Shake the Trees (25 page)

CHAPTER 37

Elizabeth pulled down one of the thin metal slats of the yellowed and grimy Venetian blinds.  It was late Tuesday night.  Everything was inky black under the heavy and overgrown vegetation that surrounded the 1950’s era flat-roofed structure.  Its stucco was once white, but now only light grey peeked through the few spots not obscured by clinging vines.  The one room efficiency apartment in which she stood comprised one-half of the building; its mirror image was on the other side of a common wall.

She’d arrived early that afternoon, and waited for nearly an hour before a bare-chested man with an enormous belly arrived in an old beat-up station wagon.  He appeared to be in his sixties and his stringy grey-white hair hung limply around his ears, almost touching his shoulders in places.  He’d sweated profusely as he lumbered up to Elizabeth in grimy flip-flops and exchanged a key for cash.  After allowing his eyes to slowly trace the outline of her breasts, he offered to help with her groceries and luggage. 

Elizabeth had politely but firmly refused, repelled by his appearance and the sickeningly sweet odor that seeped from his pores.  The man persisted, following Elizabeth to the trunk of her car.  As she reached for a bag of groceries, he brusquely ran his hand up the inside of her thigh until he met soft resistance and then leaned over her, nearly folding her in half with his bulging gut as he pawed at her breast with his other hand.  Elizabeth squirmed away, and after distancing herself threatened him with a 911 call.  The smelly man produced a gurgling laugh and plodded away, offering a final leer as he heaved his damp and pasty bulk back into the station wagon.

Upon entering the room, Elizabeth had been met by a wall of stale and humid air.  An old Sears room-sized air conditioner hung precariously from an unframed and irregularly cut hole positioned up high on an exterior wall.  Although the unit emitted an alarmingly loud rattling noise, it eventually produced a slight breeze of cool air that smelled of mildew.  An avocado green refrigerator sat in the kitchenette with its door hanging open; an apparent attempt to save on the electric bill.  Elizabeth had closed the door and plugged it in, and was relieved to hear a satisfying hum.

She’d brought in her luggage and groceries, and put away the items requiring refrigeration.  Then unpacked a few things.  But soon collapsed on the lumpy and sagging bed.  Overwhelmed by an all-encompassing wave of depression, she’d slept fitfully for several hours before rising to find the bathroom.  Fortunately it was already dark, and she’d made a point of leaving the light off as she sat lightly on the rust-stained porcelain fixture.

And then she heard a vehicle idle to a stop outside her door.  Feeling her way across the darkened room, she’d found her open suitcase on the floor, and quickly rummaged through the partially unpacked bag and grasped the item so unexpectedly discovered there a few hours earlier. 

The big .45 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver felt heavy and unbalanced in her small hands as she stared at the big-bellied man on the other side of the streaked and dirty glass.  He seemed to waver as he approached the side-by-side doors of the two units.  She could hear his big key ring jangle as he studied the dangling objects in the weak light.  He finally found what he was looking for and a key slid silently into the lock.  The door opened slowly and he stepped inside.  One hand still rested on the doorknob as he listened and tried to see through the darkness.

She slowly brought the barrel of the big revolver up to the man’s temple, and was surprised by the resistance to the pressure of her thumb.  Then the resistance gave way and the distinctive sound of the cocking hammer reverberated through the little room.

“That’s the last sound you’ll ever hear, you smelly son of a bitch.”

“No.  No.  I stay next door.  I’m a little drunk.  I must have got the wrong door by accident.”  The man explained breathlessly.    

“Bullshit.”

“Just calm down, all right?  I’m on probation.  I don’t need any trouble.  I’ll just leave.  I won’t bother you again.”

“Close the door.”

“What?”  The man seemed convinced he’d misheard.

“Close the damn door,” she said in a firm voice.

“Okay.  Okay.  What’s your name, lady?”

”Ellen.  What’s yours?”

“Slim.”  The man’s eyes finally left the gun and wandered around the room.

“Close the door, Stinky.  It’s time to pay the bill.”

