by Lyle Howard
Gabe wiped some blowing sand off his cheek. “And exactly which part of that philosophy is supposed to convince me that you’re not bat-shit crazy?”
Bock unlocked the chair’s brake and spun around to face Gabe. “I fully understand your skepticism, but let me tell you how this campaign came to be. The idea came to me while I was in rehabilitation for my accident and I met the most amazing young girl. Like you, she was dying, but much too young. We would talk whenever our sessions coincided, discussing what she wanted to do with the time she had remaining.” Gabe saw Bock’s uncovered eye begin to well up. “She told me that her father had been shot and killed a year earlier while waiting in line to cash his paycheck during a robbery. The thief was apprehended quickly, but escaped during his transfer to the county stockade. The authorities blamed it on a procedural mix up, and he was still at large—but not for long.” Bock borrowed the devil’s grin. “I came to know her well over the last weeks before she succumbed to the disease, and what I’ll always remember about her was her desire for revenge. She knew it was wrong, and she thought herself a better person, but she couldn’t get the thought of retribution out of her head. Neither could I.”
Thoughts of Gabe’s wife and daughter swirled through his own mind as he listened.
Bock blew out a deep breath. “So that’s the history; now let me reveal the reality. I seek out terminal patients such as yourself, Gabe, who for one reason or another not only find themselves down on their luck physically, but monetarily as well. Maybe they’ve used up their nest egg battling their illnesses, or perhaps their insurance companies have canceled their policies,” he said, waving his hand disgustedly. “You wouldn’t believe how often that happens. Whatever the reason, if the patient fits the profile of what we feel is a potential candidate, we step in and offer them a solution to their fiscal crisis.”
Gabe leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bamboo table. “In exchange for…”
Bock unlocked his wheels and spun around to face Gabe. His face was laced tight as a boot. “In exchange for…performing one last heroic service for humanity.”
Gabe never let his eyes waver from Bock’s face. He was analyzing the man in front of him, trying to figure out whether he was staring into the eyes of a genius or a madman.
“And this service would be…”
“In your case,” Bock said, looking over at Shayla, who was seated on the edge of the table, “we want you to rectify another heinous miscarriage of justice.”
Gabe sat back in his chair. It had all become so crystal clear. “You talk in circles like a lawyer, but what you really want, is for me to kill someone … plain and simple.”
A horsefly landed on the table, curious about a lemon pit. With cobra-like agility, Shayla’s hand whipped out, and flattened the bug beneath her palm. She grinned with contentment and wiped the guts onto her napkin. “Someone very special, love.”
Gabe rose out of his chair and held up his hands. “I thought you were only kidding at the hospital. You’re really serious about murdering someone? Is that what you do? You find dying people and send them off on suicide missions?” He rubbed his forehead. “You’re all insane! You can’t take justice into your own hands. That’s what we have courts and lawyers for.”
August Bock’s calm facade showed its first hint of structure failure. “Courts and lawyers? You think we should respect the decisions that come out of a court of law in this country as if those decisions are sacrosanct? You know, I believed that one time too—until the woman I loved was slaughtered by a man that 12 jurors said was ‘innocent.’ He wasn’t innocent when he killed my wife and left me in this chair. No, no, I know the average person walking around out there might say they want to honor the decisions of our courts. Not me. Not anymore.”
Gabe could feel the sweat dripping down the back of his neck as he shook his head with incredulity.
“There is a fine line between insanity and brilliance, Mr. Mitchell,” Bock said as he slowly regained his composure. “I need not remind you of all the brilliant people in history who were initially regarded by their peers as crazy.”
Gabe looked around for the nearest escape route, but it was pitch dark and the helicopter had left. There was nowhere to run. “Well, I’ll be sure to add both your names to that list because you’re both lunatics.”
“Hear me out,” Bock said, pointing for Gabe to return to his seat. “Just listen to what I have to say, and being an ex-law enforcement officer, I’m sure you’ll come around to our way of thinking.”
