Escape Clause

by James O. Born

  Then he heard Rufus start to count. No way he was going to get to ten. His hope was that if he somehow managed to hit Rufus, Norton might just flee and leave him and Renee.

  He heard Rufus shout, “Five,” and then slow the count way down. Tasker’s finger tightened on the trigger, smoothly bringing it back.

  “Six,” yelled Rufus.

  Tasker needed to buy some time. Even a few minutes might bring someone checking on the fire. Then they could see to the trooper on the highway. How had he gotten into a situation like this? He felt like he was in a foreign country without laws.

  As Rufus reached seven, Norton eased to his left a few steps, almost blocking Tasker’s shot. The stout prison captain said something to Rufus that made him stop counting. Then it looked like Renee said something, too. Tasker paused, hoping this might be the lull he needed.

  Then he heard, “Eight.”

  Renee could smell Rufus’ musky body odor and squirmed under the feel of his sweat-slicked arm around her neck. The muzzle of the Beretta was snug against her temple and she was terrified. She was terrified but not senseless. She knew she had to do something. Had to think like a cop. She had never realized the huge difference between supervising inmates and investigating crimes at a prison and being actively involved in a dangerous situation like this.

  She knew Tasker was nearby. She trusted him and could almost feel him watching her. She knew he had Rufus’ pistol. She thought to herself, What would a cop do?

  Rufus continued to yell out his count right next to her left ear. He was up to seven when Norton took a step toward them and stopped him.

  Norton said, “Let’s throw her in the car and get a head start on him.”

  Rufus said, “No way. We need ’em both tonight. He’ll come out. No way he’ll risk me capping her. You said it yourself.”

  Norton looked at Renee.

  She steadied herself and felt Rufus tighten his grip slightly. She swallowed hard so she could speak in a calm voice. “Rufus, you gonna kill me like you killed Billie?”

  Norton snapped his gaze to Rufus. “You killed Billie?”

  Rufus didn’t give him time to think about it. “Don’t worry about that now. Tasker could be out there right now. You need to be ready with that shotgun.”

  Just the mention of Tasker made Norton shift his eyes toward the cane field.

  Now Rufus loosened his grip. Renee knew, knew for a fact, that Tasker was close and ready to take action. The guy was always ready to take action. She had to help. If she dropped her weight and pushed to the side, maybe Tasker would have a shot at Rufus. She needed only a second to sprint toward the front of the car and be out of the line of fire. She filled her lungs with air and blinked her eyes.

  Rufus yelled, “Eight.”

  She dropped straight down and used her hips to bump Rufus hard. She slid away from the pistol’s barrel and out of Rufus’ left arm easily, but as she started to sprint, she slipped on the loose soil and felt like a deer frozen in a hunter’s sights. She looked over her shoulder to see Rufus turn and point the black Beretta automatic at her face. She saw his brown, emotionless eyes over the front sight of the barrel and knew he intended to pull the trigger.

  The sound of the shot was deafening and she felt a hot, spreading pain near her neck and a force like a slap knock her onto the ground as she struck her head against the tires of the Bronco.

  Her vision blurred and the bright moon seemed to wobble and she laid her head flat on the ground and blinked her eyes.

  forty-seven

  Tasker made up his mind when Rufus yelled, “Eight,” and squeezed the trigger slowly, still hoping for a miracle. Then he got one. Renee seemed to instantly disappear and suddenly Rufus was in the clear. He saw the Gladesville cop turn and point the Beretta and Tasker knew what had happened. The gutsy girl had made a move so he’d be able to end this with a good shot.

  Then he heard a gun discharge. Not the stinging report of a single .40-caliber shot, but the blast of a bigger weapon. Rufus flew out of Tasker’s line of vision and fell behind the cover of the Crown Vic. Norton stood with his shotgun still pointing where Rufus had been standing. The only person Tasker could see between the two vehicles was Norton, so he adjusted his aim. The front sight fell on Norton’s wide chest and he slightly adjusted his hand until the rear sight framed the target as well. He didn’t want to risk Norton firing another round.

