He let Jane have her moment, but then he regrouped.
“It’s just a few days to play. What’s another day or two?”
Jane didn’t respond. She was thinking.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Michael said. “I’ll track down the DNA results and talk to the family about funeral arrangements for Tommy, while you pack your bags for a little getaway.”
“You’ll do that?”
“I promise.” Michael kissed her, again. “Then you can do whatever you need to do.” She smiled and he melted a little bit. It felt like they had been together forever. It was almost too easy being with her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The sun rose high over the Thomas Dewey National Nature Preserve. Maus sat in his black Arctic Cat 150 ATV four-wheeler. He wore full camo. A long, polished pump-action rifle laid over his lap.
He watched the edge.
There was a clump of brush where the swamp turned to scrappy forest. His eyes narrowed when a few branches rustled.
Maus smoothly and silently took the rifle off his lap. He took the safety off and put his finger on the trigger.
He kept the gun pointed at the rustling brush. Maus felt his heartbeat quicken. He tightened his grip, and narrowed his focus even further.
Then he heard a warble, and then another. Two wild turkeys were about to emerge from the brush into the open; a clear shot.
He took a shallow breath as the first bird’s foot and then its entire body came out of hiding. Maus smiled. Gotcha.
It was going to be an easy shot, he thought, and then Maus’ cell phone rang.
The noise startled him as he pulled the trigger and the shot went high.
The combination of the shot and the loud ringtone sent the wild turkeys into a panic. The birds scattered, and Maus blindly fired six shots into the brush until he didn’t have anything left to fire.
He may have hit them, maybe not. He’d have to check.
Maus put the rifle down, picked up his cell phone.
He pressed a button on the phone.
“What the hell? You’re late.” Maus shouted. “Where are you?”
He walked over to the scrub brush on the edge of the swamp. He held the cell phone to his ear, listening while he searched for signs of the stupid birds.
“Well, after you enter, take a left and follow Token Trail. It’s not that hard.” Maus turned off his cell phone and shoved it in his pocket. He had found them. Two turkeys were hit. One was dead, the other was still breathing.
He knelt down onto the soft ground. Crouched over the bird that was still breathing, Maus studied it. The turkey’s breathing was slow and forced. Its head twitched.
He altered his position so that he could get his hands around the bird’s neck without being pecked or bitten. Then in one quick movement he gripped the bird’s neck, stood, twisted, and tore the bird’s head off.
It felt good.
###
Dylan didn’t like the swamp, but he appreciated the privacy.
He parked his black Aston Martin DB9 convertible and got out. Maus was waiting at a lone picnic table in the clearing between the road’s turnaround and the trail head. His ATV was parked nearby. It had two turkey carcasses roped to the back.
“Never too early to kill something,” Dylan smiled, as if he knew about the joys of hunting and the outdoors. He stepped over a small puddle, careful not to dirty his polished Kenneth Cole loafers as he walked over to Maus.
“Best time to hunt is always in the morning,” Maus said. He unscrewed the top of his thermos and poured himself a cup of coffee. If his boss wanted to pretend to be a woodsman, he might as well play along.
When Dylan finally arrived at the table, he didn’t sit. He wasn’t going to hang out with a man like Maus. They weren’t friends. It was business.
Dylan put an envelope of cash down on the table.
Maus set down his cup of coffee, took the envelope, and shoved it in his front jacket pocket.
“What’s the status?” Maus picked the coffee back up and took a sip, feeling better. He always felt better when he got paid.
“It’s done.” Dylan was smug. His confidence in himself never failed.
“What do you mean?” Maus shook his head. “It’s not done. The test came back yesterday. They matched the cousin’s DNA. They confirmed what the lawyer chick’s been saying. I don’t think she knows yet, but she will.”
“The lawyer is gone.” Dylan folded his arms across his chest, smiling. “Believe it or not, my good-for-nothing brother actually did something useful. The board voted to shut her down immediately. She’ll be clearing out of that shithole of an office and leaving town.”
“She’s leaving town?” That part sounded good to Maus, made him feel even better.
“Not confirmed,” Dylan said. “But my brother arranged for her to get offered a job far away. I have a feeling that it won’t be long. She’s got no reason to stay.”
Maus finished his coffee, and then shook out the remaining drops of liquid. He screwed the plastic cup back onto the top of his thermos and stood.
“Well, we’ll keep in touch then?”
“We will,” Dylan said. He slapped Maus on his big shoulder as if they were in a locker room after a big game. “How about a smile? How about a thank you?”
“I still got a bad feeling.” Maus shook his head, trying to stay cool and not get too excited. “True believers don’t quit easy.” He walked over to his ATV. Maus put his thermos into the ATV’s back compartment, and picked up his gun. “I know about true believers,” he said, “because I am one. Just don’t believe in the same things, that’s all.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Michael woke up early. He slid out of bed, grabbed a pair of shorts and T-shirt off of the floor, and then put them on. After writing a quick note to Jane, Michael took one of the room keys off of the table, found his flip-flops, and walked out the door.
