by Lyle Howard
Bock hit the accelerator and the Lincoln slammed into a storage area filled with empty 55 gallon drums. One of the containers fell onto the trunk and bounced into the rear window, shattering it.
It was at that moment that August Bock realized that his wife had lost it. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, struggling to undo the seat belt strapping her in. He threw the Lincoln into drive and turned the steering wheel as far to the left as it would go. The car lurched forward, hit the loading wall, and stalled. Frantically, he fumbled with the keys to get it restarted.
The Harley rolled ever closer, pulling up so near in fact that the tread of the front tire left a muddy impression on the passenger side door.
Gwen Bock tried to open the door, but it was blocked by the Harley and wouldn’t budge. She began shoving her husband, wanting them to escape out his side, but he was too intent on getting the car started again.
“There’s nowhere to run,” Bock yelled, trying to calm his wife. “We’re better off staying inside the safety of the car! In the glove box—use the cell phone—call 911!”
Through the windshield, Bock watched in horror as Earl Keely flipped down the kick stand using the worn heel of his boot, and lifted himself off the bike. Over the straining of the Lincoln’s V-8 engine, Bock heard the biker’s boots crackling on the gravel pavement as his worst nightmare headed up the stairs in front of the car to the raised loading platform. He was filthy-looking, wearing ragged blue jeans with holes torn in each knee. He wore no shirt, and the obscene tattoo that peered down on them from behind an unbuttoned black leather vest was more hideous than Bock could have ever described. The top of his head was covered by a blue and white bandana, and looking over at his wife, Bock realized she was staring at the man through the windshield, mesmerized by the way his ponytail swayed back and forth as he ascended the stairs.
Keely had probably been planning and anticipating this meeting since the beginning of the trial, and now that it was here, the moment was pure terror. The shotgun under his arm glinted in the pale light as he pointed it down at them. “Well, well. Looky who we got here! How ya’ doin’, Counselor?” He nodded down in mock courtesy at the female passenger. “Mrs. Counselor.”
The voice came through muffled inside the car, but August Bock would have recognized it anywhere. “Don’t do anything stupid, Keely!” he yelled as he went to open his door. If anything were to happen, he wanted to get as far away from Gwen as possible. “If you’ve got a problem with me, deal with me! You don’t have to involve my wife!”
Bock never took his eyes off Keely as he continued to move the barrel of the shotgun back and forth like a prison guard. “Stay in the car, Counselor!”
Bock whispered to his wife. “Slide down in your seat, Gwen!”
Keely saw her starting to disappear behind the dashboard and shifted the gun at her. “Uh-uh, you stay right where I can see you, lady—and put down that telephone!”
“He’s crazy, August!”
“I know that, sweetheart, but I think know how this guy’s mind works, and I think I can talk our way out of this.”
Something in the killer’s malevolent grin told Bock they wouldn’t be getting out of this alive.
“I love you, August!” Gwen Bock said proudly.
“I know you do, sweetheart. I love you, too!”
“More than anything, my love.”
August Bock nodded softly. “Yes, more than anything.”
“I really ‘preciate you makin’ that wrong turn back there, Counselor! Saved me the headache of havin’ to kill you on some busy street on my way out of town!”
Bock held up both of his hands and tried not to sound as desperate as he truly felt. “Come on, Earl. Let’s discuss this, okay, before any real harm is done?”
Keely leaned forward, his gold teeth sparkling in the darkness like diamonds on black velvet. “I got a news flash for you, Counselor! Too late! You ain’t my first tonight!”
Bock looked over at his wife, and then back up at the maniac gawking at them from up on the loading bay. “What have you done, Earl?”
“That assistant of yours? The one that was in the courtroom with you? Ooh,” he said, with a mock shiver, “she died real messy! Even tried to talk her way out of it by telling me she was pregnant!”
Gwen Bock covered her mouth. “Oh my God! He’s killed Katie!”
