Shake the Trees (38 page)

“Military intercept?”

The man nodded.  “If critical assets are threatened, Washington may order a shoot down.”

“A shoot down?”  Sally asked in stunned disbelief.

The men continued to hold serious expressions as they nodded in unison.  Then both turned and left in a perfectly choreographed moment.

Sally turned as well.  And rolled her eyes.  The young man behind the desk caught her attention.  “Nice work, Columbo.”

“Was I obvious?”

The man shrugged and scratched his unshaven face.  “A little.”

CHAPTER 55

The Citation was rapidly gaining altitude as it disappeared into the night sky.  Ellen carried Bubba’s snub nose .38 as she pulled herself up the aisle and into the cockpit.  Bubba was strapped into the left seat and Sam the right.  Sandi’s moans could be heard from the passenger compartment as her still twitching body reacted to the forces of gravity.

“Climb above the jet routes and head due west,” Ellen ordered.

“Awright,” Bubba answered in a tone suggesting reluctant recognition of her knowledge of aviation.  “You’re the boss.”

“Apparently that slipped your mind a couple of days ago,” she snapped.

“I did the best I could.”

“Half?  Half was the best you could do?”  Ellen spit the words at Bubba.

“It’s still a lot of money,” Bubba pleaded.

“That’s not the point, you ignorant jackass.”

“What is the point?” 

“The point?  The point is that you only paid half, Jethro.  Which I credited entirely to your alleged associate, by the way.  Your account is still outstanding.  Due and owing.”

Bubba and Sam briefly exchanged glances, and Ellen continued.  “Sam can tell you all about unpaid bills.  Can’t you Sam?” 

Sam didn’t respond.  He was stunned to learn that Bubba was somehow involved in the looting of American Senior Security.

“What’s our destination?”  Bubba inquired, seeking to change the subject.

Ellen handed Bubba a wrinkled sheet of paper on which detailed longitude and latitude coordinates had been scribbled.  “Program these coordinates into the computer navigation system.  Then give me an estimated time of arrival.”

“Yeah.  No problem.  Is this an airport?”

“Just shut up and enter the coordinates, Jethro.”

Bubba began to peck at the onboard computer navigation system, and then put the Citation on autopilot.  “At max cruise and after adjusting for winds aloft, we should be over these coordinates in an hour twenty-five.”

Ellen stared out the window of the Citation in a trance-like state for a few moments, and then turned away.

Bubba twisted his head around and spoke to her as she passed through the open door to the passenger compartment.  “So are we gonna land?”

“Circle the coordinates.  Right-hand turn.  Low and slow.”

Bubba looked at the moving map on the computer navigation system.  The destination appeared to be near the California coast - south of LA in northern Orange County.  “This is pretty congested airspace.  How am I supposed to get permission to do that?”

“Don’t ask.  Tell.”  Ellen shouted derisively as she took a seat in the passenger area.

Sam looked at Bubba with wounded anger.  Bubba continued staring straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the questioning gaze he could feel boring into the side of his head.  Finally he glanced at Sam and immediately turned away again.  “Just drop it.”

“What about Dr. Bob?  He was a friend of mine.”  

“Why are you so worried about that Cuban piece of shit?”

“You once told me that all racists are truly full of shit.”  Sam responded sarcastically.

“I got no problems with the blacks.  We grew up together.  We all just wanted to get ahead.  But those Cubans don’t belong.  They came and changed everything.  It wasn’t right.”

“What happened to Dr. Bob?”  Sam demanded.

“Dr. Bob got what he had comin’ to him.  So did the Judge, but I didn’t have nuthin’ to do with that.”

“Does that mean you had something to do with what happened to Dr. Bob?”

Bubba turned to face Sam and lashed out.  “Why do you keep talkin’ about him?  I heard even the gators spit that greasy sonuvabitch out.  It’s Marc you should be thinking about.  Marc was the victim.”     

Just then Ellen barked out another order from the passenger compartment.  “Sam, get your ass back here.  We need to talk.”

Sam unbuckled and made his way to the passenger compartment; he wanted to check on Sandi anyway.  He sat down next to her, and insisted that she take a drink of water. 

Ellen pointed two fingers at Sam and then at her own eyes.  “Pay attention, Sam.  She’ll be fine.” 

Sam placed a pillow behind Sandi’s head and met Ellen’s gaze.

