Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 04 - A Deadly Change of Power (11 page)

I shook my head.  “You contacted Ronnie Oakhurst a while back.  Remember?”

He scratched his chin.  “Yeah.  Liked the look of her idea.  Wouldn’t sell, though.”  He pulled a set of keys from his pocket.  “Come on inside.  I’m late opening up.”

I glanced around at the other businesses buzzing away.  I felt safe out in the open with people wandering around.  Witnesses.  “I’d rather stay outside, if you don’t mind.”

He gave me a curious look.  I pointed toward my Ford.  “I’ve left my dog in the car.  I want to keep an eye on him,” I said.

He nodded, seeming to understand.  “Do you know Ronnie Oakhurst?” he asked.

“Yes.  But I’ll get to the point.  Hers isn’t the only patent you’ve tried to buy.  How many patents do you own?”

Jack Pearle frowned.  “I don’t own any.  Can’t get anyone to partner with me, and I ain’t got the capital to compete with the big guns.”

Big guns.  Interesting choice of words.  “You’ve been trying for a long time.  None of the patent holders has agreed to partner with you?”

“Oh, a lot of them get excited and say they’ll do it.  But then they get an offer they can’t refuse, and it’s goodbye Jack.”

I nodded.  “I tried to find you’re phone number in the yellow pages, but you’re not listed.  And there’s no sign,” I said.

“I’m semi-retired.  Pearle Manufacturing is on its way out.  Mostly just a hobby now.  I do a little work for the neighbors.  Pays the rent and lights, but that’s about it.”

We spent the next thirty minutes talking about the potential for an engine that could produce as much horsepower as an internal combustion engine without the fossil fuel restrictions.  The cost savings.  The benefits to the environment.  The independence awarded to the public.  I got the impression that Jack Pearle would like to be a part of that revolution.  That was the reason he’d spent so many years trying to partner with the right person
—
someone like Ronnie.

“You know what?  I hope the price of gasoline goes to five bucks a gallon,” Jack said, apparently trying to shock me.

“Five bucks?  Why on earth would you want that?” I replied.

“’Cause I want to know just how much the people of this country will take.  There has to be some point when they get fed up and do something.  Remember the Boston Tea Party?  Where’s that spirit now?  We’ve turned into a bunch of pathetic pushovers.” 

Jack’s eyes flashed and his passion rose like an evangelist preaching to the sinners of the world to change their ways or face the inevitable.  “I bet five bucks won’t even do it.  They’ll all just whine louder as they fill their tanks and take out loans to pay their electric bills.”

I listened to his sermon without saying a word, but I wanted to raise my hands and holler, “Amen!” on several occasions.

“You know,” he continued, “everyone says the government ought to step in and fix it.  Well that’s just a bunch of hogwash.  What is it with this country?  We pay our taxes then we wash our hands of it, as if the politicians in Washington have all the answers.  We pay people to do the stuff we don’t want to deal with, then we’re stuck with the results.  Heck, my son-in-law doesn’t even know his car
has
sparkplugs, let alone how to change them.  You believe that?  We pay people to raise our kids, fix our food, clean our houses
—
then we moan and groan because our kids turn out to be criminals, our diets make us fat, and our housekeepers rob us blind.  But what do we do about it?  We hire consultants to analyze.  We spend more money to have someone else solve the problem.  Only problem is, the problem never gets solved.  It just changes to a new problem.”

He calmed down and his voice relaxed.  “What this country needs is an attitude adjustment.  That’s what I say.  Fed up?  Don’t get mad.  Get independent.”

I nodded in agreement, but the magnitude of the obstacle keeping the people from independence seemed overwhelming.  My thought was that Jack was right.  Five dollars, six dollars, even ten dollars a gallon might not be enough to spur the people to overcome the powers that be.

I turned my eyes toward my Ford at the sound of a bark.  A pair of brown eyes and a big black nose pressed against the window tried hard to get my attention.  I motioned toward the Ford.  “There’s my signal to head home.  Thanks for your time, Mr. Pearle,” I said, heading off toward the Explorer.

“Wait a minute,” he called after me.  “What’s this all about?”

I opened my door.  “Nothing yet.  Can I call you if I have more questions?” I called back to him.

