Shake the Trees (31 page)

The backhoe belched black smoke and dribbled dirt on the steel-reinforced concrete vault that held the walnut casket. Both were gasketed and sealed to preserve the well-dressed embalmed corpse contained within.  Everyone living had left, except for the backhoe operator and one more.

Sally’s watched the backhoe do its work and let her mind wander.  She contemplated the carbon footprint of a traditional funeral.  She tallied up the considerable resources utilized in putting a body in the ground.  Was cremation more environmentally friendly?  Or did it contribute to global warming?  On the other hand, how much carbon dioxide did the trees in the cemetery consume?  It all seemed so complicated, and there was no clear-cut answer.

Sally realized that she was over-tired.  Her brain wouldn’t turn off.  It was spinning wildly, seeking random puzzles to solve.  She had wanted something to happen.  But nothing happened.  No Elizabeth Ellen Hayes at the funeral.  No prize in the Cracker Jacks box.  No fortune in the cookie.  Did any other food come with something in it?  She was doing it again.

“Damn it,” Sally muttered while kicking an errant clump of dirt back into the hole. 

The unafraid and calculating eyes that met her own in the coffee shop on South Beach had stayed with her.  She wondered where Elizabeth Ellen Hayes was tonight.  Did she have the money?  Was she lying on a beach somewhere with a drink at her side?  Who killed Dr. Bob?  Who caused the digital emergency that was the subject of the text message?  Did that person have the money?  Or was he or she now dead and buried along with the others? 

Sally wanted answers, but she wouldn’t get any today.  Tomorrow she’d courier a disc to Longleaf containing all of the video and still pictures of the funeral and graveside service.  Maybe Tillis would see something that everyone else had missed, she thought hopefully.  Then realized with alarm what she’d hoped for. 

CHAPTER 47

  It was early evening on Tuesday.  A dimming pinkish-red glow clung to the horizon.  The fading light filtered through the big pines, and eventually found the rows of thick panes squared with lead.  The old glass of the west facing windows ran syrupy-like here and there toward the sill, with each irregularity illuminated by the day’s retreat.

Tillis was sitting in his favorite leather recliner.  The huge chair was the centerpiece of the cypress-paneled den at Longleaf.  It faced a well-used fireplace, and above the fireplace hung a large plasma screen.  The relaxed masculinity of the room suited him as much as the slick decorator style of his Orlando penthouse annoyed him.

A tumbler of bourbon and ice hovered over a rough-hewn side table.  He was rocking the stubby glass from side to side as he watched the video of the Mason funeral.  The ice reflected both amber and crystal as the liquid rolled first one way and then the other.

Abruptly the movement of the glass stopped; eventually its contents came to rest as well.  Tillis felt a clawing in the pit of his stomach, and soon a crowded tightness in his throat completed the reaction.  He stood, uncertain of his next move, but soon found himself crossing the motor courtyard to the carriage house.

Several hulking four-drawer oak filing cabinets lined one wall.  After pawing through a drawer of one of the cabinets, Tillis retrieved a yellowed manila folder containing the records of his early achievements in aviation.  He’d become instrument rated at the age of seventeen, having taken his instruction from a young Marine Corp officer aviator stationed at a base outside Orlando.  The young man had supplemented his military pay by moonlighting in the evenings and on weekends as a civilian instructor pilot. 

Although unorthodox and soon banned as a liability trap, the Corp had briefly allowed the practice as a public relations ploy and as an adjunct to its recruitment efforts. The officer had been an important role model for Tillis, and encouraged him to participate in ROTC in high school, and eventually join the ranks of Corp officer aviators himself.

Tillis gave the dull brass handle of the drawer a good push, and laid the folder on the lime green hood of a 1970 Plymouth Hemi-Cuda.  Soon he found his original logbook and studied the name of the instructor pilot who’d signed off on several of the maneuvers he’d mastered over forty years earlier.  Mason Williams was the name that jumped from the page.  But Tillis had always known him as Bubba.

Tillis thought back to the fish fry.  Bubba hadn’t mentioned how he got the job flying for American Senior Security after he retired from active military service.  And his brother Billy Bob hadn’t mentioned it either, although he did have his hands full with a murder in Ten Thousand Islands.  An uncommon occurrence down there.  But if they were related to the Mason clan, how come it never came up? 

Coincidence never sat well with his naturally suspicious mind.  Three people had died.  Maybe more.  Marc Mason had it coming, but Dr. Bob and James Mason had been murdered.  At least one killer was on the loose.  Probably two.  Tillis didn’t think Elizabeth Ellen Hayes had killed Dr. Bob.  Not in light of the emergency text message she sent to the gumbo-limbo BlackBerry. 

