The handshake is a gesture that goes back to medieval times, as does the military salute. The extended or raised hand shows the other person that you are unarmed and friendly.
Our response to his proffered hand must have shocked Pritchard. I drew my Sig from under my jacket and pointed it at his chest. Instantly, Craig, Sheena, and Nigel produced weapons to also cover the three men.
Sheena stepped forward, took her wallet from her pocket and placed it face-up on the barrel, showing her badge and FBI identification.
“Aiden Pritchard,” she said, as Craig turned the stunned lawyer roughly and forced him up against the barrels, “you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, for the sale, possession, and manufacturing of illegal alcohol, for the sale, possession, manufacture, and intent to distribute hallucinogenic drugs across state lines, suspicion of capital murder, and intent to defraud the Internal Revenue Service. Probably a bunch more, but that’s just off the top of my head.”
“You can’t—I’m the prosecutor in this county!”
I heard the truck door open and looked over. Judge Whitaker walked toward us, putting his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket. “The state police just apprehended Sheriff Taliaferro, Jesse.”
I looked back at Pritchard as Craig was Mirandizing him, then leaned in close to his face. “My judge trumps your prosecutor.”
Stuart Lane lay on a bed in the dark, one ankle handcuffed to the foot railing. It was hot and humid, and he was inside a house of some kind. He’d been similarly hog-tied for most of the night, though he didn’t know how long. They’d taken his watch and everything else; even his belt, shoes, and shirt.
A big guy with a deep voice had brought him here in a boat from the outskirts of Miami. The trip had seemed to take hours. They’d cuffed him behind his back and he’d had to endure the boat ride lying face down on the deck with a bag over his head. It smelled of dirty laundry.
Once they’d arrived, the man had pushed him across what seemed like a mile of loose sand, then up a flight of steps, where he’d tossed him roughly onto the bunk. There, he’d pulled the bag off Stuart’s head before stripping him down to his pants and handcuffing his foot with two sets of cuffs linked together.
The people who’d grabbed him never said who they were, but there were at least four of them, all with guns. Stuart was pretty sure they weren’t cops. They’d taken him straight to the boat instead of to a police station. And none of them read him his rights, like cops are supposed to do. Whoever they were, Stuart believed they were professionals.
He wasn’t able to see much of anything after turning the corner to the house where the Sneed woman was staying. A bright flash of light had blinded him and his vision didn’t return fully for a long time. By then, they’d put the bag over his head and carried him onto the boat. But not before he’d seen the guns.
He couldn’t see much in the total darkness, but the guy had a huge chest and his shoulders were as broad as a lumberjack’s. The big, bushy mustache was still very apparent, though.
He knew he was on the second floor of somewhere, but the room had been too dark to see much. The man had a big yellow dog with him. Stuart didn’t like dogs; never had. When he was a kid, he’d been bitten on the leg by a big dog. Big dogs scared him and that one was huge. So, Stuart had done whatever the man told him.
After they left him alone, Stuart’s eyes became a little more accustomed to the dark. There were other beds in the room. Six sets of bunk beds. But it didn’t look like any were occupied. There were windows between each set of beds, as well as beside the entry door at the far end of the room. The bed he was lying on was by another door.
Stuart looked around, straining his eyes. The door at the end of his bed was next to his left foot, the one with the chain on it. Across the room, next to another bunk bed, was a white box of some kind.
He rolled over to put his right foot on the floor, curling his restrained left foot under him. Then using the bed above for support, he managed to stand. The two sets of cuffs on his ankle were just long enough for his toes to reach the floor, and by keeping his left foot in place, he was able to stretch and get close enough to the box that he could reach down and touch it.
It was a cooler. He opened it and felt around inside. There were six plastic bottles, but no ice. It was too dark to read the labels, but he took one out anyway and hopped back to the bed to sit down. After unscrewing the cap and sniffing the contents, he smelled nothing, so he tossed the cap on the floor, and put the bottle to his lips for a tentative taste—water. He chugged the whole bottle.
The sky outside was beginning to lighten, giving Stuart at least some indication of time and direction. He stood again and tested the doorknob by the end of the bed. It was unlocked, and when he opened it, he saw it was a bathroom. The toilet was close enough to the door that he could probably sit on it with his left leg wrapped around the open door frame. But he’d have to stand cross-legged in front of it. He lifted the lid and unzipped his pants, then pissed in the direction of the toilet.
“If you fuckers gotta clean it up,” he mumbled to himself, “it’s your own damned fault for chaining me up like a dog.”
Back in the room, he moved as close as he could to the nearest window and looked out. The sky was dark to the left, but far to the right, it was lighter. He looked across the room toward the other window. He could see darkness to the right there, too. The door at the end of the room faced east or maybe a little northeast, he decided.
Outside the near window were a bunch of trees that he could see over, but he could see nothing beyond them. He could hear the sound of water lightly surging on a shore and realized he was probably looking out over the ocean, just beyond the trees.