August Bock slid his hand along the seat and grabbed hold of his wife’s arm. “Now, let’s just take a minute to talk about this, Earl. I’m sure we can come to some sort of understanding!”
But Bock knew then there would be no opportunity for negotiation. Earl Keely was not the understanding kind.
“My bags are all packed, Counselor, and Alaska is calling me! No one’s ever gonna find me there!”
Bock could see it in the killer’s eyes. He never had any intention of toying with his enemy, nor taking some perverted gratification at hearing Bock plead for his life. His blood ran as cold as the Yukon River.
“You’re in my jurisdiction now, Counselor, and your sentence has already been decreed. I told you this tattoo would be the last sight you ever saw.”
The Lincoln’s windshield exploded in a shower of glass and buckshot. Three times Keely reloaded his shotgun, until he had no more ammunition, peppering the inside of the car in a hailstorm of lethal pellets. The thunderous report reverberated around the hollowed out buildings, while less than half a mile away traffic on the interstate cruised along as though nothing were happening.
Gwen Bock died instantly, the right side of her head blown clean off. August Bock was less fortunate. Broken glass pelted his face, with one of the larger shards piercing his right eyeball. A fountain of red-hot blood spewed through his fingers as he tried in vain to stop its flow. The force from one of the secondary blasts twisted his torso around in the seat, and the subsequent shots tore gaping holes in the muscle and tissue of his back and spine. He fell sideways against the inside of the door, his body shredded, his limbs tingling, staring one-eyed across the gore and blood-soaked seat at the lifeless body of his wife.
From this angle, Gwen’s face appeared undamaged. In the encroaching haze that distorted his vision, she looked like a delicate angel who had simply decided to close her eyes and fall asleep. He wanted so desperately to reach out to her, to touch her, to hold her, one last time, but his arms would no longer heed his commands.
More than anything, my Love! Her words echoed through his mind.
As consciousness and Earl Keely both slipped away into the darkness, August Bock fell limply against the steering column. Now, the only sound remaining was the plaintive wailing of a car horn, shattering the tranquility of the night.
9
As Bock moved closer to the television screen, he couldn’t help but see his reflection staring back at himself in the glass. It was like gazing into one of those three-dimensional pictures that had become all the rage lately. The harder he studied the screen, the more he could only see his own face. But the hideous distortion was not the glass’s fault. It was a grotesque sight—one that he would never get used to, no matter how much he tried. Jagged scars disfigured most of his face, marring his skin like stitches on a patchwork quilt. Only one of his eyes had survived the ambush intact. The other was covered by a black patch that always reminded him of pirates and old Errol Flynn movies. Without the use of his legs though, swashbuckling was definitely out of the question. All he needed was a hook for a hand, a bandana to cover his bald pate, a parrot for his shoulder, and the image would be complete. Bock rolled his chair away from the monitor so that his reflection would become less apparent and allow him to concentrate on the events that had unfolded in the courtroom.
The dishonorable Nathan Waxman, mayor of the City of Miami Beach, was about to be acquitted of murdering his wife with a shotgun. There was no doubt in Bock’s mind that the mayor was going to skate. After all, he was an expert at reading jurists’ faces.
Waxman just sat there, squirming in his Italia
n suit, nervously primping himself as the verdict was about to be read. With a push of a button on his remote control, Bock backed up the tape again. Clever lawyering, allusions to a fictitious intruder, lost breathalyzer records, a detective’s suddenly vague cognitive skills…. What a farce! Smile while you can, you bastard … judgment day is closer than you think.
Bock stopped the tape. On each of the 15 screens, the mayor’s larger-than-life frozen visage loomed down upon the crippled August Bock. It was only in his own twisted mind, but Bock imagined he saw Waxman turn and wink into the camera, taunting him, like an IRS agent at an audit. It never happened, but one didn’t have to be a psychoanalyst to reason why the CEO of Worldwide Dispatch Incorporated was taking such a personal interest in this case: the innocent woman, the shotgun, the perpetrator still on the loose.
