Bubba pushed forcefully on the yoke and brought the plane back to level flight, and then heard the same loud bang again as the luggage door slammed shut. Suddenly the forward pressure he’d maintained on the yoke was no longer necessary, but before he could react the aircraft entered a steep descent.
A less experienced pilot would have continued the seesaw pattern, with each recurrence more exaggerated than the last, until finally losing control. But Bubba knew better. He gently pulled back on the yoke. Gradually nudging the aircraft into level flight. All the while prepared to apply immediate pressure should the loud bang repeat itself. Should the plane again seek the heavens. Which it did.
He held the plane in level flight despite violent buffeting. The noise morphed into a staccato pattern - almost a machine-gun like noise - as the door repeatedly opened and closed. Suddenly the aluminum hinges succumbed to metal fatigue, and the fiberglass door separated from the aircraft and tumbled upward and backward. Bubba ducked involuntarily as the piece of fiberglass shot past the windshield and along the fuselage. Into the slipstream. And then disappeared.
Bubba breathed a sigh of relief. Now he knew what the noise was. He knew what he was dealing with. And the luggage door hadn’t impacted the props. The plane was sluggish, but the airframe was a stable platform again. He got on the radio, declared an emergency, and made a gentle turn back to the airport. The landing wasn’t perfect, but he consoled himself with a well-worn saying among aviators: ‘Any landing you walk away from is a good landing.’
Bubba climbed out of the Cessna and used the back of his hands to wipe away the beads of sweat that clung to his eyebrows. The grizzled pilot had survived closer calls, and he was quickly losing the adrenalin rush. Fear was a drug he’d abused, and it had lost its effectiveness. That sweet moment after death is cheated - when life is embraced - had become fleeting.
Bubba shook his head as he stood in a wide stance with his hands on his hips. He was no longer happy or even relieved to have survived - now he was just plain annoyed. His annoyance was soon replaced with shock as the sound of a ringing cell phone emanated from the newly formed gaping hole in the nose of his airplane. He stuck his head in the hole, ripped some duct tape away from the fiberglass wall of the fuselage, and pulled the phone lose.
“What the hell?” Bubba barked as he studied the ringing cell phone. “Hello,” he answered aggressively.
“How was your flight?” Ellen answered in her husky smoker’s voice.
“Who the hell is this?”
“The heir.”
“The hair?” Bubba shouted.
“Not hair, you ignorant redneck hillbilly jackass. The heir.”
“The heir to what?” Bubba snapped angrily.
“The heir to all that money you stole, asshole.”
Bubba was at a loss for words. He involuntarily looked around to see if anybody was watching.
“Cat got your tongue, dickhead? Keep this phone with you at all times. I’ll be in touch. Either I get my money back, or you die.”
CHAPTER 49
The Hangar was a modest affair. A steel prefab structure similar in color and design to the other buildings on the tarmac. It contained seven or eight tables and counter seating for about a dozen. A large hand-painted sign hung in the front window facing the tie-down area. ‘Home of the Hundred Dollar Burger.’ Actually, the burger and fries cost $4.95.
The sign was somebody’s idea of a joke. Recreational pilots often visited the field for lunch. Of course, lunch wasn’t the point. It was an excuse to fly. And The Hangar provided a destination. It was probably inevitable that some mathematically minded pilot would figure out the cost in fuel and maintenance for a typical lunchtime flight. But the sign was still a stick in the eye.
Bubba Williams had no trouble spotting the stranger he was meeting for lunch. It was nearly 2:45, and everyone else had left. Even the counter and cash register had been abandoned. DeWitt Dukes was sitting in the corner, engrossed in a book, and didn’t notice the sandy-haired man enter the small eatery.
“Mr. Dukes?” Bubba asked.
The meek and
reticent looking man jumped, and then spoke in a soft drawl. “Oh. Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.” DeWitt stood and shook Bubba’s hand.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. Did you get my message?”
“Oh, yes. The cashier told me. Mechanical problems. I hope it wasn’t serious.”
Bubba winced. “Serious enough, I guess. I had to rent a little single-engine. Again, I’m sorry I’m late.”
“These things can’t be avoided. I appreciate you letting me know.” DeWitt nodded at a plate covered with tin foil sitting on the table. “I’m afraid the kitchen closed at two. I took the liberty of ordering you a burger and fries. And a coke. It’s probably cold though.” He paused. “The food, I mean. Not the drink.”
Bubba laughed and gestured for DeWitt to sit, and then also took a seat and ripped off the foil. “God bless you. I’m starving.”
DeWitt smiled. “Go ahead. I’ll talk while you eat.”
Bubba studied the weapon like a valuable piece of art. Which, despite an unappetizing origin and history, it was. “This is it. I remember it clearly.”
“You’ve seen it before?” DeWitt inquired.
Bubba paused, as if traveling back in time. Through long unvisited lands. Over difficult terrain. “When I was very young. Maybe eight or nine years old.”
“Was your grandfather still alive?”
Bubba nodded. “He showed it to me. On one of the two or three occasions I met him.”
DeWitt looked at Bubba quizzically, but said nothing. An unchallenged silence settled in as Bubba looked out the window. Past the airplanes and runway. Maybe it was because of DeWitt’s easy-going manner. Or maybe because of his close call that morning. But Bubba finally began to talk. He opened up with a stranger. A complete stranger. Which may have been the point.
“In a way it was my fault. I was illegitimate. Well, not technically. My father married my mother before I was born. I was a love child. That’s what polite Southerners called it then.”
