by Andrew Allan
“What’d it say?” I said into the phone.
DG described the paper’s breakdown. Neighbors had seen a suspect, believed to be me, wandering through Gainesville’s Raintree neighborhood yesterday afternoon and had witnessed me murdering a man named Barry Wilson.
“DG, there’s no way that guy's name was Barry Wilson. He spoke French and was definitely European.”
“Just reading like it’s printed. Every P.D. in the state’s waiting for you to show up.”
I couldn’t go home. Not to Dunnellon. Not to Clearwater or Gainesville.
“Did it say anything else?”
“They’re looking for Ilsa, too.”
My heart sank.
“What do I do?” I felt lost. I’d read about things like this happening in crime novels.
“You need to get proof, that they killed Ken and came after you. Once you get that, I can tap my connections to make sure the information gets to the right people,” he said.
It helped to know I wasn’t in this alone. But, any hope he gave me was squashed by the impossible notion of getting the proof I needed. In the end, it was all I had.
He continued, “But first, you need to disappear for a bit. I can hide you like I said before.”
“My first concern is keeping Ilsa safe. She’s with me now.”
“She can stay here while you take care of business.”
“Thank you. I also need to get into Ken’s house. To check his files. That’s the only lead I have.”
“You mentioned that the other night. I had a couple of my guys save you the trouble. All of his house files are on my desk.”
That was a relief.
“Where are you?” he said.
“Crystal River. The Manatee Motel, right on 19.”
“We’ll be there to pick you up in an hour. Be ready. I’ll bring someone to drive your car. You don’t want to be seen in it.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Who was that?” said Ilsa behind me.
I turned around to see her blinking the sleep from her eyes.
“DG. How much did you hear?” I said.
“Enough.”
Three days ago my life was in perfect order. A good job. A great love life. Happy kids. Everything in balance. Now, depending on who found me first, I was about to get fired from jobs, get arrested for murder, or flat out killed. Perhaps my girlfriend, too. Three rotten choices, none of my making. And that meant only one thing: I now had to do the best sales job of my life and convince everyone I didn’t do it. And, there’s only one surefire way to change people’s minds and convince them to buy it: proof.
But, that would have to wait. Because when I got up to glance out the window I saw a police car parked directly behind Ilsa’s car, blocking it. Two cops were speaking to the manager of the hotel, who pointed to our room. The cops walked over and knocked on our door. Not good.
“Ilsa! The cops,” I said.
“Huh?”
I ran into the bathroom and learned the only window in the room was along the front wall above the air unit. The only way out was through the front door.
“What are we going to do?” she said as I walked from the bathroom. I shrugged and gestured towards the door, like I have to open it. She got out of bed and hurried to slip on her clothes. Once they were on, she nodded, straightened out some wrinkles, and I opened the door.
“Hello, Officer.”
He was big and packed tight into his formfitting uniform, bulked up around the torso by a bulletproof vest. A buzz cut, clean-shaven, with a pair of spires from a neck tattoo peeking above his shirt color. His right hand rested on his gun, holster open. A pair of cops stood flanked behind him, hands on their guns, too.
The motel manager scampered back to the motel lobby, shaking his head like he’d be glad to be rid of us. And, we were quiet tenants. Jerk.
“Walter Asher?”
“Yes.”
“Is that Ilsa Jorissen?” he looked past me to the bed.
“It is.”
“Anyone else in there?”
“No.”
“I need you two to step outside, please.”
I nodded and turned to Ilsa. This looked bad. Real bad.
“We gotta go outside.”
She looked at the cop and nodded. We walked out into the scorching sunlight. It was already hot and humid at that early hour. I could smell the salt in the air wafting off the nearby Gulf of Mexico. Wind blew nearby palm fronds as cars zipped by on the highway.
With no other options, I figured I’d better turn the charm up to eleven.
“How can I help you, sir?” I said.
“I have a warrant for your arrest. And, for Ms. Jorissen.”
And, there was said warrant right in his hand.
Dammit. Charm to 12.
“I can tell you’re looking at me like this must be some kind of mix up. That it is. But, you have orders to follow. Even though I probably don’t look anything like someone who would have a warrant out on them.” I said as I noticed the sleazy motel, which set the scene. “Except for the fact that I’m staying in this grimy motel, which you’ve probably had to pay numerous visits to, right?”
Persuasion tip: Get them agreeing with you.
“By the way, you guys need a drink? I know how hard you guys work. I have some water and sodas in the ice bucket?” Persuasion tip: Acknowledge and appreciate.
His expression read impatience.
“No sir, I need you and Ms. Jorissen to get in the squad car peacefully.”
“What are the charges?”
“Murder.”
“We need to call our lawyer,” said Ilsa stepping out the door behind me.
“Ma’am you can do that at the station. I need you both to enter the police vehicle now.”
She looked to me for answers. I looked to the officer.
We got in the car. The officer radioed into the station. No sale.
Our squad car raced down Highway 19, through Crystal River, a quaint, low-key downtown area filled with outdoor recreation enthusiasts and manatee seekers. The town looked like it had changed very little over the past fifty years. But, like most small towns in America, chain stores and retail glut were spreading at the city limits. For reasons I never understood, Crystal River also had a disproportionate amount of New York transplants.