  Tasker exhaled and squeezed the trigger, then immediately reacquired the target. As he sighted in on Norton for his second shot, he saw him stumble then fall to the ground behind the Crown Vic. Tasker sprang to his feet, shook out the cramp in his leg and started a quick advance on the cars. He had the revolver up in front of him in case someone popped up and decided to take a shot. Now that the shooting was over, at least for a moment, he started to worry about Renee and what might have happened. He still wasn’t clear from what he had seen from the cane field.

  He slowed as he came within a few feet of the parked cars. The smoke still drifted in front of the headlights. He crouched and duck-walked to the edge of the Crown Vic. He peeked around the car, then popped back out of reflex and training. They didn’t call it the quick peek for nothing. Then he stuck his head out again, taking a longer look at Norton, leaning against the front tire of the Bronco, holding his shattered left elbow, the shotgun a few feet away on the ground. Renee had the Beretta on him and gripped her own shoulder with her left hand. Tasker stood up and walked between the two vehicles. He took a quick glance at the rumpled form of Rufus Goodwin, but the buckshot pattern that had torn out most of his lower abdomen said he wouldn’t be a threat. He twitched as his blood seeped into the soil. A gut shot like that didn’t usually kill someone so fast, but buckshot was unpredictable. One of the small pellets could have bounced off a rib into his heart. Either way Gladesville needed a new detective.

  He turned his attention to Renee. She was on her knees, panting slightly, but had her focus on Norton.

  Norton just stared at her. He didn’t even notice Tasker. “I’m sorry for all this, Renee. I didn’t mean for nothin’ bad to happen.”

  Tasker stooped and picked up the shotgun, then eased toward Renee. “It’s all right now,” he said softly, as he wrapped his finger around the Beretta and gently pulled it from her hand.

  She immediately sat back down and leaned against the Bronco. She kept her hand on her shoulder as a small stream of blood escaped between her long fingers.

  Tasker kept his eye on Norton but knelt beside Renee. “Let me see.”

  She moved her hand like she was a zombie from an old movie, her eyes unfocused.

  He inspected the single gunshot wound. It looked small, like a .22, not the .40-caliber Beretta. He felt the barrel of the Beretta. It was cool.

  “What happened? Who shot you?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t know.”

  Norton slowed his panting to say, “Think it was a flyer from my buckshot. She was too close, but I couldn’t wait. He aimed to kill her.”

  Tasker left the guns next to Renee and scooted over to the wounded corrections captain. He lifted Norton’s hand to inspect the bullet wound. It was right at the tip of the elbow and bleeding profusely.

  Norton winced and said, “’Preciate you not killing me. Takes a good shot to hit someone in the arm.”

  It took a second for Tasker to realize what he was talking about. “Yeah, well, I needed a witness. Yeah, that’s why I didn’t shoot you in the chest.”

  Norton looked up at Tasker. “It was Rufus killed the professor. I never meant for it to happen.”

  “I’m going to check on the trooper you hit, so get your fat ass up and in the Bronco.” Tasker stood and tugged on Norton’s good arm. Renee was already climbing into the passenger seat.

  As Norton climbed in, he said, “It was instinct. I saw him and just turned the Bronco into him. I didn’t mean it.”

  Five minutes later, Tasker was pulling in front of the parked Florida Highway Patrol vehicle. The
road was silent and dark. He checked to make sure Renee still had Norton covered and then raced to the rear of the cruiser.

  He froze at the sight of the trooper sitting up against the trunk of his car.

  Tasker stepped toward him. “Jesus, don’t move, I’ll get help.”

  The trooper held his smashed handheld radio up and said, “I think my leg is broken. I was going to try to make it to the main one in the car.”

  Tasker knelt beside him. “Give me your flashlight.” He took the long Kel-Light and looked at the trooper’s dilated eyes. He checked his head for obvious wounds. “Relax there, Trooper. We’re gonna get you some help.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s a long story, but you got caught in someone else’s business.” Tasker stood up.