“Do you understand why?  Have you thought about what you’ve done?  About the greed that brought you here?”

“I know about your father,” Sam replied in a monotone.

“Elizabeth’s father.  And you don’t.  You don’t know anything about him.” Ellen shot back angrily.

“That’s not what I meant.  I meant I know what happened.”  Sam answered timorously.

“I know you’ll regret your fate - you’ll have time enough for that.  But do you regret the choices you made?  The pain you caused?”

“I’m sorry about what happened.” Sam answered sincerely.

Ellen studied Sam for a long time before she spoke again.  “You were well-educated and well-trained.  Diversification is the cornerstone of any financial plan.  How did it happen?”

“Those were different times.  Tech was the Holy Grail.  Those were the only securities your father - Elizabeth’s father - would consider owning.  That’s why he sought me out.”

Ellen’s eyes revealed her anger.  “Don’t give me that shit.  You were the professional.  You were well paid for your supposed financial expertise.  But you ignored the basics.  It was greed - pure and simple.  Your greed destroyed dreams.  Destroyed people.  People that were depending on you.”

Sam nodded.  “I made mistakes.  I know I made mistakes.”

“You did much more than that.  When the shit hit the fan, you ran.  When your clients needed you the most, you weren’t there.  You had obligations.  Your client’s futures were crumbling all around them, and you weren’t there.  Regardless of the rest, that’s inexcusable.”

“My mother was dying,” Sam answered earnestly.

“And your father was dying when times were good.  But you didn’t have time for him.  There was too much money to be made.  Your mother’s illness was - still is - an excuse.  Just an excuse to avoid facing the consequences of your greed.”

“That was different.  I didn’t know he was going to die.”  Sam spoke with fading certitude.

“Bullshit.  How many heart attacks did you think he was going to have, Sam?  How many before he finally died.  Greed blinded you.  You still haven’t faced up to what you’ve done.  Time’s up.”

“I didn’t kill your father.”  Sam stated more forcefully than he’d intended.

Ellen stood and screamed shrill words that filled the cabin.  “You did.  You killed him just the same as if you’d pulled the trigger.”  Her face was bright crimson, and her chest heaved with each breath that rapidly followed the last. 

Sam looked stricken and Ellen turned away.  Her eyes closed and she breathed deeply for several seconds.  Taut muscles relaxed and the tense lines around her eyes and mouth eased.  An eerie calm descended over her, and she walked to the cockpit door before turning back to face him.  “It’s time to pay the bill, Sam.”

Ellen sat in the copilot’s seat mesmerized by the placid glow of the streetlights nearly 2,500 feet below.  As the plane rotated on the wing outside her window, her eyes locked onto the red tiled roof of a modest stucco home trapped in the shadows of an older but well-maintained residential neighborhood.

The roof reflected the glow of artificial light.  A blanket of artificial light that reached out from the coast as far inland as she could see.  She knew that the inky square behind the home concealed a lushly landscaped backyard.  And a small kidney-shaped pool.  A pool that sparkled brilliant blue in the sunshine.

It wasn’t the new home Charles Hayes purchased less than two years before he died.  After he had made his first big score in the booming stock market of the late nineties.  This was the home Charles and Eileen Hayes returned to with their newborn child.  Their only child.  The home of childhood birthday parties, of artwork on the refrigerator, and pencil marks climbing the kitchen wall. 

It was a safe place of warmth and joy, but one Elizabeth hadn’t visited in a very long time.  Even in her mind.  The contrast with the pain that came later was too great.  The heartache that followed the mental visits was too much to bear.

“What’s down there?”  Bubba asked.

“A house.  Someone I know lived there once.  She was happy there.”

“What’s her name?”

“Elizabeth.  Her name is Elizabeth.  Was Elizabeth.”

“What happened?”

Ellen ignored the question, averted her gaze from the scene below, and looked straight ahead at the shimmering waters of the Pacific and the dark void beyond.  “That’s it.  Head due west and climb to fifty thousand feet.”

Bubba’s own bitter gaze was also fixed on some distant but unseen place.  “Okay.  But that’s pretty much the ceiling for this bird.”

“I know that, Jethro.”

The two flew in dark silence until the plane leveled off far above the ocean.  Then Ellen nodded down at the levers Bubba held in his hands.  “Most efficient power settings,” she ordered.

Bubba made several slight adjustments and looked over. 

“Set the autopilot for this altitude and heading and give me the fuel status.”

