Shake the Trees (33 page)

Bubba shook his head as he stood in a wide stance with his hands on his hips.  He was no longer happy or even relieved to have survived - now he was just plain annoyed.  His annoyance was soon replaced with shock as the sound of a ringing cell phone emanated from the newly formed gaping hole in the nose of his airplane.  He stuck his head in the hole, ripped some duct tape away from the fiberglass wall of the fuselage, and pulled the phone lose.

“What the hell?”  Bubba barked as he studied the ringing cell phone.  “Hello,” he answered aggressively.

“How was your flight?”  Ellen answered in her husky smoker’s voice.

“Who the hell is this?”

“The heir.”

“The hair?”  Bubba shouted.

“Not hair, you ignorant redneck hillbilly jackass.  The heir.”

“The heir to what?”  Bubba snapped angrily.

“The heir to all that money you stole, asshole.”

Bubba was at a loss for words.  He involuntarily looked around to see if anybody was watching.

“Cat got your tongue, dickhead?  Keep this phone with you at all times.  I’ll be in touch.  Either I get my money back, or you die.”

CHAPTER 49

The Hangar was a modest affair.  A steel prefab structure similar in color and design to the other buildings on the tarmac. It contained seven or eight tables and counter seating for about a dozen.  A large hand-painted sign hung in the front window facing the tie-down area.  ‘Home of the Hundred Dollar Burger.’  Actually, the burger and fries cost $4.95. 

The sign was somebody’s idea of a joke.  Recreational pilots often visited the field for lunch.  Of course, lunch wasn’t the point.  It was an excuse to fly.  And The Hangar provided a destination.  It was probably inevitable that some mathematically minded pilot would figure out the cost in fuel and maintenance for a typical lunchtime flight.  But the sign was still a stick in the eye.

Bubba Williams had no trouble spotting the stranger he was meeting for lunch.  It was nearly 2:45, and everyone else had left.  Even the counter and cash register had been abandoned.  DeWitt Dukes was sitting in the corner, engrossed in a book, and didn’t notice the sandy-haired man enter the small eatery.

“Mr. Dukes?”  Bubba asked.

The meek and reticent looking man jumped, and then spoke in a soft drawl.  “Oh.  Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”  DeWitt stood and shook Bubba’s hand.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.  Did you get my message?”

“Oh, yes.  The cashier told me.  Mechanical problems.  I hope it wasn’t serious.”

Bubba winced.  “Serious enough, I guess.  I had to rent a little single-engine.  Again, I’m sorry I’m late.”

“These things can’t be avoided.  I appreciate you letting me know.”  DeWitt nodded at a plate covered with tin foil sitting on the table.  “I’m afraid the kitchen closed at two.  I took the liberty of ordering you a burger and fries.  And a coke.  It’s probably cold though.”  He paused.  “The food, I mean.  Not the drink.”

Bubba laughed and gestured for DeWitt to sit, and then also took a seat and ripped off the foil.  “God bless you.  I’m starving.”

DeWitt smiled.  “Go ahead.  I’ll talk while you eat.”

Bubba studied the weapon like a valuable piece of art.  Which, despite an unappetizing origin and history, it was.  “This is it.  I remember it clearly.”

“You’ve seen it before?”  DeWitt inquired.

Bubba paused, as if traveling back in time.  Through long unvisited lands.  Over difficult terrain.  “When I was very young.  Maybe eight or nine years old.” 

“Was your grandfather still alive?”

Bubba nodded.  “He showed it to me.  On one of the two or three occasions I met him.”

DeWitt looked at Bubba quizzically, but said nothing.  An unchallenged silence settled in as Bubba looked out the window.  Past the airplanes and runway.  Maybe it was because of DeWitt’s easy-going manner.  Or maybe because of his close call that morning.  But Bubba finally began to talk.  He opened up with a stranger.  A complete stranger.  Which may have been the point.

“In a way it was my fault.  I was illegitimate.  Well, not technically.  My father married my mother before I was born.  I was a love child.  That’s what polite Southerners called it then.”

Bubba hesitated for a few moments, and then began again.  “My grandmother couldn’t accept it.  Wouldn’t accept it.  She disowned my mother.  And expected her husband to follow suit.  Which he did for the most part.  But he came to see me and my little brother a couple of times.  When my grandmother was out of town.”

DeWitt slowly shook his head and spoke hesitantly.  “Those were different times.”  Then decided to offer no further excuse for the woman’s actions.  “I’m sorry.”

“I worshipped him.  He was almost a mythical figure to me.  After he died, I wanted something to remember him by.  I saw my cousin James a few years later.  He was the only other grandson.  Besides my brother Billy Bob and me.  He got everything.  I asked him for something - anything - to remember him by.  He laughed at me.”