He nodded, confused, and then watched me drive away.

I spent the rest of the day hanging around the house, keeping the puppy company.  I spent an hour trying different names on him.  Zeus.  Zeek.  Moose.  Rex, as in Tyrannosaurus.  Nothing seemed to stick.  I checked the clock.  It was almost time to meet Craig. 

I carried the puppy back to Aunt Arlene’s and asked if she’d mind giving me a ride to the marina.

Craig was already there, waiting for me at Mr. Cartwright’s slip.  I untied the lines and jumped aboard as he started the engine.  We puttered along slowly through the rows of boats.  I told him about my day, and my conversation with Jack Pearle.

“You went to see him alone?” he asked.

“Yes.  It was fine, honey.  He’s harmless.”

“But you didn’t know that.  I wish you’d wait for me before you go confronting these guys.”

I slid closer to him and inspected his head.  “Uh oh.  There’s another gray hair.”

He grinned at me.  We were out of the marina’s slow speed zone.  He pushed the throttle forward and I nearly lost my balance.  I was forced to grab hold of his waist to keep from falling.

Craig eased back on the throttle.  I retrieved a pair of binoculars.  We both scanned the horizon.  The smiles left our faces.  “It’s not in sight,” I said, handing him the field glasses.  The
Plan C
was gone.

T
he Sea Ray skimmed the surface of the water as we sped back to the marina.  A million thoughts raced through my mind.  Had someone found Ronnie hiding on the
Plan C
and taken her?  Had they finished the job they tried to do earlier
—
the one that landed Ronnie in the hospital?  Could Ronnie and Jake and the
Plan C
be sitting on the bottom of the ocean?  I didn’t want to imagine the worst, but I couldn’t keep those thoughts from flashing through my mind.

Craig eased back on the throttle as we approached the marina.  We made our way slowly through the rows of boats.  We decided to return to the marina to ask around if anyone had seen the
Plan C
during the day.  We’d barely passed the first row of larger vessels when I spotted her.

“Look!  There she is,” I said, pointing toward the end of the third row of boats.  The
Plan C
was nestled between two larger boats.  I wouldn’t have even noticed her, except an angry sailor was trying to dock his boat, and apparently, the
Plan C
was in his slip.

“I’ll move her,” I called to the irate sailor.  “My friends mistook this slip for mine.  Sorry.”

He forced a smile and waited while I fired up the engine and slowly moved the large sailboat out of his space.

I motored to a vacant spot on the dock and cut the engine.  Craig met me there.  I threw him a line and he tied her up to the dock.

“Anyone on board?” he asked as he hurried over the rail.

“Not that I can tell.  I haven’t searched her.  I just called out, but got no answers.”

We exchanged worried glances as Craig reached for the hatch door.  I bit my lip as I followed him down the steps to the main salon.

“Ronnie?  Jake?” I called.

No answer.  Everything looked normal.  There was no sign of a struggle.  Nothing overturned.  Nothing broken.  Craig checked all the cabins.  There was no one on board.

I made my way through the galley and spotted the note stuck to the refrigerator.  Ronnie had scribbled it in a hurry by the looks of it.  It read:

Rick from Caper and Lawless called.  They found Lance, but there’s a problem.  I have to get there right away.  Ronnie.

I pulled the note from under the magnet and headed for the main salon to show it to Craig.

“They’ve gone to Mexico,” I said, handing him the note.

“What?  Why?” he asked.  He read the note, then handed it back to me.

“They probably caught a flight to Cabo.  That’s where Caper and Lawless were headed.  I wonder what sort of problem it is they’ve run into?” I said.

Craig picked his cell phone up from the coffee table.  “If they’d kept this with them, we could have called to see where they are.”

I frowned.  Craig was right.  We couldn’t know for sure they were in Cabo.  They could be anywhere.  We had no way of knowing unless they contacted us.

“Well, the good news is that they’re okay.  I was worried someone may have taken them.”

“I know.  Me too,” Craig said, reading my mind.

The short days of January meant it was dark by the time we were ready to set off for home.  Craig led the way in the Sea Ray and I followed.

