

### A Crimson Set of Silver

### Alan Meyers Starkey

### Copyright 2009 by Alan Meyers Starkey

### Smashwords Edition

### This novel is dedicated to my mother; Jenive Marie Meyers Starkey, who left this world much too soon and certainly long before I was ready.

### A cover graphic conceptual credit is due to Glenn Southwick. Cover graphics and original story concept by Alan Meyers Starkey. Editing credits are due to Donna Marie Keith.

### This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, items, characters, incidents, and places are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any reference or resemblance to actual places, events, or persons, either dead or alive, is coincidental. The author may also employ some artistic licensing to add to the enjoyment of the story or when referencing other works of fiction.

Chapter One:

### "I am what I am"

I'm just havin' fun

Can't you see?

I ain't out, to hurt no one

But, there's a few of 'em out for me, yeah, yeah

I say life...goes too fast

I'm just tryin' to make it last

And I'll be 'Johnny in the Morning', just as long...

As I can be

**That is** one of the great songs, written by Jonathan Brandmeier, a disc jockey, who used to have a morning radio show on The Loop, in Chicago. He and his band, The Leisure Suits, would perform concerts four times a year, one for each season, and always sell them out. But that was a long, long time ago. I love that song and I'd love to know what Johnny's doing now.

The song was still in my head as I started the approach. I was coming into the airfield at about six hundred feet above sea level, at a southwest heading about forty-five degrees from being parallel with the runway. I swung her around to the left and put her down on Runway 27.

I am a light aircraft pilot. Ultralight Driver, more specifically a Light Sport pilot, which means I can fly an airplane which has no more than two seats, and comes in under a certain weight class. I have a Beaver RX 550. It's an odd looking plane. People always say it looks like there are parts of it missing, but that's just the way it's designed. Open cockpit, two seats in a tandem setup, with aluminum floats attached. Some people might refer to it as a bush plane, but this is not that stout. Fabric wings and aluminum struts. Retractable landing gear. Stick and rudder. We removed the underpowered Rotax engine and replaced it with a fuel injected four cylinder Geo car motor, adding about thirty more horsepower She climbs out nicely now, with two of us and I don't have to mix the oil and the gas. It has a black and white, skull and cross bones pirate flag attached to the top of the horizontal stabilizer.

It's not the type of plane that you would use to fly distances. She has an eight gallon tank, burns about three gallons an hour, and doesn't have a fond liking to strong winds. This type of flying is more about enjoying the pleasure of flight. The early airplanes flew much the same way, and with the same type of controls. The floats make it even more fun. I can drop her down on the water just about anywhere. I could also put her down in a short field, if I needed to.

I am arrogant man, subtlety cocky, very confident, and sarcastic. Serious when I need to be, jocular when I don't. I know what I know. What I don't know I will ask you directly. I have the propensity to tell a funny story, or set up an example to drive my point across, when you don't see the colors on the map the way I do. Those who don't know me well are often rubbed the wrong way by the sarcasm. But I figure they'll get over it. Those who do know me are often left with a smile on their faces.

I have a strong fondness for: Fine cuisine, good books, good movies, and good music, especially live, and white wine, never red. I like the dry wines and the fruity types, a variety of which I keep stored in an atmosphere controlled closet.

There is a short stanza of poetic verbiage stenciled, in very small black font, on the red area of the vertical stabilizer on my airplane. The passerby will think it is just a smudge. Those who pause long enough to read it will think it is just a cute poem. Very few are actually able to understand that in reality, it is my creed.

It reads:

I am Tom Sawyer.

I am Indiana.

I am what I am.

I am Superman.

I was born in a little town, in the farm country of south central Pennsylvania. Raised by my mother. Just me and her. Grew up in an average house, creek in the backyard, lots of woods and adjacent to a one hundred and eighty acre working farm. Lots of machinery. Tractors and combines and balers. Grain elevators and silos. Lots of things to watch and figure out how they worked. Lots of space to run and ride. There was a trail behind the house made by the old trolleys. The tracks had been removed years before, but the stones still marked the path. The tracks led back through the woods, passed an open meadow, and along the creek. One of the original trolley stops was an old amusement park from the eighteen nineties. In its heyday, it displayed rides and games, sold popcorn and cotton candy. It was the featured event activity of this area and brought in the crowds from everywhere the trolley went. But the park had been abandoned long ago, though the circular carousel still remained in working condition. A beautiful, hand carved merry go round. Not just horses, it had lions and tigers, sheep and giraffes and a large dragon. We would go in there and ride it, playing tag while it ran at high speed. The gearing and cogging was all made of wood, and needed constant attention. Someone told me they took it out and put it in the Smithsonian.

I was a pretty good high school athlete. Could've been better, had the girls and the parties not got in the way. Girls and parties cost money, so I had to go to work after school. The Marines came next. Later, after my discharge, I got started in the maintenance field in a stone quarry.

My name is Jake Snow. I stand just over six feet. Tip the scales at just under two hundred. Try to keep it lean and steady. The size must have come from my father because my mother was maybe five feet two. I try to keep in shape. Although, the pouch above my belt does have the tendency to bulge if I don't stay on top it. I have medium gray eyes. My mother once told me they are the color of the fog on the windows on a rainy day. A pearl pale shade of gray. I know that I am not an ugly man. The square jaw starts at the bottom of the ear lobe. A thin nose scarred by the slip of the pliers cutting wire, long ago. You can only really gauge your attractiveness by the looks you get or the comments you receive from the passing stranger. I seem to get mixed reviews. Once, I had a very frank conversation with a good friend about our sincere, truthful perceptions of each other. His remarks were surprising, and "although I've searched myself, there's always someone else I see."

I do the morning run thing, and I have a twenty minute high repetition, low weight, workout plan. I do it whenever I can. My brown hair is parted down the middle and tapers toward the back, though it is not a mullet. The sides are cropped over the ears and also combed back. It falls down in the back to below the collars of the shirts I wear.

In the time when all the dot-com companies starting erupting on the internet, I was doing side work on weekends making extra money. One of these companies discovered that there was a massive interest in the what-cha-ma-call-it they designed. They needed a mechanized system to assemble the parts, process the orders, and move them through the packaging process to the point where it could be sorted and shipped to customer locations. They got in contact with the industry types, and I heard about it during a conversation with my friend, Johnny Miller. He did some networking and promoted my name, and I was invited to submit a bid proposal. I won the bid.

Johnny, who is always eager to be involved with my projects, jumped on board to support the project financially. All in and all done, we both made out very well. Well enough for Johnny to pay off his three story, log cabin mansion, on top of the hill, in the middle of an orange grove, in a small community called Howey-in-the-Hills. Well enough for me to grab up a nice stretch of lake front property, just before the Florida real estate boom took off.

