Chapter 16
I’m Done!
Frank shuffled through his wallet in search of a business card: the only one he had with a number but no name. He had clear instructions to follow. When he found it, he dialed and anxiously waited for someone to answer.
“Hello,” answered a distorted voice.
“Hello…this is Frank Dijon from Chapleaux, Ontario. I’m supposed to call this number an—”
“I know. I’ve been expecting you. Is it finished?”
“Well… I guess. I…”
“Is it finished!”
“Yes!” Frank answered nervously. “Everyone is leaving except an old-timer who lives in the woods and Blake Driscole. They’re still waiting on Mr. Radisson, and for the results of the fingerprints to come back.”
“And what of Sarah Perkins? What’s her next move?”
“I’m not a hundred percent clear on that. She suspects something more than an accident. But I don’t know where she’s going or what she’s up to. She said she had a good place to start, whatever that means.”
“What about the oilman? What is his response?”
With a lump in his throat, Frank answered, “He’s on his way to New York. He plans to assassinate Jonathan Stalwart and anyone who gets in his way.”
Emotionally exhausted, Frank took a deep breath. He did it. He actually became one of them, and he hated himself for it.
“Thank you, Mr. Dijon. Now, to what account would you like your funds delivered?”
Frank answered dispassionately, “The Royal Dutch Bank in Sault Sainte Marie…account number 1-2-2-2-1-1-1 0-0-1. My routing number is 5-5-5 0-0-0 0-0-0-1-3-3. After it goes through, I’m done. Did you hear me? I’m done!”
In a cold, expressionless tone, the voice responded, “Thank you for your services, Mr. Dijon. If your phone receives text messages, I will have your bank text you a confirmation number. Good day.” Click.
Moments later, the phone rang. He read the text. Frank called his sister’s bank to be sure the money was deposited. It was. Satisfied, Frank put the gun in his mouth, bit down on the cold steel, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 17
Road Trip
Thomas Radisson never showed up. The survivors got a check via Federal Express. Finally, Blake and Dennis were free to leave. It was time for a road trip. They headed east.
“So what’s your plan, Blake?” asked Dennis, looking at Blake sitting in the passenger seat of Blake’s Chevy pickup. Dennis was glad that he and Blake were together again.
“Keep your eyes on the road, Dennis! I swear you’re gonna get us killed! Besides, I told you that we’d go over the details when we get there. But if you need to know something, I’m gonna do the killing, and you’re gonna be a decoy.”
“Sounds easy enough.” Dennis scratched his head. “But uh…who are you gonna kill again?”
“Who do you think I’m gonna kill, you idiot? Jon Stalwart! Just drive. I’ll look at the map. I want to get familiar with these roads before we get to the Big Apple so I can plan an escape route.”
“Oh, that sounds good. An escape route! I probably wouldn’t of thought of that, Blake. God you’re smart. You always know what to do. You always have. In fact, I remember when you used to—”
Blake interrupted. “Shut up, Dennis! Jiminy Christmas. Can you just keep your mouth shut for one minute?”
Dennis didn’t respond. He knew when to shut up.
• • •
Later that day, the two sojourners stopped at a motel in Toronto to get a good night’s rest before they crossed the border. Dennis wanted to do a little gambling with his extra cash, so he headed to the House of Cards Casino in Toronto. Blake stayed inside the motel to plan his revenge.
He talked to himself as he plotted his course.
“Okay, that’s 543 Wall Street Avenue, twenty-third floor. There are two security guards in the foyer, four sets of elevators to the north of the security desk and cameras everywhere. Damn it! Okay, try again. What about the rear or side door? Is there a loading dock for maintenance, or the café? Yeah that might work. I’ll definitely pass for maintenance.
“What about my little buddy? How is he gonna fit in? Think, think…yeah…maybe just a driver or a decoy. Yeah. Better stick with that.”
• • •
The motel-room door burst open and Dennis came stumbling into the room, drunk. With his shirt half tucked in and his fly open, he managed to say a few words to Blake, who was stretched out on his bed watching TV. Standing in the doorway, with both hands pressed firmly against the doorframe, Dennis stared at Blake.