Gabe shook his head incredulously and sat back down. This whole thing was like some kind of farce. At any moment he expected someone to pop out of the underbrush and tell him he was being pranked. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t? Then let me ask you a hypothetical question. That mass murderer that killed all of those poor defenseless women and then killed your partner? What if he had survived that shootout in the alley?”
That thought grabbed Gabe’s attention and stirred his ire.
Bock continued. “Now suppose he had gone on trial, and through some procedural technicality or legal loophole, had been set free? How would you feel about that?”
Gabe could feel his teeth grinding, and now August Bock was smiling. “Wouldn’t be too happy, would you? We handle just those types of situations, Gabe. Consider us the alternative. We specialize in correcting mistakes made by an overwhelmed and very corrupt justice system.”
Gabe rubbed his hand over his heart. “By using people like me.”
“Exactly! Can you think of a better way? Everybody wins! Now, are you beginning to understand how important our job is?”
“Are you funded by the government?”
Bock frowned. “Oh Lord no, although they are one of my best clients. They give us blanket immunity and, in return, we’re occasionally called upon, how should I put this? To clean up their dirty laundry? So again, it’s a win-win situation for everyone.”
“And what you want me for? To clean up a government mess?”
“I told you, the government isn’t my only client. Through very discreet channels, we’re approached by people from all over the world who feel someone has escaped justice. Of course, I’m very particular about the cases I take on. I will only deal with the wrongfully acquitted. I don’t do divorces,” he laughed. “This independent work is the backbone of my operation. These wealthy clients pay for our service, and, in turn, that enables us to pay you. All of this gives me the resources to fulfill my main objective and that is to see that our brand of terminal retribution is carried out wherever and whenever it’s called for.”
“So this operation of yours has been going on for quite a while?”
Bock reached across the table for his ginger ale and took a sip. “I don’t believe that anything we’ve done in the past is of your concern, Gabe. Let’s just deal with the here and now, shall we?”
Gabe crossed his arms over his chest. “That being?”
“A very high-profile case has come to our attention. Yet another jury has seen fit to allow another criminal to go unpunished. It’s the one great flaw of our system of jurisprudence: relying on average people with no legal background to pass judgment on these defendants who are obviously guilty.”
“You talk like a lawyer, and you seem to know a lot about the law.”
Bock ignored the comment. “For this particular assignment, we require someone with a very specific skill set when it comes to police procedures. We need someone who would be familiar to his fellow officers. Someone who could slip through a tight security net unnoticed, provided he had the right credentials.”
Fellow officers? Gabe didn’t have to be hit over the head with a Louisville Slugger. Now he knew exactly who the intended target was. “This is all about Nathan Waxman, am I right?”
Bock smiled over at Shayla. “I told you, didn’t I?”
Shayla nodded. “He’s good.”
Gabe rubbed his lips; suddenly they were bone-dry. “And
if I kill him, my son will get $4 million.”
“That is absolutely correct,” Bock confirmed.
“But you’re assuming that I’ll be killed in the process. What if I were to get away somehow?”
Shayla smiled. “You can rest assured that there’s no chance of that happening, love.”
“Why’s that?”
Bock clasped his hands on his lap. “Let’s just say, we plan on giving the ex-mayor of Miami Beach an explosive send off.”
Gabe remembered the news reports about Waxman taking his private yacht on a week-long getaway. “So when’s this all supposed to happen?”
Shayla walked around behind the bar and pulled out a hand-held radio and whispered something into it.
“Tomorrow night,” Bock said matter-of-factly. “Everything has been planned down to the minute.”
Gabe looked incredulous. “Tomorrow night? You’re telling me I’ve got less than 24 hours to live?”
Shayla set the radio down on top of the bar and smiled. “Twenty-three, actually. He’s planning on leaving at sunset.”
