A Shooting at Auke Bay

by Parker, Gordon;

  On Sunday evening, the beautiful 1920s yacht Justice would pull away from the dock in the San Juans, its bow pointed north. It was scheduled to take on a load of pharmaceuticals. Lipitor. Prednisone. Xanax. All counterfeit. Segal’s favorite cargo. So small and lightweight the small vessels could easily pack boxes worth millions.

  It was true that there were some whose high cholesterol, lung diseases, and anxiety attacks would worsen when they took what they thought was legitimate medication. But that was the chance they took when they paid low prices from a source other than a pharmacy.

  Segal always hoped Justice had no problems. It was a beautiful yacht. When he could find a replacement vessel for her, he intended to buy it. If the owner didn’t want to sell, he knew ways to convince her.

  Every day a Coast Guard vessel or aircraft made some contact with one of Segal’s fleet of four yachts. Some days an aircraft flew over the San Juan Islands snapping pictures of the deserted island Segal had taken over. Other days might find a chopper from the base at Sitka flying by a yacht, far enough away to avoid suspicion but close enough to snap more pictures.

  And there was the occasional day when a cutter or buoy tender passed by. Those events were always accompanied by friendly waves and smiles from the Coast Guard crews. Even the occasional wolf whistle if an attractive guest was on deck.

  The first photographs of the two guests fishing from the deck of Bounty resulted in only one hit. No one recognized the man. But Captain Nettleton reported that the woman was known to the Seattle police.

  “She’s Jeanne Conrad,” he said. “At least that’s the name she goes by. We’ve busted her a few times for prostitution and possession. She’s definitely not wealthy and I would be very surprised if any rich man would take her along on a vacation, unless he wanted to live dangerously.”

  In Anchorage, temperatures were rising. It was forecast to be in the seventies again by the beginning of the week. They had returned to the deck for cocktail hour.

  For a change of pace, Darcey made Mint Juleps, the old southern favorite. It was nothing but bourbon, simple syrup, and muddled mint leaves, with a few whole leaves for garnish. It was also why in the old days little old ladies sat on the front porch in the late afternoons, giggling like school girls.

  Robert had brought the hat Darcey requested. She held it now, admiring it. Beaver felt, black, pinched front crown, brim turned slightly down in front, gently curled on the sides.

  “It’s perfect, Robert,” she said. “Thanks.”

  She and Nancy had experimented in the kitchen by creating a korma, a spicy Indian stew with heavy curry. Their version was vegetables only. Cauliflower, potatoes, and green beans. They added a little something of their own creation. A pureed mango. And hot pepper. Very hot pepper. To offset the heat, they created a traditional Indian raita. A cool yogurt and cucumber sauce.

  Robert was a confirmed carnivore. The thought of a vegetarian dinner wasn’t appealing. But he would be polite.

  Christopher was known to eat most anything that didn’t try to eat him first. Maybe even a few of those.

  Same day. Dimension unknown.

  Trent was tired. His plane of existence remained an enigma. He felt suspended somewhere between life and death. An existential enigma.

  It was time.

  He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t open his mouth to speak.

  But he spoke.

  He spoke to God. A private conversation. A personal conversation.

  “I don’t know your plan for me, God. But I’m ready. I’m tired. If it’s time for me to go, I won’t resist. If it’s not time for me to go, I’m prepared for that as well. This isn’t for me to decide. This is for a power far greater than am I.”

  He lay quietly for some minutes.

  Beginning with his feet, his toes, he felt a tingling sensation. Much like the sensation when the circulation is cut off in an arm and the blood comes rushing back when the arm is released.

  At first it wasn’t unpleasant. It began to move slowly from his feet across his ankles and up his calves.

  The sensation began to intensify as it moved inexorably up his thighs. It crossed over his pelvis and moved into his lower midsection.

  As it moved into his chest and upper back it became uncomfortable. Thousands, millions of tiny pinpricks covering every inch of his skin. Unrelenting. Constantly stinging his flesh.

