Trapped (39 page)

He fumbles around in his luggage, locating notebook and

pen. He listens for about five minutes, saying little more than

uh-huh, and small encouragements to keep Healy talking.

Finally he concludes, “Sean? Thank you very much. We really

and truly appreciate everything you’ve done, everything you’re

doing. We know the operation is in good hands. Isn’t that right,

Mrs. Garner? She says yes. Excellent. Talk to you soon.”

He flips the phone shut, sits there thoughtfully, as if

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ticking over various ideas. “Interesting,” he says. “We

finally have a motive.”

“Beyond him being crazy?”

“Might be what made him crazy. Agent Healy just inter-

viewed Ricky Lang’s live-in girlfriend. Apparently this is a

recent relationship and the girl has no connection to the tribe,

but she does know that Ricky has been obsessed about his

dead children.”

“Dead children?” I say, the words catching in my throat.

“Six months ago Lang’s children perished in a house fire.

According to the girlfriend, Ricky blames the tribal council.”

“Oh my God. You think they killed his children?”

“No idea,” says Shane. “This is all second- or third-hand

information. But if Lang holds the tribe responsible for the

death of his kids, that explains a lot.”

“He’s out of his mind with grief.”

Shane nods thoughtfully. “And seeking revenge.”

6. Mr. Crispy Says Goodbye

Roy figures patience is in order, take it one step at a time.

Dug and Stick have been on his case about the helicopters

flitting over the airfield four or five times in the fading hour

before sunset, as if puzzling out whether to bother landing.

Like all this unwanted attention is his fault somehow.

Stick Davis, more or less sober, wants to know what the

Feds are looking for, and what does it have to do with a

stolen Beechcraft.

“This some kind of sting operation?” he asks in his decep-

tively casual Alabama drawl. “Y’all setting up old Stick?”

Roy figures Stick is armed someway or other. Not in the

vicinity of his waist—the oddly protuberant drinker’s belly

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takes up all the available space—but maybe an ankle iron, or

a larger-caliber handgun secreted in the tattered backpack on

the floor of the truck.

Stick in the rear seat, legs out, ankles crossed, wearing

leather deck shoes without socks. Actually humming to himself

and twiddling his thumbs. A creature never looked so relaxed.

Which you might say about a rattlesnake curled behind a rock,

if you didn’t know squat about venomous snakes.

Tell him the truth, more or less, Roy decides. As much

truth as needs telling.

“They’re lookin’ for a couple of folks, none of ’em us,” he

says. “None of your concern. Nothin’ to do with the airplane.”

Stick chuckles, shaking his head. “Roy, you know what?

I wasn’t born yesterday. Other thing, I ain’t figure on getting

arrested today, awright? So whyn’t you tell old Uncle Stick

what’s really going on?”

Dug, looking eager, says, “It’s a secret, ain’t it, Roy?”

The new Dodge Ram is parked at a deserted rest stop area

just outside the reservation. Not that anyone has picnicked here

lately—with the crumbling concrete benches and the hard-

scrabble ground strewn with broken glass, the area is not exactly

welcoming. Not that it matters. None of them have exited the

cab, not wanting to be clocked by whatever long-range cameras

or spotting devices they may have aboard the surveillance heli-

copters. Roy has left the motor running to boost the AC, but the

cab feels close and smells of whatever Dug has tracked in on

his boots. His twin being a magnet for shit of all species. Pig,

deer, dog or human; if a turd is out there, Dug will find it.

“What happened is, Ricky Lang detained a few people,”

Roy explains. “They’re lookin’ for them, the, um, people, not

the airplane.”

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“You saying the Beech isn’t directly involved?” Stick

wants to know.

“Not no more it ain’t. Plus, Ricky is on the run, busy get-

ting his butt chased by about five hundred cops. So this is our

opportunity to make a few dollars.”

“Uh-huh,” says Stick. “Figured something like that. You’re

taking an opportunity.”

