My King The President

by Tom Lewis

  “Before I leave for Washington, I must commend the emergency personnel here, the Airport Authority, and the rest of you who have been so wonderful. I must also add that I am aware of the tragic news from Miami, and that my heart goes out to the parents, relatives, and teachers of those poor children. To them, I say that I, and the entire United States Government will do all in our power to immediately find and punish those responsible. To you splendid press people, I regret that I don’t have time just now to answer any questions, and have cautioned everyone aboard to do the same, until the officials of the FAA can interview them first. Having said that, I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your cooperation and assistance. I should be back in the Capitol within hours. Thank you very, very much.”

  With that, she smiled yet again into the cameras, and walked calmly back to the restaurant, which was now guarded by two State Highway patrolmen. I felt a tug on my sleeve, turned and was relieved the see the filthy face of my mentor. “Ernie!” I was about to say something about how glad I was he’d come through okay, but his eyes were following President Fordham.

  “She’s something, isn’t she?” I said.

  Ernie was shaking his head. “She’s a lot more than that, Jeb. She’s the President.”

  Chapter 31

  I crashed at Ernie’s apartment for 48 hours, eating ham sandwiches and watching the television news. Nearly all of it alternated between coverage of the Miami school tragedy and the aftermath of the “fire and explosion” of Air Force One at Sioux City. I don’t know which was worse; the gruesome pictures of blood-spattered bodies of eight and nine year-old kids, or the plumes of black smoke rising from the rubble of the President’s plane.

  Early in the morning of the third day, I answered Ernie’s phone. “Hello?”

  “Jeb, this is Jason Barnes. Thought you might like to know Thurmond Frye is recovering nicely. He’s even allowed to have visitors now. All except you, that is. He told me he hopes he never has to see your ugly face again.”

  “Can’t blame him. What else is happening?”

  “We’ve got teams making personal calls on every single man on your father’s list. Lots of very quiet, unpublicized resignations, from generals down to sergeants. They won’t be arrested or prosecuted unless they shoot their mouths off, which is highly unlikely. The FAA and the NTSB, haven’t, uh, found Air Force One’s black box yet. I don’t think they will, either, if you catch my meaning. The whole deal is getting lowest profile treatment. President’s orders.”

  “What about Koontz?”

  “Haven’t been able to find him. President Fordham’s national T.V. hook-up from Sioux City pre-empted him by twenty minutes. He never showed up at the White House press room. Like he vanished into thin air. We don’t have a clue as to where he is. Turnberry either. My boss is not real happy.”

  “I guess not. Is my Dad still at the farm house?”

  “No, he left for home this morning. What about you? What are your plans?”

  “Don’t know yet. Keep in touch, will you?”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “By the way, when you went to Walt’s house, did you see the child?”

  “Yeah. Broke my heart, too. Bye, Jeb.”

  When he hung up, his last words rang in my head like a church bell. Then it came to me what I should do about the money in the envelope Bert Franklin had delivered the night before. I grabbed the phone book and looked up the number of Lloyd Eason, a bright young lawyer I had been barhopping with a number of times back in the old days. Luckily, I caught him in. “Eason.”

  “Lloyd, this is Jeb Willard. Are you free for lunch? My treat.”

  By three in the afternoon, I had set up a sizable anonymous trust for Jody Erikson, and feeling a little better about everything, I took some of the thousand dollars I still had left and went shopping for some warm clothes, dropping a buck or two in several of the Salvation Army kettles in front of the shop doors. Then I stopped by Ernie’s office at the Post. “I’m taking you to dinner, old friend. Feel like Italian? I haven’t been to Carmen’s in years.”

  We hadn’t quite finished eating when I looked up and saw the huge form of Sal Cancelossi’s Number One making his way to our table. I stood to make some kind of awkward introduction, but Bruno stopped me half way through. “Excuse me for interrupting your dinner, Mr. Willard. Can I have a word with you? In private?”

  “Sure.”

  I followed him to the rear of the restaurant into the men’s room. “What can I do for you, Bruno?”