  He took a look at Tasker in his grim and smoke-covered clothes and his scratched and bleeding face. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Same thing.”

  The trooper said, “This still doesn’t make you a real cop.”

  “You’re right, a real cop would’ve seen this shit coming a mile away. But I’m still the guy that’s going to get you some help.” And he did.

  Sitting next to Norton as a paramedic took his pulse before transporting him to the Belle Glade hospital, Tasker took a second to check himself for any other wounds.

  Norton said, “I can give you the whole plan. I’ll cooperate, but I gotta be able to see a chance at a light sentence.”

  Tasker said, “You don’t get off that easy. I need a whole lot more for you not to be charged with felony murder, too.”

  “I’ll give you the big man in Tallahassee, that’s all that’s left. Henry and Rufus is dead, Luther escaped and the Dewalt kid—he did the land survey—is dead, too.”

  Tasker nodded. “He killed himself.”

  Norton said, “No shit. You came and fucked this thing all up over a suicide?”

  Tasker nodded as the paramedics lifted Norton into the rear of the ambulance. “Crazy, huh? You never know what you turn up if you keep looking.”

  “Do me a favor,” said Norton.

  “What?”

  “Keep looking for Luther Williams and see if he turns up.”

  Tasker watched as the doors to the ambulance shut and it pulled out onto the road.

  forty-eight

  Florida Department of Law Enforcement Special Agent Supervisor Chris Byrd stood on the steps of Florida’s capitol and looked up at the seventy-story building, then at the matching domes on either side. He smiled at the common joke that called the building the “phallic office building.” He knew one thing for sure: In a few minutes, there would be one less dick in the building.

  He motioned to the two agents with him, Charles “Bubba” Tompson, a mountain of black flesh and muscle, and Sue Teis, the opposite in body shape and size but maybe a little meaner. He flashed his badge to the capitol police sergeant at the front desk and proceeded to the elevator. His heart rate was up, but he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. They rode the elevator in silence to the sixty-ninth floor, one below the governor’s executive offices. They turned left off the elevator then entered the corner office without knocking.

  The startled receptionist stood up as Byrd headed for the inner office. “Do you have an appointment?”

  Byrd didn’t even acknowledge her. He had been waiting for something like this for a long time. Inside the office, he saw a bald man on the phone absently looking out the window toward the Apalachee parkway. When the man turned and saw him, he told whomever he was talking to, “Call you back.” As he hung up the phone, he obviously tried to keep his calm. “May I ask what this is all about?”

  Byrd, flanked by his two agents, flipped open his badge case and said, “Mr. Gann, I’m Chris Byrd with FDLE.”

  “So?”

  “I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Are you insane?” Now he was starting to crack.

  “I may be, sir, but that has no bearing on this issue.” His slight Tallahassee drawl mixed with his monotone earned a quick snicker from behind him.

  Gann reached for the phone, but Byrd put his hand on top of Gann’s and forced him to hang up.

  Byrd said, “You can make a call after you’re booked.”

  Gann snapped, “I’ll have your fucking job for this.”

  Byrd shrugged. “You can have it, sir, but I don’t think you’d like it. Pays good but you gotta deal with assholes all the time.”

  “When the governor finds out about this, you’re done.”

  “Sir, the governor wanted us to shoot you at your desk. It was only my boss being reasonable that earned you a simple arrest.”

  Gann’s eyes searched the room as he considered his options.

  Byrd said, “Sir, now you need to stand up and come with us.” He pulled out his handcuffs and clicked them through a few times, just to fuck with this guy.

  Gann said, “I’m not moving.”

  Byrd smiled broadly, glanced over his shoulder at Bubba and said, “I was hoping you might say that.”