DeWitt’s eyes were moist.  “I’m sorry.”

Bubba literally shook himself from his trance.  “That’s okay.  I took something of his.  Eventually.”

DeWitt looked at Bubba with wide-eyed curiosity.  “Was it valuable?”

Bubba looked back out the window with a penetrating stare.  “Maybe the most valuable thing a man can have.”  Then cleared his throat.  Signaling that it was time to do business.  And nodded at the gun.  “So can I buy it?”

Pre-auction?”  DeWitt stammered in surprise.

Bubba nodded.

DeWitt spoke at a more nervous pace than his usual leisurely drawl.  “I can’t do it.  It’s an ethical issue for me. The market sets the price. That’s always been my rule. I’m sorry.”

Bubba sucked in his lips.  “Okay.  I’ll bid along with everyone else.  I guess I know who placed the gun with you.  She knew I wanted it, but she’s greedy.  I hear she took him to the cleaners in the divorce.”

“Like I said earlier, I can’t disclose the identity of the seller.”

“You want me to stay?”  Sam asked Sally incredulously as he pulled himself upright in the hospital bed.

It was Friday morning.  Two weeks since the case broke.  One week since Governor Lord’s press conference at The Palms Gracious Living Retreat.  A little more than 48 hours since Ellen had attacked Sam.  Sam was due to be discharged the next day, and Sally had come to the hospital without Tillis’ knowledge.  To ask Sam to stay in Florida.  As bait.

“I’ve thought about this a lot, Sam.  She knows where you live.  Going home isn’t going to solve anything.  At least we can protect you here.”

Sam eyed Sally with more than a little skepticism.  “What about the money?  She’s after the money.  So she’ll stay in Florida.”

“I know that’s the assumption everyone is making, but I don’t think so.  The money is icing on the cake for her.  This is about you, Sam.  It’s always been about you.”

“She’s right,” Sandi added as she turned to face Sam.  “This won’t be over until she’s locked up or dead.  Running won’t solve anything.  It’s probably what she wants.  She’s enjoying this.  She’s enjoying the chase.”

Sam and Sandi looked into each other’s eyes.  Silently considering the implications of what they were about to do.  Calculating the emotional toll of not knowing if or when Ellen might reappear.

Finally, Sam spoke up.  “Okay.  But on one condition.”

“Name it,” Sally answered.

“Sandi goes home without me.”

Sandi snorted derisively.  “Like hell I will.”  Then she turned to face Sally.  “Now what?”

Tillis was furious when he heard.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sally bristled.  “I’m handling my case the best way I know how.” 

“Your case?”

“She’s mine.  Remember?  Elizabeth Ellen Hayes is mine now.”

Sally wasn’t backing down.  And remarkably, Tillis was at a temporary loss for words.  Sally could tell he was thinking.

“I guess if the dog won’t hunt, then you got to bait a trap.” Tillis finally drawled.

“Oh, Lord.  Here we go again.  Wait a minute.  Am I the dog?  Are you calling me a dog?”

“Bubba could be the bait.  If she thinks Bubba has the money.”  Tillis went on, ignoring her question.  Then he told her about Bubba’s conversation with DeWitt Dukes.

Sally shook her head in disagreement.  “So maybe Bubba has the money, and maybe she suspects it.  But even if that’s true, Bubba is still just dessert.  Sam’s the main course.”

“Nice metaphor.  Elizabeth Ellen Hayes.  Man-eater.”

“It’s the truth,” Sally argued. “And how do you catch a man-eater?  Not with dessert.  No main course, no Ellen.  Elizabeth.  Whatever.”

“You’re putting Sam and Sandi’s lives on the line.”  Tillis warned.

“They’re already on the line.  They’ve been on the line.”

  Tillis circled back to his old friend.  “So how does Bubba fit into the picture?”

“I have a feeling that Elizabeth Ellen Hayes is the kind of girl who likes to eat her dessert first.”

Tillis finally sighed and held up his hands in mock surrender.  “Okay.  Tell me your plan.”

It was Sunday afternoon.  Tillis and Bubba were sitting at a picnic table under the shade of the camphor tree, doing their best to digest the fried food they’d eaten.  Tillis had called and invited himself to Sunday dinner, and offered to pick up Bubba in his King-Air for the ride down to Ten Thousand Islands. 

“I sure am glad you called, Tillis.”  Bubba caressed his bulging stomach as he spoke.

“I didn’t know your plane was down.”  Tillis remarked indifferently.

“That was a coincidence, wasn’t it.”

