by Thomas Scott
“I think you might be right. In fact, I feel like I’m about to pass out. Maybe your husband could drive me to the hospital? I hate to ask.”
“Oh, no dear. He’s been gone for almost eight years now. I’m all alone.”
Then something about him changed and she must have seen it in his eyes because she started to tremble, first in her hands, then both her arms. Before long her entire body was shaking like she was about to have a seizure. Decker just stood there and watched it happen. Watched her realize that she’d reached her end.
“Please. I have grandchildren. My daughter lives right next door. The keys are on the hook. The car is in the garage. I don’t have any money in the house.” She was moving toward the phone that was mounted on the wall. It had giant buttons. One was labeled ‘emergency.’ “Please don’t—”
Decker ripped the phone from the wall then grabbed the old woman by the back of her neck and smashed her face on the edge of the kitchen counter. She dropped to the floor with the same dull thud as the bag of seed.
God, people are stupid, he thought. She mentioned money. He’d need some. She had a stash hidden somewhere or she wouldn’t have tried to convince him she didn’t. It took him about three minutes to find it. Old coffee can, middle shelf of the pantry, next to a bag of flour and a jar of peanut butter. A small bundle of fifties and twenties. He rifled through it and put the amount close to three hundred bucks. Good enough for gas and grub. Maybe a night in a cheap motel if things got that far. He wasn’t sure they would. The thought of food made him realize he’d not eaten since yesterday. He was suddenly starving. He stepped over her body, opened the fridge, made himself a ham salad sandwich—delicious—and ate it over the sink like he did at home.
He looked at the old woman and realized he felt nothing at all for her. Everyone goes sooner or later.
He washed his face in the bathroom sink and checked himself in the mirror. The cuts were minor and the bleeding had stopped. He looked a little rough, but that was okay. The rougher you looked, the less shit anyone gave you. Time to boogie. He didn’t know if the bit about the daughter next door was true or not and he wasn’t going to wait around to find out. The cops would have a perimeter up soon—if they didn’t already—and he needed to be outside that circle when it was established. He grabbed the keys, went to the garage and found a mid-nineties Lincoln Continental, a huge four door boat of an automobile. He backed the car out of the garage, hit the button to close the overhead door and sailed down the street, the boat floating through the curves like a ship at sea.
What was it he’d thought all those months ago at the cop’s funeral? Oh yeah…Hell of a storm coming.
Not exactly the way he would have predicted it, but here it was. Here he was…running hard.
Headed for his boy…
The SWAT commander, an ex-marine sergeant and fifteen year veteran named Jon Mok gave Virgil the tiniest bit of shit. “We try not to take personal calls in the middle of our briefings.”
He and Mok had known each other for years and got along well. “Blow me, Jughead.” Virgil said.
Mok laughed. “It’s Jarhead. God you Army wipes are all the same. I’ll let the ‘blow me’ comment slide though. I remember what it was like when my wife was pregnant.”
That got a laugh from everyone then Mok got serious. “Okay, strip out of those costumes. It’s time to rock and roll.”
The team began to remove their water and sewer coveralls as Mok continued with his instructions. “Jonesy, we’re all armored up and we do this for a living. You and Murt don’t. So you’ll let us make the entry, take him down and cuff him. After that he’s yours. Until then, hang back, okay? Nine times of out ten these things go down like clockwork. But that means one time out of ten they go to shitsville on a sled. So stay back and stay out of sight. If I see you before I call for you, I’ll shoot you myself.”
Virgil started to protest, but Murton interrupted. “Don’t worry, Gunny, we’ll stay put.”
“See that you do,” Mok said, his expression stiff and serious. Then, with a little light in his eyes: “Say, what’s Robert have on the menu tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Virgil said dryly. “I’d call and find out, but no personal calls while you guys are working.”
Mok frowned at him, gave a hand signal to his men and they fanned out and began their approach to the trailer.
Sixty seconds later it was over.
And just getting started…
29
Virgil was hot and didn’t care who saw it or how it looked. They were standing outside Decker’s trailer, which was empty. Andrew Ross, the young ISP Trooper who’d been watching him was dumbfounded. “I’m telling you, he was just there. I saw him moving around inside.”
“Well, he’s not there now, is he, Ross? It was your job to keep him in sight and inform us of his movements. But you didn’t do that, did you?”
“Sir, I don’t know what happened. I never took my eyes off that trailer. His car is still there. He didn’t go out the front or side doors. If he’s on foot he couldn’t have gotten far.”
“I told you last week to show me what you’ve got. If this is it, you’d better make sure you don’t lose your ticket book. You’ll be on patrol for a while. Quite a while.”
Most of the SWAT team members were looking away, their discomfort growing by the second. Mok came out of the trailer and walked up to Virgil. “Looks like your man Decker climbed out the back window. Take it easy on the kid, will you? The line of sight was bad. Two of my guys followed Decker’s path to the back of the park. He punched through a wooden privacy fence and took off through the weeds. You can see the trail he left.”
