Murder Key (21 page)

THIRTY-THREE

             
The sheriff’s small office was full of men. Rufus Harris, Paul Reich, Logan, Jimbo and the sheriff sat drinking coffee.

             
Kyle Merryman
stood as we entered. “Gentlemen,” he said. “C
offee pot’s in the corner.”

             
I introduced McClintoc, and Jock and I poured cups of coffee for ourselves. The Customs boss declined. We filled the group in on what had happened during the long night.

             
I said, “We think the pickup with the boat is headed to the labor camp. I’m not sure what that’s all about.”

             
The sheriff looked tired, a man with too little sleep. “I think the drugs are in the boat,” he said. “If the van with the illegals got stopped, there wouldn’t be any drugs to find. Transporting illegals is nowhere near as serious as running drugs. A pickup pulling
a boat headed to Lake Okeechob
ee wouldn’t arouse any suspicions.”

             
McClintoc looked up. “Good call, Sheriff,” he said. “Jock had the same idea. You’re probably right.”

             
The Customs agent’s phone rang. He answered, and listened, then hung up. “The Sarasota cops said the pickup and boat turned off on a dirt road. The GPS coord
i
nates are for the labor camp road. BLOC sent the cops home.”

             
Jimbo stood and walked to the coffee pot in the corner. “Sun’ll be up soon,” he said. “You got a SWAT team coming in, Mr. McClintoc?”

             
“Not yet. They’re on alert in Miami, with a helicopter standing by. They can be here in an hour or so. Can’t use them tonight, though. I’ll go back to Tampa tomorrow and try to get a Federal Magistrate Judge to sign a search warrant. Then I’ll call in the team. It’ll take a couple of days.”

             
Kyle leaned over his desk. “By then,” he said, “the drugs will be gone.”

             
I looked at my watch. Almost four. We had about two-and-a-half hours before the false dawn chased the darkness out over the Gulf.

             
I said, “There’s no reason a couple of civilians can’t sneak in and look around. If we find something, it won’t be ruled
inadmissible because of
the lack of a warrant. The exclusionary rule only applies to the government.”

             
McClintoc sat quietly for a moment, pondering. “Can you and Jock get in there, Matt?” he asked.

             
“I think so
.
Logan can drive us almost to the labor camp, and then we can walk in. Shouldn’t be any traffic out this time of the morning.”

             
Jock had been sitting quietly since we arrived at the sheriff’s office. “We can do it,” he said. “Logan?”

             
“I’m game,” said Logan. “I’m tired of sitting around.”

             
We hatched a plan. It wasn’t brilliant, but with a little luck it’d work. Logan would use an old pickup the sheriff owned to drive Jock and me to within a mile of the labor camp. The vehicle wouldn’t attract much attention even if somebody saw it. It looked like a hundred other
farmers’ trucks in the county.

             
The plan was for Logan to drop us on the dirt road, and we’d go across the open fields and slip over or under the fence. Logan would wait while Jock and I reconno
i
tered. With no moon, and dark clothes, we should be just about invisible. We thought.

             
Jock and I took our nine millimeters, stuffed into holsters on our belts. The sheriff provided us with dark green windbreakers and hats. I was wearing the sneakers I had come in. Jock had traveled in what looked like a pair of paratrooper boots. They were a lo
t more utilitarian than my old
Reeboks. Logan wore a pair of jeans and a green golf shirt with the logo of Lynches’ Pub and Grub on the pocket. He’d be staying with the truck, but he borrowed a handgun from the sheriff’s armory.

             
We took our cell phones, McClintoc’s number fed into our
speed
dials. We were ready. It was 4:30, and we had about two hours to get in and
get
out.

* * * * *

             
Logan dropped us off according to plan, and Jock and I started the slog across the open fields. It took us fifteen minutes to get from the courthouse to the drop area, and we figured it would take us about the same amount of time to get to the fence. We could poke around for an hour, and make it back to the truck and out of the area before dawn.

             
We were moving at an easy lope. At this rate, we’d be ahead of schedule. We were running at a diagonal to the road, so that when we reached the fence, we’d be several hundred yards from the gate house. I hoped neither of us stepped in a hole.

             
We made it to the fence, and had just crawled under it, when the area was lit up like daylight. Four men in fatigue
uniforms rose from their cover
not ten feet from us and pointed M-16s in our direction.

             
The light was coming from a spotlight on an Army surplus two-and-a-half ton truck, the one soldiers called a deuce-and-a-half. I could see other men outlined in the glare from the beam.

             
“On your knees, gentlemen. Hands up,” ca
lled out a voice, heavy with a c
racker accent. We dropped to our knees, hands in the air. One of the men in fatigues frisked us and took our weapons and phones.

             
“Restrain ‘em,” came the c
racker voice.

             
Two men came forward with plastic ties like the police use in place of handcuffs. Our hands were bound behind our backs.

             
“Stand up,” the c
racker said. “You’re two of the dumbest college men I ever did see.”

             
The man came into the light, and I could see his face. It was Byron Hewett.

             
“I’m Jimmy Wilkerson,” he said.

             
“I’m confused,” I said.