Gabe felt like his world was spinning out of control. “But that’s impossible! There’s too many things I still have to take care of! Tomorrow night’s too soon!”
“That’s why we let you visit with your son this afternoon,” Bock said. “That’s a very unorthodox policy for us, but we thought seeing him one last time would help put your mind at ease.”
Off in the distance, the sound of thumping rotor blades grew louder.
“And what if I don’t want to go along with this plan of yours? You know, I’m a cop and you’ve just confessed to a massive terrorist conspiracy.”
Shayla Rand stepped forward until her face was close enough that Gabe could feel her hot breath. “You used to be a cop … and I don’t think you’ll be telling your story to anyone.”
“Gabe … Shayla … please,” Bock pleaded, trying to avert the standoff. They stood eye to eye with neither of them flinching. “Gabe, the plan’s already in motion. There’s nothing you can do to stop us.”
Unblinking, Gabe inched his face closer to Shayla. “What are you going to do, lady?” he growled like a predatory cat. “Kill me here?”
Bock shook his head. “Please, Gabe, don’t be foolish. If I let Shayla kill you now,” he said, never considering that the outcome would be otherwise, “Nathan Waxman will go sailing off into the sunset exonerated from justice for a second time. That would be a tragedy I would find reprehensible. I have no intention of letting you die here.”
A whirlwind of sand was whipped into the air as the landing lights from Bock’s helicopter illuminated the tent.
Gabe shrugged defiantly. “Well, you can’t make me do it.”
Back nodded to Rand and from behind the bar; in response, she retrieved a small brown paper sack. It was the same size bag that a child would store his peanut butter and jelly sandwich in for school. Slowly, deliberately, she unrolled the top of the bag. Sensing Gabe’s anxiety and savoring every moment of it, she never took her eyes off of him as she methodically reached inside…
The blades of the idling helicopter continued to spin and the drone from the engines made speaking at a normal volume virtually impossible.
“That’s Casey’s baseball cap!” Gabe screamed.
Shayla held up the teal and black Florida Marlins hat as though she were displaying it at an auction. “It would be a real shame if something were to happen to your boy, love. He’s a real charmer!”
Gabe was feeling weaker than ever, but he still couldn’t control his outrage. With no thought of his own regard, he leapt for Rand with both his hands balled into fists. “If you so much as look at my son!”
It took very little effort for her to sidestep his feeble attack and spin around, catching him in a choke hold from behind. “I would love to kill you now,” she taunted in his ear, “but I’d take even more pleasure in torturing and then killing your boy instead.” She shoved him toward the table where he slumped over, clutching at his throat.
“I was sincerely hoping it wouldn’t come down to this,” Bock said, regretfully shaking his head. “I promise no harm will come to your son, and he will be amply rewarded—if you do what we tell you.”
Gabe was having a difficult time catching his breath. “So, this is what it comes down to? Petty blackmail?”
Bock shook his head. “Blackmail? Maybe. Petty? We do what we must. If you think about it, Gabe, we’re actually saving you a great deal of suffering and hardship by giving you a quick and painless way out. Dying from a brain tumor is such a horrible way to go. You’d be sacrificing yourself for the benefit of mankind, and at the same time, your son will be set for life! Now, what’s so hard to swallow about that deal?”
Gabe tried to stand upright, his hands still rubbing his tender neck. “I guess you’ve left me no choice.”
Bock looked over at Shayla and raised his glass. “You see what can be worked out through a little negotiation? A toast to Gabe Mitchell and the successful completion of his mission!”
Damon Washington stepped out of the darkness and into the brightly lit tent. “Everything went well, I assume.”
“Splendid,” Bock announced. “Now please fly Gabe back to the mainland. I want to speak with Shayla privately, and, since it’s such a glorious night, I thought we might stay on a bit longer. You can return for us after you’ve seen to his accommodations.”