I watched as banks of mangroves blurred past. They were growing out towards the Gulf of Mexico. The water would have been warm and calm. The way things were going, I couldn’t help wondering when I’d see the Gulf again.
I looked at Ilsa. She wasn’t sad and she wasn’t mad. Just frustrated and I could tell her Dutch ingenuity was working overtime for a solution. She looked at me and forced a smile. I forced one in return and mouthed the words “I’m sorry.” She shook her head letting me know it wasn’t my fault. But, she couldn’t look me in the eye.
Things were getting serious. The dark powers that be had already pulled enough strings have me arrested. But, the thought gnawing at my guy was a suspicion that we’d never make it to court. They didn’t want us talking. They wanted us dead and quiet. I didn’t want to tell Ilsa.
As I sat there rolling the situation over in my mind a huge, camouflage painted four by four truck with an enclosed metal box on back raced past our police car. That was bold.
But, not as ballsy as what happened next:
The 4x4 hit its brakes and turned, tires squealing, to a stop across the middle of the road. That cut the lead police car off from our car. And, it was making our car slow down. Forget reaching court. We weren’t even going to make it to the police station.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“WHAT’S HAPPENING?” SAID Ilsa. The police offer driving the car didn’t respond. Instead he called the other car through his shoulder radio. Our car slowed then stopped.
“What’s going on?” I asked the officer.
He started to get out of the car but stopped. He reached back across the dashboard and hit a switch. It took until
he was out and walking towards the truck for me to realize what he’d done.
“He turned off the dash cam,” I said.
“They’re not supposed to,” said Ilsa.
“I have the feeling none of this is supposed to happen.”
A gaunt man climbed out of the truck. Jeans, t-shirt, a hardened, familiar look – he was one of the men watching Ilsa’s house.
The cop pointed at the car, at us. The police officer from the lead car walked around the camouflage truck and joined them. They walked our way.
“Ilsa, that’s one of the men from your house,” I said.
“But, how?”
“Maybe they followed us.”
“I think they would have come after us at the motel.”
“Then, they heard about it on the police radio.”
The police each took one side of the car. Guns out, they opened our doors.
“Out of the car. Now!” said the officer who’d been driving us.
We got out. The zip cuffs were hurting my wrists.
The Gaunt Man sneered at me. Evil in his eyes. European features on his face. Just like “Barry Wilson”.
I had just gotten on my feet when the cop hit my back and pushed me stumbling forward. I regained my balance just as the officer grabbed my arm and lead me towards the gaunt man’s truck. Ilsa received the same treatment not far behind me.
The Gaunt Man moved ahead of us, jiggling keys off his belt, and opened the back of the truck. Nothing inside except hot, hard steel.
I stopped at the bumper and turned to ask the cop something. Before I got a word out, the Gaunt Man grabbed my arm and the back of my pants. He and the cop hoisted me into the truck. I landed hard, hitting my chin against the metal floor. I rolled onto my back just as Ilsa was tossed in.
“Hey, wait!” she said.
The doors slammed shut. It was dark, hot, and stuffy.
“Walter, what the fuck?” said Ilsa.
“Stay calm.”
The truck rumbled to life.
“We’ve been patient so far. When they open this door we fight,” I said.
“How? Our hands. My ties won’t budge.” If she was holding her hands up for me to see, I couldn’t. It was pitch black. Sweat had beaded all over my skin.
“Use your head. People never expect head butting. It hurts and does serious damage. Aim for their nose,” I said.
The truck continued to rumble but didn’t move.
“That weird guy’s the one that tried to stab me at my house. I’ve fought him once and gotten away. No reason it can’t happen again.”
“But, the police. They’re helping them. They handed us right over!”
That was more than troubling. It was one thing to think these killers would intercept us before we could squawk. It was a bigger problem to be handed over to them. The Gaunt Man and the other attackers didn’t look like types who could call shots that big. They had to be working for someone. But, who could have the power to make a police department surrender us and look the other way?
I realized the truck still hadn’t moved just as I heard the sound of another vehicle pulling up, equally loud.
“Another vehicle.”
“I don’t want them to separate us, Walt.”
“We won’t let them.”
The truck’s loud rumble made it impossible to hear what was happening outside. The heat was stifling. And, being in here too long would weaken us. We’d be no good for fighting.
Ilsa said, “What’s going on?”
“I can’t hear.”
A loud clang from something striking the metal walls. We jumped. I scrambled onto my knees, turned, and placed my head next to the door. Nothing.
“Can you get to your feet?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Good. Do it. When they open the door we can charge them. Remember, top of your head. Aim for his nose. Try to land on him or your shoulder. Then, run. ”
“Okay.”
She stood up from the sound of it.
“Walt,” she said.
“Yes?” I said.
“Find me and kiss me. Just in case.”
We shuffled through the dark, finally bumping shoulder to shoulder. I found her head with mine, smelled her hair, and used my nose to follow the curve of her cheek down to her lips. It was a long, tender kiss that re-ignited my spirit.