After engaging the autopilot, Bubba pecked at the flight management computer.  “Three hours and eighteen minutes at the current altitude and power settings.  Which will put us in the middle of a watery nowhere on our current heading.”

“I know,” Ellen answered as she looked at the watch on her wrist and stood.

In one swift movement, she pulled the snub nose .38 from the grip of her waistband, pointed the weapon straight down at the top of Bubba’s skull, and fired.  The bullet sliced through his brain, flattened as it bounced off bone, and then shredded flesh and tissue before finally coming to a rest somewhere deep within his wrecked body. 

Bubba’s arms dropped to his sides as he slumped over the yoke.  The jet began a shallow descent as the autopilot fought against the pressure of his lifeless body.  “Paid in full,” Ellen announced to no one as she left the cockpit.

The single gunshot had brought Sam and Sandi to rigid attention.  Ellen entered the cabin with an airy nonchalance and pulled the intercom phone from its cradle.

“This is your in-flight hostess.  I don’t regret to inform you that the captain is dead.”

Ellen slammed the intercom phone back into the cradle, and began to rummage through a large bag she’d carried onto the plane slung over one shoulder.  She removed a pearl-handled revolver from the bag.  It was even smaller than Bubba’s snub nose .38.  The gun had been salvaged at the last minute from a black garbage bag nearly seven years earlier.  She brought the firearm toward her head, hesitated, and smiled.

“I almost forgot,” she stage whispered to Sam and Sandi before she again grabbed the intercom phone. 

“I hope you don’t enjoy the remainder of your flight,” she announced pleasantly.

Ellen dropped the phone and it bounced several times by its coiled cord before she once again whispered theatrically.  “I would have invited you to fly with us again, but I don’t think that’s very realistic.”

Once more Ellen raised the small pearl-handled revolver to her head.  But not to her temple, where the center of higher thought resides.  Instead she aimed the gun at the base of her skull. The area of the brain governing the very basic and instinctual functions of life.  She looked at her watch, and then at Sam.  No longer was she a model of logic, planning, and discipline.  She held his eyes with a stare rooted in hatred and wild irrationality.

“I’ll see you in hell, Sam.  I’ll see you in hell in exactly three hours and eleven minutes.”        

Sandi reflexively turned away as Ellen pulled the trigger and the explosion filled the cabin.  Sam, however, cleared her collapsing body even before it fully came to rest on the floor of the aisle.

CHAPTER 56

“I can’t believe I‘m saying this, but basically you’re in charge on this one.  Everybody’s reporting to you.  FBI and FAA.  Even the military - within limits.” 

Governor Lord uttered the words with a cautionary solemnity.  He’d called in favors.  Primarily from his friend and Republican predecessor in the governor’s mansion, who also happened to be the President’s younger brother.

Tillis looked over at Sally and winked.  “No shit?  How’d you pull that off?”

Lord ignored the question.  “There’s a lot on the line here.  I know you don’t play well with others, but try.  Please try.”

“I’m thinking about going to Defcon 1.”  Tillis announced.

“What?”  Lord almost shouted.

“I’ve always wanted to place the country on its highest state of military readiness.  I’d be making history - the highest we’ve ever gone was Defcon 2 during the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

“Damn it, Tillis.”

“Come on.  The cold war is over, for god’s sake.  It’s not that big a deal anymore.”

“Tillis, please.”  The Governor pleaded.

“All right.  But I would like to carry the football.  You know.  The briefcase with the nuclear codes.  That would be good too.”

“I’m going to regret this.  I know I‘m going to regret this.”  Lord was clearly talking to himself now.

“I’d love to chat, Chuck, but I have to go.  I’ve repositioned our carriers, and the Joint Chiefs are pissed.”

Tillis hit the end button and turned to Sally.  “We’re in charge.”

“Of everybody?”

“Pretty much.”

“Damn.”  Sally sounded awestruck.

“It’s what I’ve always wanted.  All the authority with very little responsibility.”

With adrenalin surging through his system, Sam yanked Bubba’s body off the yoke and onto the floor.  But the corpse was still in the way.  In halting bursts of effort, he moved the body out of the cockpit and dropped it near Ellen’s crumpled remains.  Sandi looked on, seemingly in shock and unable to move.  She was unnerved by the two violent deaths, one of which occurred only a few seconds before and a mere four or five feet away.  But Sam finally had enough.  He was tired of being a victim.