  The big man’s face was not a happy one. “Don Cancelossi sent me. He’s dying, and wants to see you. Can you be ready by eight tomorrow morning?”

  Something told me he was understating the urgency. I took a gamble. “I can go right now if you like. Just let me tell my friend and get my coat and hat. Where are we going? Miami?”

  “Farther. Key West.”

  I asked no more questions. After making my quick excuses to a flabbergasted Ernie Latham, I followed Bruno to the street, where the limo was waiting…

  I spent the rest of a short night in a plush hotel in Miami, was served a beautiful breakfast in my suite, and by nine in the morning, was back in the private jet that had flown us south from Washington National. Before noon, I found myself in Cancelossi’s helicopter, with Bruno piloting, headed southeast, toward Cuba. Inside thirty minutes, I spotted the graceful shape of the ANNA B, cruising alone in the emerald water. Bruno punched in a few numbers on his cell phone and handed it to me. “Hello?”

  Cancelossi’s weak voice came over. “Ah, it’s my young writer friend, come to say good-bye. Thank you for making the effort. I have instructed Bruno to show you something interesting. I’ll talk to you again in a few minutes.”

  Bruno expertly guided the chopper in close. I could hear Cancelossi’s awful wheeze-cackling over the phone as I looked down on the yacht. Salvatore Cancelossi was waving at us from the flying bridge and pointing to the fantail. I had to blink twice before I recognized the naked figure strapped down to the deck! Bruno made another pass, left to right, and Cancelossi’s voice came back into my ear. “General Turnberry is a most unappreciative guest. I’m surprised you can’t hear his screams above the sound of the rotors. Such vile language!”

  “How did you—?”

  “Kidnap him? Actually I didn’t. If I may steal another line from my long departed friend Puzo, I made the Judge the old offer he couldn’t refuse. Namely, if he didn’t accept my fishing invitation, I would expose their entire plan to every major and minor media outlet in the world. The fool accepted, naturally, but sent his sacrificial lamb instead. He’ll make better bait than the Cuban woman did. His flesh is, ah, considerably riper. Besides, he was already supposed to be dead, wasn’t he? No one will miss him.”

  “Don Cancelossi, you can’t do this thing.”

  “Yes I can. Listen to me, young man. My doctors were all wrong. I’m about to take my last pill. A special one. Even as we speak, the pain is almost more than I can bear, and I can bear a lot. No, I’m going to meet my maker, and I know I have a great deal to answer for, but this piece of shit is not among them. So, watch and enjoy. Justice for the Judge is up to you. Bruno knows where he is. Good-bye, Jeb Willard, and tell my faithful manservant I said arrividerci. I’ll save him a place in hell.”

  In helpless horror, while Bruno made criss-cross passes over the yacht, I watched him go below. Moments later, there was a dull thud. The Anna B shuddered violently, veered slowly to starboard, then stopped, dead in the water. I guessed that Cancelossi had taken his pill, and touched a switch that set off pre-set charges in her bilge. Bruno, tears streaming down his broad face, hovered the chopper over her until she settled, then rapidly sank beneath the flat sea. Nothing else was in sight on any horizon. Bruno circled twice more before turning back.

  He didn’t speak to me until we saw the low profile of Key West rise up out of the Straits. “Our plane is waiting to take us to Charleston. We have rented a car there.”
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  It wasn’t a car. It was a big Suburban with studded tires, which took us safely and comfortably warm straight south down the snowplowed West Virginia Turnpike to Beckley. During the humming drive, Bruno explained, in his usual few words, “Some of our people tracked him down. He’s holed up at the house he bought for his mother years ago.”

  “His mother’s house? You mean he never sold it?”

  For the first time, I saw what looked like a smirk invade Bruno’s face. “We know that Judge Koontz never got rid of anything he ever owned. He’s there, all right, planning how to sneak out of the country.”

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”

  “He couldn’t. Not without money. Yesterday was Saturday. Today’s Sunday. No banks open until tomorrow morning.”

  He said nothing more until we pulled into a Burger King at a mall just inside the Beckley city limits. We went inside just as it began snowing again. I got two cups of coffee and made my way back to the far corner booth Bruno had chosen just as he was taking the cell phone from his pocket. He punched numbers and said, “Report.”