He remembered that after he’d been forced onto the floor of the boat, the big man had navigated several turns at low speed. The last turn had been to the right as he started to accelerate. After that, the boat had bounced along at a fast speed for some time. Stuart figured the boat had gone south from Miami.
What’s south of there? he wondered. Then it hit him: Key West. That was the only place he knew of that lay beyond Miami.
Looking through the opposite window again, Stuart saw more trees, but farther away, and there was a clearing of mostly sand in between. As it grew lighter, he sat down and studied the cuffs and the bed. The end of the cuffs were attached to the big upper bar of the metal-framed bed. The bunk itself reminded him of those in the barracks, back when he’d been a soldier. The cuff could only slide a few inches either way until it was stopped by vertical bars.
He looked around the immediate area. If he could find a stiff wire, he might be able to pick the lock on the cuffs. Then what? Swim to Miami?
Wait, he thought, remembering having read once about a long bridge that connected Miami to Key West. The ten-mile bridge or something like that.
If he could get loose, he could find his way to the bridge and flag down a car or something. But to get loose, he needed a wire. Looking up, he extended a hand. The springs of the upper bunk were too thick.
Hearing someone coming up the steps, Stuart climbed back on the bed and pretended to be asleep on his side. The door opened and someone came in. Stuart cracked an eye open and saw a man approaching. It wasn’t the same guy. This one was skinny, with long hair. At least he didn’t have the dog with him. The man was carrying something.
“Wake up,” the man said, stopping in the middle of the room.
Stuart didn’t move.
“Breakfast is here, dude.”
At the mention of food, Stuart’s hunger pangs hit him. He resisted until the smell reached his nostrils. He couldn’t help it; he opened his eyes fully and looked up at the figure standing in the dimly lit room.
“Where am I?”
“I was told not to tell you anything,” the man replied.
“Where’s the other guy?” Stuart asked.
“Sleeping,” the skinny man responded, moving a step closer. “Got you some scrambled eggs, toast, and some fresh mango, man.”
Stuart half-rolled and sat up, then pointed to the cooler. “Can you slide that over here?”
As the man bent and placed the tray on the cooler, something fell from his pocket. It was a pack of cigarette rolling papers. And not just any kind.
Stuart’s eyes went wide when he recognized the brand. They were the same as he used; papers with a thin wire that allowed a person to hold the end when the joint got so short it would burn your fingers.
The man swept the pack up with his hand and scooted the cooler close enough that Stuart could use it as a table, then stuffed the papers back into his shirt pocket.
Without hesitating, Stuart launched himself, extending his whole body in the direction of the man’s head as his right fist came up. He’d only get one shot and knew that it had to be a good one. He caught the guy completely off guard. The punch connected with the side of his head and the skinny man staggered back a few steps before falling to his knees and then onto his side. He didn’t move.
Stuart shook his hand out; he could feel the sting of the blow all the way up into his wrist. He lunged toward the fallen man but couldn’t get close enough to reach his pocket, so he grabbed the guy’s wrist and pulled him closer. He knew the wire in the paper wouldn’t be stiff enough, but several of them twisted together might work.
After grabbing the pack out of the man’s shirt pocket, he opened it and sat down. It was half full. Stuart began pulling the papers out, stripping the wires from them and laying them on the cooler. Finally, he twisted about ten strands together and went to work on the cuffs.
A friend in high school had once owned a pair of real policeman’s handcuffs; he’d said that he’d stolen them from a cop in a scuffle in Roanoke one time, though Stuart didn’t believe that part. But the guy had shown him how easy they were to pick, especially if they were an older pair. He’d said the tumblers in the lock had a memory and carefully pushing each one in, you could feel where the key stopped them.
It took quite a while, but Stuart finally released the cuff that was around his ankle. He crossed to the window on the other side of the room and looked out. The sun was just becoming visible off to his left. There was another house across the clearing with a deck around it and a big water tank above the roof. Far to the right, he saw a third house on the west side. Beyond both houses, he could see water. In fact, he could see water just about every direction he looked.
He was on an island, but Stuart didn’t think it was Key West. It was way too small—no bigger than his two-acre horse pasture.
Turning back to the man on the floor, he checked his other pockets and discovered a cheap disposable lighter and a small wooden container. He slid the top off the box and the scent hit him instantly; weed. He closed it and shoved it and the lighter into his pocket, then pulled the man over to the bed and latched the empty cuff around his ankle.
Pausing for a minute, he raked the eggs into his mouth and chewed while he looked around the rest of the little house. There wasn’t much, just the six bunk beds, the bathroom, and a desk by the exit door. He rifled the desk’s drawers but found them to be completely empty. The same was true for the bathroom cabinet. The place was set up like some kind of fishing camp or something, but aside from the furniture, and the cooler with the water bottles, there was nothing else in it.
Before leaving, Stuart closed the windows. The long-haired guy was still unconscious but breathing. He should choke the asshole to death, but he needed to move fast. The guy had told him that the big man was sleeping. For how long, Stuart didn’t know. But he wanted to take advantage of that time, and the closed windows would keep this guy from being heard if he started yelling when he woke up.