Within a year, the real estate market just got completely stupid in Florida. Stupid, if you were a buyer. A lottery game if you were a seller.

I was a seller, and the developers wanted my land. Apparently, two separate housing construction companies had acquired large tracts of land in the vicinity, with an agreement for access rights to bring a road through to the lake. The agreement for access rights fell through. That left them scrambling for the only other access to the lake. Right, smack dab, through the middle of my nice stretch of lake front property. I made out quite nicely, and turned the whole thing around to essentially pay cash for the place where I now call home. Because the luck landed right in my lap, I renamed the ranch The Fortuitous Landing.

I live in Lake County, Florida, not too far away from Johnny's orange grove. It is a ranch style house, which has been modified with false walls and hidden spaces, to give me enough security and piece of mind, that the few valuables I possess won't easily been found by a break-in artist. The house sits mid way back the length of the property, and off to the right side far enough, to still give me enough width to bring my plane in on a grass landing strip. The long lane leads from the road up passed the house and to the barn. The barn sits back off to the side of the house, and serves as my hanger and fabrication shop. The previous owner utilized the land and the barn for horse training, breeding and lessons. I paid the Utility Companies to stop the overhead power at the nearest posts and run it underground, where it crosses my land on the street, so I won't have to worry about catching the wires when I bring the plane in.

The Fortuitous Landing is nineteen acres of pasture land, which lays out in a large rectangle with a dog-leg to the right. The airstrip runs east and west. The dog-leg serves as an alternative, if a cross wind is too strong to bring the plane in on the airstrip. I would like to dig in a long pond there someday.

The spin off business from the dot-com company produced more business and I am able to pick and choose jobs. I do the ones that are attractive and farm out the ones that aren't. It also gives me the ability to keep the schedule light when I want, and heavier when I need it to be. This gives me lots of time to fly.
Chapter Two:

### "Absolutely no question in my mind. I have seen that picture a hundred times from above."

**Tuesday evening**. After filling the fuel tank, I pushed the Beaver out of the hanger and went through the preflight inspection. Satisfied, I went back in the hanger and grabbed the radio, both headsets, and the GPS. I use one of the little portable types, which gives you a pointer, and the distance in miles from your destination. When I'm just flying around locally, I leave it set on my home waypoint. Just a glance will let me know where I am in relation to home, and how far out I am. I don't need the maps included on those expensive units. They're just toys and games to me. Danny Knight will tell you that you shouldn't need anything, unless you are flying over unfamiliar terrain, like a cross country trip. Danny doesn't realize that some of us can get disoriented, and without the GPS, we'd have to climb high to be able to spot a reference point on the ground. Danny has more flying time locally than anyone. More time than any of us will ever have.

Ready now, I set the throttle, primed the carburetors and flipped on the switch. Put my butt in the front seat and fastened the belts. Turned the radio on, and pressed the starter button. The Geo cranked over and kicked in. There is always a swash noise while the prop gets up to speed. Okay with the sound of the idle, I checked the gauges to make sure everything was functioning. I throttled forward until the rpm gauge showed about four grand, left it there for a few seconds then backed it down to about twenty-four. Drifting forward now, I kicked a little right pedal to put her on the runway, and started rotating the stick. Back and forth, left and right, while watching the ailerons and the tail move. Checked to make sure the landing gear was locked. Everything felt good.

I checked the wind sock. It stood at about four o'clock and pointed straight down the pike to the west. I gauged the wind at about six or seven miles per hour. I taxied the plane to the west end, and swung her around one hundred and eighty degrees, and pulled the throttle back to idle. Looking up and out at the sky for traffic, I found it empty. Checked the sock again and found it pointing right at me. One more check on the gauges and the ailerons, and I eased the throttle forward until it hit the stop. Moving now, picking up speed. Keeping her straight with the pedals. I watched the airspeed gauge until it got to about forty-five, and pulled back easy on the stick. She leapt up off the ground and started to climb into the wind.

It was getting late and I didn't have much light left, so I needed to be heading back toward The Landing. I had taken her south along the turnpike for twenty minutes and then turned her back northwest. I was coming over Gator Airpark, where I used to keep her, so I swung her around to line up on their Runway 36 to see if anyone was around. I nosed it over a bit and pulled back on the throttle. She started descending and got to the point where I had to level her off, or put her on the runway. I didn't see any cars or any movement on the ground. I eased the stick back to bring her up level and pushed the throttle forward.

I was over the runway now, at about fifty feet and accelerating. I touched the stick to the right and put some pressure on the right pedal. She went into a slow turn, with the left wing high, knife edged. I followed the line which the open air hangers are constructed on. At fifty feet, with her cocked to the right, I looked into and through the first row of hangers the whole way down the line. Whoa, wait a minute. Mark's airplane is missing. But the strange thing is that his car isn't there either. Wonder what's up? I pulled her back up straight and the Beaver climbed out. I would only be able to see for another fifteen minutes, so I pointed toward home. It didn't make sense. Mark never flies during the week. I had seen the Drifter in the hanger recently. When was that? It was Monday morning, yesterday when I was doing the touch and goes over on Cherry Lake. I had dropped her down onto Gator on the way back, to give a wave to Randy and his daughter. Mark's plane was tied down. I'll have to ask Danny about it when I see him.

Thursday morning. I have to run down to the south end of Tradeport Drive , over in Orlando to see some people putting up a new distribution warehouse for one of the pharmaceutical companies. It's a pretty fair size building. It's going to be a multiple operation of the sortation of products and order filled packages, having three distinctly different processes. I was retained by the company for liaison purposes. Call it an outside project manager deal. They have their own talent in operational areas, but no real experience in automation. I've done some things for them before.

I am a fabricator at heart, but a material handling consultant by trade. Whether I like it or not, conveyors are and have been a very large part of my life. Most people don't realize that nearly everything you purchase passes through some sort of conveyed mechanism, before it reaches the store where you purchased it. Material Handling is a broad term, encompassing everything under the umbrella of material that is moved. Stone and sand, food and drink, toys and games, office supplies, and packages. I have been in this field for so many years that it's hard to remember how the stepping stones brought me to where I am now. I gained a good deal of knowledge and understanding through the years, specifically in the area of automated sortation. Worked with several of the larger corporations. Market leaders and market challengers. Worked with some the smaller ones too. Worked with the smaller ones, who were gobbled up by the bigger ones, who brought in new management and felt they had to shake up the world. Even though the old management was doing such a good job, that it drew the attention of those who did the gobbling. They come in and turn it into the big government frame of mind. They start looking over your shoulders and they start to regulate your doings. They start to treat you, not like you've been doing this for years, but rather like you're a seven year old.