“It’s Slim.”

The big-bellied man pushed at the door behind him, and his eyes returned to the now wavering long-barreled gun.  The door almost closed, but not quite.  The man looked back for only a moment, and then lunged forward.

The big gun roared and nearly bucked itself out of her hands as a substantial portion of the man’s brain and a large chunk of his skull separated itself from the rest of his body.  He crumpled onto the floor and a pool of blood immediately began to collect around his head.  She turned on a small table lamp and studied the man for only a moment, and then admired the intricately engraved firearm for a much longer time.

Finally she spoke to the unmoving figure on the floor.  “Sorry I didn’t mention it earlier, but I’ve had a really shitty couple of days.”

Ellen went back to bed after she’d put the hole in the stranger’s skull. Or holes; one very small and the opposing one quite large.  Elizabeth woke three hours later, wondering if the whole thing had been a bad dream.  But the smell of cordite still hung in the air.  Things were starting to get out of hand.  And now Elizabeth had to deal with the aftermath.  Elizabeth had to clean up the mess.

Elizabeth studied the body and shook her head.  With a heavy sigh, she took four long strides into the small bathroom and pulled the shower curtain from its hooks.  After pushing a small coffee table and a worn armchair aside, Elizabeth laid the plastic sheet on the terrazzo floor and rolled the body onto it.  She soon returned from the kitchenette with a spatula and several towels.  The man’s hairy chest scoured the bits of brain tissue and bone from the spatula as she scraped the floor clean, and the towels soaked up the coagulating blood.

After finding the keys on the floor, Elizabeth backed the fat man’s old station wagon up to the front door.  A quick inventory of the vehicle produced 100 feet of grimy nylon rope.  Elizabeth wrapped up the big-bellied corpse in the shower curtain, and tightly tied one end together with the nylon rope, rolled the body over, and tied the other end as tightly as the first.  Then she snaked the rope through the foul-smelling vehicle, around the support pillar between the front and rear doors, and back toward the apartment where she tied it off on a rusted metal railing embedded in the concrete slab near the front door. 

As the car slowly idled away from the dilapidated duplex, the bulging flowered shower curtain thumped over the threshold of the front door.  Elizabeth again backed the vehicle up to the bizarre scene, and tied a second knot in the now shortened rope. Then she retrieved a sheet of deteriorating marine plywood from the side of the little building - stacked there along with a multitude of other semi-discarded items.  She propped the plywood against the open tailgate and adjusted the warped plank until one end rested on the concrete steps and the other protruded well into the rear of the vehicle.

Once more the car moved forward and this time the homemade body bag slid up the plywood ramp.  Elizabeth threw her arm over the seatback and strained to observe the process.  She could see the old piece of plywood bulging under its load, about to fall off the tailgate, so she punched the gas and the corpse was propelled into the back of the station wagon in one final burst of motion.  Elizabeth slammed the vehicle into park and strode back into the kitchenette of the one room apartment, quickly selecting a large knife with a serrated edge.  Then walked back outside and sawed thru the knots of nylon rope attached to the metal railing.  After tossing the rope into the vehicle, she again climbed behind the wheel.  Soon the old car slowly rolled through the dark tunnel of vegetation leading to the street.

When Elizabeth had navigated the warren of streets leading to the efficiency apartment, she’d noticed several sailboats tied off along a web of canals that led to the open ocean.  The sailboats indicated that the canals were deep.  Some of the canals traveled parallel to the streets, and some dead-ended perpendicular to the streets.  A very few dead-ended against a dead-end street.  Reflectors on rotted wooden posts warned motorists of the hazard.  Some of the old posts had already fallen as a consequence of their decay.  The rest wouldn’t withstand a good kick, much less being struck by a vehicle.

Elizabeth finally found a satisfactory dead-end street butted up against a dead-end canal.  She didn’t want to have to worry about boat traffic.  About the keel of a sailboat getting hung up on the roof of the old station wagon.  A dead-end canal was a necessity.  As was a dead-end street to allow for acceleration.