Stuart did take the guy’s sandals and shirt, though the sandals were too big and the shirt too small. Outside, he saw that there was another house next to the one he’d been in. All four were about the same size and raised on tall, concrete stilts. Moving behind the two houses, he found a dock, but no boat.
He needed transportation. While there might be something of value in one of the houses, he didn’t know which one the bigger man was sleeping in and he didn’t want to take the chance with that big dog around.
Stuart quickly followed the shoreline to the west. The house on that side had a big front porch and a small sand beach in front of it.
When Stuart reached the house with the water tank on the south side of the island, he found another pier, and this time he got lucky. A big twin-engine boat was tied to the dock. He walked out toward the yellow boat, constantly looking back over his shoulder. The engines on the Yellowfin center console looked odd and didn’t have a name or anything on the covers.
Stuart knew a little about boats; he had an eighteen-foot bass boat that could scream across the lakes at more than 40 miles per hour. But he’d never even been on one this big. It had to be close to thirty feet long.
Stepping down into it, he studied the controls but couldn’t find an ignition key anywhere, just two silver buttons below two switches between the twin tachometers. He pushed them and nothing happened. He flipped the switches and pushed the buttons, again to no avail. He flipped a couple more switches and nothing came on, not even the bilge pump or radio.
The battery! he thought. His boat had a switch to turn the battery off so it wouldn’t go dead when the bilge pump discharged rainwater all week while the boat sat on the trailer.
At the stern, he found two small doors in the transom, both with key locks. Fortunately, the second one was unlocked, and that was where Stuart found the battery switch and not one but two big marine batteries.
Switching both batteries on, he heard the bilge pump start up, whirring loudly but not pumping any water. He moved quickly to the helm and shut it off, looking around and up at the house. He heard nothing. When he pushed one of the buttons again, one of the engines started up. He looked back at them. The weird-looking engine sounded strange, too; whining, but quiet.
The other button started the second engine, and he shifted over to the side of the boat and quickly untied the lines holding it to the dock. The water surrounding the boat appeared to be deep, but just a bit farther away, it seemed shallower. Probably too shallow. He’d have to be careful.
The front of the boat pointed away from the island, as did the dock it’d been tied to, and the water ahead looked deeper.
Stuart put one of the engines in gear and let the boat idle away from the dock and the island. Every fiber of his nerves wanted him to push the throttles down and haul ass. But one look at the sandy bottom just a few feet to his left told him that he’d need to be cautious. In front of the boat, he could see that the deep water reached a T where he would have to turn left or right because there was shallow water beyond it.
A glance toward the sun indicated which direction to head in, so Stuart steered the boat to the left, staying in the deeper water. Not far to either side, he could see the sandy bottom, just inches below the surface. The compass on the dash said he was going northeast, which he assumed would eventually get him to Miami, or at least back toward civilization.
Ahead, and a little off to the north, a flash caught his eye. He stared hard in that direction for a few seconds and saw it again; a flash of green light against the early morning sky just above the horizon. He knew what a green marker was for.
Stuart put the other engine in gear and pushed down on the throttles. The expected roar of the outboards wasn’t there, but he was pushed firmly back against the seat. The quiet whine of the twin 577 horsepower outboards suddenly rose to an ear-splitting, high-pitched scream.
Before the sun was fully up, there were half a dozen state police cruisers and SUVs parked around Pritchard’s barn. The three men had been handcuffed, kept separated, and put into the backs of three different cars.
&
nbsp; Sheena was in her element, directing the other two Feebs and the newly arrived state police troopers. The judge and I kept out of the way.
“She’s a very efficient young lady,” Ollie noted, as a large box van pulled into the yard from the direction of Pritchard’s house. It had Forensics written on the side.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “She’s a good cop.”
“Speaking of which,” Ollie said, turning toward me. “I want to thank you for bringing this to my attention. I had my share of dirty police officers up north.”
“It’s not a geographical thing,” I told him. “There are good and bad people everywhere and they work in all occupations.”
Ollie laughed. “Are you sure you’re just a charter boat captain?”
I grinned at him. “And not everyone is in the same occupation their whole life.”
“The folks from the State Police Office of Internal Affairs arrived at the sheriff’s office at the same time Lou Taliaferro was arrested. There will be a full-blown public investigation. Any deputies found to be involved in this or any other criminal activity will be fired and prosecuted.”
I nodded. “As it should be, Ollie. I doubt you’ll find any involvement outside of the sheriff. This whole thing reeks of good ol’ boy cronyism.”
The judge jumped slightly, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone. “This thing makes me feel like I’m having a heart attack every time it does that. Excuse me.”
With his phone pressed to his ear, Ollie stepped over to the forensics van and shook hands with a man who climbed out of the passenger seat. A moment later, he returned, gesturing to his phone. “Jeb Long and Luke Wright were picked up by state police troopers and are being transported to the county jail. The only one unaccounted for is Stuart Lane.”
That reminded me: I’d told Deuce I’d check in when we were on our way to Pritchard’s barn. I’d been so intent on getting there in one piece in the snow that I’d forgotten.
Rising Spirit Page 17