“Where the hell you been, you overgrown son of a bitch?” Dennis asked, barley standing.
Shocked by Dennis’s rudeness, Blake responded, “Excuse me? You better get a shower and get to bed. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“I waited and waited…and you never showed up!” Dennis stumbled into the room.
“Never showed up to what?” Blake’s eyes were glued to the television.
Dennis responded with slurred speech, “To the wedding parlor, you son of a bitch!”
Blake was now looking at Dennis, frustrated with his lack of sense. “What are you talking about, you idiot? Why would I come to some stupid wedding parlor?”
“I called you! Didn’t you get the message? I met the woman of my dreams! Her name’s Candy, and she’s the most beautifulest woman I and you have ever seen! And I did it, Blake. I tied the knot. I finally dun it!”
“That’s great, Dennis!” responded Blake. He chuckled quietly to himself. “But uh…I have one question for you.”
“Shoot!” Dennis grabbed the wall to keep from falling.
“If you got married, where the hell is your bride?”
Dennis looked around. “Ah…I…well…I don’t know! Where the hell is she?” Dennis started to laugh, while he searched for Candy, lifting up pieces of furniture.
“Where are you, baby?” he called out to his lost love.
“I think you must have taken her home for the night, Dennis.”
“Oh, I did?”
Having fun with Dennis’s obvious stupor, Blake continued the game. “Yeah! I think you took her home so she could spend one more night with her parents before she starts her new life with you!”
Dennis’s brow furrowed. “She is?”
“Yeah, she is! She wants you to get a good night’s rest because you have a big day tomorrow. She wants you to just lie low and get some—”
Dennis fell facedown on the other bed. The short conversation was all he could handle. Blake had been through this before. He knew how to deal with his drunken buddy. Just say something confusing and he’ll be satisfied. It’s like singing Dennis a lullaby. Say something stupid, and he’s out like a light.
• • •
The next morning, the two oilmen headed across the Canadian/American border and continued southeast toward New York City. Dennis was clueless, but no less part of the plan. He sat in the passenger seat, hungover, drooling. Blake would inform him of his high-level position in the coming days. Until they found a place to stay and until they spent some time staking out the “Crystal Palace,” Blake was left to his thoughts. He used his time remembering Penny, Katie, Kylie and hundreds of the other innocent victims from Chapleaux.
As Blake drove through the state of New York, his blood began to boil. He believed that a grievous injustice had been committed. As he had said, he wasn’t about to “just sit on his ass and wait for the authorities to do nothing.”
Chapter 18
Grande Isle Interrogation
The Grande Isle Sheriff’s Department held Gill on charges of murder and conspiracy to commit murder, charged with over fifty counts of murder in the first degree. Due to the serious nature of the crime, the FBI had taken over the investigation with the full cooperation of the local authorities. Gill had been suspected of terrorist activities. Nervous and confused, he waited for someone to show up inside the inter
rogation room. He was hungry, cold, and scared.
From inside the observation room, two agents discussed their strategy for confronting Gill as they looked through the one-way mirror. They had never met Gill.
“He looks a little confused, don’t you think?” asked Dan Hullman, a twenty-year FBI veteran. Dan wore a navy-blue suit, stood only five foot five, was thin and had red hair. He crossed his arms and stared through the glass.
His partner, Nick Blades, a black-haired, thick-boned, five o’clock-shadow, do-it-by-the-book guy answered, “Yeah, but don’t they all?”
Dan stepped out of the small room and said, “Let’s see what he has to say. I’ll go in first. You know the routine.”
Dan walked into the interrogation room, reaching out to shake Gill’s hand. “Hi there, Gill. My name’s Agent Hullman. I’m from the FBI. I understand you folks had a little disturbance here a while back. Is that true?”
Without looking up, Gill answered with an occasional whistle, “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, we did.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Gill. What exactly happened? Can you help me with that?”