She brought the vehicle to a stop about 100 feet from the slumping wooden posts, and opened all of the windows several inches.  The idle of the old vehicle had been turned up to overcome the need for a long overdue tune-up.  Elizabeth stepped out of the car and watched it accelerate down the street and into the canal.  It disappeared from sight within minutes.

Elizabeth turned to begin the long walk back - thinking about another night and another death a long time ago.  And hoping to arrive before the sun. 

The early hours of Wednesday morning found Rodger Rimes behind the wheel on I-40 somewhere in eastern Arkansas.  Sandi was asleep in the back seat of the extended cab Ford F-150 pickup, while Dustin rode “shotgun” as he preferred to call it.

“Are you going to die, Pappy?”

The question surprised Rodger, and his surprise was not only due to the nature of the question.  He was also surprised that Dustin had apparently been awake as he sat uncharacteristically silent in the front passenger seat.  “Everybody dies sometime, Dustin.  It’s the circle of life.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re born.  We grow up.  Get married.  Have babies.  Get old.  And eventually we die.  So everybody gets a chance.”  Rodger explained.

Dustin was silent for a long time before he spoke. “My Daddy didn’t get his chance.  He didn’t get his circle.”

“No, he didn’t.  And that’s a sad thing.  Some people don’t get their circle.  But your Daddy was my best friend, and I know he’s in heaven watching you.  Watching you get your circle.”

“Is Sam going to get his circle?”

“Yes, Dustin, I think Sam is going to get his circle.  But only God knows for sure.”

“If that attorney tries to hang Sam until dead, will you kill him?”

“What attorney?”  Rodger asked with confusion and surprise in his voice.

“That us attorney.”  Dustin grimly answered.

“You mean the U.S. Attorney?”

“Yeah.”

“No, Dustin, I won’t.  And nobody is going to hang Sam.  Whatever gave you that idea?”

“They do that sometimes.”

“Not this time.  And why would you ever think I would kill somebody?”  A perplexed Roger questioned.

“We’re having a war to get the bad guys.  Dead or alive.”  Dustin wore a serious expression that clashed with his youthful features.

“The U.S. Attorney isn’t a bad guy.”

“Yes he is.”  Dustin responded in a defiant tone.

“No, Dustin, he’s just wrong.”  Rodger explained evenly.

Dustin folded his arms across his chest and set his jaw.  “I wish he was bad.”

Rodger studied Dustin and thought to himself that the genes had passed from father to daughter and back to the son.  “And so it goes.”

“What’d you say, Pappy?”

“Nothing, son.”  Rodger answered softly.

Her eyes had always given her away.  Sometimes they signaled anger, or at least that she was upset.  Controversial subjects were best avoided.  But not tonight.  Tonight they summoned him.  Her mouth moved, but Sam couldn’t hear the words.  He rose and placed his ear next to her faded lips and waited for whispered words.  The word came with a strength and conviction that belied her frail appearance.  “Ratso.”

Sam sat straight up in the prison cot that passed for a bed.  His breathing was fast and he was covered in sweat.  He had no idea what time it was.  Or even where he was.  He took in his surroundings and his heart sank.  He remembered.  He’d been waiting for the guard to come for him again, even though Jefferson Davis Brown had assured him otherwise.  But the guard didn’t come.  His mother did.  And she spoke. 

Only one word.  After seven years of the same dream.  One word.  The name of his childhood pet.  A rat terrier he’d named Ratso.  The long-lived terrier had been his companion for 14 years, and then died in its sleep the summer before he went off to college.  Ratso.

CHAPTER 38

”First Appearance is an opportunity for you to enter a plea.  Your plea will be not guilty, of course.”  It was around ten Wednesday morning.  The Mouth had arrived at the federal detention facility a few minutes earlier, and was prepping Sam for the hearing the next day.  

“I’m not guilty of anything.  Except stupidity.”  Sam replied.

“I know.”  The Mouth answered reflexively, and then looked up at Sam’s mournful expression.  “I mean about the not guilty part.”

“What about bail?”