Tillis felt his spine tingle.  “What’s the problem?”

“Lost my forward luggage door on climb-out.  It was interesting for a few seconds.”

Until that moment, Tillis had succumbed to a full stomach and the tropical air.  Now he was alert and leaned forward.  “I’ve never heard of that happening before.  Unless the pilot left the door unlatched.  And missed it on preflight.  I guess age must finally be catching up with you.”

Bubba normally deflected Tillis’ ribbing with ease, but today his words crowded the edge of aggression.  “That’s bullshit, and you know it.  It’s an old airplane.  Things happen.”

The two studied each other carefully.  Tillis looked away.  His stomach turned, and he knew it wasn’t the fish or the hushpuppies. “I could use your help with something.”   

“Name it, buddy.”  Bubba was back to his old self.

Tillis winced.  The words and congenial tone felt like salt in a wound.  “I need you to help me catch Elizabeth Ellen Hayes.”

Bubba eyed Tillis warily.  “The girl they think killed that judge?”

Tillis nodded.  “The girl that killed your cousin.”

The two stared at each other for a long time.  Finally Bubba spoke.  “We weren’t close with those folks.”

“You worked for them.  You went to the funeral.”  Tillis replied evenly.

Cracks crept across the facade of composure that Bubba was struggling to maintain.  “That was business.  I’m not like you.  Nobody handed me a pile of money.  A military pension isn’t enough for a decent life.”

Another long silence ensued as Bubba pieced reason back into his words.  “Do you know what the competition is like for those corporate pilot jobs?  I called in all the favors I could.  I groveled.  Didn’t want anyone to know.”

Tillis produced a thin smile.  “You don’t need to explain yourself.  That’s not why I’m here.  Not today, anyway.”

“Why don’t you tell me exactly what you want then?”  Bubba growled.

“I want you to help me save the lives of a couple of innocent people.  And maybe save your own ass, too.  It sounds like you’ve been put on notice.”

Bubba eyeballed Tillis for a few seconds.  “Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.  But you’re my friend, and I’m willing to do anything I can to help.  If there’s a killer on the loose, then I’m your man.”

“That’s very altruistic of you.”

Bubba’s face reddened and he stabbed his index finger in Tillis’ direction.  “You’ve hit the god-damn nail on the head.  I’ve spent the last thirty years of my life putting others first.” 

CHAPTER 50

The ring of the disposable cell phone came only minutes after he’d fallen asleep.  Bubba had returned to Tampa with Tillis late Sunday afternoon, and spent the evening alone, pacing around his apartment and mindlessly channel surfing.  When he’d finally tried to sleep, the stress of the day bubbled to the surface.  Until mental exhaustion eventually overcame it. 

Now he sat straight up in bed.  His head ached and his neck was stiff with tension.  He felt the beat of his heart in his eardrums as his blood pressure spiked.  A surge of adrenalin cleared the fog of sleep from his brain. 

“Yeah,” Bubba answered hoarsely.

“Wake up, Jethro.”  Ellen sounded top o’ the mornin’ cheerful.  “Or do you prefer Mason?  Because Bubba just makes me want to laugh.” 

“Mason will work.”

“That’s good.  Because I hate to laugh alone.  And you have nothing to laugh about.  Do you, Jethro?”

“If you say so.”

“I say so.”  Ellen snapped.

“Okay.”

“Pad and pen, Jethro.  Are you ready?”  Ellen’s tone had become more business-like.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good.  Now where is the money?”

“What money is that?”  Bubba asked without inflection.

“Bad answer, Jethro.  Maybe all that fried shit you ate this afternoon clogged the arteries to your brain.”

“Huh?”

“That’s right, Jethro.”  Ellen chuckled.  “I was there.  Well, not there there.  I mean I wasn’t walking around that mosquito-infested cesspool with your barefoot, inbred relatives.  I wasn’t knawin’ a bone with the kinfolk.  But I was watching.  From a safe distance.  I didn’t want to catch anything.”

“What?  Why were you there?”  Bubba stammered in confusion.

“Come on.  I thought you were a military man.  Target acquisition, Jethro.”

“I’m your target.  Just me.  Nobody else.”  Bubba sounded a rising note of concern with each syllable.

“That’s not exactly true.  I’m very big on collateral damage.”  Ellen waited for imagination to give weight to her words.  “Now where is the money?”

“A safe place,” Bubba offered.  Several seconds of uncomfortable silence followed his vague reply.  “Eastern Europe,” he finally added in a muted tone.

“I’m impressed.  You’ve done your homework.”  A charged stillness spiraled unchecked until Ellen hissed,  “In polite company one typically acknowledges a compliment.”