  Tasker sat in the FDLE Miami regional director’s outer office waiting for the tall man to get off the phone. In the week since he had returned from his exile in Gladesville, things had returned to normal somewhat. The corruption case was being handled by FDLE out of Tallahassee, and Tasker had been given the week to rest at home. They said it was a result of the shooting in which he had hit Norton in the elbow. Tasker didn’t care what it was for. He had slept solidly for twenty hours, then lay around his town house another two days.

  Jerry Risto stuck his gray head in the door long enough to pat Tasker on the shoulder and say, “You done good, kid.”

  After a few minutes, the director came from the inner office and signaled for him to come in.

  Settling into his high-backed leather chair, the director kept a smile on his face. “Billy, you made us proud.”

  Tasker smiled, not sure what he could say.

  “I’m sorry I let that asshole Gann get to me. I should’ve left you to do what had to be done.”

  “I never doubted your support, boss.” Tasker hid his smile.

  “You can have any assignment you want. Domestic security, narcotics, even protective operations. You name it.”

  Tasker shrugged. “Don’t care, boss. Just want my life back.”

  “We just want you back here.”

  By five o’clock, Tasker was on his porch with an Icehouse beer in his hand. He liked his open-air patio, and this time of year he even had a cool breeze from the east. He felt a little uneasy because he had no specific goal right at the moment. It seemed his career was back on track and he liked where he was living, though he knew he had no chance of getting back with his ex-wife, Donna. He may have had a chance, he just wasn’t interested right now.

  He heard a car pull up in one of the two spaces in front of his town house. The light door sounded like a smaller import. The knock on his front door gave him no indication who it might be. A week ago, he would’ve answered the door with a gun. Now he didn’t even bother getting up from the lounge chair.

  “I’m on the patio,” he shouted to his visitor.

  A moment later, the wooden door to the patio opened and Tasker broke into a broad smile. His visitor walked to him as he sat up and offered a hand.

  “Hi, I’m Renee Allison Chin.”

  Tasker shook it. “Bill Tasker.”

  “I just wanted us to have a fresh start.” She leaned down, then tumbled on top of him in the lounger, laughing.

  Tasker laughed, too, until he started to kiss her.

  Luther Williams pulled his Buick LeSabre up to the gate of the sprawling complex. He knew he was expected and that the people in the complex were in need of legal advice in exchange for his room and board. It had seemed like a good idea when Mr. Nyren arranged for his stay with the tax-protesting group here in Baton Rogue. One of the few extremist groups that didn’t include racism as one of its tenets. Luther could get behind a grou
p opposed to federal taxes. He had avoided taxes himself on occasion. Besides, he needed a safe place to lie low for a few months and these guys were the ticket.

  He pressed the button on the intercom. After a few seconds, a voice came over the tinny, static-filled speaker. “Are you the lawyer from Florida?”

  “I am.”

  “Meet you by the main house.”

  The gate started to open automatically and Luther eased the Buick into the yard. An average-looking white guy in a University of Florida T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops slowly walked from the front door to the passenger side of the car.

  The man said, “I’m from Florida, too. I wore the shirt to make you feel at home.”

  Luther smiled and looked past the man to see two little blond kids at the door to the house. The man was lean with intelligent eyes, and seemed friendly.

  He said, “I’m Daniel Wells. Welcome to our home.” He stuck his hand in the open window.

  Luther paused as he quickly assessed the man. “Luther John-son, attorney at law.” He shook Daniel’s hand.

  “We all do something here. We can sure use a lawyer.”

  “Good, good. And what do you do? If I may ask.”

  “Engineer. Lot of stuff needs fixin’ around here. I build stuff in my free time.”

  “What kind of stuff?’

  “Fireworks, mostly. Big-ass fireworks.”

  Big Rick Dewalt had been recovering from the disturbing news that his son had committed suicide. He didn’t like to talk about it, but he still missed the boy. If little Rick hadn’t called him about surveying the land for a site for the private prison, he might not have been able to do all he did to influence the state’s decision on the new site. He certainly wouldn’t have picked this particular business partner.