By the time we tied up to our dock, retrieved the puppy from Uncle Doug and finally settled into our house, I was exhausted.

“I guess all we can do now is wait,” I said as I searched the refrigerator for something quick and easy to fix for a late dinner.

Craig eased up behind me and peered into the illuminated box.  “How about leftover spaghetti?”

“Sounds great.  I’ll heat it up.  You want a salad?” I asked.

“Sure.  I’ll set the table.”

At two in the morning, the ringing phone startled me out of a deep sleep.  Craig reached over to the nightstand to pick it up.  Most calls at this hour were from the hospital for some sort of emergency.

“This is Doctor Mathews,” I heard him mumble into the phone. 

I closed my eyes and attempted to drift back to sleep.

“Ronnie?  Is that you?” he said, more alert this time.

I rolled over and turned on the lamp.

“Where are you?” he asked.

I listened with anticipation as he tried to get information.

“Wait a minute.  Slow down.  Say that again,” he said, fumbling around the nightstand for a notepad and pen.  He couldn’t find one.  He looked at me and mimicked writing in the air.  I
understood his sign language, then
jumped out of bed and grabbed a tablet and pen from the desk and handed it to him.

“Okay.  Okay.  Now, tell me how to get there from the airport,” Craig said, scribbling something illegible on the paper I’d given him.  He’s joined the ranks of the top doctors with the worst penmanship in the world.  Only he and a few well-trained pharmacists can actually decipher what he writes.

I watched his face as he listened to Ronnie’s instructions.  His chin dropped and he gave me a look as if he’d just learned a massive meteor was headed for Earth.

“Repeat that,” he said.  “How much?”

I scooted around to see what he wrote.

“How many zeros are we talking about?”  Two?  Three?  Three zeros?  Okay.  I think we can
—
”

His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.  “Each?  How many are there?  Ten?”

I watched him jot ten thousand on the paper, and then in bold letters, he printed “CASH.”  I searched his face for a clue.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand next to the bed.  “I don’t know.  We’ll get there as soon as we can.  It may take some time to come up with the money.  I don’t suppose I can call you there.  No, I didn’t think so.  Hang tight.  The cavalry is on the way,” he said, and then hung up the phone.

“What?  What?” I said, anxious to find out what that was all about.

Craig looked over the words he’d written.  “They’re all fine.”

I waited for the rest.  “But?”

“They’re all in jail in Cabo.”

“Jail?  What for?”

“She didn’t say.  But one of the policemen said they could expedite their release for a thousand dollars
—
each,” he explained.

“Each?  And there’s how many?”

“Ten.  Ten thousand dollars
—
cash.  They don’t take traveler’s checks and she said they definitely don’t take credit cards.  Surprise, surprise.”

I stared at the figure on the paper.  “We don’t have ten thousand dollars.  Do we?”

Craig shook his head.  “Not that we could get our hands on by tomorrow morning.”

Craig started calling in favors from other doctors in order to find someone to cover for him at the hospital until we could return.  I told him I could go by myself.  He scoffed.  “Yeah, right.  I’m gonna send my wife to a Mexican jail with ten-thousand dollars in cash by herself.  Think again.”  I was relieved he was insistent.  I didn’t want to go by myself.

I rang Uncle Doug’s doorbell at seven in the morning.  He answered the door in his robe, with a glass of orange juice in one hand.

“Let me guess.  You want to borrow a cup of sugar?” he said, knowing full well that my requests for favors never amounted to anything so trivial.

“Ten thousand dollars?  Cash?  What do I look like?  The U.S. Mint?” Uncle Doug complained, stomping across the kitchen to retrieve a slice of toast.

“Lance Oakhurst will pay you back, with interest, if you want.  He’s good for it.  The guy’s got a six-figure salary,” I told him.

Uncle Doug sat down across from me and buttered his toast.  “How do you get mixed up with these people?  You seem to have a knack for finding trouble,” he complained.

“I know.  I’m sorry.  I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t really important, Uncle Doug.  Ronnie’s not safe.  We’ve got to get her out of there,” I insisted.

“Maybe that’s the safest place for her right now.  Behind bars.  Seems like the bad guys would want to avoid the jail.”

Aunt Arlene glared at him. 