Under the circumstances, coincidence might have sounded a discordant tone to some.  To Tillis, it was like fingernails on a chalkboard.  He composed a quick e-mail and forwarded the message to DeWitt Dukes.  He needed to check on his progress. 

The doctors told Sam that he might be released in a day or two.  He’d finally convinced Sandi to go back to the motel.  To enjoy a long hot shower, get things organized and packed, and enjoy a full nights sleep in a bed instead of a recliner. 

Sam had been dozing in the soft nighttime light of his hospital room since Sandi left, and didn’t hear the door close.  He came wide-awake as a firm hand secured duct tape across his mouth.  With mounting alarm he watched the pastel clad figure move quickly to the end of the bed and wind several layers of tape around his ankles.  His left arm was still useless in a sling, but his right was now flailing wildly.  Using her hip and full body weight, the nurse slammed it against the side railing of the bed, and wrapped more of the duct tape around his wrist and the metal bar.

The familiar but still unrecognized form then stepped back and studied her patient with a detached and calm demeanor.  “How have you been, Sam?”

Sam’s eyes grew wide as he looked up into her face.

“You’ve had a rough time of it lately, haven’t you?”

Sam blinked.  His eyes even larger than before.

“Relax, Sam.”  Ellen whispered huskily into his ear and brushed his cheek with her hand.  “Do you remember the last time I told you to relax?”  Without waiting for his reaction, Ellen began to walk around the room, studying the cards and flowers.  “After dinner at that steakhouse in San Luis.  In the Porsche I rented.”

Sam nodded.  His eyes darting from Ellen to the closed door.  Trying to wish it open.

“You remember?  That’s so sweet.”  Ellen studied the IV bag hanging next to the bed.  Then chuckled.  “That little interlude was over rather prematurely, wasn’t it?”

Sam again nodded.  This time more hesitantly.

“Do you remember that you tried to pay for dinner?”  Ellen smiled.  “You told me that you intended to pay, but I told you no.  Do you remember?”

Sam didn’t move.

Suddenly, the expression drained from her face and she spoke with business-like purpose.  “Tonight is the night, Sam.  It’s time to pay the bill.”

“That bill has been paid,” Sandi said flatly.  Sam and Ellen had been focused on each other, and neither had heard or seen her slip quietly in the door. 

Ellen remained calm, hiding her surprise.  One hand rested on the IV tube taped to the back of Sam’s hand.  With the other she retrieved a large syringe from the big side pocket of her blouse, and gently pushed the plunger a millimeter or two.  A stream of clear liquid shot into the air.

“Muriatic acid.  Available from nearly any hardware or pool supply store.  Very caustic.  I can’t imagine a more painful way to die.  And believe me - I’ve thought about it a lot.”  Ellen held Sandi’s eye.

“You’ll never get out of this room.  I promise you that.”  Sandi replied while Sam looked on with a horrified expression that even the duct tape couldn’t hide.

The standoff continued until Ellen finally shrugged.  “Get on the floor.  On your stomach.  Hands behind your back.  I’ll tape you and leave.  I’ll let him live.”

“I don’t believe you.” Sandi replied evenly, while at the same time inconspicuously placing her foot on the bedside table that separated the two women.

Ellen nodded and the syringe began to move. Suddenly the wheeled table rocketed forward.  A water pitcher, telephone, and several other items flew thru the air.  Sandi lunged forward as the table slammed into Ellen’s thigh.  Four hands were soon intertwined and the big syringe hovered erratically at the center of it all.

The surprise on Ellen’s face was unmistakable.  She was well conditioned, but her real advantage physically was cardiovascular.  Sandi had been lifting hay bales and newborn calves for two decades, and was much stronger.  The long needle turned slowly, but followed an inevitable track until it was pointed directly at Ellen’s rib cage.  Then Sandi slammed the syringe forward until flesh and bone halted its further advance.

Ellen barely flinched as Sandi held the syringe in place.  With all four hands still intertwined, the two women locked eyes that flashed with determination and loathing.  Neither noticed Sam pull his injured left arm from its sling with a grimace, and roll onto his side, until his taped right arm would allow him to roll no further.  But both sets of eyes watched in stunned disbelief as his hand reached out and slammed the plunger home. 

Ellen inhaled loudly and her face turned brightly red.  Sandi stepped back in horror. Frightened by what she and Sam had done.  Sam fell back into the bed.  Exhausted and in pain.  Then Ellen took two steps backward, and her face twisted in pain.

At first Sandi was frozen in place by the scene unfolding only a few feet away, but soon her natural empathy overwhelmed good sense, and she moved tentatively toward the pitiful figure.  As she came closer, Ellen grabbed a ceramic flower vase and swung it hard against the side of her skull.  After Sandi crumpled to the floor, Ellen pulled the syringe from her chest and tossed it aside.  Her face was once again a picture of perfect composure as she strode out the door.