“Yes, sir. I waked up as usual that morning before sunup and I got dressed so I could go to work, like I always done. I said ‘Hey’ to Lee when I got there, and I started to it right away.”
“What exactly did you start, Gill?”
“Yes, sir. I started by runnin’ through my checklist that Lee give me. I checked it every day. I checked the lights, and the motors, and the fuel, and a page full of safety checks, like safety vests and the safety boats. Then I helped the boys load up their tools and parts and stuff like that.”
“Sounds like you did a good job for Lee. He must have really trusted you. Shame isn’t it?”
“Shame? Sir?” Gill lifted his head, confused.
“It’s a shame he trusted you, Gill. You do realize that you’re the primary suspect in this case, don’t you? Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, sir. I know what that means. But I ain’t done nothin’. I told the sheriff that I ain’t done nothin’, and he don’t believe me. He just pushed me into that cell and left me here to talk with that drinkin’ fool of a lawyer, Mr. Grant. He ain’t done nothin’ to help me neither.”
“Well…” Dan cleared his throat. “Gill, you know that there’s evidence that you started that explosion. You’re the only one who works on the engine and fuel lines. And the local fire marshal has made a statement that the ferry explosion was caused by an intentional crossing of fuel lines. They have fingerprints, Gill. We also have your fingerprints all over the gun that was used to kill that girl at the pier. And two federal agents found you at the scene of the murder with the gun in your hands. So I don’t see why anyone should be helping you now, Gill. Do you?”
“No, sir.” Gill wrung his hands. “I reckon I don’t. But I told that lady that I checked those fuel lines, and I didn’t kill Ginger. I told her that!”
“What lady are you talking about, Gill?”
Gill directed Dan to look through his personal possessions, which included his clothing that he turned in upon arrival.
“Her card is in the front pocket of my bibs.”
Dan nodded his head and looked at Gill with suspicion. He then walked out of the room and returned moments later with Sarah’s card in his hand.
“Is this the lady you’re talking about?”
“Yes, sir.” Gill smiled. “That’s her! That’s the lady I told you ’bout.”
“Okay. I’ll be sure to give her a call. But my partner has a few questions for you. I’ll give this lady a call, and he’ll come in here and ask you some more questions. How’s that?”
“That’ll be fine, sir.”
Nick Blades stomped into the room with a manila envelope filled with evidence. He threw the file down on the table and shouted at Gill. “Nothing? Nothing? Do you see this stack of evidence, Gill? I don’t call this ‘nothing’!” Nick pointed at the pile of papers. “I call it guilty! And I guarantee you that a jury isn’t going to look at that stack of evidence and call it ‘nothing’!”
“Yes, sir,” responded Gill, sheepishly.
“‘Yes, sir’? Is that all you have to say for yourself? For God’s sake, Gill, you put a.38-caliber bullet in that girl’s head and blew her brains out! And you call that ‘nuthin’’?” Nick cocked his head and dropped his lower lip, mocking Gill’s dialect.
“For the life of me, I can’t understand why you would kill all those innocent people, Gill! What did they ever do to you? Huh?”
Nervous and frustrated by Nick’s persistence, Gill stood up and screamed, “I said, I never done it!” Gill slammed both of his hands on the table. “I said a man come into that office that morning when Ginger and I was havin’ coffee…like we always done. And he walked up to Ginger and shot her in the head! He done it right there…right in front of me! The man said to me…he said, ‘Now listen here, you dumb son of a bitch. I got one more bullet in this gun and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll put it in that retarded head of yours. Do you get what I’m saying?’ But I just stood there staring at Ginger. I couldn’t believe she was dead. She was all I had…and I was all she had. We was best friens.”
Gill began crying through his words. “She was…my best morning-coffee frien…and she was dead…with all her brains…all over the wall! And I ain’t never killed anyone on Lee’s ferry. Not ever. But then that man said to me, ‘Do you hear me, retard? If you know what’s good for you, you’ll put that bullet in that stupid brain of yours!’ Then the man hit me in the head with that gun. And when I come to, that woman and her frien were standing outside on the pier looking at me. I was scared ’cuz I thought they was coming after me. But that woman said I could trust her, so I did! But she had me arrested. And now I’m sittin’ in here with you.”