They say you need to find something that you really love to do, and then find a way to make a living out of it. It's not always as easy as that. My fabrication roots go all the way back to when I was a kid up in Pennsylvania, building tree forts and creek rafts and down hill go karts. There are carpenters and cabinet makers. There are furniture makers, and those who design houses and sky scrapers. There are iron workers and millwrights, who turn the designs into reality. Then there are fabricators who imagine, design, and build anything. Anything that meets the requirements and the desires of the customer. For me, the enjoyment and the sense of accomplishment comes when you have looked at the problem, came up with the plan and implemented the solution, which gains productivity or makes the system much more efficient. The customer will remember your name, maybe pass it along and for sure, call you back when he needs something else.

It seems there was a problem with the design in the shipping area, and they wanted to talk to me about it. I had seen the drawings seven or eight weeks ago, and they had looked okay at the time. The project was supposed to go out for bid. They would solicit proposals from two or three of the bigger conveyor manufacturers, probably picking the lowest proposal, unless someone came in with a better concept then we had talked about. Then I heard there were some change orders, requiring the alteration of something in the drop down lanes.

I drive a Jeep. My third Grand Cherokee. This one has a Hemi under the hood. I was worried about the cost of gas, when I saw it at the dealership. Young, whipper-snapper salesman assured me it would get twenty-two miles to the gallon on the highway. "It's got this electronic fuel distribution, spark plug shut down, kind of deal. If you maintain speed between forty and seventy, it will run on four cylinders," he said. He could have said anything because I wanted it, three seconds after I saw it. It's got all the bells and whistles. Who drives at seventy miles per hour on the turnpike in Florida anyway? It gets eighteen miles to the gallon, on good days.

I hear the song playing on the CD, and I reach around the steering wheel and hit the volume switch to crank it up.

It's Getty;

..." _those who wish to be_

Must put aside the alienation

Get on with the fascination

The real relation

The underlying theme."

The rock group Rush. Need I say more? Three man band out of Canada. Neil is arguably the best drummer ever to pick up the sticks. Alex was only sixteen when he and Getty got started. He can saw on that axe with the best of them. And you can't name anyone else who can play the bass guitar, massage the keys and sing, all at the same time like Getty Lee.I have a special appreciation for talent because I am also a hack musician

Cell phone vibration snaps me back, and I turn down the volume. It's Danny. Danny was a key player in teaching me how to fly. He had agreed to trade the flight lessons for the unrestricted use of my tandem seat plane, for excursions with his friends. Most of the pilots in my world have single seat aircraft. A two-seat, or tandem seat airplane, opens up a completely new pleasure to guys like Danny, who love to be in command of the show. In this case the show being, instructor versus student, pleasure seeker or any other prospect ripe for impression. Danny likes to impress people with his knowledge and ability of powered flight. He likes to be front stage center. Telling the jokes and the funny stories, or explaining various ways of how you can "get dead" very quickly in an airplane. He will criticize you and find fault with everything you do, so you have to find a way to throw it back at him. Making fun of something he does, to get him to laugh at himself. He is the type you want to know and hang out with and call a friend. Danny is also a little tough to figure out. He had been a Sanitation Engineer, as he liked to refer to it, for twenty some years and had worked his way into the dumpster dumping deal. There were no hassles with residential trash, and it was relatively clean. Unless something got jammed in the hopper while tilting the contents of the dumpster into it. Danny was being paid very fairly. It was one these jammed up hopper times, when Danny's life changed forever.

He had climbed way up on top of the rig, and was using a piece of pipe to dislodge some trash from the lid of a dumpster when he slipped. The fall distance was not extremely high, but the landing was hard. There is a cylinder shaft which travels into the hopper to compact the contents. Danny landed flat on his back across the shaft. I think they airlifted him out to the hospital. End result, disability and pain. Lots of therapy learning to walk again, and lots of the addictive type chemicals. The oxy's, and the dilaudids. Danny won't be running any foot races, and he won't be lifting anything heavy ever again. He gets around okay, but he also gets help pouring gasoline into the fuel tank of his plane.

The State of Florida said he can't work, and the Waste Authority settled up, not too nicely. He draws a check from the state every month, which just about pays the mortgage. The wife has to take care of just about everything else. He does what he can to make some cash on the side, when the pain is okay. He has some good days and some really, really bad ones. But he never seems to have bad days when it's time to fly. There are beach bums and fishing bums and motor heads. Danny is a fly bum. The part that is hard to figure out, is whether he likes having all the free time with a very limited income, better than having to put in the forty hour grind, collecting a strong paycheck with very limited time to fly. This I can tell you, he would not be the guy he is today, if he hadn't fallen.

"Hey, whatcha doing, man" I said when I answered.

"Oh, same old, same old," he said, and then, "long time no see."

"Yeah, I been doing some things."

"Hey, are you by any chance down in Orlando today?"

"Heading toward the south side right now."

"You want to check in on Mark, maybe stop and see if he's home?" He paused for a second and then said "His plane's not here, and hasn't been for days. Can't reach him on the phone, and I don't know his girlfriends number. It's weird 'cause you know, he only flies on weekends."

"Okay, I'll check it out, but I think he's still mad at me."

"Yeah probably, but just tell him I'm trying to get a hold of him. You don't have to show up with a pizza, or anything."

"Okay man, I'll let you know, but it will probably be a couple of hours 'til I get over that way."

"Roger that, give me a shout." It confirmed my earlier suspicion. It was not like Mark, not be in touch with Danny.

After discussing possible changes and alterations with the group at the warehouse project, I made my way north on Tradeport Drive and passed under the bridge to the point where it becomes Conway. Turned right on North Frontage. This takes you out along the toll road, where, if the timing is right, you can be thrilled by one of the big commercial airliners crossing overhead; on it's way to touching down on the runway. Orlando International Airport is just on the other side of the six lane highway. The timing wasn't right today. I had seen one coming in before I made the turn, so it must not be the time of day where they bring them in back to back to back.

I haven't been down this way for awhile. I used to live over in this area, before I moved out to Lake County. Mark and I would sometimes car pool out to the airfield on Saturdays. That seems like a long time ago.

Mark Easton is a great guy. We used to be pals. He works the framing trade, where you go in and stud the walls and put up the drywall. Another crew comes in later, to do the finish work. He is very good and proficient at it. I've seen some of his work. He can do the curved wall thing, or hang a façade down from the ceiling. He has taught me a lot about flight and he is pretty handy with tools. He has the eye it takes to be a good body and fender guy. His father has a car place way up in Alabama somewhere. Danny told me he has a girlfriend now. Real nice girl, Danny said..

Mark caught the flying bug by paying the Warbird people down in Kissimmee to take him up in one of the aerobatics. He latched on and didn't let go. You'll always see him doing the low speed stall and buzzing the hangers. He has this trick, where he will put it in a quick dive to accelerate. Then, he'll pull back the stick and send the nose nearly straight up in the air to the point just before the stall, and then ease that stick forward to the neutral zone to level it off. It's almost like riding in an elevator. The sudden change of air direction under the wing lifts you almost straight up. He is a very good pilot, maybe one of the best that I know.