“Bail as a precondition of release pending trial is pretty much a state thing.  It’s rare in the federal system.  A federal judge can set any precondition he or she feels is appropriate, of course, but usually it’s purely a question of risk of flight.  The U.S. Attorney will argue that you’re a huge flight risk.”

“Why?”

The Mouth looked Sam in the eye.  “Because they maintain that you’ve socked away $150 million in an offshore account.”

“Oh.”

“There’s another problem.”  The Mouth stood and pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing.  “A federal district court judge is a Constitutional officer appointed by the President for life.  Sits at the right hand of God.  A U.S. attorney is also a Constitutional officer appointed by the President and serves at the President’s pleasure.  Sits at the left hand of God.  They tend to balance each other out.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam interjected.

“I’m not done,” The Mouth continued.  “Federal district court judges usually don’t handle things like First Appearances.  It’s beneath them.  They have magistrate judges handle the mundane.  Magistrate judges ain’t God-sitters.”

Sam studied his pink rubber clogs for a long moment before replying.  “You’re saying the U.S. attorneys push the magistrate judges around?”

“It’s been known to happen.”  The Mouth answered dourly.

“Oh.”

“But don’t give up hope, Sam.  I’m going to do everything I can to get you released pending trial.  I’ve been known to pull a rabbit out of my hat every now and again.”  The Mouth smiled without enthusiasm.

Sam shifted his attention to his hands.  “What about the password?  Did it work?”

“I’m sorry, Sam.”  The Mouth shook his head form side to side.

“At least we still have two chances left.”  Sam offered as he looked beyond The Mouth and thru the wire-mesh glass sealing off the hallway.

“One chance left.”

“What?”  Sam’s voice scaled up an octave.

“There was a technical problem.  It’s a long story.”  The Mouth went on to relay the developments of the prior evening.

Sam sat silently for a few moments.  “Do you mind if use your phone?  I’d like to call Sandi.”

“Hello,” Sandi answered wearily.

“It’s me.”

“Sam!  Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”  Sam answered without enthusiasm.

“Is everything okay?”

Sam relayed The Mouth’s account of the dinner party.

“So Ellen Hughes is really Elizabeth Hayes.”  Sandi let the statement hang in mid air.

Sandi’s comment felt like an accusation.  Sam decided to change the subject.  “Mr. Brown is preparing me for the hearing tomorrow morning.”

“Good.  I need to get the details.  When and where.”  Sandi responded with business-like efficiency.

“Why?”

“We’re going to be there.  Dad, Dustin and me.”

“You’re flying in?”  Sam sounded doubtful.

“Unfortunately, no.  We’re somewhere on the Gulf coast.  We should be there late this afternoon.”

Sam started to choke up, and quickly shoved the phone at The Mouth.  “Hello, Sandi?”  The Mouth asked as he watched Sam out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, Mr. Brown.  Good morning.  I just told Sam I needed the time and place of the hearing in the morning.”

“You’ll be there?”

“We’ll be arriving in Tampa this afternoon.”  Sandi explained. 

“That’s wonderful, Sandi.  I’m sure that Sam will appreciate the moral support.  Ten-thirty at the federal courthouse in downtown Tampa.  Federal Plaza.  Courtroom A.”  The Mouth looked back at Sam, who nodded.  “Here’s Sam again.”

Sandi started to thank the lawyer, but Sam was already on the line.  “Hey.”

“You sound funny. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.  It just means a lot to me.  You coming.”

“Of course, Sam.  We’ll come see you as soon as we arrive.”

Sam shook his head.  “Visiting hours will be over.  You guys will be tired anyway.  Get a nice dinner and then get some rest.  I should probably give Mr. Brown his phone back now.”

“We’ll see you in the morning then.”  Sandi promised. 

“Okay.  Oh, Sandi?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“Take Dustin and your Dad for some real Spanish food.  There’s a place in Ybor City . . .” Sam sat staring straight-ahead saying nothing.  For a moment The Mouth thought he’d had a stroke.

“Sam?  Are you there?”  Sandi asked.