Then we waited. The truck continued to rumble. My hearing continued to prove insufficient for picking out details.
After a moment, she said, “Do you think—“
Keys rattled, the handle cranked, the doors opened. Light blasted in as we blasted out. “Go!”
We leaped out of the truck. I tensed, prepared to ram against flesh and bone. But, I fell shoulder first against the dusty, rocky ground. It hurt like a mother.
“Take it easy, boy,” a voice sad. “No need to get uppity.” A boot stepped on my chest, pinning me to the ground. The sun was so bright I couldn’t see anything. Might as well have been blindfolded.
I blinked and squinted until I could make out a scruffy, denim-clad man standing over me. His shadow blocked the sun, which allowed me to see. He was a biker. Stitched to his denim vest was a patch. DG’s colors. I looked around for Ilsa. She had a dirty face and a bloody nose. And, several more bikers were standing around her. All wearing DG’s colors.
“What’s going on?” I said looking up at the biker hovering over me.
He pulled me to my feet and dusted me off. The other bikers did the same for Ilsa. I was about to ask my question again when I saw the Gaunt Man chained up against the side of the camouflage truck and held in place by two of the biggest, meanest looking bikers I’ve ever seen.
“We got here just as the fuzz took off. I’m Bannon. We have a mutual friend.”
“DG,” I said.
He nodded and moved his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.
“How did you know?” I said.
“He had us scanning the police radio after your name appeared in the paper. The call came in and we caught up to you.”
I looked to Ilsa. “You okay?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine.” She sniffed blood.
“What about him,” I said, gesturing to the Gaunt Man.
Bannon smiled like a devil. “You’re gonna ride back with the pack. Me and Sonny and Waffle are gonna stick around and ask our friend with the funny accent a few questions. We’ll let you know what we find out.”
It’s an awful feeling knowing someone is about to experience brutal pain on your behalf. That’s why I didn’t look back after hopping on one of the choppers. As its engine revved, I heard the metal slink of a long chain sliding across the ground, plus a few nefarious laughs. I didn’t want to see what was coming next. But, after being attacked, stalked, almost killed, forced to kill, and kidnapped – by the police, no less – I wanted some goddamn answers. And, I didn’t care how they got them.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RETURNING TO DG’S house put me at ease. Well, as much as could be expected given the circumstances. Having been arrested for breakfast, the first thing we did was eat. After that, Ilsa found a spare bedroom to lie down in. The day had already exhausted her.
I needed a hit of normalcy, so I put in a call to my kids. It was fantastic to hear their voices. Just small talk – how was your day, what have you been up to...that kind of thing. I didn’t tell them about my day. For a few moments, they calmed me down and made me forget the last thirty-six hours. But, when they asked if they were still going to see me this weekend, I could only say that I hoped so. It reminded me just how much was at stake. They need their father. That meant I needed to get to work.
DG pointed to a quiet room at the end of a dimly lit hallway, past stacks of boxes of assorted items, everything from pungent leather biker vests to jars of moonshine. Whatever was selling that week, I assumed.
The room’s tongue and groove wood paneling made it cozy. I sat down at a wobbly desk and took in the mountain of files and papers
from Ken’s house. Where to begin?
I started shuffling through the files, first organizing by category – personal, business, then activism. I had trouble distinguishing between files related to investments in corporations and files related to activism against corporations. But, once I reminded myself that Ken would never invest in any company with activities he would protest against things became easier to identify and sort.
My gut – and Nadine Evers’ – told me activism is what got Ken killed. So, I started looking through those folders first. They didn’t paint a pretty picture. Corporate greed, illegal dumping, politicians bought, paid for, and performing heinous acts against their constituents. Greedy men and women running amuck like rotten kids in a theme park bounce house.
It was not a new story. All you have to do is read the Florida daily papers to see the bad guys in action. So, the real question was...what information had been so damning that Ken needed to be killed before he could expose it? And, was that the same bombshell information Ken had teased to Nadine. I kept digging.
I’m not anti-corporation. If you are brilliant enough to create a breakthrough product or service that the population at large needs, good for you. You deserve success. But, I am anti-corruption. You don’t get to re-make or break the rules to get what you want. And, in Florida that seemed to be the path most travelled:
Phosphate runoff. Natural preserve destruction. Everglades siphoning. Bribes, buyouts, bamboozlement. The public misled. The public outraged. The public ignored. Fat cats getting rich. Fat cats getting richer. Politicians in close alliance with questionable corporate partners. Heavy-handed development. Developers lunching with State Senators. Private meetings between CEOs and the Governor. Secret retreats between politicians and big money, including the Attorney General. All nasty, but all common knowledge. I made a list of the biggest offenders, guys Ken clearly had in his sites.
He had been busy. Peaceful protests, scathing editorials that named names, boycotts, shaming guilty parties on TV talk shows and news reports. He did everything he could to get the word out and direct Florida’s powerful sunlight on state corruption. He was fearless. He was effective. He was inspirational. He was no more. And, that made me mad.