  As it moved up his neck Trent wanted to scream. He could not.

  The pinpricks reached his chin, crossed his lips, his nose, his cheeks. It moved over his eyes, over his forehead, covered his scalp.

  It felt as though he had been dropped into a mound of fire ants. Every cell was stinging.

  He could stand no more.

  Suddenly his eyes popped open. He sat up. He tried to scream but no sound came out.

  The tingling pinpricks stopped. Trent fell back onto the bed.

  The last sight appearing to him before he lapsed into darkness was a couple watching him from across the room. A man and a woman. His mother and father. Slowly they faded away. They were holding hands.

  There was forgiveness.

  There was peace.

  Dimension unnerving.

  August 1st

  The sun was peaking from behind the clouds on Tuesday morning when Segal piloted the Sea Ray Sundancer 350 slowly from Juneau’s Aurora Basin small boat harbor. It would reach seventy degrees today. A perfect day on the waters of Southeast Alaska. The forecast called for gradual warming throughout the week.

  Segal had waited for this day. He had no intention of rushing it. It was an experience he would relish. It would be memorable. He didn’t care if Fiona enjoyed it as much as he would. He had no plans to eliminate her when he was done with her. When he tired of her, he would simply give her some money and send her away. Or keep her as an employee if she was adult enough to accept the job. And if he thought he could trust her when his back was turned. That would be a judgment call for another day.

  Today they would cruise south down Gastineau Channel and circle Douglas Island. He planned to turn north toward Glacier Bay. He expected her to be overwhelmed by the scenery. The towering mountains running straight to sky from ocean. The fjords separating myriad small islands.

  That evening he would prepare steaks for them, which they would eat either on deck or in the main cabin, as weather dictated. It would be pleasant but not the setting for the main event.

  The following evening they would arrive at Chicagof Island for dinner at the Clove Hitch Café. The restaurant had instructions for preparing the food he had personally selected and had sent to them from Juneau. There would be wine at dinner. More on the boat. He had laid in a selection of very expensive bottles.

  There was no way Fiona could resist the seduction, which she surely expected.

  To cap this day, he had received word that his plan for the group gathered at the Pines would be carried out that night.

  He leaned back in the captain’s chair on the small bridge of the Sundancer. Behind and below him, Fiona had taken off her jacket. She wore a light top and again the form-fitting jeans. She was stretched out on the padded bench, enjoying the sun warming the open deck.

  He was unrepentant in his anticipation of what he had planned for the young beauty.

  Darcey sat by Trent’s bed that evening. She talked to him about the day, which had been more boring than anything else. She told him she would be glad when he was back. She had made margaritas for cocktail hour.

  “I just can’t get the hang of those things,” she was saying. “You make them so much better.”

  Trent’s eyes opened. He looked at her.

  For a moment it didn’t register with her that his eyes were open. And then it did.

  “Oh, Trent! You’re awake! You’re back!”

  He tried to speak. He could open his mouth but no sound came out. His hand moved weakly to this throat. It didn’t help. It was the first time he felt real fear. Would he never talk again? Had they, fo
r some reason, removed his larynx? For the first time since he was a boy, Trent felt panic approaching.

  She wrapped her arms around him. She kissed him. This time he could feel her lips. He tried to smile and almost made it.

  “Oh, wait. I have to find Doctor Shannon.”

  Darcey ran to the nurse’s station just outside the door of Trent’s room.

  “Is Doctor Shannon still in the hospital?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Please tell her that my husband is awake.”

  Having said that, Darcey ran back to Trent’s side.

  She was holding Trent’s hand when Doctor Shannon entered the room.

  “So you decided you were ready to join us, Mr. Marshall,” the doctor said in her best bedside manner.

  Trent tried to speak again. This time he managed something between a grunt and a croak. Again his hand went to his throat, his eyes questioning.

  “You’ve been in a coma for more than three weeks, Mr. Marshall,” the doctor explained, as she reviewed his charts and checked the various machines monitoring Trent’s life functions. “You’ve been on constant oxygen during that time. It dries everything out. You can talk as soon as you get some moisture over your vocal chords.”