  I couldn’t hear what the other party said, but I saw satisfaction on Bruno’s face as he listened and nodded. After a couple minutes, he stuck the phone back inside his pocket, picked up his coffee, took a sip, and then told me, “The rabbit’s in his hutch. We wait here for a while.”

  Half an hour went by. I looked at my watch. Almost midnight. Sipping my coffee, I deduced that Bruno had one or more of his men watching the house where Koontz was, and figured we’d wait until he went to bed before attempting to surprise him. Another five minutes passed, and I was about to get up and get us refills when his phone rang. “Yeah?”

  I watched his face change expressions, from placid to obvious anger. Then I heard him say, “Shit! Which way?”

  He closed the phone abruptly, looked at me, and said, “Let’s go. He’s on the move.”

  Outside, he gave me the keys to the Suburban. “You drive. I’ll tell you where to go.” We climbed in, and I started the big vehicle. “He’s trying to take advantage of the new snow,” Bruno said. “Must have spotted our guys. They’re following him out of town.”

  “Is he heading our way?”

  “Don’t know yet.” He reached into his coat and pulled out an ugly automatic. Looked like a Colt 45. “Here,” he said, offering it to me. “You might need this.”

  I shook my head. “No thanks. I think I can handle an old man by myself.”

  Bruno grunted. “Suit yourself, but he could be carrying.”

  We waited only another minute or so before the cell phone rang again. Bruno listened, then said, “Okay. We’re on our way.”

  He glanced at me. “We’re in luck. He’s taking State Highway 16 north, toward Prosperity and Bradley.” He pointed to the intersection just ahead of us, now partially obscured by the falling snow. “That way. He’ll have to pass right by us.”

  “Why isn’t he taking the turnpike?” I wanted to know. “If he’s going back to Washington, it would be a hell of a lot easier drive.”

  Bruno shrugged, his eyes peeled on the intersection dead ahead of us. Then it dawned on me that there weren’t very many roads of any kind leading in and out of this mountain town, and Koontz would know each of them like them back of his hand. He was apparently leaving earlier than he’d planned to, because of the new snowfall, which would soon make even the Turnpike dangerous for driving.

  “There he is!” Bruno said, in almost a stage whisper. I recognized the car from before, saw the unmistakable shock of hair, and felt a kind of electrical charge shoot up from my toes. While waiting for the light to change, I watched him fire up a fresh cigar! I didn’t see Bruno dial again, but heard him when he told his men, “We’ve got him. Break off. I’ll be in touch.”

  When the light changed, we watched the Judge turn left, passing right by us, onto 16 North. The car behind him kept going straight, and I waited for the next light, keeping Koontz’s taillights in sight.

  The Judge was a good driver. The narrow, twisting, two-lane highway would have been a challenge for any vehicle, four wheel drive or not, and I was grateful Bruno’d had the foresight to rent the one we were in. The studded tires gave me good traction, although the Judge’s car wasn’t going more than forty. The snow was coming from the northwest, and our windshield wipers were working on high speed. I hoped it wouldn’t turn to sleet. There was no one else stupid enough to be on the road, and I kept the Judge’s taillights about sixty or seventy yards ahead of me. Any more than that, I might have lost them, and didn’t want to chance he might turn off onto some side road only he would know about, and lose him. Because there was no other traffic, I wondered out loud if he knew we were following him. “What do you think, Bruno?”

  “Possibly. I’d make my move now. We’ll be coming up on the village of Prosperity in a few minutes.”

  “How?” I said.

  Bruno stared at me like I was the dumbest guy he’d ever seen. “Use your imagination. You’ve got a bus, here. Force him off the road. Make him stop.”

