Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) (2 page)

Still slightly high on the approach, he pulls the power back to idle for just a moment to slow the aircraft before dropping the landing gear. Once he has the proper speed he pushes the power lever back up to maintain his desired rate of descent. Traffic is light this morning and the tower clears him to circle in close to land on the active runway.

He has less than half a mile to go on his approach to the end of the runway when the fuel control unit fails and the jet’s engine spools down, then dies.

Nine people have less than sixty seconds to live.

Days later, after dozens of post accident investigative interviews, Captain Hewitt McConnell will tell his story for the final time to his commanding officer. He will tell him how, while on final approach to land, the fuel flow dropped off and the engine cut out. He will tell him that there just wasn’t enough time or altitude to attempt a restart. He will tell him that the only thing he could do was to point the aircraft away from the airport and toward the empty fields. He will tell him how it felt to reach down between his legs and pull the yellow loop that would fire the ejection seat and jettison himself from his crippled craft, something his commanding officer had never done. He will tell him he did everything he could, all by the book, to ensure his safety and the lives of anyone in the vicinity of his aircraft. He will tell him how his training kicked in, how he did not panic, and how he acted with professionalism and conduct becoming a flight officer of the United States Air Force during his emergency.

But mostly he will tell him again and again how it was just dumb luck that his knee knocked the stick sideways and sent the aircraft along the path it flew after he fired the ejection seat and punched out. Then in a voice so soft and quiet the commander would have to lean in close, the way a lover might as they listen to their mate’s most intimate desire, Captain McConnell tells him how relieved he was when he heard the pop and felt the chute inflate above his head even as he watched the horror unfold below him.

* * *

Watch now as the cab driver, the very first to die, exits his cab to open the trunk for the bags he’ll carry from the lobby. Watch as he unlocks the trunk then happens to look upward, across the street at the bank building. Imagine what thoughts must run through his mind as he tries to process what he sees. Watch the way his jaw unhinges and his mouth forms a perfect O so large you could fit three fingers in there and pull him away from the danger of the approaching aircraft if only there were enough time.

The jet is no longer flying—it is falling. It falls on top of the bank building and bounces upward slightly after this initial impact. It is this upward movement which causes our cab driver to make the O with his mouth. He turns his head toward the hotel, not in denial of what will come, but out of curiosity of what is about to happen. His life does not flash before his eyes, nor does he think with regret of the things not yet accomplished in his life so short. The last thought his brain processes is no more complicated than the shape his mouth has formed. It is simply “Oh.”

See the jet now, it’s fuel tanks ruptured from the impact with the roof of the bank building. Watch if you dare as it crosses the street and its kinetic energy seeks out the victims in its path. Observe the jagged edge of its broken wing as it decapitates our cab driver with such efficiency that for an instant, even while his head flies back toward the lobby his body remains standing erect as his heart refuses to go where the head knows it must. Feel the heat as the fire ball erupts and follows the twisted hulk of the aircraft into the lobby of the hotel as if the jet’s auto pilot and navigation systems were set to home in on a free continental breakfast. See the looks upon the faces of the victims as their clocks come to an end on a final tick or a tock. See it, and feel the flash of pain the way the victim’s family members will feel it most every waking moment for the rest of their lives.

Watch the news stories as the days turn to weeks, then watch as the story, sensational as it may have been in the moment, is all but forgotten. It is, off the radar you might say.

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day

As far as the Sids were concerned, there really was no other way they could do it. Their target, Franklin Dugan, CEO of Sunrise National Bank in Indianapolis, Indiana was just too private, too protected, and too damn stubborn to vary from his routine. So in the end they said fuck it and did it the hard way.

At forty-two years old, Sidney Wells Sr. had planned, waited, prepared, and dreamed of this moment for half his life. He raised Sid Jr. in the same manner, which is to say he raised her to hate. Worse still, he raised her to hide her hatred from those with whom she sought her revenge. “Raised her right,” he’d say, if anyone ever asked him. No one ever did.

Morning came, and the light of a cloudless dawn filtered through the windshield of the Sid’s van. They were parked about a block and a half away on a side street that cornered the property line of the Governor’s mansion. Sid Jr. was checking the time on the dashboard clock while alternately looking through binoculars at the State Police cruiser parked across the street from the mansion. Junior made sure the time on the dash matched the wrist watch Senior had bought just yesterday. It did. They had twelve minutes to go.

“You ready?” Senior said.

“Yep. Pull around the corner so I can get out without Barney Fife up there seeing me. You sure you’re up for what you have to do?”

“I’ve been waiting for this for almost twenty-five years,” Senior said. “I’m more than ready. Just make sure you do your part.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy-O. I’ve got the easy part, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Senior said. He dropped the transmission into gear and they turned the corner and stopped the van again so Sid Jr. could get out. “You sure the timing’s right?”

Junior shut the car door then leaned down into the open window on the passenger side. “Never more than a minute off. If I come in from the south, which I will, I’ll be able to adjust my pace and time it just right. Don’t worry about a thing. Just make sure you’ve got the angle on Barney over there. And try not to miss. Missing would be bad.”

“I won’t miss, for Christ sake. I never miss,” Senior said. Then he said something that both surprised and shamed him, though he couldn’t explain why. “I love you, Sidney.”

Sidney Jr. smiled and tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear and when she did, Senior thought for a moment he was back in time and looking at his wife more than twenty years ago. Neither one said anything else after that. Junior just turned and jogged away, her fanny pack bouncing lightly on her hip.