As soon as Sam pulled Bubba’s body off of the yoke, the plane’s autopilot had immediately began to recover lost altitude.  The angle of ascent had assisted Sam in pulling the inert body down the aisle, and the jet leveled out at fifty thousand feet as Sam turned to make his way back to the cockpit.

Sam immediately slipped into the left seat of the aircraft and twisted the autopilot bug on the directional gyrocompass exactly 180 degrees.  The plane gently turned until it had fully reversed course and was returning to the coast along the same path it had traveled earlier.  Sam leaned back in the seat and breathed a temporary sigh of relief.   

    Sandi eventually tiptoed around the bodies, and sat in the right seat.  After adjusting and securing the shoulder harness, she looked over at Sam and produced a tentative smile.  Sam acknowledged her smile and turned his attention to the instrument panel.

After locating the transponder, Sam changed the code from 7500 to 7700.  From hijacking in progress to general emergency.  Then he turned the knob on the radio to a frequency of 121.50 - the international frequency reserved exclusively for emergency communications.  Information he’d learned almost a decade earlier had somehow been retrieved by his adrenalin-shocked brain.

Sam reached for Bubba’s headset that had fallen to the floor, adjusted the mouthpiece, and hit the push to talk button on the yoke. “Center, this is Citation Four Niner Foxtrot Zulu.”

“Go ahead, Citation.”

“Citation is declaring an emergency.”

“State the nature of your emergency, Citation.”

“The pilot is dead.  There’s no co-pilot.”

“Who’s flying the airplane, Citation?”

“The auto-pilot.”

“Hold one, Citation.”

The FAA controller in the tower at Roswell Industrial ripped the headphones off and yelled at Tillis.  “I have your bird patched through from Los Angeles Center, squawking 7700 and transmitting on 121.50.  It’s reversed course and is heading back toward the coast at 50,000 feet.”

“Put us on speaker,” Tillis barked as he grabbed a headset.  “Go ahead, Citation.”

Sam looked down at the radio; the gravelly drawl was distinctive.  “Tillis?” 

“Sam?  Is that you?”

“Yeah.  Where are you?”

“Roswell Industrial.  They patched you through.”  Tillis paused and then spoke with obvious concern.  “What’s going on there?” 

“Bubba’s dead.  Ellen shot him.  Just before she killed herself.”

Tillis glanced at Sally as they both silently acknowledged the accuracy of his grim prediction.  “What’s your status?”

“I brought the bug around 180 degrees; we’re still on autopilot.  I think I have about three hours of fuel onboard.”  Sam explained.

“Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sam responded glumly.

“You’re a pilot.  And you have some time in that bird.”

“I’ve never landed it.  I’ve never landed anything except for a little 172.  And that was almost a decade ago.”  Sam’s voice sounded hollow.

“I have the best Ten pilot in the world sitting next to me.  And I’m looking at a runway that’s over two miles long.  We’re gonna bring you back here, and we’re gonna land that bird.  You and me.”

“You’re bringing me all the way back there?  Why?  To burn off fuel?”

Tillis looked at Sally and then answered.  “That’s part of it.”

“So the fireball won’t be so big when I land?”

“Sam, listen to me.  I promise that you and Sandi will walk away from this landing.  I promise.”

“Okay.”  Sam answered dully.

“How’s Sandi?”  Tillis asked.

“Fine.  Sitting here next to me.”  Sam seemed to discover some shred of hopefulness as he continued.  “She appears to have more confidence in the pilot than I do.”

“Let’s get you squared away, Sam.  Bump the bug back to a heading of two six five.”

“Okay.  Coming around to two six five.  Now what?”

“The auto-pilot has a descend mode.  It’s coupled with the flight management system.  I’ll walk you thru the menu.”

“I’m pretty good with computers,” Sam offered calmly.     

“Right.  Sorry.  Bring up that menu and punch in a 500 feet per minute rate of descent.”

“Done.”

“Good job.  Let the autopilot do the work for now.  Take some time to relax and collect yourself.  Monitor 121.5 and I’ll be back with you in ten.”

“Standing by on 121.5.” 

Tillis ripped the headset off and turned to Sally.  “Call Rodger Rimes and tell him everything.  He deserves to know.”

Immediately after saying goodbye to Sally and hanging up the phone, Rodger Rimes picked it up again and dialed the San Luis Land and Cattle Company.  His good friend of nearly fifty years was foreman there, and he needed a favor.