             
He laughed. “You boys had me and didn’t know it,” he said. “Jimmy Wilkerson don’t exist. I just use that name to confuse folks.”

             
Jock spoke up. “How did
you know we were coming, Byron?
”

             
“Electronics,” he said. “We’ve been tracking you all the way across the field. We got sensors all over the place. A rabbit moves, we got him.”

             
Jock said, “Then you’ll know when the SWAT team gets here.
”

             
Byron laughed again. “Bullshit,
” he said.

             
Jock said, “Other people know we’re here, Byron.”

             
Hewett spit tobacco juice onto the ground. “Right
.
You guys just don’t know when to quit. We’ve been expecting you ever since you busted up my favorite deputy. Thought you’d have been here before now.”

             
“We’re part of a federal task force,” said Jock.

             
“Cut the shit, man. There ain’t nobody here but you idiots. Don’t you think I’ve got what you might call sources in the feds? Get in the truck.”

             
Jock and I were led to the deuce-and-a-half and helped into the back of it. As I climbed over the transom, I was pushed from the rear and sprawled onto the bed of the truck. I felt a prick in my upper arm, and blackness enveloped me, like the night sea closing over a diver.

37

THIRTY-FOUR

             
I came slowly awake. My head felt like a Roman Legion was marching over it. Pain shot through my temples like lightning
,
exacerbating
the dull throbbing in my brain.

             
I tried to sit up. My hands were tied behind me, my legs bound at the ankles. I couldn’t see anything, and for a moment I was afraid that I was blind. Panic
was setting in.
I willed it down
into the pit where I banish the war horrors that live in my memory
.
Just stay there until I can get my bearings
, I told the fear. I knew from experience that panic could be deadly.

             
Time to take stock of my situation. The plastic ties were tight around my wrists, and something else bound my legs at the ankles. There was no way I could break them. I turned over on my back, feeling with my hands. I was on a dirt floor.
I couldn’t see the stars
and
I sensed that I was in a st
ructure of some kind. I stretch
ed out my legs and rolled to the right. I made two complete turns, and bumped into a body. It was warm, but still.

             
“Who’s there?” I
asked
, more in a groan than a whisper.

             
“Matt.” A hoarse voice came from across the room. “I’m over here.”

             
“Jock?”

             
“Yeah.”

             
“Somebody’s over here, but he’s not moving. He’s still alive.”

             
“Stay where you are. I’m going to roll myself over to you.”

             
I could hear in the small grunts he made the effort it took Jock as he moved toward me. It seemed to take forever, but I’m sure it was only a minute or two before he bumped against me.

             
Jock said, “Can you get
to my boot? The heel is hollow
and there’s a knife in there.”

             
I moved around, posit
ioning myself by feel and sound
until I was lying on my side, my hands even with Jock’s feet.

             
“If you can get hold of the heel, just twist it. Be careful. The knife isn’t very big.”

             
I fumbled twice, but finally got my right hand on the heel of his boot. “Is this the right one?” I
asked
.

             
“Doesn’t matter. Both of them have knives.”

             
I twisted the heel slowly and fel
t an object fall out of the hol
lowed-out recept
a
cle. I felt around in the dirt until I located what felt like a small pocket knife.

             
Jock moved his legs out of the way. “Can you open it?” he said.

             
“I’m trying.”

             
I was able to use both hands, or at least the thumbs and forefingers of each hand, and
finally
got the knife open. The blade folded onto itself so that when it clicked into place, it was longer than the typical small knife.

             
I said, “I can’t cut myself lose. Can’t get the leverage. I’m going to move up and cut your ties.”

             
I eased myself around again, putting my back to Jock’s back. I found his hands and then the ties on his wrists. I started sawing. Jock was quiet, conserving energy.

             
The ties came loose. Jock pulled his arms around in front of him. “Give me the knife,” he said, “Let me get my legs free.”

             
I heard him sawing on something with the knife. “They’ve put twine on our legs. I’ll have you loose in a minute,” he said.

             
Then
I heard
it,
a noise all too familiar to me
, a haunting echo from the past
. The whirring of helicopter
blades
and the winding down of the turbine that kept the ship aloft. It was coming in for a landing very near us.

             
“
Chopper
,” I said.

             
“Yeah.”

             
Jock cut my bindings, and I sat for a moment
allowing
the blood
to
begin circulating in my arms and feet. The
helicopter
had set down
.
I could hear its engine turning at idle speed.

             
Jock was moving now, on his feet. “I wish I could see who this is,” he said, apparently having found the other body in the room.

             
A groan escaped from the area where the person lay. “Matt? Jock?” It was Logan.

             
I heard Jock say, “What the hell are you doing here?”

             
“Where are we?” Logan wanted to know.

             
“Hell if I know,” replied Jock. “Let me cut you
lose
. How did you get here?”

             
Logan sighed. “You and Matt hadn’t been gone long when two guys with M-16s showed up at the truck
.
They put me in another pickup and must have shot me with some kind of drug. All I remember is a pricking sensation in my arm and then, just now, hearing your voices. I’ve got a hell of a headache.”