We had what they call a little falling out, some months back. I haven't run into him since. Misunderstanding. I had received some damaged merchandise and wanted to recover the costs of the repair. Mark had done the repair work for me. I didn't need the money, so I thought I would get the insurance reimbursement in Mark's name and let him have the check. Big mistake. I evidently wasn't thinking clearly, or didn't fear the liability concerns that Mark and some others felt. Big time misunderstanding, blown way out of proportion. I tried to make it right, apologized profusely, and cancelling the insurance claim. I removed Mark's name from every bit of documentation involved and destroyed all of it. Not good enough. Mark considered our friendship over, making it blatantly clear by telling me not to ever speak to him. Well I haven't. I hoped it would blow over by now and maybe it has. We need to have that conversation. That's where I'm going now. He should be home from work by this time. If he doesn't want talk, I'll just tell him Danny said to call him.

Mark lives in a remote trailer park off of Hoffner, just south of where Narcoosee becomes Hoffner. He has lived there for years. The rent is very cheap, and until recently, he has had no one to impress. No car in the drive area. No one answers the door, when I pound. I leave a business card saying; let's talk, and to get in touch with Danny.

Saturday morning. I put her in the air and swung her around to the east, up over Johnny's house. The wind sock was dead limp, so there would be very little wind. I climbed up until the altimeter showed about eleven hundred feet and then leveled off, and rotated the landing gear up. I noticed that there were no ripples on the water areas. It's very deceiving to land on calm water. You see your reflection, and it can alter your depth perception. If the wind is moving even a little bit, it will cause ripples across the surface, making it easy to read where the surface is.

I veered off to the right once I was over the south bound turnpike interchange, and followed Highway 27 to the north. I like to fly in this area. Lots of free, open space, and plenty of places to put it down, if the engine should quit.

When I passed the north bound interchange, I turned her left and made my west toward Tex Merritt's place. Texas Merritt had built his own landing strip on a piece of land beside his house, back in 1991. Put in a nice hanger and parked his Cessna there. He used to take it up to Georgia to conduct business on a regular basis, but that was a long time ago. Tex is up in his seventies now, and retired from flying. Very nice gentleman. We had discussed the possibility of turning the strip into a light plane commercial airport at one time, but mutually decided not to, when we learned that it wouldn't cost justify. He wasn't interested in selling, and I wasn't interested in a short term lease.

Merritt's strip is surrounded by water on two sides. There are a lot of ponds and other spots, where water stands in Florida. Not enough to actually be called a lake, but more than enough to keep it from being referred to as a swamp. The area north of Groveland, and Highway 50 into Clermont, is free from most restrictive ordinances. If you venture south of Highway 50, you enter what is called The Green Swamp. This expanse of land extends all the way to the south end of the county, down near the Davenport area. This area of land is protected, and development is limited to one residential dwelling, per ten or in some cases twenty acres of land. The tracts cannot be subdivided smaller, and the ordinances and covenants limit the owners use. Much of the real estate listed for sale in that area remains on the market for years. The owners were suckered in, by the rapid rise in property values during the real estate boom in Florida. They bought big tracts with thoughts of turning it over, and failed to liquidate before the bottom dropped out. Now, they can't afford to let the land go for current market values, and they have to ride it out in hopes that the market will bounce back.

The water around Merritt's place is deep enough to land a plane. It would be easy to construct a ramp to connect to the landing strip. This would make the strip a unique, multipurpose landing zone, and is what I plan to do at my place someday. Kind of a mini seaplane base.

Beyond Merritt, I followed the road to where it comes to a Y and continues paved to the left. The right fork turns to dirt and then continues back to where they run the four wheel drive monster trucks in the mud. It has a fancy name like Extreme Motor Sports Complex, or something, but everybody just calls it the Mud Bog. They run events there on certain Sundays, and it fills up with everything from Jeep CJ's to four wheel drive school buses. The traveling caterers come in with their food rigs. The photographers capture the mud flying, while the big wheels are spinning it fifteen feet up in the air, and you can buy tee shirts and bumper stickers. I think they get about ten bucks at the gate. There was one of those reality show guys in there with his camera crew one day, and Danny took him up to do some aerial photography in my Beaver. It was supposed to air on one of the networks, but I never heard when.

The compass showed me heading almost due north. I pointed her to the east, and the sun caught in my eyes for a moment. I diverted my eyes toward the ground and that's when I saw it. Off to the left, and partially hidden by foliage. Sitting in the water. It was a white flash of fabric, with two black stripes. Absolutely no question in my mind. I have seen that picture a hundred times from above. Airplane wing. Bright white with two black stripes angling in toward the center, from the leading edge to the trailing edge. Two stripes on each side at opposing angles. Mark Easton's airplane.

I turned toward the downed plane, and backed the power down as I passed over head. I got a little spooked when I saw him. The cockpit of a Drifter sits out on the end of the boom tube. Way out in front of the wing. They sometimes call it a flying lawn chair. From above, the cockpit is exposed, and Mark was in the seat, head down with his headset on, his body pitched forward and slumped over to the right. He was still belted in and he wasn't moving. I throttled up and swung it around, looking to see if there was a place to put down. He was still not moving. I realized, in that moment when my adrenaline was surging, that I was likely to take an unnecessary risk and end up crashed. So I took another moment to survey the landing.

The area to the south of where he was is swamp. The plane was resting at the north edge of the water up against the jungle type foliage of palmetto and cypress. Snake haven. Gator city. The land to the west and to the east has much of the same, only the trees are taller, making an approach impossible from either direction. I'd have to bring it in from the south, and put it down in the swamp. Scary. Hard to tell what's in there and how deep it is. It looked like there might be about two hundred feet of water, right in front of where the Drifter stood. Might be able to slip it in and get it on the water, with enough space to slow down before I ran right into him. That might not be the hardest part. I may not be able to get out, if there is not enough water to skim across. If the floats dug into the bottom, we'd have to pull her out with a crane.

