My King The President (32 page)

I spent the rest of a short night in a plush hotel in Miami, was served a beautiful breakfast in my suite, and by nine in the morning, was back in the private jet that had flown us south from Washington National. Before noon, I found myself in Cancelossi’s helicopter, with Bruno piloting, headed southeast, toward Cuba. Inside thirty minutes, I spotted the graceful shape of the
ANNA
B
, cruising alone in the emerald water. Bruno punched in a few numbers on his cell phone and handed it to me. “Hello?”

Cancelossi’s weak voice came over. “Ah, it’s my young writer friend, come to say good-bye. Thank you for making the effort. I have instructed Bruno to show you something interesting. I’ll talk to you again in a few minutes.”

Bruno expertly guided the chopper in close. I could hear Cancelossi’s awful wheeze-cackling over the phone as I looked down on the yacht. Salvatore Cancelossi was waving at us from the flying bridge and pointing to the fantail. I had to blink twice before I recognized the naked figure strapped down to the deck! Bruno made another pass, left to right, and Cancelossi’s voice came back into my ear. “General Turnberry is a most unappreciative guest. I’m surprised you can’t hear his screams above the sound of the rotors. Such vile language!”

“How did you—?”

“Kidnap him? Actually I didn’t. If I may steal another line from my long departed friend Puzo, I made the Judge the old offer he couldn’t refuse. Namely, if he didn’t accept my fishing invitation, I would expose their entire plan to every major and minor media outlet in the world. The fool accepted, naturally, but sent his sacrificial lamb instead. He’ll make better bait than the Cuban woman did. His flesh is, ah, considerably riper. Besides, he was already supposed to be dead, wasn’t he? No one will miss him.”

“Don Cancelossi, you can’t do this thing.”

“Yes I can. Listen to me, young man. My doctors were all wrong. I’m about to take my last pill. A special one. Even as we speak, the pain is almost more than I can bear, and I can bear a lot. No, I’m going to meet my maker, and I know I have a great deal to answer for, but this piece of shit is not among them. So, watch and enjoy. Justice for the Judge is up to you. Bruno knows where he is. Good-bye, Jeb Willard, and tell my faithful manservant I said
arrividerci
. I’ll save him a place in hell.”

In helpless horror, while Bruno made criss-cross passes over the yacht, I watched him go below. Moments later, there was a dull thud. The
Anna B
shuddered violently, veered slowly to starboard, then stopped, dead in the water. I guessed that Cancelossi had taken his pill, and touched a switch that set off pre-set charges in her bilge. Bruno, tears streaming down his broad face, hovered the chopper over her until she settled, then rapidly sank beneath the flat sea. Nothing else was in sight on any horizon. Bruno circled twice more before turning back.

He didn’t speak to me until we saw the low profile of Key West rise up out of the Straits. “Our plane is waiting to take us to Charleston. We have rented a car there.”

It wasn’t a car. It was a big Suburban with studded tires, which took us safely and comfortably warm straight south down the snowplowed West Virginia Turnpike to Beckley. During the humming drive, Bruno explained, in his usual few words, “Some of our people tracked him down. He’s holed up at the house he bought for his mother years ago.”

“His mother’s house? You mean he never sold it?”

For the first time, I saw what looked like a smirk invade Bruno’s face. “We know that Judge Koontz never got rid of anything he ever owned. He’s there, all right, planning how to sneak out of the country.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”

“He couldn’t. Not without money. Yesterday was Saturday. Today’s Sunday. No banks open until tomorrow morning.”

He said nothing more until we pulled into a Burger King at a mall just inside the Beckley city limits. We went inside just as it began snowing again. I got two cups of coffee and made my way back to the far corner booth Bruno had chosen just as he was taking the cell phone from his pocket. He punched numbers and said, “Report.”

I couldn’t hear what the other party said, but I saw satisfaction on Bruno’s face as he listened and nodded. After a couple minutes, he stuck the phone back inside his pocket, picked up his coffee, took a sip, and then told me, “The rabbit’s in his hutch. We wait here for a while.”