“That’s it.  My god.  That’s it.”  Sam whispered. 

“What’s it?  What are you talking about?”

“The dream.  The dream about my mother.  She spoke.”

“About a restaurant?”  Sandi asked in a puzzled tone.

Sam ignored Sandi’s question.  “I had dinner once.  At this place in Ybor City.  With Dr. Bob.  The day I told him I would come to work for American Senior Security.  He asked me if I remembered the first time I logged on the internet.  I told him that I did.  Like it was yesterday.  I was a freshman at the University of Nebraska.  He told me that DARPA was running things then, and that they recorded all that early stuff on mag tape and eventually backed it up on hard drive.  And that he’d hacked it.”

“I still don’t understand, Sam.”  Sandi interjected with worried concern.

“The password.  My very first password.”  Sam answered and then lowered the phone and seemed to speak only to himself.  Or to no one at all. “Ratso is the password.”

The Mouth worked his lips like a guppy.  “Sam, I don’t want to piss you off, but I heard some really weird shit just now.”

Sam just stared at The Mouth, but offered no reply.

The Mouth looked at Sam compassionately.  “Sam, you need to be rational.  We only have one chance left.”

“You listen to me.  ‘Ratso’ is the password.  For once you listen to me!”  The words flew out of Sam’s mouth full of anger.  It was hard to tell which man looked more shocked by the outburst.

After an uncomfortable silence, Sam spoke up again.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Brown.  Please trust me on this.”

“It’s your neck,” the Mouth replied as he picked up his cell and stabbed it a couple of times with a well-manicured index finger.

“Tillis.”

“Bring up Dr. Bob’s e-mail.  I have a password for you to try.”  The Mouth said brusquely.

“Try?”  Tillis asked.  “Did you forget this is our last chance?”

“No, I didn’t forget that this is our last chance.”  The Mouth sounded annoyed.  “Sam thinks this is the one.”

“Why?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Tillis hesitated.  “Ready when you are.”

Now The Mouth wavered.  “Do you have paper and pen?”

“Spit it out, Mouth.”  Tillis answered sourly.

“Please write this down letter for letter.  R - A - T- S - O.”  The Mouth spoke each letter slowly and distinctly.

“Ratso?”

“Ratso,” The Mouth replied with resignation.

“Here goes nothing.”  After an uncomfortable silence, Tillis spoke again.  “I have data spilling off my screen.  I’m recording it to flash memory.  But this is shit.  A jumble of letters and numbers.”

“Hold on,” The Mouth snapped.

After a brief moment he spoke again.  “Sam says it’s encrypted, but it’s no big deal.  You’re going to need to download the program.  And you’re going to need another password.”  The Mouth sighed.  “It’s ‘Sandi’.”  He paused another beat.  “That’s with an ‘i’, not a ‘y’.”

His flight home Tuesday night after meeting with Marc had been uneventful.  But a less than covert surveillance team trailed his vehicle as he returned to his normal schedule on Wednesday.  The development caught James by surprise. Connections were being made and he took note.

James realized that any misstep could be fatal.  He’d made a point of requesting a temporary secretary, and also advised Human Resources that Elizabeth Hayes had neither been to work that week, nor made contact to explain her absence.  He’d tried to sound indignant.

The hardest part for James was the waiting.  And the waiting game respecting Elizabeth was especially difficult.  He needed to allow her isolation to fester a little longer.  Like an insidious infection, he expected that it would quickly weaken her until even a mild stressor would have catastrophic consequences.  James was not without regret, but Elizabeth was a risk.  A grave and mounting risk.

The waiting game applied to Marc as well.  The GPS tracker indicated that he’d hunkered down in Tampa.  James would travel there in a couple of days if he could evade surveillance.  Under cover of darkness, he would swap out the CD in the voice-activated recorder he’d hidden in the trunk.  Perhaps one side of a cell phone conversation would lead to the money.

James was waiting. Waiting with his head held low and his nose close to the ground.  Searching for the scent.  Both the hunter and the hunted.  James still thought he was the he-coon.