Closure (Jack Randall) (2 page)

•      •      •

The target was holding agreeably still with his head at a slight angle away from his line of sight. It allowed him to center his sight post just behind the left ear. He did a quick check with his non-dominant eye for anyone beyond his target. One half breath and hold, and then a nice slow squeeze.

•      •      •

Jimmy looked up from the CD case he had been reading. The Mercedes was pulling through the light. About time! He was about to move his feet to follow when he noticed the light was still red. The Mercedes moved across the intersection slowly and came to rest against the curb on the opposite corner. But where was the driver?

•      •      •

The kick of the rifle had been an expected surprise, just as it was supposed to be. The impact of the round had sent the target’s head violently to the right and the body had dropped below the level of the door. He knew from experience that the shot was on target. He watched the car roll slowly across the intersection and come to rest on the opposite curb. He noticed a lot of blood on the shattered windshield. How did that happen? Good thing traffic was light. He didn’t want to hurt anybody. He began crawling backward away from the draw.

•      •      •

Jimmy looked at the car, unsure of what to do. The light turned, so he pulled up alongside and took a look. Maybe the old guy had a heart attack or something? From his elevated position he was able to look down into the Mercedes and what he saw was right out of his favorite video game. The guy’s head was gone, but his face was remarkably intact and staring back at him. He stared for a good thirty seconds before a honk from behind made him fumble for his cell phone.

•      •      •

It was only about fifty meters to the clearing. As he walked, he calmly ejected the spent cartridge and the remaining two from the Remington. The weapon had performed well as usual. He palmed the hot brass in his hand until he reached the fire pit he had made. The live rounds he stuck in the ground under the fire. He then added the hat, sweat band, water bottles and the coveralls. He next picked up the gallon bottle of gasoline he had placed nearby and doused the pile with it, adding the bottle when it was empty.

•      •      •

Jimmy talked so fast his father couldn’t understand him. He finally ran out of breath long enough for his father to break in and tell him to calm down. Jim Jr. was somewhat of a disappointment to his father; a typical know-it-all kid. But he had never heard him scared like this. All he could comprehend was that someone was dead, and Jimmy was scared. He swiveled around to his computer and called up OnStar on the screen. Something Jimmy didn’t know was Jim Sr. knew where his car was at all times; only a mile away. He was probably sneaking off to the beach again. He didn’t know who the girl was yet, but he suspected it was the Johnson girl. He really hoped not; her father was a prick. He grabbed his keys and ran for his car, still trying to calm down his son.

•      •      •

He hated to do it, but he put the barrel in the crack of the rock and applied all his weight to the stock. The barrel bent just far enough to make it unusable. He had already removed the serial numbers weeks ago, so he now added it to the fire. He took one last look to ensure that the envelope was in its place before pulling the matches from his pocket. The latex gloves followed the match.

•      •      •

Jim Sr. pulled to a stop in front of his son’s SUV. The boy was sitting on the ground with an elderly Hispanic woman talking to him. First he reached in and turned off the ignition to put a stop to Eminem. He then examined his son. He was as white as his Florida tan would allow and just playing with the laces on his shoes. The woman was going on in high speed Spanish and pointing at the other car. He took a look and recognized Addicot; the man lived in the same gated community as he did. He reached for his cell phone and stared at his son.

•      •      •

Now clothed in dark blue running shoes, gray shorts and a black t-shirt, he looked like any other runner out for his daily miles. He paused when he approached the sidewalk, looking for traffic, both motor and pedestrian. Seeing none, he donned his sunglasses and adjusted his radio. Already soaked in sweat, he looked the part as soon as he stepped into the street and took up a medium pace toward his car. It was an easy three miles to the local strip-mall. Escape and evade.

•      •      •

The ambulance crew parked at the strip-mall had just finished breakfast, and were settling into their normal routine of a book and a newspaper when they got the call from dispatch: P.I. (Personal Injury) accident. They recognized the intersection as they knew the area well. Low speed area, probably just a fender bender. But this was America, land of the lawsuit, so dispatch sent them priority-one; lights and sirens, lest the injured be a lawyer and sue the city for not responding fast enough. Never mind the risk to them and the public as they raced in. The veteran driver thought all this, but kept it to himself. His new partner still liked to drive fast. They were a mile away when they heard dispatch add the fire department to the call. Maybe he better step it up a little?

•      •      •

One mile away and the kinks in his legs were just coming out. He had just turned from looking at the smoke over his shoulder when he saw the ambulance coming. He checked the urge to wave to them as he usually did; force of habit. The crew was an older guy and a young girl. He hoped it wasn’t her first gunshot, but in her chosen career she was going to see it sooner or later. They would have a good response time, but it wouldn’t help any; just a lot of waiting followed by a lot of paperwork. Sorry guys. He liked medics more than he liked cops.

•      •      •

Jim Sr. told his story to the deputy as Jim Jr. just sat in his father’s car and stared up at the smoke coming out of the trees. The deputy hoped the Chief got here soon as he was unsure of what to do with this mess. He had used his cell phone or the press would be all over this in minutes. The Chief also spoke Spanish and the deputy couldn’t understand anything this Hispanic woman said. While the boy wasn’t talking, the woman wouldn’t shut up. Looked like a car-jacking gone wrong. He left the three together and started to tape off the area. People were already starting to gather. On top of that, the damn woods were burning. He had just driven through here not twenty minutes ago. What the hell happened?

•      •      •

With one mile to go he heard the fire truck. Damn quick of them. He hoped the fire had done its job before they got to it.