I made a long swinging curve to the south until I was maybe, half of a mile from the spot. Then I brought it back north. At nine hundred feet, I had to get it down fast so that I could bring it into the swamp. I pulled the stick all the way to the left and pushed the right rudder pedal to the floor. This is called a slip. The nose of the airplane will turn forty-five degrees to the side, while the plane still travels in the direction you are headed. The other significant factor in a slip is that the airplane drops like a rock. It will knock the glide ratio down to next to nothing. I'd have to bring it out of the slip in time, to get her straight and lined up for the approach. When the stick and the rudder are brought back to neutral, the airplane will have the natural tendency to over correct. This is the tricky part. I was too close to the tree line to pick it up and over, if this didn't work. I pushed the left pedal to center the rudder, while pulling the stick back to the right. As soon as I felt her straightening, I goosed the stick back to the left just enough to keep her nose from going too far, while pulling the stick back to stop the drop. I leveled her off about ten feet off the water. Low and slow. Just enough throttle to keep her from stalling. There wasn't a lot of room. I had it to the point of no return and pulled the throttle the rest of the way back. I held the stick just a little bit back from the neutral point, just to keep the nose angled slightly up and I felt the rear of the floats catch in the water. She came to rest about twelve feet from the tail of the Drifter, and in about eighteen inches of water. Luckily, the draft on the floats is about six inches. I wasted no time in getting unbelted, while hanging the headset on the top of the windshield. I was soaked. The hard drop into the swamp caused an explosion of murky, green-black water. I hoped the gauges didn't get wet, but I didn't take the time to look. I jumped down into the water hoping the noise and the splash had sent every living creature scrambling away.

Mark didn't look good. As I came closer, I realized that he was either knocked out or worse. Wading through the water, I noticed three, six gallon gas cans, ratchet strapped, to the boom tube with clear tubes running out of the tops. I had seen this setup before. It's for long distance flying. It gives the pilot the ability to rotate the fuel line from tank to tank, without having to land. What was Mark up to? I also noticed that the toolbox lid, mounted just behind the seat, had been pried open. The lid was hanging on by just one hinge. The lock was still closed and hanging from the hasp. I reached Mark, put my hand on his chest and pushed him back in the seat. The horrid smell of decaying flesh engulfed me, and I choked and turned away. Dead. He had been dead for a while.

While I was regaining my composure, I moved around the nose and over to his left side. There was a blood trail running down his tee shirt, from about the mid point of his ribs. The sudden reality of this scene caused me to freeze. Mark had been shot. Don't touch anything, I remember thinking. Just look around. Don't miss anything. I noticed a spot where there was a difference in the shade of black paint, on the rear of the boom behind the prop, and just forward of the tail. Mark always had a carry bag, strapped around the tube there. He would keep a sandwich, something to drink, gloves, glasses, and his cigars in there. It was missing. In an area of the shore, which could be called dry, there were two sets of mud marks, leading, trail like away from the area. The water had settled under the fuselage, and I could see something glistening on the bottom. Screwdriver. Probably used to pry the toolbox open. I looked in the toolbox and saw something very shiny and metallic looking, at the bottom. It was under a broken piece of styrofoam. I picked it up and held it up to the sun. The shine sparkled off the metal, blinding me. It was a silver butter knife; very thin and very elegant. It appeared to be the real thing. Silver. Good quality. Some kind of crest or emblem forged in the bottom of the handle, where it widened. The toolbox is the same length as the rear of the seat, about six inches wide, and about a foot deep. I picked up the piece of Styrofoam and examined it. It was a corner section, broken away from a larger piece. There was a hole drilled in it part way, but not deep enough to go all the way through. There were little, white, BB shaped pieces of it falling off in crumbles.

The only other items in the bottom were a ten millimeter, open/box combination wrench and more of the white crumbles. I noticed the main power switch was in the off position. There was gasoline in the tank with the fuel line leading to where it split off to the carburetors. This would indicate that the engine had been shut off at the switch, by someone. The landing gear appeared to be splayed out wider than I remembered. The wheels were sunk deep into the muck. Mark had to be alive when the plane hit the water. If he had lost consciousness prior, the plane would have burned in nose first. It is the natural tendency of the plane, unless the stick is pulled back. If that was the case, the Drifter would have stalled, and probably went spinning in. No way had that happened. Mark was alive when this plane landed. At least, alive enough to land it. But why was he still belted in?

He most likely did the same maneuver that I had used, coming in here. But, the Drifter has standard landing gear. The wheels are fixed. Mark was a great pilot, much better than me. He probably slipped it, until the last possible second, then straightened it out and pulled the stick all the way back. This would cause it to stall, and immediately drop. Hard. Hard enough to bury the wheels in the bottom. Maybe too hard. Maybe hard enough to knock him out, and then he bled to death while unconscious. Maybe even hard enough to knock the life right out of him.

Nothing else to look at here... Wait. I saw something in the breast pocket of Mark's tee shirt. I reached and pulled out a match pack, with a River Ranch Resort logo. I checked the rest of his pockets and found some change and a Bic lighter in the right front jeans pocket. His wallet was still in the right rear, and there was nothing in the left rear. Moving around to the other side, I found a small plastic vial in the left front, capped with a rubber stopper. The vial contained liquid. It looked narcotic. I had never known Mark to use drugs of any kind. He didn't even drink alcohol. What have you been doing Mark?

I took it all. Somebody killed my friend and I needed to know why. More importantly, I needed to know who. All of these things were clues. As I headed back toward the Beaver, I remembered the mud marks. I waded over to the dry area and saw they were foot prints. A set of foot marks leading out of the swamp.. There were distinct markings to show the imprints however, nothing distinguishable enough to trace the type of shoe. I couldn't even tell the size. Perhaps a large man. There, lying about four feet into the palmettos was something I hadn't seen before. It was the black strap that Mark had used to fasten the carry bag, to the boom. I realized then, that someone had killed him for what he was carrying. They shot him down, and then they came to get what he had on the plane. That meant they had to have followed him, or chased him in another plane.

Right about this time I got a real serious case of the willies. Shakes and cold shivers. It scared me enough to stop and look around. I listened for any noise or movement. I had to get out of there fast.

Goodbye my friend. I will find them. I will deal them the same cards they dealt you.
Chapter T hree:

### In the light of the afternoon sunshine coming through the thinly draped window, it appeared to be...

**I was only off the water** about ten feet, when I keyed the mike.

"Gator Traffic, five, six, one, October, November... looking for Danny."

"Go for Danny." He replied

"Hey, where're you at?" I said, trying to keep my voice steady

"Just come up off of Cherry Lake, It's smooth as glass, be careful if you go in there."

"Can you meet me at Grass Roots? I gotta show you something..." I didn't want to say anything more than that, because I knew my voice would break.

There was a momentary pause, and then he came back on. "Roger that, be there in about three minutes."

By now she had climbed to three hundred, and I kept her there. The trip to Grass Roots was more than three minutes, so I didn't want to waste any speed by climbing higher. I angled her to the south in a direct line, and maximized the throttle.

David Gay is an architect who played a key role with the team of designers, who built the village of Celebration, on the south side of Kissimmee, near Walt Disney World. It a very nice, high end community with direct access roads to the parks. Utilities services to the community actually originate and operate from Disney World. There are many shops, restaurants, and other businesses located in the downtown area. Property there is priced out of reach for common folk, and they like it that way. During the Christmas season, they actually produce some kind of snow and it falls from above and blows through the town center, while carolers sing holiday cheer. A similar community exists just west of Orlando called Baldwin Park.