An instant later, Ellen’s head reappeared as she leaned back into the room.  “Penalties and interest for late payment, Sam.  Penalties and interest.” 

Tillis and Sally walked into the hospital room together.  It was nearly 3 a.m. Wednesday morning.  He’d flown down in the King-Air as soon as he heard, and Sally had driven non-stop from Orlando.  Both were wide-awake thanks to bad coffee.

“The lab called.  We have the results from the syringe.”  Tillis announced to questioning stares from Sam and Sandi.

Sandi sat in an Easter egg green vinyl recliner with an ice pack against the side of her head.  “Muriatic acid?”

Tillis shook his head.  “Pure saline solution.”

“What the hell?”  Sam responded from his bed.

Sally studied Sandi with a look of concern.  “Are you okay?”

“I think so.”  Sandi answered.  “They’re supposed to come get me for a CT scan in a few minutes.  They want to make sure I’m not bleeding under my skull.”

Tillis studied Sandi’s pupils and smiled reassuringly before speaking. “I’m sure you’re fine, but it’s smart to play it safe.  The lawyers are worried about the hospital’s liability.  I talked to the administrator, and they’re moving you two into a suite they keep for the rich and beautiful people.  Two beds.  Private duty nurse.  No extra charge.  We’ll have two armed agents outside.” 

Then Tillis looked over at Sally and nodded. 

Sally hesitated for a moment as she considered her words.  “A uniformed officer found her scrubs in a trash receptacle in the parking garage.”

“What the hell was she trying to prove? Is this some kind of game for her?”  Sam interrupted, directing his questions to no one in particular.

Sally shook his head.  “The situation is more complex than that.  That’s not her style.” 

Sandi understood, and it frightened her.  She pulled the ice pack from her head.  “She was letting Sam know that she’ll decide how he dies.  How horribly he dies.  And when.”

Sally shrugged.  “That’s the most plausible explanation. I don’t think that she considers herself to be arbitrary. Or capricious.  Our psychiatric profilers tell us that she probably considers herself on some kind of mission.  To mete out punishment that she considers appropriate to the circumstances.  Therefore she experiences no guilt and is free to act. She is a very sick individual.”

“She’ll be back,” Sandi spoke to the ceiling. 

“That isn’t going to happen.” Tillis answered in a firm tone.

Sam looked panicky.  “How can you say that?  How can you know?”

Tillis reached over and grasped Sam’s good arm.  “Two reasons.  First, Sally is going to catch Elizabeth Ellen Hayes, and lock her up for a very long time.  Or worse.  Second, I’m going to take both of you back to San Luis.  I’ve made arrangements with a very good pilot who happens to own a very nice pressurized turbo-prop.  As soon as your doctors give us the okay, we’re in the air.  In the meantime, I have two ex-Marines outside your door with sufficient firepower to hold off a small army.”

Tillis paused and forced eye contact with Sam.  “Any other questions?”

Sally and Tillis walked in silence down the corridor leading from Sam’s room to the elevators.  As soon as the elevator doors closed on the two, Sally spoke. 

“Maybe Sam didn’t have any other questions, but I do.”

Tillis knew where she was going.  “Elizabeth Ellen Hayes is all yours now.”

“Because you want to fly Sam and Sandi to New Mexico?  I’m a rookie.  This is crazy.”

“It’s not crazy.  You’re good.  You’re aggressive.  And you have better instincts than anyone I’ve ever worked with before.  You’ve seen her - gone toe to toe.  So go get her.  Man up.”

Sally looked more than annoyed with Tillis’ last comment.  She understood his attempts to manipulate her.  And motivate her.  Compliment and insult.  Hand in hand.  But she still expected Tillis to call the shots on the hunt for Elizabeth Ellen Hayes.  “Okay, but why?”

“Because I’m working a different angle.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s all on the CD of the funeral.”  Tillis answered.

“Shit.  She was there, wasn’t she?”

“They both were.”

“Both?  Who are you talking about now?”  Sally asked with real confusion in her voice.

“Bubba Williams.”

“I saw him.”  Sally nodded.  “He’s an A.S.S. employee.  Company pilot.  Marc Mason was his boss.  He probably just wanted to somehow keep his job.  So he goes to the funeral to shake hands and hopefully kiss a few corporate asses.”

“Not Bubba.  Listen, I’m beat.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.  Ten a.m.,  Orlando FDLE.  We’ll have a private screening.”   Tillis paused for a moment before continuing.  “And speaking of asses, make sure your friend is there.  The asshole that was spotting from the church balcony.  The one that gave you a hard time about having seniority.”