  “It’s probably a blessing that he can’t talk this evening,” Darcey said, happily. “He’d be telling us to let him out of here.”

  Dr. Shannon laughed.

  “Well, this is a big first step. We’ll be sending him home soon enough, assuming there are no setbacks.”

  It was midnight at the Pines.

  Three cars were gathered on a dirt road on the far side of the pasture, out of sight of the both the house and the highway. Five men were listening to Stuart, the oldest of the Garth brothers, as he gave them final instructions.

  “Sterling, you take Roy up to that abandoned warehouse. Leave the car there and sneak up behind the house through the woods. Mackie, you and Joe are the smallest. You two crawl across the pasture to the barn and go up toward the house that way. Ya’ll got it?”

  The five men gathered around Stuart all mumbled their responses.

  “Blake’s deputies have the driveway entrance blocked with one of their vehicles. Race and I will ram into it with this old pickup truck. We’ll keep them occupied while y’all move in. And remember, we want lots of noise. Fire your rifles. Shout. Make any kind of noise you can. We’ll give y’all ten minutes to get into position before we hit the driveway.”

  Hackett awoke in the middle of the night as usual. He pulled on his pants and a shirt, slipping his feet into shoes, not bothering with socks. He slid the Korth Sky Marshal into its holster on his hip.

  He wandered through the house. Kelli was sleeping soundly with Betty. Ivy and Jordan were both asleep in the bedrooms to which they had been assigned.

  He went downstairs and stepped out onto the porch. It was still in the seventies. The moon moved in and out of sight as clouds sailed across the night sky.

  Hackett knew the sheriff had six deputies on duty around the clock. Two were with the car blocking entry into the drive leading up to the big house. A second car was concealed in the barn. The two deputies there stayed out of sight, watching the pasture and the woods to the right through the barn windows.

  He knew a third car was parked somewhere on the far side of the woods bordering the rear of the house. He thought there might be a building of some kind over there. But he hadn’t had an opportunity to see for himself.

  He heard a horse snort. Then another. Raquel grew up with horses in New Mexico. He remembered her telling him that when a horse snorted rather than neighed it was a sign of danger. He saw the horses shying away from something. Looking closer he saw two figures. Men crawling across the pasture. He turned to go back inside.

  Stuart’s watch said it had been exactly ten minutes. Race was behind the wheel of the stolen pickup truck. Stuart worked the lever action of his rifle and told Race to floorboard it.

  With the headlights off, they were stopped on the highway around a bend and perhaps two hundred yards from the drive into the Pines. With Stuart’s order, Race threw the truck into gear and shoved the accelerator to the floor. The wheels spun briefly, then caught and sent the old truck escalating down the highway.

  Reaching the entry into the drive, Race whirled the wheel, sending the truck crashing into the SUV with the sheriff’s decal on the door.

  Hackett was climbing the stairs when he heard the sound of vehicle hitting vehicle, followed immediately by shots fired. The first shots sounded like they came from a rifle, firing slowly. Rifles that had to be cocked for each shot. Bolt or maybe even lever action. Return fire was from smaller weapons, firing rapidly. Semiautomatics. The Berettas with which the deputies were armed.

  Hackett was already at the door to Betty’s bedroom when Jordan came running out of his room. He was working the action of his shotgun to chamber one shell from the five round magazine and loading a sixth.

  “Get the women together,” he shouted as he ran downstairs wearing only pants. No shirt. No shoes. Pulling his phone from his pocket as he ran down the stairs, he pushed the speed dial for Jack Blake.

  “Jack, we’re under attack,” he shouted when the sheriff answered. Saying nothing else, he ended the call and thrust the phone back into his pocket.

  Hackett watched the younger cop run down the stairs and out the front door. He wasn’t young any more. He was old now. Too old.

  He knocked on Ivy’s door, then opened it.

  “Join us in Betty’s room, Ivy,” he directed. “I need you all together.”