  Easier said than done, I thought. I goosed the Suburban slowly, and gained on the Judge until I was right behind him. I leaned on the horn, hoping he’d slow down and stop. Instead, he sped up. Then it became a race. The powerful engine in the Chevy cruiser responded, though, and I managed to pull out alongside him, driving in the left hand lane. I couldn’t tell if Koontz saw or recognized us, but he stomped on his accelerator again, widening the gap between us. I responded in turn, unmindful of whatever danger lay ahead. So far, the road’s curves had not been too severe, and all of a sudden, I realized Koontz was setting me up. There was no way I could see very far ahead, but he would know if there was a bad curve coming, and might slow down in time, allowing me to pass him and not be able to recover in time. Maybe fly right off the mountain. I exhaled sharply and slowed down. A quick glance to the right confirmed my suspicion. A yellow, snow caked sign flashed by. Sure enough, the judge slowed down too, and when I could see that the curve ahead was one to the left, I goosed the Suburban again viciously, managing to get abreast, then slightly ahead of him. I was guessing we both were going no more than fifty.

  It was enough. I eased to the right, slowing down gradually. In an instant, I felt the grinding metal of first contact, and turned the wheel even more to the right, hoping he’d simply slow down and eventually stop. That was when the Judge made his mistake. Trying to shake me off, he slammed on his brakes, lost control and went right through the puny guardrail of the curve.

  I don’t know how long it took me to come to a complete stop, braking gradually, and not wanting to chance backing up, I simply pulled on the hand brake, opened the door and started running back toward the breach in the guard rail. At the same time, I heard the ugly sounds of Koontz’s car turning over, thrashing through the trees growing on the slope of the ravine. I was surprised that in spite of his bulk, Bruno reached the gap in the rail before I did, and was already half-sliding down to the wreck, which was some forty feet below us.

  Using small trees and bushes to break my falling, I slipped and slid down the side of the mountain behind him, adrenaline pumping like crazy. For a second, I paused, peering through the curtain of blowing snow, and saw that the mangled mess of steel and glass that had been the Judge’s car was lying upside down, wedged tightly between the trunks of two pines, one wheel still turning like a child’s pinwheel. Bruno reached the crevasse before I did, and turned to me. “I think he’s still alive!”

  I was thinking of how to answer him when the explosion rocked me backwards.

  WHUMP!

  Automatically, I raised my arm to shield my face. Gas tank! I saw Bruno clamber away from the fire, which spread rapidly. But through the flames, I could see Koontz’s head and face, bloody and distorted, and as I reached the spot where Bruno was crouched, knew he had heard the same thing I had. Koontz was alive, hanging upside down from his seat belt, his bloody face redder than his burning hair, and screaming at
the top of his voice for help!

  There was no way.

  The fire had become intense. A blast furnace, enveloping the wreck totally now. Pinned hopelessly inside the squashed car, Judge Ezekiel Joshua Koontz was roasting in his own personal hell. Instinctively, I started to move forward, but Bruno grabbed me and held me back. We both stared at the inferno before us for several seconds before I finally said, “Bruno, give me the gun.”

  Without a word, he nodded and handed it to me. I didn’t think further. With both hands, I aimed it across the fifteen or twenty feet of the ravine, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. Again and again and yet again, until my finger was pulling uselessly. Bruno gently took the automatic from my shaking hands. I looked up, and into the eyes beneath the snow frosted eyebrows. They were soft. Understanding. His voice was also soft. So much so, I nearly didn’t hear him. “It was the right thing to do. You only hit him once, but that one was enough. Nobody deserves to die like that, even him. You did good, Mr. Willard. Come on, let’s get out of here. A State Patrol car could come by here at any time.”

  I stood, still shaking, but before we climbed back up the steep slope, I watched Bruno carefully wipe all my fingerprints off the gun, replace them with his own, then toss the Colt over on top of the burning, now stinking wreck.

  Neither of us spoke until we were almost to the Charleston airport. Bruno, who was now driving, said, “Soon as this storm lets up, we can take off.”

  “Where will you go, Bruno?”

  He turned sideways. Gave me a crooked smile. “I’m Sicilian. And unemployed. I’m going back home—to Palermo. You? back to Washington?”

  I thought about that less than one second. “No. No, Bruno, if your guy can drop me off at Raleigh-Durham, that’s close enough. I’m going home, too.”

  Epilogue