Actually, the San Luis Land and Cattle Company sold neither land nor cattle.  It sold five star accommodations and five course gourmet meals to lawyers, doctors, and corporate executives who hunted and fished its nearly sixty thousand pristine mountain acres.  It sold ten thousand dollar bull elk hunts to the rich and powerful.  Men who spilled blood in courtrooms and on the trading floors during the week, but whose bloodlust nevertheless remained insatiable.

But the reason for his call involved none of this; Rodger Rimes was interested in the private runway and the corporate and chartered jets that shuttled sportsmen to and from the mountain hideaway.  A runway that was only twenty-five minutes driving time from Rimes Ranch.  All of which explained how he and Dustin found themselves hurtling toward Roswell Industrial in a privately chartered Learjet less than an hour after receiving a call from Sally Cummings.

Tillis peered over the shoulder of the controller.  He had the Citation circling Roswell Industrial at ten thousand feet.  The glowing radar screen painted a large circle with a radius of nearly fifty miles.  A hundred mile wide circle of apprehension.

Tillis and the representative sent by Cessna had gone over everything with Sam.  They’d given advice and performed dry runs until everyone involved was numb with mental exhaustion.  Now Sam needed some quiet time.  Some time for reflection, and some time to recharge his mental batteries.  And time was needed for first light to arrive from the east, and for the jet to burn off more fuel.  Just in case all the preparations had been for nothing.

As Tillis leaned back in his chair, expelled a huge breath, and looked with disgust at the sweat soaked shirt clinging to his body, the controller pushed the mouthpiece of his headset away and spoke with equal parts apprehension and concern.  “I have an inbound Lear.”

“God damn it,” Tillis slammed his fist down on the table hard enough to hurt.  “I told you to divert all incoming traffic.”  The stress of the past two hours was beginning to tell, and he immediately regretted his behavior.

“I know, but the pilot wants me to tell you that Rodger Rimes and Dustin are on board.”

“What!  How the hell did that happen?”

“There’s more,” the controller added. 

“Good Lord Almighty.  What else could possibly happen?”  Tillis threw his arms into the air.

“The pilot says Rodger Rimes wants a fly-by with the Citation.  He said to tell you that Rodger says it’s for Dustin.”

Tillis was speechless.  He turned and looked at Sally.  Sally looked at the Cessna rep.

“No bullshit.  What are his chances of landing that airplane and everybody walking away?”  Sally asked.

“This guy?”  The rep slowly shook his head.  “Fifty-fifty.”  The man paused.  “On a good day.”

Sally looked over at Tillis.  “You’re an asshole if you don’t let that little boy say good-bye to his mother.”

Tillis bit his lip and motioned for the controller to give him the headset.

“Lear, this is Roswell.”

“Go ahead, Roswell.”

“Listen, we’re considering your request.  But we’re very worried about in-flight turbulence.  A fly-by might be too risky for our pilot.  We don’t want to unnerve him.”

“Roswell, you do what you need to do.  But I’ve flown close formation, refueled in flight, and played tag at Miramar.  I can drive the airplane.  Your boy won’t feel a thing. Guaranteed.”

“Hold one, Lear.”  Tillis pulled the headset off.  “Fuck me if the guy’s not a former Top Gun.  How come absolutely nothing’s easy with this case?”

It was still dark outside as the Learjet eased up next to the Citation on the right side.  The pilot of the Lear brought up the cabin lights; after fumbling around for a moment, Sam did the same.  Rodger and Dustin had their faces pressed against the windows. Tears had left shiny trails on their cheeks, but Sandi was dry-eyed and smiling.  She waved and mouthed three words several times, and Rodger and Dustin did the same. 

And then it was over.  She was looking at the underside of the Learjet as it lifted its left wing.  Then all she could see was a small red wing-tip light.  Soon even that disappeared.  Sandi turned toward Sam, reached over and squeezed his arm.

Sam was choked up and it took a moment before he could speak.  “How can you be like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like this.  Like everything is going to be okay.”

Sandi nodded back toward the cabin. “She’s dead.”

Confusion washed across Sam’s face.  “What?”

“She’s dead.  And we’re alive.  Everything is going to be okay.  You can land this airplane.  I know you can.”

For the first time in hours - maybe years - Sam felt a burst of confidence.