Gabe poured the water from the bottle onto a napkin and blotted the cold compress against his face. Combined with the cool breeze blowing in from the ocean, it quickly revived his spirit and energy. “I suppose there’s no chance I’d be allowed to go home first?”
“I’m afraid not,” Bock said. “It would be better if you were to stay where we can keep an eye on you. It’s not that I think you’d try anything foolish—it’s just a precaution for your own welfare. Believe me: you’ll be very comfortable in the room we have set up for you, and you’ll be fully briefed there as well. But if there’s anything else you want, just let one of my associates know.”
“You mean, like a last meal?”
Bock held open his hands. “If that’s what you wish. The sky’s the limit. Money is no object. Food, companionship—whatever you’d like, it’s yours … just name it. I want to make your next 22 hours the most pleasant you’ve ever spent on earth.”
Gabe started walking with Damon Washington toward the helicopter, but paused at the edge of the walkway and turned around. “Don’t you mean my last 22 hours?”
* * * * * *
The moon had risen halfway up the night sky, and a band of fluffy white clouds drifted aimlessly across it. Out to sea, the lights from a smattering of Bahamian fishing boats blinked along the horizon, like stars that didn’t have the ambition to reach any higher into the sky. The whine of the retreating helicopter had long since been replaced by the slapping of the surf on the shoreline and the continuous hum of the electrical generator. August Bock noticed none of it. His wheelchair sat perched at the edge of the wooden floor facing the ocean, but his mind was elsewhere as Shayla Rand handed him another drink.
“So, what do you think of my choice?” he asked, with his focus somewhere far beyond the starlit horizon.
“Do you want my honest opinion?” she asked, leaning against one of the thick metal cables that supported the canopy, “or do you want me to tell you what you want to hear?”
Bock frowned. “I take it you’re not enthused about Mr. Mitchell. I value your opinion. Why not?”
Rand stepped down onto the sand and walked around to face Bock. With the difference in height of the sand and platform floor, they were now at eye level. “He’s not like the old Jew, or the crippled girl, August. I’ve seen this man in action twice. He’s dangerous. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”
“In the entire time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you scared of anyone.”
She bent down and picked up a shell and tossed it into the incoming tide. “No man frig
htens me, August, but I’m warning you. You might be getting more than you bargained for with this man.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you’ve backed him into a corner and this is the type of man who won’t be intimidated like that. I’ve seen him with a gun in his face. He’s as dangerous as a ricocheting bullet. I don’t like him, and I wouldn’t turn my back on him if he’d already been dead a week.”
Bock took a sip from his drink. “I think you worry too much. By tomorrow night at this time, it will all be over.”
Shayla leaned forward in the sand, her hands resting on the arms of Bock’s wheelchair. “You’re not listening to me August. You asked my opinion, and I am telling you right now that the only good Gabe Mitchell is a dead Gabe Mitchell.”
“You’re worrying yourself over nothing, my dear. He will perform exactly as we’ve planned. We’ve strung him along like a marionette to this point. And now, he honestly believes we have him over the proverbial barrel.”
But Shayla Rand was not so self-assured. “A lot can happen in a single day, August,” she said, digging her heels into the sand. “As far as I’m concerned, tomorrow night cannot come soon enough!”
22
Tropic Garden Motel
20 hours to live
Damon Washington untied the knot on Gabe’s blindfold and slipped the black scarf into his pocket.
“Was that really necessary?” Gabe asked, rubbing his eyes.
“Just a precaution, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Do you treat all of your recruits this way?”
Washington folded the black scarf into a neat little square. “No, just the ones who used to be police detectives.”
After Gabe’s eyes had sufficiently adjusted to the dreary lighting, he couldn’t decide if the foul shade of yellow on the walls was caused by decaying paint, or the dismal gloom cast off by the stained lampshade. One thing was for certain: the room smelled musty and needed to be aired out. Everything about this place said don’t touch me without rubber gloves. “Not exactly the lap of luxury, is it?”