  She was already up, pulling on a robe, and reaching for the large chef’s knife, which had become her constant companion. When they got to Betty’s room, they found Kelli clinging to her grandmother. Betty had one arm around the child, her snake killer, the machete, in her other hand.

  The gunshots had awakened everyone. The little girl was frightened. The women were frightened.

  Hackett didn’t have the option to be frightened. He had a job to do.

  He stood by the door, the small, deadly Korth Sky Marshal in his hand.

  Outside a deadly war was being waged. Baron flattened himself on the floor of the porch, presenting a small target as he assessed the situation.

  A large pickup, probably a dually, had crashed into the side of the SUV blocking entrance to the Pines. He could see the deputies crouched behind their ruined vehicle, returning fire. He could barely make out two dim figures firing rifles from behind the bed of the truck.

  Jordan could also hear gunfire from the thicket behind the house. For the moment, he could only hope the deputies stationed back there were holding their own.

  At the head of the driveway, one of the attackers attempted to rush the deputies. The man ran toward them, firing his rifle. He didn’t get far. A nine millimeter round from one of the Berettas struck him in the lower leg, which collapsed beneath him. Jordan thought the bullet broke either the man’s tibia or fibula. Either way, he was effectively out of action.

  His partner was temporarily more fortunate. One of his carefully placed shots hit a defending deputy in the right hand. It was likely not a serious wound but it caused him to drop his weapon.

  Using the muzzle flash of the shot that wounded his partner as a target, the second deputy fired three rounds at the attacker. From his vantage point, Jordan could see the man dropping his rifle, his hand going to his neck as he collapsed. It could have been a killing shot. At worst it was crippling.

  Satisfied that the two men guarding the entrance had effectively halted the attack from that direction, Jason turned his attention to the gunfire now coming from the direction of the barn. The two assassins who crawled across the pasture had leaped to their feet, firing their rifles as they ran toward it.

  One veered toward the cabin at the far end of the ridge. A deputy fired four times, missing all four. His target made it to the cover of the cabin.

  The assassin’s companion wasn’t as lucky. Still
charging the barn, thinking to give his partner cover, he was stopped by the second deputy, who fired twice. The running man’s left leg collapsed, one of the deputy’s bullets plowing through a thick thigh dropping him to the ground.

  With the deputies in the barn taking the wounded assailant into custody, Jordan turned his attention back to the man who had ducked behind the cabin. The rifle the assailant carried had greater range than Jordan’s shotgun.

  At the cabin, Mackie Garth pressed himself against the wall of the old building. He saw his companion fall at the edge of the barn. Both deputies were busy with the wounded man. Since Mackie had disappeared into the darkness, the deputies weren’t focused on him. He waited.

  On the porch of the main house, Jordan lay still. Also waiting. He needed the man to get within fifty yards. Jordan was patient. His opponent less so. Within two minutes, Jordan saw a dark figure come from behind the cabin, crouching, making his way slowly to the house.

  Mackie Garth thought he was in the clear. He didn’t see Jordan waiting for him in the dark. Confident he faced no opposition in his run to the house, the man raised to his full height, thinking to reach the house unopposed.

  To his surprise, Jordan rose to a kneeling position. Mackie hastily fired his rifle from the waist while he ran, managing to miss the entire house. Jordan fired the Herstal twelve gauge twice. Eighteen balls of lead powered by the additional powder of a magnum load struck Mackie square in the stomach, almost cutting him in half. He dropped to the ground, dead before his face touched grass.

  The New Orleans detective started to stand but a bullet whizzing by his ear caused him to drop to his belly again. Looking back at the heavy thicket of trees to the rear of the house he saw a fifth man charging toward him, firing a lever action rifle as he ran.

  Jordan crawled over to the corner of the house, waiting again for the man to come within the fifty yard effective range of the shotgun. He needn’t have bothered.

  From near the conjoined truck and car at the front of the drive came a series of three round bursts from an automatic weapon. A frightening sound, which brought the rifleman up short.