August Bock’s entire face suddenly became glazed with nervous perspiration as he struggled not to let his mind spiral backward to that earlier time and place.
“Mr. Bock?” His secretary’s interruption over the intercom on his desk thrust him back to reality. “You wanted to be reminded of your meeting this hour. Shall I send in Mr. Washington as well?”
Bock wiped away the stream of tears from his face and rolled himself over to the immense picture window that faced east toward the bay. The jade green water had a light chop to it, but it still shimmered under the midday sun like a precious gem. A handful of pleasure boats dotted the bay, while overhead the Goodyear blimp floated majestically northward, undoubtedly headed home to its airbase in Pompano Beach.
He wished more than anything that Gwen were here to share this picturesque view with him. He could still hear her voice, still see her face, just as if she were sitting across the table from him during their last dinner together. He could envision the way the candlelight glinted off her hair and smell the aroma of her perfume as they had spoken of leaving everything behind and starting a new life.
But fate stepped in, wearing a Nazi tattoo and mud-caked motorcycle boots, and rocked August Bock’s world out of its orbit. In his wildest dreams, he never would have imagined he would be staring out over this tropical scenery without the love of his life by his side.
Still entranced, Bock never turned to look as his office door open behind him. “I’m sorry to bother you Mr. Bock, but when you didn’t answer…”
Bock pointed the remote control and turned off all of the screens.
“Are you alright, sir?”
Bock’s good eye never wandered off the blimp gliding across his field of view; he just gestured over his shoulder with the remote control. “My mind was elsewhere.”
The receptionist backed meekly out of the room. “No problem, Mr. Bock. As long as you’re okay, I’ll go ahead and send for Mr. Washington.”
Beyond Biscayne Bay, attached to the mainland by a set of umbilical causeways, the skyline of Miami Beach stretched across the horizon. Where warm beige sand once greeted nothing but bare feet and colorful umbrellas, a fortress of high rise condominiums now blocked Bock’s view of the Atlantic Ocean shoreline. These towers of decadence in turn were separated by a string of grandiose hotels that now stood as unoccupied reminders of a lost era in the city’s history. It was no wonder the city was in such tragic financial straits, what with the immoral leadership it citizens had seen fit to elect.
The double doors to the office opened and Damon Washington stepped into the cavernous room. He was August Bock’s right hand man, chosen from a list of technical geniuses fresh out of the University of Miami. Bock had taken an immediate liking to the young man but knew he needed more than just his technical expertise. Washington came from an Air Force family and learned to fly helicopters from his father. And while being computer savvy and knowing how to take off vertically were useful traits, Bock wanted more. He required someone who personally understood his ravenous hunger for vengeance. He hired Washington not only for his skills as a brilliant programmer and analyst, but because, deep within his file, his history revealed a sister who had been gunned down during a drive-by shooting. He would eventually prove to be the perfect collaborator.
After Washington served his internship and Bock finally trusted him enough to reveal the corporation’s true intent, his sister’s memory would make Washington eager to unite with WDI in its crusade against injustice.
Tall and lean, Washington liked to dress comfortably. No ties and jackets for him. He was as comfortable behind the rudders of the corporate helicopter as he was at his keyboard.
“Sit down. We need to talk,” Bock said, pointing at one of the chairs before his desk.
Washington slipped into the cushy leather chair and crossed his legs figure four style.
“Where are we on this?” Bock asked, spinning the front page of the Miami Herald on his desk to face the young black man.
Washington leaned over and read the headline, then ran his hand over his goatee. “Everything is going as planned. One minor problem, but it was handled.”
“Something I should know about?”
Washington ran his fingers along the crease in his trousers and shook his head. “Not at all. Now that the business in Arizona is done, we can focus on this.”
Bock tapped his fingers on the arms of his wheelchair. “Why do I sense something about the Reverend’s demise is bothering you?”
“It was messy, like Las Vegas. A lot of innocent people were killed.”