“You still in?”

“Until I’m out. Which will be decided dependin’ on my

observations of the situation. Calculating risk, we call it.”

“There’s always risk,” Roy points out.

Stick laughs. “Oh my. The boy is a philosopher.”

They sit in the crap stink of the Dodge Ram until the sun

winks out over the Everglades. There one moment, gone the

next. Just to be sure they wait out the twilight, what the old-

timers call “after light,” and there comes a time when the heli-

copters retreat to the east, seeking home base and refueling.

The vast Everglades, difficult to search in daylight, are im-

possible at night.

Roy backs out of the rest stop, drives onto the access road.

No headlights because he’s heard that satellites can detect

running lights. The boundaries of the narrow road are marked

by the red eyes of coons and other small creatures sniffing out

the truck as it passes. Roy driving with care and concentra-

tion, thinking about the multimillion-dollar Beechcraft King

Air 350. How he’ll trade the insanely valuable airplane for a

new life. Buy some old farm up in the Carolinas or maybe

Kentucky, see what happens next. Make sure there’s a cabin

for Dug, a place he’ll feel comfortable. Not in the main house,

surely. All his brother needs is a place to lay down and crea-

tures to kill. Squirrel or possum or house cat, four legged or

two, Dug ain’t particular, so long as he can make it dead.

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The airfield glows faintly with the light of early-rising

stars. Roy aims the big Dodge like a beacon, crunching on

fine gravel until they arrive at the mound of earth that forms

the camouflaged hangar. He can feel Stick tensing in the

back seat, eyes full of the darkness, thirsty for any sign of

betrayal. His own heart slamming because for all he knows

the FBI has staked out the hangar.

Meantime Dug, soothed by a chronic lack of imagination,

comes awake with a grunt. “Where we at?” he wants to know,

grumpy as a child.

“We’re here,” Roy whispers. “Money in the bank, ain’t

that right, Stick?”

They wait for a while in the truck, engine off and ticking

as it cools, until Roy gathers up his courage and steps out,

ready or not, here he comes. Standing in the hot velvety hush

of backcountry nightfall, ears keen for the cocking of a gun

or the crunch of boots on gravel.

When he’s satisfied they’re alone, Roy tells his brother to

get out, hands him the key.

Dug fumbles with the padlock, cussing softly and heaves

open the big door. Yawning blackness within, and blessed

silence. The airplane in faint silhouette, crouching like some

great bird, confident in its stillness.

“No lights,” Stick orders sharply, when Dug reaches for a

flashlight. And then softer, mostly to himself. “Hell on toast,

we might actually get away with this. Right under their noses,

wouldn’t that be sweet!”

The Whittle brothers rig up the tow line, hooking a rope

loop on the front bumper, and slowly back the big aircraft out

of the hangar once again, this time forever.

“Lordy me,” Stick says, gazing in rapture at the aircraft.

“Boys, let’s gas ’er up, get this show on the road.”

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Dug peels the tarp off the back of the Dodge Ram, expos-

ing two drums of Jet-A fuel. Tough to come by, but Stick

insisted on the real deal, no substituting high-test and kerosene

for properly blended turboprop fuel. Something about pure fil-

tration and low flash, typical pilot talk. Roy uncoils the thick

rubber hose and then Stick takes charge, muttering about spilled

fuel marking the wings. He uses a tiny penlight to illuminate

the fuel access and position the nozzle as Dug works the hand

crank on the drums. Dug enjoying the fumes—as a boy he’d

huffed gasoline a time or two, seeking extra numbness, and

vaguely recalls the cell-killing experience with fondness.

Twenty minutes later the tanks are topped off and Stick

Davis has a grin that shows in the dark. “It’s less than five

hundred nautical miles to Cancun,” he reminds them, strut-

ting around the aircraft as he goes over a cursory checklist.

“Make a little stop, change the tail numbers, then hop over

to see my friends in Guatemala.”