The days away in Miami had been great. Michael and Jane had declared the historic Hotel Astor their home away from home. The Art Deco masterpiece was a white three-story jewel box on the corner of Washington and 10th Street. It was a quiet place to decompress, just four blocks from South Beach’s famous Lummus Park and the ocean.
Michael rode the elevator down and walked through the hotel’s sleek lobby. When he stepped outside, he could tell it was going to be a hot day. It was early. The sun was still low in the sky, but there wasn’t a cloud and its rays already beat down on the asphalt, softening it.
He walked down10th. A few minutes later, he was at the beach. Michael ditched his flip-flops near a palm tree and stepped onto the sand, finding the cool underneath the top layer of white powder. It felt good. Michael imagined he was back at the Sunset.
Soon, he thought. A couple more days.
Michael took a few steps, slow at first, and then he started to run. His feet dug into the sand, found a spot, and pushed him forward. Michael’s breathing became heavier. His quads started to burn, and he ran faster.
He passed one jogger, and then another. His eyes slackened, and Michael fell into a rhythm. He kept running for miles, until he finally reached the park’s northern boundary. He stopped, touched the ground, and started running back, even faster than before.
Michael pushed himself hard. His shirt turned wet with sweat. His body begged him to stop, but he kept going until the end.
When he had reached the finish, Michael fell to his knees. His body folded in on itself as he tried to catch his breath. Beads of sweat ran into his eyes. The salt stung. His eyes started to water, and he closed them.
Blinking, the different blues of the ocean and tans of the beach cascaded in and out of overlapping dots of color. As his vision started to clear, Michael saw Agent Frank Vatch a hundred yards away. Vatch was watching from his wheelchair on one of the paved bike paths that ran along Ocean Drive.
Vatch seemed so small, almost harmless.
Michael blinked, and Vatch was gone. The consequences for hi
s actions would be delayed for yet another day.
Michael got up, found his flip-flops, and began his walk back to the hotel. His head was light from the run. The appearance and disappearance of Agent Vatch didn’t concern him, and Michael didn’t know why. Maybe it wasn’t real, Michael thought. Maybe I’m imagining things. Michael ran his hands through his hair and focused on the run.
He needed a good run, and it was good, hard run. The return to Jesser, however, was not as good.
CHAPTER TWENTY
As they pulled up in front of the office, they knew something wasn’t right. The front door was wide open. It blew back and forth in the wind. Jane saw it first. She was out of the car before Michael could turn off the engine.
She surveyed the damage, unable to speak.
The window of the Community Immigrant Legal Services office was destroyed. Shards of glass laid on the sidewalk as if something in the office had exploded. Inside, tables and chairs were overturned, papers strewn on the floor. The file cabinets were tipped over. Jane’s computer and monitor were smashed into scattered pieces.
They walked through the open front door, slowly.
Glass popped underneath their feet.
They turned in a circle, looking. The entire office was trashed.
Along the back wall there was a message scrawled with red spray paint:
THANK YOU.
HATE TO SEE YOU GO.
LOVE—
THE ILLEGALS
Irony was always the trademark of the youngest generation.
“I’m going to kill those redneck kids.” Jane’s jaw clenched tight. Her days of relaxation were gone, as if they had never happened. All of the feelings she had during the final board meeting were back.
Michael put his hand on her shoulder.
“We can get this cleaned up.”
“When?” Jane asked. “How? Look at this place. This isn’t just a shit-bag thrown at a window.”
“I’ll call Kermit. He can help.” It sounded weak.
Jane pulled away from him.
“I should have been here. I should have been working. I shouldn’t have been with you. What was I thinking?”
Jane sat down on the floor, put her hands on her face and began to cry.
###
Funny thing about a small town like Jesser, people care more than one would think.
The first person to arrive was the minister from the First Baptist Church down the block. He’d driven past Jane’s office that morning on his way to the men’s breakfast at the Prairie Diner. He said that three of the men he had eaten breakfast with would be arriving shortly with garbage bags and tools.
About 20 minutes later, another truck pulled up with six Hispanic men in the back.
Kermit got out of the truck’s front cab with Miggy. He clapped his hands.
“Okay men. Let’s get started. Who’s got the plywood?”
Miggy translated, and soon a large piece of plywood was lifted from the back and brought over to the broken window.
“We gotta measure that sucker, and then, when everything is swept, we’ll put it over the broken window. Comprende?”
Miggy translated and the men nodded their heads.
Within an hour, 50 other people were milling about. Somebody had brought a radio and music was playing. The music bridged the conversations and laughter.
A group of elderly women brought bread, meats, and cheeses for sandwiches along with three large boxes of classic ripple potato chips.
The pastor and another man set up a few of the office’s folding tables outside. One of the women spread out a red and white checked tablecloth on top of the table, while another unloaded a bag full of paper plates, napkins and plastic utensils. A large Tupperware container filled with sliced watermelon was placed next to the cold cuts and chips, and soon people were taking breaks, munching for awhile, and then getting back to work.
Jane stood off to the side. She directed the activity, determining what could be thrown away and what needed to be saved.
Michael walked over to her with a can of soda and a sandwich.
“For you.” He handed the plate to her, and Jane took it.