•      •      •

When they got on scene the paramedics automatically split up. The veteran didn’t even bother to check for a pulse. He knew a crime scene when he saw one and turned to bring a sheet from the truck. His partner couldn’t get the kid to speak. So she did what she always did and took his vital signs and checked for injuries. Psychosomatic shock. Not much she could do for him. Just what did he see?

•      •      •

He had left the car parked outside of a gym. He climbed in and headed for his hotel in Altomonte Springs. His bags were packed and the ticket was in the visor of the car. A quick shower and he was on his way down Interstate 4 to Tampa. Four hours till his flight left.

•      •      •

The crew made quick work of the fire. Someone had taken the time to clear an area for a rather large one. A curious thing was the rifle in the fire. Even stranger was the big envelope with FBI and some guy’s name written on it tacked to the tree. The Lieutenant left it where it was and sent a crewman to get the Chief.

•      •      •

What the hell was going on? Sanchez was not pleased. Two years ago he had landed the cake job of Chief in this rich suburb and he planned to stay forever. Nothing like this had ever happened in this part of Orlando, especially on a Saturday. He took his own picture of the envelope on the tree before putting on gloves and opening it. He found several newspaper articles and a typed letter addressed to the FBI. He sighed and pulled out his cell phone.

•      •      •

As he drove past Disney World he had the urge to pull out his own cell phone and call Paul. He felt good. They were started. The first job had gone off without a hitch. Then he remembered Timothy McVeigh. He put the cell phone away and slowed to the legal limit. Paul would know soon enough, and he still had a plane to catch.

•      •      •

Sanchez marveled at the activity a cell phone could produce. On scene he had the coroner’s office, the county and state police, two or three TV crews, the FBI, and all of his own officers. When he was hired, he had been smart enough to get to know his neighbors in the business, and they had a mutual support agreement for just such a case as this. It was going to be a long day.

•      •      •

He settled into a chair at the airport bar and ordered a large soft drink. His stomach couldn’t tolerate alcohol anymore. He could see his gate from his stool, but more important, he could see the TV mounted to the wall over the bar. The story was just being told for the second time but he couldn’t hear it. The bartender saw him watching.

“Some big-shot lawyer up in Orlando just got his head blown off. Can’t imagine who would want to do that!” The crowd at the bar laughed with her.

They called his flight. He drained his drink, smiled at the bartender and left.

The state of Alaska holds 4,527 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 3,000 are repeat offenders.

—TWO—

S
pecial Agent Jack Randall already felt the headache coming on. The call from his office had arrived about the same time as the story had aired on CNN. As he packed, his fax machine began cranking out page after page from the Hoover building. He looked at the first page as he brushed his teeth.

T. Carlton Addicot, huh? Not his favorite guy. Everyone he knew at the bureau had heard of him. Jack recalled what he had read on the man; a big money tort lawyer. Sued big companies for anything he could think of, claiming to do so on behalf of the victims. Never mind that he raked in more than all the victims combined. Word was he had a partner in every state and flew around in his own Gulfstream jet, litigating. His specialty was medical companies. Last year he’d made sixty-two million on a case involving a male impotency drug that supposedly gave its users heart attacks, often while in the act it was deemed for. No real evidence was available to prove the drug did cause the attacks, but the company chose to settle and pay off the users and their lawyers in the face of greater losses. The drug was quickly pulled from the shelves. The FBI had looked at T. Addicot three times for some shaky tax shelters and possible jury tampering. The man was guilty as hell, but they had been unable to pin anything on him. He also had friends within the bar that defended high profile criminals and had often funded the case when the client’s assets were seized. All for a hefty fee of course.

The phone rang. Spit. Wipe. He snatched it on the second ring. “Randall,” he spat into the receiver.

“Jack, it’s Deacon; you get the faxes I sent?”

“Yes sir, still spitting them out.”

Deputy Director Mark Deacon was Jack’s current boss although they had worked together for a year and a half on the Russian Mafia killings in New York and had become good friends, Jack would always call him sir. He had too much respect for the man.

“Sorry to ruin your weekend, but this one came addressed to us. Seems our shooter left a note with your name on it. I told you fame had its drawbacks.” He was right. The press had a field day following Jack during the trials. They had plastered his name and face on every rag on the east coast. His mother sent him every newspaper clipping she came across. All it did was make him useless for undercover work.

“The letter is just coming through now, sir, what’s the game plan?” His wife had just entered the doorway and was listening with her disappointed look. It worked better on him than it did on the kids she taught.

“I want you, Larry, and Dave to fly down and take charge. I’m sending Sydney and her team with you. The press is running a story on it being a car-jacking gone wrong. That sounds fine for now, just don’t make any statements unless the truth gets out. Tell the locals the rules; keep this in the dark. Mel in Orlando isn’t too impressed with the local boys, but he says their Chief knows the game. Read up on this victim on the plane and be ready to dig when you get there. From the letter we have to assume this shooter has an agenda. I want to know how good he is and where you think he may go next. Take all the time you need and be thorough. Just give me reports when you have something new. There’s a plane waiting for you at Andrews. Get a line on this quick, Jack, and apologize to Debra for me.”

“Yes sir,” Jack replied. He was still getting the look from his wife as he pushed the button to end the call. He now regretted using the speaker phone, as it allowed him to pack and talk at the same time. Debra had heard it all and was not pleased.

“Jack, you’ve only been home a week and now you’re leaving again? We have guests you know. Can’t the damn FBI do without you for two weeks?”