David Gay invested his money in land in Lake County, off of Highway 33. He laid out three thousand plus feet of grass runway, so flat and smooth that you only find it in dreams. He put up very well designed hangers, spaced adequately along the strip, and put in a community gathering building. He sold tracts of land all around the airstrip for six figure prices, and intends to develop it into a fly-in community. It is a very exclusive club. He calls it Grass Roots Airpark, and has the name painted on the roofs on the hangers so as to be seen from the air.

I started the descent in to the field and saw Danny touching down on the airstrip. Danny rolled his Buccaneer amphibian off to the left, to what is sort of a visitor airplane parking area, and turned it back around, as if to be ready to get back on the runway. I put her down and put the power to it, enough to get me to him quickly. I moved up beside where he was, while still keeping it on the runway.

"What's going on?" Danny said, into the radio. I just looked at him straight in the eye, while shaking my head, and pointing to the microphone, at my lips. I did the cut sign, by pulling my hand across my throat from left to right, and then shook my arm with the thumb extended toward the back seat, indicating I wanted him to sit there. I did not transmit anything over the radio.

Danny climbed in, strapped the belts on and put on the headset, as I started to move. The headsets work together like an intercom. You just speak to each other without having to key the mike. None of the conversation is transmitted. I waited until we were in the air before I told him.

"Mark is dead."

"What? What the fuck are you talking about?" Danny was incredulous.

"I found him. He's out beyond Merritt's, he's been shot! I'll show you where..."

"Did you call the cops?" Danny asked.

"No....and I'm not gonna."

"Why not?" he said, again incredulously.

"Because the sons of bitches that did this are going to regret it! You know how the Sheriff and the Police work. Even if they do find them, they won't do it right. They won't do to them what they did to Mark."

"What are we gonna do?" Danny asked.

"After I show you where he is, get back to your truck. Call the Civil Air Patrol. Tell them you think you saw a plane down. Tell them enough about where he is, so they can meet you on the road there. You're going to have to walk in. Keep your head together. Like you don't know anything. When you get there, don't talk a lot, you'll have to identify him. Listen and remember everything they say. Let them handle it from there, and don't tell them about me!"

"What are you gonna do?" he said.

"I'm gonna find out who did this."

"I'm going with you" he said, seriously. "I want to find them too!"

"Not now. You need to report it. They need to get him out of there before the gators get to him. Just so you know, the planes' got gas tanks strapped all over it. He's been flying distances. His tool box lid has been pried off, and everything in there is gone. The carry bag is gone too, but they didn't rob his body. I found some things on him. I don't know what they are, or what they mean, but I'm going find out. I need some time. I'll catch up with you when I know some more."

I took it way out north toward the Bog, and then I brought it back south, so that the sun would be behind us. I had climbed to about nine hundred, and I only wanted to make one pass. We had both surveyed the area, and other than some cars on the road, there didn't seem to be any human activity. I moved it a little west so that Danny could see the plane, from the left side. I stayed far enough away so as not to be spotted too closely. I had committed a crime. I had removed evidence from a murder scene, and I didn't want anyone to know, or to be able to place me there. They could put me in jail for what I did. I had been smart by taking with me, everything that I touched. I left no fingerprints on the plane. The only other thing I touched was Mark, and you can't lift finger prints off a tee shirt. I trusted Danny to keep his mouth shut and play it like I had told him.

When we got close enough for Danny to see where he was, I put her to the west and did a long slow turn southward, and then made a beeline for Grass Roots. When I put down, Danny and I promised to stay in touch. I needed to know what the Civil Air people and the Sheriff's Office were saying about it. Danny wanted to help me investigate, and he made me promise to call him this afternoon. I taxied it down to the end of the runway and turned it around. I pushed the throttle forward, put her into the wind and took the Beaver back to The Landing.

I brought her up over the ridge and lined her up with the runway. I noticed a car in the drive, right before I started the descent. It was The Widow Allman. She's not really a widow, that's just what we call her. It drives her nuts, so we try not to say it to her face. It started a couple of years ago, when feeling less inhibited as a result of the Tequila we'd been knocking back, she answered a question from a guy, trying to hit on her in the local pool hall we go to. The question referred to the reason why such a good looker wasn't married. She responded saying she'd driven her husband crazy and he jumped off the overpass right in front of a semi. The guy quickly left the building. We hadn't let her off the hook, until the time when she quietly refused to talk to any of us. We have refrained from poking the finger and twisting it since. Sometimes a joke will run its course, and then it has to be buried.

Barbie Allman is about thirty six or seven. Strikingly pretty face and a great body to go with it. She has preserved herself very well. She weighs in at about one hundred and ten pounds, and has kept it there for as long as I've known her. She has two kids, to different fathers, and she can't seem to keep a boyfriend longer than the time it takes for the initial lust to wear off. The first child was conceived at the very young age of seventeen, when she was too naive to understand the timing of her body. She attended the high school graduation ceremony, before she started to show. She must not have learned much about ovulation, or chose not to use protection, because the next one came along in the following year. Both would-be husbands hit the trail upon learning the news. I guess her youngest girl would be about eighteen now. I had actually gotten her oldest one started in driving. I took her out to one of those gated community developments. The ones, where they sell the buyers on country seclusion, by creating a long entrance road. Taking them far off the main highway. They have a flowery, curbed island, between the inbound, and the outbound lanes, with turn around breaks every so many hundred feet. I put her in the seat, buckled her up, and put the Jeep way down in low gear. I had her drive up the inbound lane, make the turn at the break, and then drive back down the outbound lane. We did it for about twenty minutes. It introduced her to the gas and the brake. She blows the horn and waves whenever she sees me now.

Barbie is the type of girl who knows her responsibilities come first. She takes care of her own, and I have never known them to want for anything. She has that rare quality, not often found in single mothers, of keeping her children humble. She has made them aware of the state of the world, and their place in it financially. She's done pretty well for herself, over the years. Borrowed enough money to get through nursing school and then paid it back. Owns a house in a local subdivision, and makes the mortgage every month. She trades the car in, every couple of years, for another two year old model.

She is more the quiet type than the big boisterous type you often find these days, in southern girls. Her life and times have tamed any of that type of spirit which may have existed, long ago. She never seems to be in a rush, almost the opposite, where she will always get to where she going in time to catch the curtain rising. She would never be late, or keep you waiting for her when picking her up for the date. She would consider that rude. Rather, she would acknowledge the time required to prepare herself, and get started early. She will get attached to that specific type of man, who strikes her interest quickly, and share herself willingly. This is not out of any desperate desire to become attached or betrothed. It is simply because she loves to have sex.