“What?” he whined in self
defense.

“You know what.  The man will pay you back.  You can’t let that poor girl sit in some Mexican jail,” Aunt Arlene scolded.

“This isn’t fair.  Two against one.”

Aunt Arlene crossed her arms over her chest.  She was not going to back down.

“Okay.  Okay,” Uncle Doug surrendered.  “The bank doesn’t open until nine.  Can I finish my breakfast in peace, please?”

I smiled and hugged him.  “Thank you, Uncle Doug.  You’re the best.”

I gave Aunt Arlene a hug and headed for the door.  “Oh, one more thing,” I said, stopping in the doorway.  “We’ll probably be gone a couple days.  I’ll drop the puppy off when I come by to pick up the money.”

“Puppy?  Wait a minute
—
” Uncle Doug started.

“That’ll be fine, honey,” Aunt Arlene said, smiling.

Our plane touched down late that afternoon.  We exchanged just enough cash to cover taxi fares and a couple of meals.  We didn’t plan to stay in Mexico long.

I was sure we would be killed no less than three times on the taxi ride to the jail.  The driver sped down the narrow road with one hand on the wheel and the other arm draped over the back of the passenger seat.  He spent most of the time turned around to talk to us.  I think he was practicing his English.  He didn’t get many fares
who
wanted to go to the jail.  He was curious.

I had two semesters of Spanish in high school, and all I can remember is how to count to ten and the days of the week.  Craig knows just a little more than I do, but most of the phrases he uses are related to his work at the hospital.  Where does it hurt?  How long have you had this pain?  Do you have insurance?

We finally found a policeman who spoke more English than we did Spanish.  When we told him we were there for Ronnie Oakhurst, he knew exactly where to take us.  He led us to a tiny room with bare walls and a rickety table in th
e middle.  Four unmatched, beat
-up
old chairs surrounded the table.  We waited there for fifteen minutes before the policeman returned with another officer.  They sat across from us and smiled.

“You have something for us?” the new policeman asked.

Craig removed a bundle of money from his jacket pocket and set it on the table.

Their smiles faded.  “American money?” one of them questioned.

Craig nodded.  “It would not have looked good for us to try to exchange this much money at the airport.  You can exchange it easy enough.”

They looked at each other, and then nodded with satisfaction.  Their smiles returned.

“Now.  You have something for us?” I asked.

We were reunited with Ronnie and the other nine prisoners.  The bribe-taking policemen led us down a narrow corridor and through some sort of maintenance room.  He opened a door that led outside, peered out to see that no one was around, then motioned for us to proceed through the door into the side alley.  We scrambled through the door as quickly as we could, anxious to get as far away from the place as possible.  Gary stopped short of the doorway, looking at the policeman.  “My truck?”

The policeman grinned.  He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and handed them to Gary.  He poked his head out the door.  “Two blocks that way,” he said, pointing down the alley.

“
Gracias
,” Gary said, then stepped through the exit. 

The policeman slammed the door and left the twelve of us standing in the alley, wondering what to do next. 

“Why’d they send us out this way?” I wondered out loud.

Rick chuckled.  “Because Officer Juan there doesn’t want the official bribe-takers to know he’s cutting in on their action.  I think he’s starting his own enterprise.  Pretty good take
—
ten grand.”

“I’d say so,” Craig agreed.

We slowly wandered out of the alley to the main street that ran along the front of the jail.  The crew of
The Dream Catcher
caught a taxi back to the airport.  They’d decided they’d let the owner of the boat deal with the Mexicans to get it back.  They just wanted out of the country.  Lance’s crewmembers had the same sentiments.  Finally, Rick, Gary, Lance, Ronnie, Jake, Craig, and myself, were the only ones left standing in the dim light of a street lamp.

“Well, heck.  This has been fun,” Gary said.  “My truck’s parked two blocks that way.  Why don’t we all go grab a bite to eat?  Then, I’ll give you folks a ride to the airport.”

I grimaced.  “Eat?” I said, recalling the last time I’d had a meal in Mexico.  I swore I never would again. 

“You’ll be fine.  Just don’t drink the water,” Rick assured me.  “That’s where you get into trouble.  No ice, either.”