             
“He’s loose,” said Jock. “Let’s find out what kind of place we’re in. Matt, let’s walk slowly to a wall, and then you go
to the left
and I’ll
move right
. We’ll count paces until we meet up and see what we have.
”

             
When we were finished, I told Logan that the room seemed to be about twelve feet square and made out of rough concrete block. “There’s a door in the middle of one wall. Based on the feel of the facing, I think it opens inward,” I said.

             
Jock had taken the other small knife out of his boot heel and given
it to me
. “Someone’s coming,” he said. “This can’t be good. Matt, get behind the door. Logan, get back on the floor and try to look like you’re still tied up.”

             
I heard a rattling outside the
entrance
, like a padlock was being opened. I slipped to the side of the door, so that when it opened I’d be behind it. It opened, and the small space was flooded with the light of early morning.

             
A man loomed in the doorway, an assault rifle carried at port arms. I could see him through the crack between the jamb and the opening door. “Wake up, shi
t
heads
,” he said. “We’re going for a little helicopter ride and a swim in the Gulf.”

             
Jock and Logan were on the dirt floor facing me, hands behind their backs. I hoped our intruder wouldn’t notice that their legs were no longer bound.

             
He stepped through the door, and as he cleared the leading edge, I took a step, grabbed his chin with my left hand, pulled his head back, and ran the knife blade into his larynx. It was so quick he didn’t have time to make a sound, and as my weapon carved up his vocal cords, he lost the ability to utter even a croak. I brought the blade further around, severing his jugular vein and carotid artery. There truly are things you learn in the military that can be applied in civilian life.

             
Blood erupted like a geyser, coating my hands and the dirt in front of the dying man. I let him go, and he slumped to the ground.

             
Jock grabbed the dead man’s rifle
.
I pulled a pistol out of the holster at his waist. Logan was up and moving, but a little unsteady on his feet. He’d nev
er completely recovered from the
heart surgery
he’d had during the summer.
I could see the strain in his face as he came into the light splaying in the door.

             
“You okay?” I said, reaching over to give him a hand.

             
He shook me off. “I’m fine,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

             
Jock was standing at the door, peeking out. “The chopper pilot’s standing over by his ship, smoking a cigarette,” he said in a low voice. “There’s a big house about a hundred yards to the left of us, and men with rifles milling around about a hundred yards th
e other way. Looks like they’re
eating breakfast. Maybe half a dozen of them.

             
“Logan,” he said, turning from the door, “can you fly that thing?”

             
“Bet your ass,” answered Logan.

             
I wasn’t too sure about that. “When’s the last time you flew one?” I
asked
.

             
“Vietnam. But it’s not something you forget how to do.”

             
Jock said, “There’s got to be people in the house, and if we try to make a run for it, they, or the guys on the other side of the chopper, are going to have clear shots at us. Our only chance is the helicopter. It’s
a
bout 20 yards from us, and the engine’s idling. It’s ready to go.”

             
“What about the pilot?” I said.

             
Jock lifted the M-16. “I’m going to take him out. The shot will alert the bad guys, but so will the pilot as soon as he sees us. The tail of the chopper is facing us. I know this rig. It’s a Bell 206. The rear passenger door is on the left.”

             
He gestured toward the aircraft. “Matt,” he said, “go left when you get there. Take the front seat. The rear door’s open, and that’s where I’ll head. Logan will be going to the right for the pilot’s seat. Y’all go, and I’ll hang back. As soon as the pilot notices you, I’ll take him out and come on the run.”

             
I looked at Logan. “You ready?” I asked.

             
He grinned. “As I’ll ever be,” he said. “I gotta stop hanging out with you guys.”

             
“Go,” said Jock.

             
Logan went first, with me right behind him. We were almost to the helicopter when the pilot noticed us. “Hey,” he yelled at the top of his lungs. That was his last word in this life. I heard the crack of the M-16, and the pilot’s head exploded with the impact of the heavy lead entering it.

             
Logan was at the pilot’s door on the right side of the chopper, and I was heading to the left. I saw the men across the field getting up from their breakfast, lifting their rifles, looking around in confusion. They’d heard the shot, but they didn’t know where it came from. I could hear Jock coming at a run behind me.

             
I crawled into the seat next to Logan. He was already turning switches and pouring
power
to the engine. The chopper was getting light on its skids when I heard Jock climbing into the back seat.

             
“Go,” he said, and we lifted off, Logan screaming in sheer joy, or perhaps fear. I never did ask him.

             
I saw little flights of fire coming from the muzzles of the guards’ rifles. Jock was pounding away with the M-16 on full automatic, taking short bursts, holding down the guards. I saw one grab his chest and fall, and several others hit the dirt.

             
Logan had the nose of the aircraft pointed up at such an angle I thought we were going to fall out of the sky. The rotary wings did their job, taking us higher. We passed over the building where we had been held. It was a small concrete block structure with a tin roof, just a shed. It might have been a place to hold workers who resisted the conditions in the camp.

             
I looked back in time to see a car racing out of the camp gate. We were too far away to tell the make of it, but the driver was hauling ass.

             
In a moment,
we were out of range, flying over barren fields and then citrus groves.