“Thanks,” Bubba offered in hasty submission.

“Better.  You’ll be wiring to the Bank of Nassau.  Read these routing and account numbers back to me after you’ve written them down.”

The First on Five reporter stood before the sleek jet.  She’d set up early Monday morning.  Others may have received the same anonymous email, and she prided herself on being ‘first with the local news that counts’.  Her cameraman counted down.  Three.  Two.  One.  And pointed.

“The American Senior Security story continues to enrage our viewers.  The company has gone into receivership, and state-funded Florida Insurance Guaranty Association - FIGA - has taken over operation of the corporation.  Yet its executives continue to travel in this sleek private jet.” 

The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the wind-blown blonde.

“In fact, our sources tell us that current employees aren’t the only passengers.  We’ve learned that former Chief Executive Officer Sam Norden - the man at the very center of this debacle - is scheduled to fly to Sante Fe, New Mexico in three days.  On Thursday night.  Perhaps for a long weekend outing?”

The camera pulled back, and the reporter stepped to the side.

“Your tax dollars.  At play.”

Ellen had registered her email address with the First on Five interactive website, and requested to be notified of all stories concerning American Senior Security.  She played the clip on her laptop and grinned.  Sam and Bubba together.  In a small enclosed space.  Thousands of feet in the air.  Irresistible.  A trap.  Most certainly a trap.  But that made it even more irresistible.

The gauntlet had been thrown down.  Now she was obliged to pick it up.  And shove it up someone’s ass. She studied the clip of the private jet again, and noted the N number on the side of the airplane.  Then googled ‘Cessna Citation’, and quickly found the specifications on the Citation X.  The model she’d seen.  It easily had the range to fly from Tampa to Sante Fe nonstop.  That was a problem. 

Tampa International was out of the question for what she had in mind.  She was sure the place would be crawling with cops and cameras.  And the cameras would probably be outfitted with facial recognition software.  Sante Fe was also out.  The cops weren’t total idiots.  They’d be there too.  She’d need to bring the big bird down in one piece.  Somewhere in between.

Next she googled the Federal Aviation Administration, and discovered that the air traffic control system was broken down into three parts.  The airport towers which controlled approaching and departing traffic, en route centers, and Flight Service Stations, which provided weather data to pilots and assisted in other ways, including the filing of flight plans.  Flight plans, she noted, that could be accessed with the unique N number assigned to the aircraft. 

Her attention soon focused on the en route centers.  There were a very limited number of these.  The en route controllers normally worked in two-person teams and were assigned specific geographic areas of responsibility.  They maintained radio contact with the pilots and used sophisticated computer and long-range radar equipment to control the airways connecting the major population centers.

Albuquerque was a major en route center, controlling traffic for hundreds of miles in every direction.  And Southwest Airlines offered a direct flight from Tampa to Albuquerque.  A nonstop was essential - she was unwilling to compromise when her personal comfort was at stake.

Then Ellen studied the J Routes.  The jet highways in the sky above 18,000 feet in elevation.  Something she didn’t even know existed.  The most efficient and direct route from Tampa to Sante Fe was quite obvious.  She noted that the route would pass over southeastern New Mexico.  Near Roswell.

She’d heard of Roswell.  That was where the space aliens had supposedly landed back in the forties or fifties.  The UFO capital of the world.  They even had a UFO museum there.  It was a reasonable drive from Albuquerque.

A plan was already coming together.  But timing would be critical.  Fortunately, she would be dealing with the federal government.  Email addresses would be readily available online.  And it was solicitous of wackos - often courting the fringe element in the name of inclusiveness.  Employees were even required to take sensitivity training classes.  That was something she could work with.

Ellen was about to begin trolling the web for the email addresses she needed, when her Blackberry beeped.  The screen revealed an email from the Bank of Nassau confirming a deposit, but the text caused her smile to fade and her face to redden.

“One million measly fucking dollars!”  Ellen gritted her teeth and slammed her fist on the hotel room desk.  “Big mistake, Jethro.  Big fucking mistake.”

Sally had become more certain than ever that the double header would prove irresistible to Elizabeth Ellen Hayes.  At least if Tillis was right about Bubba’s involvement.  The profilers were also convinced.  She felt good about her plan.  

The sting, as Tillis had begun referring to it in a vaguely derogatory manner, was a fairly significant undertaking.  The commitment of resources was considerable.  Commissioner Alcorn had insisted that the Governor sign off on the project, although he wasn’t a particularly tough sale.  Lord viewed Elizabeth Ellen Hayes as public enemy number one - she’d murdered a federal judge, and she would probably murder again.  Besides, catching her was the first step toward recovering the funds advanced by the Florida Bar.