Half an hour went by. I looked at my watch. Almost midnight. Sipping my coffee, I deduced that Bruno had one or more of his men watching the house where Koontz was, and figured we’d wait until he went to bed before attempting to surprise him. Another five minutes passed, and I was about to get up and get us refills when his phone rang. “Yeah?”

I watched his face change expressions, from placid to obvious anger. Then I heard him say, “Shit! Which way?”

He closed the phone abruptly, looked at me, and said, “Let’s go. He’s on the move.”

Outside, he gave me the keys to the Suburban. “You drive. I’ll tell you where to go.” We climbed in, and I started the big vehicle. “He’s trying to take advantage of the new snow,” Bruno said. “Must have spotted our guys. They’re following him out of town.”

“Is he heading our way?”

“Don’t know yet.” He reached into his coat and pulled out an ugly automatic. Looked like a Colt 45. “Here,” he said, offering it to me. “You might need this.”

He glanced at me. “We’re in luck. He’s taking State Highway 16 north, toward Prosperity and Bradley.” He pointed to the intersection just ahead of us, now partially obscured by the falling snow. “That way. He’ll have to pass right by us.”

“Why isn’t he taking the turnpike?” I wanted to know. “If he’s going back to Washington, it would be a hell of a lot easier drive.”

Bruno shrugged, his eyes peeled on the intersection dead ahead of us. Then it dawned on me that there weren’t very many roads of any kind leading in and out of this mountain town, and Koontz would know each of them like them back of his hand. He was apparently leaving earlier than he’d planned to, because of the new snowfall, which would soon make even the Turnpike dangerous for driving.

“There he is!” Bruno said, in almost a stage whisper. I recognized the car from before, saw the unmistakable shock of hair, and felt a kind of electrical charge shoot up from my toes. While waiting for the light to change, I watched him fire up a fresh cigar! I didn’t see Bruno dial again, but heard him when he told his men, “We’ve got him. Break off. I’ll be in touch.”

When the light changed, we watched the Judge turn left, passing right by us, onto 16 North. The car behind him kept going straight, and I waited for the next light, keeping Koontz’s taillights in sight.

The Judge was a good driver. The narrow, twisting, two-lane highway would have been a challenge for any vehicle, four wheel drive or not, and I was grateful Bruno’d had the foresight to rent the one we were in. The studded tires gave me good traction, although the Judge’s car wasn’t going more than forty. The snow was coming from the northwest, and our windshield wipers were working on high speed. I hoped it wouldn’t turn to sleet. There was no one else stupid enough to be on the road, and I kept the Judge’s taillights about sixty or seventy yards ahead of me. Any more than that, I might have lost them, and didn’t want to chance he might turn off onto some side road only he would know about, and lose him. Because there was no other traffic, I wondered out loud if he knew we were following him. “What do you think, Bruno?”

“Possibly. I’d make my move now. We’ll be coming up on the village of Prosperity in a few minutes.”

“How?” I said.

Bruno stared at me like I was the dumbest guy he’d ever seen. “Use your imagination. You’ve got a bus, here. Force him off the road. Make him stop.”

Easier said than done, I thought. I goosed the Suburban slowly, and gained on the Judge until I was right behind him. I leaned on the horn, hoping he’d slow down and stop. Instead, he sped up. Then it became a race. The powerful engine in the Chevy cruiser responded, though, and I managed to pull out alongside him, driving in the left hand lane. I couldn’t tell if Koontz saw or recognized us, but he stomped on his accelerator again, widening the gap between us. I responded in turn, unmindful of whatever danger lay ahead. So far, the road’s curves had not been too severe, and all of a sudden, I realized Koontz was setting me up. There was no way I could see very far ahead, but he would know if there was a bad curve coming, and might slow down in time, allowing me to pass him and not be able to recover in time. Maybe fly right off the mountain. I exhaled sharply and slowed down. A quick glance to the right confirmed my suspicion. A yellow, snow caked sign flashed by. Sure enough, the judge slowed down too, and when I could see that the curve ahead was one to the left, I goosed the Suburban again viciously, managing to get abreast, then slightly ahead of him. I was guessing we both were going no more than fifty.