Virgil nodded to Mok. “All right. Get everyone out until we can get the crime scene techs over here to start bagging evidence.” He then turned and looked at Ross. “Now Decker’s either holed up with hostages or he’s stolen a car and is on the run, or both.”
“Sir, I—”
Virgil had calmed…a little. “Ross, don’t speak, okay? Just listen. Get on the radio and get a perimeter set up. I want this area flooded with patrol cars. Right now.”
“Yes, sir.” Ross turned away and began speaking rapidly over the radio.
Murton walked over. Virgil looked at him and said, “What?”
“Little harsh on the kid, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, yeah. You know who’s fault it is? It’s mine. We should have taken him sooner like you wanted to. Instead we sat on him and didn’t get any substantial evidence in the process. Then we rolled up here like we didn’t have a care in the world and all the while we knew Decker was good for at least one killing…Martha Esser, and probably good for Pam’s as well. I should have had that trailer covered better. Should have had more men out here.”
“Maybe,” Murton said. “But then he might have spotted them. More men means more visibility. If that would’ve happened we’d be in the same boat we’re in now. Relax, Jonesy. We’ll get him.”
Virgil turned and began to walk away. “Hey, where you going?” Murton said.
“Can’t do anything here. Sandy has an appointment with her O.B. doc. I’m going to take her. You good to work the trailer?”
Murton nodded. “Yeah. I’m gonna go walk the path that he took first. See if I see anything.”
“Well hell, go ahead. One more set of eyes won’t matter much though.”
“Probably right. I’ll come back and tear into this shit hole when I’m done. Good luck at the doc’s. Tell Small I said hey.”
“Call me if you get anything.”
Murton waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, go be a dad. I’ve got this.”
Before he left, Virgil walked over to the other trailer. “I’ve got the perimeter set up six blocks out. SWAT is going to help. We’ll have patrol cars going door to door,” Ross said. He was in the middle of packing up his gear. “I’m going to help with the search as soon as I’m squared away here.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it covered,
then. Listen, I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that and I’m sorry. I’d like you to forget everything I said back there. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. We should have had more men out here. You did the best you could with what you had.”
Ross looked relieved. “These trailers, the way they sit angled in here…it never occurred to me that he might slip out a back window. I thought we were good, but he must have made me somehow.”
“Forget it. I got my Amygdala hijacked there for a minute is all.” Virgil was looking at Ross’s equipment. He had a sniper rifle mounted on a tripod that rested on a table, the barrel pointed at the window. “You any good with that thing?”
Ross shrugged. “I’m the guy they usually call when they need somebody on a rooftop. Doesn’t happen too often, but when it does…”
Virgil was interested. The sniper rifle was a pure killing machine. “How many?”
“I don’t keep a running total in my head.” Ross let his eyelids slide down to half-mast, then said, “I’ve got a little log going in the back of my ticket book though, if you’re that interested.”
Virgil grinned at him. “Really, I’m sorry. I was out of line. Come see me when this is over. We’ll talk about your future if you want to.”
“I’ll think about it,” Ross said. He was smiling when he said it though.
Decker made it through the perimeter, but the old lady’s fridge and the spur-of-the-moment ham salad sandwich had almost cost him. He turned left out of the cul-de-sac, went south for two blocks, made a quick right and saw the first patrol car coming in hard, its light bar flashing, its siren off. He kept his speed down and his eyes straight ahead. He made a few more turns, gradually working his way to the Southwest, and saw three more cop cars before they started to thin out.
Five minutes later he was far enough away from the residential area that he felt safe. He got on one of the main streets that would take him out to 465, hit the ramp and was lost in the six lane madness of metal circling the city. He was headed south, the Continental gliding along effortlessly. The airport drifted by on his right, and a few minutes later the highway made a bend to the left and he was headed east on the giant loop at the southern end of the city. He’d take highway 37 south for a few miles, out into the country. There was a little side road off 37 to the left, further to the East, and then he’d be there.
He thought the Jones bitch probably had his boy at her house. If not, he’d try that stupid bar they owned next. He wouldn’t have to worry about her husband, the cop. He was busy looking for him…in all the wrong places.
Sandy had some downtime before she had to leave for her appointment. She set the alarm on her phone as a reminder then thought through the different things she could do with the gap in her schedule. She was exhausted, but the house needed cleaning—Jonas had demonstrated the effects a young child could have on the cleanliness of a household. There was also grocery shopping, laundry, bills to be paid, insurance forms for their upcoming hospital visit for Wyatt’s delivery, paperwork for her extended leave from work, funeral arrangements for Pam once her body was released by the coroner, and on and on and on. She sat on the couch in the living room and ran the list through her head. It was, she thought, a little like counting sheep.
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Two minutes later she was asleep.
30
Cool was buttoning up the engine cover on the Jet-Ranger when Bell walked up and introduced himself. He wiped his palms on a shop rag then shook hands with Bell. “I spoke with Virgil a few days ago. He told me you might stop by.”
“Virgil’s good people. From what he said it sounds like you are too. I really appreciate the time.”
“No problem,” Cool said. “How can I help you?”
