If I Live

by Terri Blackstock

  And saved me a wad of cash, which is good since this plane isn’t worth the price he was asking.

  On the map, I find a small airport just west of Corpus Christi, and I follow the coast of Louisiana on my way to Texas. Once I stop to fuel up, I won’t have to stop again until I’m well into Mexico.

  As I fly, I scan the sky for other planes and listen to the radio for other flights in my area. I don’t like flying without guidance from a tower, but it is what it is.

  I set my GPS with the coordinates that will take me to that little airport, then I unzip my duffel bag on the seat next to me, and I dig through for a baseball cap. I pull it on and look in the mirror. With the sunglasses, maybe people won’t immediately think I’m the guy whose face is on the news.

  This never should have happened. I never should have been exposed. I was careful, covering my tracks, staging evidence, and paying people for their help . . . That slippery girl and that mental case never should have been able to find me out.

  I blame Rollins and Phillips and the others who weren’t as careful as I was. Or maybe it was Candy. Maybe she was loose-lipped in Dallas, bragging about our relationship, and somehow word got back to Dylan Roberts.

  As I fly, I go back over the evidence they have on me now. Besides what they’re already reporting on TV, they’ll eventually find Jake Gibbons in his car. Will they realize I’m the one who took the plane? Will they arrest DA Phillips? Does he have the backbone to not expose everything else we’ve done? Will they find Jim Pace’s body in my trunk at the Raymond airport?

  There’s no way I can allow myself to be seen before I’m out of the country, and even then, I’ll have to keep my head down as I make my way down Central America and into Ecuador.

  Now that I see how much fuel I’m burning, I’m wondering if I should have planned things differently. Maybe it would have been wiser to go to Cuba instead.

  No time for second-guessing now. It’ll be okay. Everything usually works out for me.

  I find the box of cigars I shoved into my bag and pull one out and put it in my teeth. I grab the matches and light it.

  It calms me and reminds me that I need to celebrate. I got all that cash from Rollins, every penny he made under the table, and I can live well somewhere else. I’m almost home free. Dylan Roberts and Casey Cox haven’t won. I have. I’m always the one who comes out on top.

  I take the cigar out of my mouth and laugh out loud. What am I worried about? I’ll be in Corpus Christi in another hour. I’ll fuel up on my own, and nobody will pay me the slightest attention. I’ll hop into Mexico, refuel at Mexican airports during the night, and be in Ecuador by morning.

  Even with the shorter range in this plane, my plan will work.

  I’m almost home free.

  53

  DYLAN

  I’m studying the map and trying to figure out whether Keegan might head for Cuba or down into Mexico, when a Raymond police officer calls me. “Thought you might be interested in this,” he says. “Jake Gibbons’s wife mentioned that the Cessna Keegan stole has some problems. It’s burning fuel faster than it should, which is why they’ve had a hard time selling it.”

  “So he has to stop earlier than we thought to refuel.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  As I get off the phone, I look at my map. If Keegan is headed for Cuba, he would have to stop in Florida to refuel. If he’s going down to Mexico, he would have to go by way of Texas. He would probably have to stop somewhere in the southern part of Texas to refuel.

  There are a couple of FBI special agents here now, working with us to get up to speed. Special Agent Griffin has been on the phone. He clicks it off, then steps toward me. “We’ve contacted the Air Route Traffic Control Centers for Class B Airspace to let them know to look for a plane that might not have contacted the tower and might have its transponder off.”

  “That’s not narrow enough,” I tell him. “There are planes that don’t even have transponders. If I were Keegan, I’d be looking for a small airport that doesn’t have a tower and has self-fueling. That way he doesn’t risk having to talk to somebody who might recognize him.”

  Agent Griffin gets back on his phone and puts out an alert to private airports in all the Gulf states. He also calls other agents working this case and orders them to put in calls to the private airports in case they don’t see the alerts, starting with Texas and Florida.

  The other agent, named Bilao, yells across the room, “We just got a ping on Keegan’s phone! The number he called Gibbons from this morning.”

  “Where is he?” I ask.

  “He’s just west of New Orleans.”

  “He must be going toward Texas.” I hustle back to my desk and open the aviation chart I’ve pulled up on my computer for south Texas. I try to figure out where he might have to land to refuel.

  There are small airports all over southern Texas. Dillinger, one of the detectives in the unit, looks over my shoulder and I show him how to identify the small airports.

  “There are a lot of them,” he says. “How will we narrow it down?”

  “He would choose one that’s self-announcing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It means there’s no one there watching him land. No tower to talk to. Pilots have to announce their landing on the radio in case there are other aircraft in the area about to land on the same runway. And an airport that small usually has self-fueling pumps. He might never have to interact with anyone.” I print out the map on my screen, jerk it off the printer tray, and, with a red pen, circle all the small airports that fit that criteria.

  “This one,” I say. “I would choose this one, just outside Corpus Christi. If he’s burning fuel as fast as we hope he is, he wouldn’t try to make it all the way into Mexico. He’d have to stop around Corpus. This airport is perfect. This is the one I’d choose.”