* * *

Indiana State Trooper Barney Burns sat in his police cruiser, his radio turned down low, his windows open. He yawned and took the last sip of cold coffee from his thermos and checked his watch. This was the best part of the day for him. It had been a long and boring night, but at just before seven, he’d be off shift in less than thirty minutes. Better still, in less than five minutes or so, he’d get a gander at the eye candy jogging up the street. She wore the same thing every day…tight black shorts made of spandex or something like that, though he didn’t think they called it spandex anymore, a black sports bra, and white Nikes with ankle socks. Her red hair was cut short and fell against her jaw line and every time Trooper Barney Burns watched her jog by he wished he was thirty years younger. Her stomach was flat and firm, her ass was high and tight, and her tits had just the right amount of bounce when she ran. She looked so good in fact, that Trooper Barney Burns had on more than one occasion stopped at a fast food restaurant and used the men’s bathroom to whip his skippy before going home to his dog. And his cow of a wife.

He checked his watch again, then looked out the window. He saw her come around the corner and jog in place for a minute, checking the time on her own watch. It looked like she was checking her pulse, trying to get a read on her heart rate or something. Trooper Burns didn’t know much about physical fitness anymore, but he knew about heart rates. Age and all.

He watched as she jogged in place for a few minutes, and then she did something she’d not ever done before. She waved at him. Barney sat up a little straighter in his seat and gave her a casual wave back, cool, a little detached. A fucking-A State Trooper, no matter his age.

Then he watched as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and started running again. Trooper Burns was so preoccupied with bouncing boobs, tight ass cheeks, board-flat stomach muscles, (not to mention his growing Johnson) he never saw the cargo van brake to a stop and park at the intersection a half block behind him.

He did see the Governor’s neighbor walking down the drive in his robe and slippers though to fetch the morning paper. Right on time, Trooper Burns thought. Like maybe Red and the neighbor had a little sumpin-sumpin going on behind someone’s back.

The thought of it sort of pissed him off.

* * *

Right on time, Sidney thought. She picked up the pace just a bit. Had to time it perfectly. And she did. She got to the end of the drive just as Franklin Dugan did. They smiled at each other and Sidney stopped and bent over to retie her shoe.

“Good morning” Sidney said.

“It certainly is,” Dugan replied. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, but I’ve noticed you’ve become somewhat of a regular, jogging around here in the morning.”

“I hope that doesn’t bother you,” Sidney said, looking up from her shoes.

“No, no, not at all,” Dugan said. “Just making conversation with a beautiful young woman.” He smiled at her. “Kind of a nice way to start the day.”

Sidney finished her shoe and picked up the paper for Dugan. When she stood up she wobbled slightly on her feet, dropped the paper back on the ground and said, “Whoa.” She stumbled away from Dugan as if she were about to fall, and when she did he stepped in close and grabbed her by the arms. “Hey, easy there. I think you stood up to fast.”

Sidney smiled and stayed close. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But I’m okay. I think I just need a drink of water.”

“I’d be happy to get you a glass if you’d like to come up to the house,” Dugan said.

“Oh, no, but thanks. I’ve got a bottle right here in my pack.”

Dugan smiled at her. It was the sort of smile that said,
well, I’m not putting the moves on you or anything like that, even though under the right set of circumstances I might.
Sid Jr. smiled right back with her best,
bullshit, you are too and we both know it, circumstances or not
smile. Dugan’s face reddened a bit. He bent down to get his paper and when he did, Sid Jr. took half a step sideways and slid her hand into her fanny pack like she was getting a bottle of water.

* * *

Trooper Burns watched the entire exchange. The whole thing made him sick. Sure, she was just a fantasy, but she was
his
fantasy. But now the fat cat across the street was ruining everything.

Fuckin’ with his mojo.

Barney thought the guy was a banker or something like that. Fucking bankers. Getting rich while the rest of the country starved to death. Barney was no bleeding heart leftie, but Jesus Christ, enough was enough already with the economy and all. How much steak could one guy eat anyway?

He saw the fat cat bend over to collect his newspaper—it had sort of scattered when the redheaded babe dropped it. Barney was secretly hoping she’d bend over and get it. Maybe give him a little ass shot or something. Didn’t happen though. Instead, the babe reached into her fanny pack. But she didn’t unzip it from the top. She pulled a Velcro flap from the side. Had sort of a stance going too. Feet planted firmly, knees slightly bent, shoulders square. If Barney didn’t know better, it looked sort of like a shooter’s stance. He thought,
huh
.

Then when he saw the redheaded babe pull out a gun, he thought
Holy Shit
.

It was the last thought of his career.

And his life.

* * *

Sid Sr. had a perfect angle. He was in the back of the van, a small tinted slider window open just enough for the barrel of his scoped and silenced bolt-action rifle. He kept the cross hairs of the scope tight on the spot just behind the left ear of the cop. But he could also see Junior talking to the banker across the street. Their plan was to fire as close together as possible. Didn’t want to hit the cop first and have to chase the banker around in a panic, and didn’t want to hit the banker first and deal with a trained cop and worse still, his radio.

But those type of plans rarely worked out, and Senior knew it. When Junior reached into her fanny pack, Senior tightened up on the cop. When she had the gun almost all the way clear of her pack Senior saw the cop start to wiggle, his door coming open. It was going to be close, but he had to do it. The cop saw what was happening.

Sid Sr. pulled the trigger.

* * *

Dugan had his paper all bunched back together and started to stand up and when he did he just happened to be looking across the street. He started to wave at the cop in the squad car, but before Franklin Dugan was even half way straightened up he saw Trooper Barney Burns’ head come apart. The bullet struck with such force and accuracy that Trooper Burns’ arm, the same fucking-A State Trooper arm he had used to wave at the beautiful young woman only moments ago raised up as if he were waving once again. Then his body slumped sideways and out of sight into the passenger side of his squad, his age and heart rate no longer an issue to him or anyone else.