Lord had even contacted the Governor of New Mexico to ensure smooth coordination with law enforcement on the destination end of the trip.  Hayes had been to New Mexico to recruit Sam for American Senior Security in the first place, and everyone agreed that she might strike there instead of Tampa.  The law enforcement presence in Sante Fe would be sufficient, although not quite as robust as in Tampa.  Tampa was, after all, the last known location of the fugitive.  Where she had struck a few days earlier.  At Tampa General Hospital.

And Tampa General Hospital was where Sam and Sandi remained.  With heavily armed guards outside the room 24 hours a day.  Everyone agreed that there was no good reason to risk moving them now.  Not until show time.  Then they would be taken to the American Senior Security jet.  

Despite overwhelming security, there was still an element of danger involved.  There was no avoiding it - everyone knew that Elizabeth Ellen Hayes would spot a ruse.  Sam and Sandi recognized and accepted the risk.  They needed to return home no matter what, so they would travel in style.               

The flight plan showed Bubba as pilot with a departure at twenty-two hundred Thursday night.  Sally chose the nighttime departure for tactical reasons.  She had outfitted several of her people with the most advanced night vision equipment available - an advantage she hoped would prove decisive.  The downside was that the facial recognition software linked with several new strategically placed security cameras would be less effective, but Sally thought Hayes might defeat that technology with the application of latex molds anyway. 

Both Sally and Tillis had taken rooms at the airport Hilton, and were attempting to coordinate preparations with as little disruption to the daily routine of the general aviation terminal as possible.  The funeral had left a residue of paranoia in the minds of those involved.  Everyone assumed that Elizabeth Ellen Hayes was watching and waiting, and they didn’t want to run the risk of scaring her off, even though the profilers were confident that she would make an appearance. 

Everything seemed to be clicking.  Except for Tillis.

“What’s wrong?”  Sally asked.  They were finally both off their cell phones at the same time.  Sally could tell something was bothering him.

“I’m a pilot.  I was a pilot before I was a cop.  So that probably explains it.  But mixing aviation and Elizabeth Ellen Hayes just seems like a bad idea.”

“The plane is under constant surveillance.”  Sally countered.

“I’m not worried about the plane.”

“Bubba?”

Tillis shook his head.  “Bubba’s on board.”  He reluctantly smiled at his unintended pun.  “He’s motivated.  Too motivated.  I’m more convinced than ever that he’s involved in this thing.  But as far as Elizabeth Ellen Hayes is concerned, I’m sure our interests are identical.  We both want her caught.  Out of the picture.”

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t know, Sally.  This girl flat out scares the shit out of me.  I know I told you that she’s not superhuman.  Just crazy.  But she is smart.  Too damn smart.  I hope we’re not underestimating her.”

Bubba looked down at the ringing disposable cell phone.  He’d been expecting the call.  And dreading it.

“Yeah.”

“You screwed up big time, Jethro.  You’re 131 million fucking dollars short.”

“That’s all I have.  That’s everything.”

There was a long pause before Ellen spoke again.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That’s all I was paid.  Two million dollars.  I split it with you.”

Now Ellen was fuming.  “Split it with me!”

“It’s the truth.  I didn’t know.  I didn’t know the amount involved.  I was stupid. I admit I was stupid.  But I’m telling you the truth.”  Bubba was pleading, and his sincerity bled through the tumbling words.

“Then you better give me a name, Jethro.  And wire the other million.”  Ellen responded coldly.

“I can’t.  I’ve spent most of it.  And I can’t.”  Bubba was on the edge of losing control.  “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you a name.”

“You prefer the devil you know to the devil you don’t?  Well, let me tell you something, Jethro.  You don’t know this devil.  Mama’s first, Jethro.  Mama goes first.”

“No.  Wait.  Let me talk to my associate.  Let me try and work something out.  Please.”

“Twenty-four hours.”  And she stabbed the end button.

Ellen was furious and needed a distraction.  She grabbed her laptop and visited a nearby coffee shop offering wireless internet.  After sipping a double shot nonfat no foam latte for a few minutes, she was able to refocus on the task ahead. She soon found the email addresses she was searching for and began to compose a message.

From: FAA Public Relations Director

To: Supervisor, Albuquerque En Route Center

Please expect a call from Ms. Macie Novell, a well-known ufologist and reporter for UFO Magazine.  She is authorized to interview the senior third shift en route team member responsible for the geographic zone encompassing the area in and around Roswell, New Mexico for the purpose of confirming that no nighttime UFO sightings have been made during the last thirty days.  Please extend every courtesy to Ms. Novell.