“These are the friends want the plane?”

“Them or associates of theirs. Might end up in Caracas or

São Palo, hard to say.”

“How much, you figure?” Roy pretty much knows, but

wants to savor the amount.

“This little beauty?” says Stick, hands massaging his little

belly as he gazes fondly at the plane. “With less than three

hundred hours on the airframe? The original owner has to

have shelled out close to five mil. Maybe more, with that par-

ticular avionics package. If we had clear title we’d get, say,

four million easy.”

“Four million,” says Dug. Anything more than will fit in

his wallet he can’t quite fathom.

“That’s if we owned it legal, which we don’t,” Stick points

out. “Lucky I know some who ain’t particular.”

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“So how much?”

“What I said before. On the ground in Guatemala, I won’t

take a penny less than a cool million. Cash, U.S. dollars, and

we split it fifty-fifty, true partners in crime.”

Roy figures that means two million, but he doesn’t care

how much Stick Davis steals so long as he clears the agreed-

upon five hundred thousand. That was the deal, sealed on a

handshake at the Hunt Club. Roy thinking, don’t be greedy,

that’s what wrecked his father, trying to squeeze a crooked

deal for every last dollar.

For the first time in a week, Roy feels like he’s back in

control. Things have finally fallen in place. Ricky Lang on

the run is the best thing could have happened. He and Dug

can walk away from the crazy kidnapping, make their money

on the airplane, still have enough for a fresh start. Meantime

Ricky takes the fall, probably with a SWAT bullet in his

whacked-out brain, end of story.

Stick is chattering on about vectors and airspeed in a

way that makes Roy think he’s gotten into the vodka. How

exactly he can’t imagine, since he showed up sober and

hasn’t, so far as Roy has observed, taken a swig of

anything. What, does he distill alcohol out of the air?

Absorb it through his skin? Then again, Roy knows from

long familial experience how clever boozers can be, how

furtive, sucking down a medicinal shot so fast the human

eye can barely register, like a hummingbird probing a

blossom for nectar.

Whatever, Stick Davis has a reputation for getting an over-

loaded crate off the ground even when so drunk he can’t

keep both eyes open. Plus he’ll be flying light in a new

machine, nothing but himself and the fuel that will get him

to wherever it is he’s going. Anywhere but Cancun, Roy

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figures, he’s mentioned that as a destination strictly for di-

versionary purposes. Probably heading somewhere further

down the coast of Mexico. Full tanks give him range to Costa

Rica, for that matter. Knowing Stick, he may sell the Beech

to a drug king pin, then fly the same aircraft home with a full

load, make out on both ends.

Roy doesn’t care where he goes or what he drinks, so long

as he delivers the agreed-upon sum.

“Sure you don’t want to come along for the ride?” Stick

teases.

“That’s your deal,” Roy says. “Ours is both feet on the

ground, right, Dug?”

“Whatever you say, Roy,” says Dug, still a little high from

the whiffs of jet fuel.

They’re helping Stick align the aircraft on the narrow run-

way when Ricky Lang suddenly materializes out of the dark-

ness, a plastic five-gallon bucket in one hand and a .45 caliber

Glock in the other.

“Going somewhere?” he says, at the same time squeez-

ing off a round that explodes through Stick’s left foot.

Big bad Ricky Lang standing over the writhing man, say-

ing, in a conversational tone, “You must be the pilot, because

these two dumb crackers couldn’t fly a kite.”

Roy and Dug are both frozen, hands on the wings of the

aircraft. Dug waiting on his brother to make a decision and

Roy calculating if he can get back to the truck and retrieve

his handgun before Ricky blows a hole in his back. Deciding

no, he can’t. Amazed by the situation, and by Lang’s bizarre

appearance—he seems to have bathed in mud, bare-chested,

his big arms glistening in the starlight, and the old Moe

Howard haircut slicked back and interlaced with what