It was enough. I eased to the right, slowing down gradually. In an instant, I felt the grinding metal of first contact, and turned the wheel even more to the right, hoping he’d simply slow down and eventually stop. That was when the Judge made his mistake. Trying to shake me off, he slammed on his brakes, lost control and went right through the puny guardrail of the curve.

I don’t know how long it took me to come to a complete stop, braking gradually, and not wanting to chance backing up, I simply pulled on the hand brake, opened the door and started running back toward the breach in the guard rail. At the same time, I heard the ugly sounds of Koontz’s car turning over, thrashing through the trees growing on the slope of the ravine. I was surprised that in spite of his bulk, Bruno reached the gap in the rail before I did, and was already half-sliding down to the wreck, which was some forty feet below us.

Using small trees and bushes to break my falling, I slipped and slid down the side of the mountain behind him, adrenaline pumping like crazy. For a second, I paused, peering through the curtain of blowing snow, and saw that the mangled mess of steel and glass that had been the Judge’s car was lying upside down, wedged tightly between the trunks of two pines, one wheel still turning like a child’s pinwheel. Bruno reached the crevasse before I did, and turned to me. “I think he’s still alive!”

I was thinking of how to answer him when the explosion rocked me backwards.

WHUMP!

Automatically, I raised my arm to shield my face
. Gas tank!
I saw Bruno clamber away from the fire, which spread rapidly. But through the flames, I could see Koontz’s head and face, bloody and distorted, and as I reached the spot where Bruno was crouched, knew he had heard the same thing I had. Koontz
was
alive, hanging upside down from his seat belt, his bloody face redder than his burning hair, and screaming at the top of his voice for help!

There was no way.

The fire had become intense. A blast furnace, enveloping the wreck totally now. Pinned hopelessly inside the squashed car, Judge Ezekiel Joshua Koontz was roasting in his own personal hell. Instinctively, I started to move forward, but Bruno grabbed me and held me back. We both stared at the inferno before us for several seconds before I finally said, “Bruno, give me the gun.”

Without a word, he nodded and handed it to me. I didn’t think further. With both hands, I aimed it across the fifteen or twenty feet of the ravine, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. Again and again and yet again, until my finger was pulling uselessly. Bruno gently took the automatic from my shaking hands. I looked up, and into the eyes beneath the snow frosted eyebrows. They were soft. Understanding. His voice was also soft. So much so, I nearly didn’t hear him. “It was the right thing to do. You only hit him once, but that one was enough. Nobody deserves to die like that, even him. You did good, Mr. Willard. Come on, let’s get out of here. A State Patrol car could come by here at any time.”

I stood, still shaking, but before we climbed back up the steep slope, I watched Bruno carefully wipe all my fingerprints off the gun, replace them with his own, then toss the Colt over on top of the burning, now stinking wreck.

Neither of us spoke until we were almost to the Charleston airport. Bruno, who was now driving, said, “Soon as this storm lets up, we can take off.”

“Where will you go, Bruno?”

He turned sideways. Gave me a crooked smile. “I’m Sicilian. And unemployed. I’m going back home—to Palermo. You? back to Washington?”

I thought about that less than one second. “No. No, Bruno, if your guy can drop me off at Raleigh-Durham, that’s close enough. I’m going home, too.”

Epilogue

Sammy Tyson crossed his good leg over his bad one, frowning over the chessboard. “Nastiest winter I can ever remember in Tryon’s Cove. This cold weather makes my leg ache, and it’s bad for business, too. Where’s Cal? He ain’t hardly ever late. I can’t boil those lobsters till he gets here.”

“You ain’t even touched your beer. Look, Jeb, you gotta pull yourself out of this depression. What’s buggin’ you anyway? You been moping around town for a week with a face long enough to eat soup out of a gun barrel. Is it the girl?”

“Partly. I miss her like the devil, but mostly I’m disappointed about what’s going on in Washington.” I looked up, into Sammy’s sympathetic brown eyes. “It’s the biggest cover-up since Watergate, and I’m part of it.”

Sammy tried his best to change the subject. “People here sure were glad you weren’t dead. It was one helluva Christmas parade this time around. Cal said—Hey, here he comes now.”