“Thank you.” She took a bite without taking an eye off of all the people. “Can you believe this?”
Michael put his arm around her.
“Yes,” he said. “I totally can.”
###
“Last thing to do.” Kermit stirred a bucket of white paint with a wooden stick. “Can you hand me a brush, Mr. Miggy?”
Miggy nodded his head, and dutifully located a paintbrush in a corner filled with various buckets of cleaners and other supplies. He hobbled back on his crutch and handed the brush to Kermit.
Kermit dipped the brush into the bucket of paint, but Jane stopped him.
“Hold on,” she said. “I gotta do something first.” Jane gave a pixie smile and bounced over to her purse. She dug around and found her iPhone, which also happened to be the most valuable thing she owned.
Jane came back over to where Kermit and Miggy stood.
“Thanks,” she said. “And where’s Michael?”
Jane looked around as Michael came through the front door after dropping off the last group of volunteers and delivering the last batch of garbage to the dump. The party was over, and it was just him, Jane, Kermit and Miggy.
“What’s going on?” Michael asked. He had a six-pack of beer in his hand, and he raised them. “I got some cold ones.”
“Perfect,” Kermit said. “Jane is recording this for posterity. But first we must toast.”
Kermit relieved Michael of his beer. They all smiled as Kermit dramatically unscrewed the caps on each bottle and distributed each one.
“Okay, Miss Jane,” Kermit said. “Let’s hear it.”
“A speech?” Jane asked.
“Of course,” Kermit said. “It was a great party.”
Jane smiled and nodded her head. She started to speak, but then stopped and slowly looked around the office. Eight hours earlier it had been a disaster, now it was cleaner than it had been in years. The floors were scrubbed. The files were alphabetized, boxed, and ready to be moved. And in many ways, Jane was ready to move too.
“This was a terrible day,” she said. “It started in the most horrific way. It was as if somebody was just trying to crush me, grind me into the ground. But I couldn’t think of a better way to end it. I wondered if anybody would notice if we were gone, whether I was the biggest chump in the world. Whether 10 years of my life had been wasted when I should have been earning money, starting a family, and paying off my student loans.” Jane took a deep breath, and then pointed her bottle of beer at the message painted along the back wall.
“They really do thank me. They really will miss me. And that feels good.” Jane lifted her bottle higher. “To the illegals.”
“To the illegals,” Michael, Kermit and Miggy parroted back.
Then everyone took a drink.
“God, that tastes good.” Jane took another sip. She set the bottle down on the floor. “I’m taking a picture of this before it’s painted over. I want to frame it.”
“Here, here,” Kermit said, as Jane took a few pictures of the message that had been painted on the wall. It was intended to intimidate and mock, but it, instead, became an odd source of humor and inspiration.
THANK YOU.
HATE TO SEE YOU GO.
LOVE—
THE ILLEGALS
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Agent Frank Vatch sat at his desk. He had converted the small second bedroom in his Hoboken apartment into a home office. Vatch flipped open his notebook and started reviewing his notes, and then he began writing additional thoughts about his time in Florida.
For years he had tracked Michael Collins, and he knew it was finally going to end. The attorneys had said that they were close to reaching a deal with some of the foreign banks where Michael had purportedly stashed Joshua Krane’s money. Vatch’s supervisors wanted him to move
on, but Vatch wouldn’t let it go. He wasn’t going to allow loose ends. He wanted Michael Collins.
Vatch looked at the framed picture of his dead partner, Agent Brenda Pastoura, on the corner of his desk. She was killed the same night Michael’s client Joshua Krane was murdered. The FBI had placed Krane under 24-hour surveillance, fearing that the corporate executive would run.
Late at night, they followed Krane to the Bank of America building, watched him go inside, get the account numbers and passwords for Krane’s offshore back accounts, and then get back into the car with Michael. A few blocks later a man on foot fired on the car, and Agent Pastoura chased after him. There was no way he could help. Vatch’s wheelchair was in the trunk, and there wasn’t time. He radioed for back-up, but it was too late. In an alley two blocks away, both Agent Pastoura and the man who shot Joshua Krane were dead. Nobody ever found the account numbers.
There was a knock on the window. Vatch looked away from the photograph, and saw Anthony on the fire escape.
“Open up,” he said. Anthony knocked, again.
Vatch rolled back from the desk.
“A little late, isn’t it?” Vatch opened the window, and Anthony jumped inside.
“You really should start using the door,” Vatch said, but Anthony didn’t respond.
Anthony pointed at the notebook on the desk. “Still working the case?”
“Always,” Vatch nodded.
Anthony smiled.
“You look tan,” he said. “How was Miami?”
“Okay,” Vatch sighed.
“Any response from the subpoenas?”
“Still waiting,” Vatch said.
“You gonna wait forever, huh?”
“Yes,” Vatch said.
“You want to play cribbage, then? While you wait?”
Vatch looked at the clock. It was a quarter past eleven.
“Only if you let me win.”
Anthony smiled. Even though he was growing into a young man, his smile still revealed the boy inside.
“Never,” Anthony said. “If I let you win, it won’t mean anything. You gotta earn it.”
J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 02 - No Time to Die Page 8