“The loss of innocent lives will always be collateral damage in a war. And have no misgivings, Damon: this is a righteous war we are waging.”
Bock rolled his chair in front of his panoramic window. Out on the bay, the wind had picked up and the water had a more noticeable chop. In the sky, a foreign jetliner was cutting through a pillow of wispy white clouds. He could tell it was of foreign origin because it trailed plumes of gray smoke from burning inferior fuel, something that domestic planes were banned from doing. “What’s done is done, Damon. Tell me something that will put my mind at ease about our new objective.”
Washington grabbed a notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket. “We agreed that, while it’s not our usual formula, it won’t matter. The outcome will still be successful. He is a very high profile target, and we needed a specific skill set.” Washington leaned forward and tapped his finger on the newspaper. “Remember it was you who chose not to wait. And it was you who came up with this idea.”
Bock watched the colorful sail of a windsurfer skim across surface of the bay. The jealous part of his heart had long since died off, along with plenty of other emotional nerve centers. “He will make a run for it if we don’t act soon.”
Washington nodded. “We both know that, but we can’t be hasty. You make mistakes if you rush.”
Bock pulled away from the window and spun his chair in behind his desk. “Then we concentrate on what we have control over.”
Washington looked down at his notepad. “I’m listening.”
Bock swiveled around and pointed the remote control toward the viewing wall. Nathan Waxman’s jowly, duplicitous head suddenly filled each screen. Fifteen larger than life faces stared at him, frozen on video tape, grinning with disgraceful satisfaction. “I heard she ran interference last night.”
Washington closed his notepad and slipped it back into the pocket of his shirt. “As far as I know, no one was the wiser.”
Bock leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. “Shayla tells me he’s a real mess.”
Washington agreed. “We knew he would be. We’re doing what we have to. We just need to twist the screws a bit more,” he said, spinning his fingers.
Bock reached into a pocket on the side of his wheelchair and pulled out a gold cigarette lighter, then opened a humidor sitting on his desk. Like a surgeon performing a delicate operation, he touched the flame to the end of a cigar as he rolled it between his lips. He lovingly blew a caravan of smoke rings into the still air and watched them float upward and then evaporate like ghosts. “I want to meet with him, but not here.”
Washington looked surprised. “Why?”
“You have a problem with it?”
“Of course not,” Washington said, thoughtfully stroking the short, dark whiskers around his mouth. “May I ask why?”
With his one good eye, Bock glared across the desk at Washington. “This isn’t one of our ordinary recruits. He was chosen for his expertise and experience.”
Washington was adamant. “Granted, he isn’t like the rest, but why risk exposing yourself?”
Bock twirled the cigar between his lips. “We’ve never attempted this before. This problem is in our own backyard and I want to make sure for myself that he has the right incentive.”
Washington drew in a deep breath. “I really wish you would reconsider.”
As the sun slipped behind a cloud, a somber pall darkened the office. Bock set his cigar down in a Waterford ashtray. “What’s the matter, Damon? Do you honestly think I’m somehow connecting my personal experiences to the death of the mayor’s wife?”
Washington shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Well, it’s been like walking on eggshells around here since the trial began, August. It’s doesn’t exactly take a swami to know what must be going through your mind.”
Bock waggled a disciplinary finger across his desk. “Don’t you dare compare what happened to my wife to what happened to Anna Waxman. The man that murdered Anna Waxman is right there,” he said, jabbing his cigar at the monitor, “while Earl Keely’s still running around loose.” He spun around until he was facing the panoramic scene outside his window once again. The bay was even choppier now, with whitecaps blowing from north to south foreshadowing an approaching cold front, but the vista still managed to obliterate Earl Keely’s hideous face from his thoughts.
“And by the way,” he said, turning to face Damon, “Shayla is not on a plane to Arizona yet. She asked to see me, so she should be here any minute. Why don’t we wait and get her opinion?”
Washington sprang out of his chair like he had been sitting on an ejector seat. “She’s coming here? Now?”