  The FBI agents get on the phone with Houston Center, the tower that tracks the planes in that region. With their radar, they locate a plane that hasn’t contacted them and doesn’t have its transponder on, in the vicinity where the phone pinged off the tower.

  “I think we’ve got him,” Bilao says.

  54

  KEEGAN

  By the time I locate the small runway west of Corpus Christi, my bladder feels ready to burst. I can’t wait to get out of the plane to relieve myself, but I can’t go inside to use the facilities because someone there might recognize me.

  I’ll have to find a place outside.

  I self-announce my landing on the radio, knowing it’s not going to be picked up by most people listening. Then I begin my descent.

  My landing is a little bumpy because this plane is about ready for the garbage heap, but I get the job done. I taxi to the tarmac. There’s a small hangar with a couple of planes inside, and about half a dozen planes are tied down outside. I see the gas pumps and taxi toward them.

  Cigar in my teeth, I get out of the plane. I open the fuel cap and reach for the pump. I need a credit card, and that gives me pause for a minute. The ones in my wallet are in my name. I lean back into the plane and dig through my duffel bag for my fake passport and my alias credit card.

  I get back out and stick the credit card in, and when it’s approved, I put the nozzle in and start filling the tank.

  “Put your hands over your head and get down on the ground!”

  I swing around. I’m surrounded. SWAT team guys with “FBI” on their vests and helmets stand at all angles, ready to spray bullets into my brain.

  No! It’s not going to end this way!

  “Hands over your head, Keegan,” someone repeats. “Get down on the ground!”

  I know they’re going to shoot me if I go for my gun, but something deep inside me rages to the surface. As one last act of defiance, I pull the nozzle out and spray gas toward the three guys closest to me. Then I drop my cigar. Flames whoosh up as a bullet slashes through me, twisting somewhere in my side. My head hits concrete.

  My own clothes catch fir
e and I roll, trying to put out the flames. Searing pain in my flesh mingles with the nerve-scream of that bullet through bone and muscle.

  Before I know it they’ve put out the fire and are on top of me, my face down on the pavement, the smell of gasoline and gunpowder making me heave.

  They remove my gun and the knife in my pocket . . . cuffing my hands behind my back . . . knocking my forehead to the pavement. I’m bleeding and frying . . .

  I feel consciousness slipping away . . . in . . . out . . . and things blur like the hazy fumes of the fuel.

  55

  DYLAN

  A cheer goes up in the Major Crimes Unit as the FBI sends us video of their takedown of Keegan. It’s all there—his fight to the end, his alias credit card, which may lead us to his offshore bank accounts, the trail of bodies on his way to get out of the country to escape prosecution.

  Chief Gates is in the room as we celebrate, and I see that he’s more somber than the rest of us. He’s slumped in a chair behind Keegan’s desk, which has been cleared of his possessions, all taken into evidence.

  “You okay, Chief?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Just not in the celebrating mood. All of Casey Cox’s and your allegations are true. Right there, for everybody to see. There’s a trail of dirty cops on my watch. It’s about to get ugly.”

  “At least he can’t kill anybody else.” I turn back to Special Agent Griffin, who’s still with us. “What were his injuries?”

  “Gunshot wound on the right side, missed his lung, grazed some ribs. Burns on his arms and legs. He can be patched up and flown back here on an FBI transport.

  “Also, we got the surveillance video of the Gibbons homicide. It shows Keegan meeting him in the parking lot, then following him to his car and leaning in. He’s not going to shake free of these charges. We have so much evidence against him now that he can’t squirm his way out of this.”

  Chief Gates gets a call and walks out of the room. I wonder if I can get permission to go into the jail and give Casey the good news.

  I step out into the hall to follow the chief. I catch him on the stairs. He’s just getting off his phone.

  “Chief! Can I talk to you?”

  He turns. “I have good news for you, Dylan.”

  “More?” I ask.

  “It’s about Casey. I was just talking to the AG. He saw the surveillance video and has reviewed all the evidence against Keegan, and he’s considering dropping Casey’s indictment for Brent Pace’s murder.”

  “Considering? This should be a no-brainer.”

  “Just be patient. Casey will go before the judge tomorrow morning. She’ll still have a few minor charges even if they drop the murder charge, but my guess is he’ll set a low bond for her.”

  “I want to be there.”

  “Feel free. And when she’s released, you can take her to the safe house to join her family. She probably should stay there until we locate the rest of those involved in this.”

  I want to dance, to laugh, to hug Casey. Instead I try to look professional. “Thank you, sir.”

  He shakes my hand. “No, thank you, Dylan. We couldn’t have done all this without you today. Even the FBI told me you’d come through for them. I hope they don’t hire you out from under me.”

  “I’m here as long as you want me.”

  “We need you. We have a lot of rebuilding to do. It’s going to take an army of geniuses to dig out of this mess. At least I’ll have one to start with.”

  I think of my mother, my father, my uncle . . . all those who have told me I’m worthless. I don’t care if they never learn the truth. I know it, and God knows it, and so does Casey.

  That’s all the validation I need.