Gill started shaking, tears falling, mouth open and sobbing. His forehead dripped with sweat, and his chest pumped rapidly. Reliving the memory of losing everyone he held dear was an aftershock. He withdrew to himself and never said another word—ever.
Nick tried to question Gill. “What did the man look like? Did you get a good look at him? Was he wearing gloves? Was he black or white? Was he tall or short?” Nothing.
“Damn it, Gill!” Nick flung the papers across the table and they flew all over the floor.
Gill had nothing to offer them. He was done, cooked like Cajun crawfish on the bayou. Nick and Dan just shook their heads, exasperated.
Outside of the room, Dan quietly spoke his mind. “Off the record, he’s just going to have to try for insanity, because everything is pointing at him and he isn’t giving us shit!”
Nick called to the guard down the hallway: “Get him out of here. He’s not talking. We’re done.”
Chapter 19
Lunchtime
Jefferson Parish, County Jail
Dan Hullman had Gill ushered back to his special holding cell in solitary confinement, reserved for the worst of criminals. He had no supporters petitioning for his release. His lifelong friendships had ceased upon his arrest. For the first time in his life, Gill was truly alone.
His orange suit hung from his weary body, and the chains that bound his feet jingled as they dragged across the floor. He silently walked through the general population to his cage, like Christ on the road to Golgotha. It was almost noon.
The inmates who watched the procession laughed, taunted and spit upon him. Gill never responded. Like Christ, he was led as a sheep to the slaughter.
“Hey, retard! What are you in here for? Or did you forget already?” shouted one of the inmates as he and the others laughed out loud.
“He’s in for killing his girlfriend, dumb ass!” proclaimed another inmate. “He’s one of those insane bastards who’ll eat your guts and spit ’em back in your face. Then he’ll play finger-paint with yur blood cause he ain’t no smarter than a kindergartener.” They all laughed. Gill remained silent.
• • •
“Lunchtime, boy
s!” yelled one of the deputies. He and another deputy proceeded to pass out lunch trays through the slots in the steel doors. Looking through a peephole, one of the deputies noticed Gill sitting on his bed.
“You all right, boy?” he asked.
Gill did not respond.
“He ain’t right,” added the accompanying deputy. “He’s been like that ever since we put him back in there. He just sits there lookin’ at the floor.”
“You hungry?” asked the first deputy. “You want anything to eat?” he shouted, while he clanged a spoon on the bars. Again, Gill said nothing.
“To hell with you then! If you don’t want anything, I sure as hell ain’t gonna put it to waste. I’ll just eat it myself. Dumb bastard!”
No one saw the tears rolling down Gill’s cheeks.
Chapter 20
The Empire State
Between the bombings, the public-relations disaster, and Thomas Radisson’s uninvited stunt he pulled at the Palace, Jonathan Stalwart had begun to feel trapped. He felt stressed and anxious about his career and personal life. He didn’t have the heart of a Caesar and he knew it.
Jonathan sat at the helm of the conference table in the War Room at PPI headquarters. He insisted on getting morning updates from every vice president, as well as PPI’s plant managers. So with the teleconferencing cued, Jonathan began the morning meeting.
“Good morning everyone. I trust you have all had your cup of Joe, so let’s get down to business. To begin with, I need to hear from Tammy in PR.” Jonathan smiled at the conference camera. “Please, give me some good news.”
The public relations manager from IMAGE Management LLC sat up in her chair and fluffed her blond hair. “Jon, I have to tell you,” she said with her fiery red lips, “things are looking much better for PPI this morning. We’ve just received the results from our public opinion poll that states that 85 percent of the general public views PPI as innocent in these matters. Furthermore, we’re placing full page ads in twenty-five of your major markets that offer your condolences, list the benefits you have given to the survivors and offer steep discounts in honor of your fallen employees. So…” Taking a deep breath with her fingers crossed. “I hope that takes a little stress off you.”
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