“What I’m looking for is guidance. I want to learn how to fly helicopters. Take flight lessons, do the ground school, the whole bit. The problem is, I don’t know what I don’t know. There are a bunch of different places I could start, but I want the best, not something like Chuck’s Discount Chopper lessons.”
Cool laughed. “Yeah, Virgil told me you had the bug. I know what you mean, about the schools. I learned in the service, but I know a couple of places I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend. These guys do it right. And by right, I mean exactly that. If you don’t cut the mustard, they’ll drop you from the program and do it with a smile on their face. It’s not about the money for them, it’s about safety. Plus, they don’t want or need the liability.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m looking for.”
“And speaking of money, I’ve got to tell you, it’s pretty expensive. There are minimum requirements for flight time, both dual instruction—that’s when you have the instructor with you in the aircraft—and solo flights by yourself once you’re ready. So there’s that, but as far as expense goes, a lot of it is based on your ability…how quick you catch on. Some guys take to it like a duck to water. Others…not so much. They need extra time. You should budget at least twenty grand. If you turn out to be a duck, you’ll spend a little less. If you can’t quack, you’ll spend more.”
“Twenty grand is doable. I’m a doctor, so I can afford it.”
Cool’s face turned a little red. “Maybe I should have used a different analogy…the quack thing. I didn’t know you were a doctor.”
Bell smiled at him “No problem. I’ve been called worse.”
“You didn’t blink when I said twenty-K. Maybe I should have been a doctor.”
“Do you love what you do?”
Cool didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”
“Then you made the right choice. Money isn’t everything.”
“That’s true enough,” Cool agreed.
“The main thing is, I’m single, so I don’t need anyone’s permission.”
Cool pointed a finger at him. “That’s a big step right there.” Then he chuckled a bit and said, “I heard you sort of had to talk Sandy into it though.”
“Wow. You got the whole story, huh?”
“Sure did. She’s just worried about you.”
“I know. And I love her for it. But I’m going to do it, no matter.”
“You know, there’s an old saying: Doctors and lawyers make the worst pilots.”
“Why is that?”
“Mostly because it’s true,” Cool said, suddenly serious. “As a group, or groups I guess you’d say, they’re control freaks, right down to their core.”
“And pilots aren’t?” Bell said, a little skepticism creeping into his voice.
“Oh we absolutely are. There’s no question about it. But that’s our job. We’re not flying around thinking about a patient or a lawsuit or whatever, we’re thinking about flying. Doctors and lawyers have lots of money, so they take their lessons, get their license, buy a plane or helicopter and half the time end up flying the damned thing right into the ground. Pure pilot error. Why? Because they’re thinking about a patient or a client or something when they should be focusing on piloting their craft. They’ve done studies on it…the FAA.”
“That does make sense. I’m all but retired from my practice, so I think I’ll be okay. Something to think about, anyway. And I will.”
Cool had the impression he would…think about it. “Well, you’ve got the name for it anyway…Bell. As in Bell Jet Ranger.”
Bell grinned at him. “It sounds ridiculous, but that’s one of the things that got me started on all of this. It’s like a little seed got planted. The more I thought about it the more I couldn’t quit thinking about it. I guess the seed sprouted and well, here I am.”
Cool shook his head. “Not silly at all. I knew a pilot once…his name—and I’m not making this up—was Larry Landing.”
Bell nodded. “Same here. I met a guy years ago, back in med school. His last name was Doctor. He’s got a practice up north now. I mean, with a name like that, what else are you going to do for a living? Sell used cars? You’d never live it down. Every day some schmuck would come up to you a
nd say something like, ‘You know, with a name like that, you should have been a doctor.’ Who wants to hear that their entire life?”
Cool scratched at the back of his head. “You know, now that I think about it, I went to a dentist once whose last name was Molar…”
So they talked about it, flying, and funny names and careers and life. Cool gave him the names of a couple of instructors he trusted, then told him, “Just remember, pick your school based on the instructor, not the school itself. It’s better to have a good instructor at a lesser known school, than a bad instructor at an otherwise great school. Find someone you like and stick with them.”
Bell took the names, thanked Cool for his time and told him he’d let him get back to work.
“No problem. It’s been a pleasure talking with you.” Then, almost as an afterthought, Cool said, “Do you have anyplace you need to be for the next hour or so?”
Bell shook his head and waved the piece of paper Cool had given him. “Not really. I was going to go home and research these names. Why?”
He smacked the side of the Jet-Ranger with his palm. “Because I just changed the oil and I’ve got to take it up for a test flight. I need three take-offs and landings, and about an hour of total flight time. You’re welcome to ride along if you like.”
“Are you kidding me? Let me get my bag and I’ll be ready to go!”
“Your bag? What for?”
“Old habit. I never go anywhere without it. A doctor without his bag is like a pilot without his wings.” Bell went back to his car and got his bag while Cool pulled the helicopter out of the hangar. He waited for Bell, then did a full preflight inspection. He talked him through everything he was doing and explained why he did it. A few minutes later they were strapped in and Bell watched with fascination as Cool began running the checklists and flipping switches. The main rotor began to spin up slowly, and as it did, Bell turned around in his seat and looked at the back of the cabin.