  56

  CASEY

  I expected to be interviewed all day today, but they’ve left me alone in my cell. The time ticking by is ramping up my anxiety. If there were something to distract me, it would be easier. But in lockdown there’s no TV, no radio, no books.

  I spend a lot of time praying, and I force my mind to focus on gratitude. As Dylan was the first to point out to me, if I look for God, I’ll see where he’s working.

  I’m thankful for the six-inch mattress on the metal bench bolted to the floor, and the blanket they’ve issued me. I’m thankful for the ill-fitting socks and the fact that I can pull my arms inside my jumpsuit and keep them warm. I’m thankful that they allowed me to shower this morning, and that the nurse practitioner looked at the wound that’s healing on my shoulder and took out the stitches Dex sewed into me when he patched me up and gave me antibiotics. I’m thankful that Dylan is working in freedom to help find Keegan.

  I’m thankful that the guards have been kind, that one of them stood guard when I showered, that no one else has been allowed near me. I’m thankful that one of them said she remembers my father, and that he deserved better than he got.

  I’m thankful that they’ve allowed me to call and talk to my mom and Hannah. I’m thankful that they’re in a safe house where Keegan can’t get to them.

  And as I doze into a light sleep, I thank God most of all for Dylan. I know he’s working behind the scenes to help me. I feel safe in this place, no longer burdened by my load.

  Yes, time ticks slowly, but I trust that resolutions will come soon enough.

  57

  DYLAN

  I want to check on Casey, but I can’t get clearance to see her, and they’re not interviewing her, so I can’t look in. Instead I go check on her family. As I’m heading to the safe house, my phone rings. It’s Special Agent Griffin.

  “Dylan, I wanted to let you know that we found Jim Pace’s body. It was in the trunk of Keegan’s car, in the parking lot at the Raymond airport.”

  Though his death doesn’t surprise me, I can’t help thinking about his poor wife finding out about this. “Has this been released to the press yet?”

  “No, not yet. We wanted to notify the family first.”

  “I’d like to go with whoever notifies her. I’m a friend of the family.”

  “I was about to go tell her myself. You can meet me there.”

  I’m somber as I drive to the Pace house, thinking of how I loved going over there when Brent and I were kids, how the place always smelled like cookies, how it was synonymous with happiness to me.

  I get there before Griffin, and I sit alone out front, remembering how high we used to climb that oak tree in the front yard. There was a tire swing his father had rigged up with a rope as thick as my arm, and we spun on it for hours until we were so dizzy we couldn’t walk straight. The swing was cut down years ago.

  I feel a fierce longing for my old friend. I miss him. I never got to say goodbye.

  Griffin pulls up, and I blink back the mist in my eyes and get out of the car, wiping all expression from my face. I try to sort through what Elise might know from the news. Jim’s name hasn’t been released yet, and they haven’t revealed that any of it happened on the Pace property.

  Elise answers the door when I ring the bell. “Dylan, I didn’t expect to see you. I’ve been watching the news. I don’t even know what to say. Nothing is what I thought it was. Why haven’t you called me?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve just been so busy with it all. I thought maybe Chief Gates was keeping you informed.”

  “No. It’s like everybody’s avoiding my calls.”

  I introduce her to Agent Griffin. She has company—two women—and she introduces us to her sister and her niece and takes us into the kitchen to sit at the table I’ve eaten at so many times.

  As she sits down, she says, “I know you have a lot to tell us about the case, but I’m afraid Jim isn’t home. He left to go out of town the night before last, and I haven’t been able to get in touch with him to tell him about all this. I guess he’s been busy. He hasn’t answered any of my voice mails or texts.”

  I swallow the knot in my throat and reach out to take her hand. “Elise, that’s why we’re here. It’s about Jim.”

  She tips her head an
d her eyes suddenly get a defensive expression, and she draws her hand back. “Please don’t do this to me again.”

  I can’t speak, and I look at Griffin. He’s opening his mouth to say it himself, but I find my voice. “Elise, I’m so sorry, but Jim is dead. He was shot last night.”

  The two women are on her instantly as she crumples in her chair. “No!” she says. “He’s not. It’s a mistake.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

  She covers her mouth with her hand and sobs into it, and tries to get up, but she falls back. “No . . . What . . . Tell me how this happened . . . Who did this?”

  Now I let Griffin take over. “Mrs. Pace, your husband was being blackmailed by Gordon Keegan. Because of that, he was complicit in some of Keegan’s crimes.”

  “No!” she shouts, cutting him off. She gets up, stumbles away. Her sister tries to bolster her, but Elise turns to me. “It’s that girl. She got to you. She’s brainwashed you somehow. This isn’t true. None of this is true!”

  “Elise . . .” Her sister pulls her into her arms and holds her. “Honey, you knew something wasn’t right. He had so many secrets.”

  “Not this!” she screams. “He wasn’t involved in killing our son. He loved him.”

  I quickly take the reins again. “Elise, he didn’t know about Brent. He would’ve never been involved in that. I told him about Keegan’s involvement in Brent’s death myself, and I’m absolutely positive it was news to him. He confronted Keegan. That’s when they shot him.”