I must admit that we have shared a night or two, or sixteen, over the years. We have that type of special deal where, if either of us finds the need, and a warm body is not on the current schedule, we can be the surrogate for each other. She thinks love making is therapeutic.

She had herself perched on the hood of her car with her feet on the bumper. She was wearing jeans and sandals. She had her long brown hair pony tailed. She has medium brown eyes, and it is hard to see the difference between their color, and the shade of her skin. She keeps the sun tan going all year long. The top she was wearing said a lot about the way she had preserved herself. It was drawn tight across her breasts in a way that enhanced their pert, apple size and shape. The three buttons coming down from the collar were undone.

She sat there waiting patiently during the time it took me to put the Beaver to bed. I came out of the barn and pushed the button which closes the hydraulic bi-fold door.

Walking across the drive toward her, I spoke to her.

"Whatcha doing girl?"

"Waitin' for you." She said with a smile "Been waitin' for an hour"

I acted perplexed. "Did we have a date?"

"Nothin' scheduled, but you know how I get to missin' you"

She wasn't going to make this easy.

"Baby, I know this is going to sound like an excuse, but you couldn't have picked a

worse time." I saw the expression on her face change.

"You got someone else comin' over?" She seemed dejected.

"Oh no," I said with a laugh. "I've got something to do that can't wait. Can I call you

later?"

She picked the smile back up off the ground and said. "How much later?"

She stepped off the bumper and came to me, wrapping her arms around my neck.

I leaned down and grabbed a nice, long kiss.

"Not sure. Depends on where this road I'm on takes me. Can we pick this up, later? Maybe, around six? I have a bottle of Barefoot and some Delmonico steaks, in the fridge. You get the potatoes." She knew me well enough to know not to whine, she also knew I'd keep my promise. I knew what she was thinking. It was Saturday. She had the whole day off, and it was still before noon. We had not seen each other in a month or so, and it had been longer since we'd been intimate.

She walked over and got into her car. She closed the door and leaned out the window, letting her elbows rest on the outside of the door.

"Is there anythin' that I can do to help?" She asked hopefully.

"Not right now. I have to get on the computer for a while. Will you swing by later?" I said as I ran my fingers over her cheek.

"Sure." As she drove out the lane, I reflected on our relationship. We had been friends for about five years. We seemed to run into each other every few months. I sometimes believed she sought me out. She would find out, or know where I would be, and show up there. I knew she had strong feelings for me. She had expressed them more than once. One time, when sharing some beers with her while she was dating someone; I asked if she thought he was a keeper. She replied, "I like him and he's a charmer, but he's just not you"

She is a special girl. Much more special than any of the five week relationship deals I've had recently. Ours is more than an acquaintance. In those relationships, one is always aware of the positive, personal perception the other has, and will try to do whatever is required to maintain it. Always keeping the shield held high to cover any negativity, or personal flaw, which might creep out from the sides. Ours is the type where you can relate any damn thought that crosses the mind without thinking twice, and know it will be understood in its context. We have a mutual understanding of the others priorities, responsibilities, tendencies, abilities, wants and desires.

I am not married. Tried it once a long time back. Since that time, I have had some longer relationships, but have mostly been involved with women, in what I like to refer to as The Five Week Deal.

Usually met through friends, or in bars, or through a business connection. You make eye contact and mutually decide there is an initial magnetism between you. Sometimes it develops over time, with casual conversation. You spend the first days, or in some cases hours, getting to know each other, and then it advances to a place where the clothes come off. In the second week, if the initial magnetism is still building, you start to look for the others' likes and dislikes. Catering to the former and trying to stay away from the latter. The story continues into the third week, when you start to recognize the little ugly nuances. Then you cast them aside, because the whole package seems to make up for them and you're still having fun. In the middle of the fourth week, you come to the realization that each of you has the little flaws which are much larger then they appeared in the rear view mirror. You begin noticing all the psychiatric deficiencies, up close and personal, and they start to haunt your dreams. By the beginning of the fifth week it's all over but the shouting and you spend the rest of the week doing the break up. The shouting part is what you try to avoid. You try to leave them with the dignity and the self respect they had when they entered your life. You try to leave it as good friends. It's not ever very easy. I always seem to find myself, trying to live it, in the words of the song written by Don Henley and Bruce Hornsby:

... _who knows how long this will last_

Now we've come so far, so fast

But, somewhere back there in the dust

That same small town in each of us

I need to remember this

So baby, give me just one kiss

And let me take a long last look

Before we say good bye

Just lay your head back on the ground

Let your hair fall all around me

Offer up your best defense

' _Cause this is the end_

This is the end...of the innocence

There have been too many of these brief encounters of the romantic kind. If I had kept any of them, I would have a hefty ring of house keys.

I disabled the alarm system, unlocked the door, and went into the library. I laid out all of the items that I had brought from Mark and the plane. The evidence; a butter knife, a lighter, two quarters and two dimes, a match pack, the plastic vial, and his wallet. I removed all the contents of the wallet and found a section of business cards, a key that had been shoved down into the bottom, his drivers' license, a debit card, a folded convenience store receipt with something scribbled on the back, and twenty seven dollars in bills. The business cards were mostly drywall and construction companies that Mark had probably worked with. One of the cards was mine, and another was Felix's, a friend who ran an auto repair shop. The last card was more interesting.

The front side of the card was green, with the top half showing a picture of a woman's eyes, looking out at you. Written in small print at the very top was, The eyes have it and so can you... In the lower portion of the picture was the name of the business, House of Pleasure. Just below was the byline, Tampa's #1 Swingers Club. The bottom half of the card displayed an address and phone number in Tampa. When I flipped the card over, it had multiple spaces for names and signatures, and a membership number. Written in ink, on the line provided for the Membership Number was C4337. Also written in ink, beside Member Name was Mark. The next line down, another Member Name was Becky. The next two spaces provided for member signatures were unsigned. The last space provided for Authorized Signature showed the hand written initials of JB.

It was a gate pass, an entry card, depicting membership in a swingers club. Mark? Hard to believe what you find out about people. I guessed this meant Becky is the name of his girlfriend. I put the cards together and shoved it all back into the wallet.

The emblem on the knife was more intriguing. It looked like a knight with a shield. There was something unintelligible off to each side of the shield, and there was a ship of some sort on the shield. It looked like a Viking ship. The emblem was about the size of a nickel, only stretched, so that it was more elongated. The outside dimension of the widened part of the handle was about the width of a quarter. The width of the knife was unusually thin. Pressing two of the Mark's quarters together, I found about the right width. The knife was of standard length, but the weight of it surprised me. I went out to the kitchen to get another butter knife, mine being stainless steel. Comparing the weight of the two knives, I found the silver knife to weigh almost twice as much. I confirmed this by holding two stainless knives in one hand and the silver knife in the other, and closing my eyes. The weigh was about the same. Good quality silver.

I sat down at the computer, and thought about how to search for the emblem. The knife appeared to be very new. This logo, or crest, or whatever the symbol was, had to have some commercial connection. It was an advertisement of some kind. It was very elegant and very special. It displayed the pride of some organization. I also needed to know more about what was in that vial, but that would have to wait. I didn't know any chemists or forensic people, so it would be hard to have the vial analyzed.

The Internet is a wonderful thing. How did we do things before it graced our presence? The initial search, Crest, brought me to a lot of businesses who print logo stickers and patches. Searching Family Crest brought me to: Family Crests and Coats of Arms. That's what the emblem on the knife was, a Coat of Arms. This eliminates the Viking theory. The Viking times predated the European wars. It must be more modern. Early English knights, maybe with ships. A symbol of family knighthood.

I spent the next hour searching through all types of sites, looking for a match. Knights, English knights, English families, and on and on. I was beginning to get bored and starting to yawn when I found it. It was the Meyers Family Coat of Arms. It showed the side profile of a knight's helmet, with feathered plumes on top, perched behind a shield. The shield showed a drawing of an early ship, sailing on the water. The website picture, shown in color, revealed more detail and explained the areas off to the sides of the shield. It appeared to be some type of cape around the knight's shoulders, billowing out like ribbons in a fan. The ends of the ribbons were jagged, like the ends of an oak leaf.

I searched: Meyers, then Meyers Knight and found nothing substantial. I searched: Meyers and Ships, and hit the jackpot. Meyers Inc. Parent company of; Paradise Cruise Lines. I found the emblem, in full color, complete with the billowing cape in the upper right hand corner of their corporate website main page. Paradise Cruises were similar to the other big name cruise lines; Norwegian, Carnival, Royal Caribbean and Paradise all offered a week of sea adventures with stops at all the exotic island locations. They were all similar with one exception. Paradise offered an exclusivity, not offered by the others. It said so, on the website main page: Their Elite package allowed those who were willing to pay a premium, to be segregated from the commoners on the ship. Restricting them to the lower decks, while reserving the posh and plush decks, and Captains' comfort, to the select few. No lines, no waiting, first appointment priority granted for the spas. Front row seating for the shows, etc.

Elegance and Grace not witnessed since the time of the Kings and Queens of the Camelot Era. Join us and Escape to a World of Opulence. Rest in Splendor. Dine in Magnificence. Visit the Caribbean Islands with the Personal Guidance of Master Tour Guides.

I took the online Virtual Tour Guide. It took me through all the opulence. It showed me the "Captain Quarters" state rooms. It showed me the luxuriant Spas. It showed the limousine service. It showed a map of exotic places and the beautiful beaches. I stopped it when we got to the dining room. The picture was taken from a height slightly above the table, looking down. It showed the dining table, with two couples smiling and holding up their wine glasses. A waiter in tuxedo serving something from a side board. The candles were lit. The centerpiece of flowers. The elegant table cloths. The china and the crystal...and the silverware.

I right clicked on the picture and selected 'copy'. I pasted it right to the desktop. Next, I opened my Photo Impressions software and brought the picture in. The software allows you to blow pictures up. I cropped out everything but the place setting and enhanced it. It brought the new picture of the silver to the size of the previous picture. Although the pixels were not quite as sharp, I could still make out the emblem. The knife I found in the toolbox on Mark's plane had come from a Paradise Cruise Ship. But, Mark hadn't been on any cruise ships.

I looked at the remaining items of evidence. The key appeared to be fairly recently cut, although there were marks on the teeth, indicating that it had been used. I picked up the River Ranch Resort match pack. It was new. There weren't any matches removed from the inside. The cover wasn't scuffed and the edges weren't dog-eared. Mark had just picked this up. He wouldn't carry matches when he had a lighter. I picked up the Bic lighter, and flicked my thumb across the striker. The flame jumped out of the top. Confirmed. Mark had been to River Ranch recently. Maybe on the day he was killed. It was time to call Danny.

Danny answered the phone on the first ring.

"What'd you find out?" he asked anxiously.

"Quite a bit, but don't say anything on the phone. Where are you?" I asked.

"I'm Home" he said.

"I'm in the car; I'll swing by and pick you up. Meet me at the garage."

I didn't want to have to make the, he was a good guy, talk with his wife Wendy. Wendy is a great girl. I knew she would be upset. She liked Mark. She works at the same hospital with Barbie, although in different sections. She likes Barbie too.

"Already out here" he said.

When I arrived, he walked up to the car and got in the passenger side. I told him about the knife and the swinger's club. He confirmed that Mark's girlfriend name is Becky. He said he couldn't understand what Mark had been up to. When I told him about Mark being at River Ranch, he couldn't understand that either.

Danny relayed the events of his morning. He had called the Civil Air Patrol, like I told him. He met them on the road. The Civil Air boys were two old codgers who got really scared. As soon as they found him, the Civil Air boys radioed the Sheriff. It only took the Deputy about ten minutes to show up. He said the walk to where Mark crashed was about two hundred feet from where they parked. As soon as the Deputy confirmed the gunshot wound, the two old guys took off. Then the Sheriff showed up. He told everyone to get the hell out of his crime scene. He called the Coroner and ordered an autopsy. The forensic crew arrived, taped the whole area off, and started dusting and bagging. The Sheriff asked Danny all the obvious stuff. Did he know him? Danny's contact numbers. Did Mark have a wife, girlfriend, next of kin? Would Danny be responsible to get the plane out of there? "Don't touch any thing until I get in touch with you. This is a crime scene." The Sheriff had said. Danny left before they took Mark out of there.

"Did the Sheriff ask anything about Becky?" I asked.

"Just first and last name. I said I didn't know her well." Danny replied.

He told me he had tried to call her twice, with no answer. He wanted to be the one to tell her, rather than someone from the Sheriff's Office.

"Do you know anybody at the Coroners Office?"

"Hell no, and I don't want to." He said.

"What were they bagging?" I asked.

"I don't know, the Sheriff had everybody back behind the tape, so I couldn't see much." He paused a bit and turned his head, as if to finally realize the loss of his friend. When he turned back to me, his eyes were misty. He said that Wendy was crying too.

"Why would Mark fly down to River Ranch without me?" Danny asked.

"I don't know Dan. I don't know a lot of things about this, but I'm going find out. I'm just wondering where this is going to end up. There are already so many questions we need answered. Tell me about Becky. Do you know where she lives?"

"Yeah, Mark needed my truck one day, to drop off some lumber. He was fixin' her porch. It's down in the valley, close to Lowes. You can get there by taking 455."

"We're going there now. Does Wendy have any of those surgical gloves?"

He nodded. "I got some in the garage, but why do you need them?"

"I don't know, just something tells me we should have some protection, in case we run into something we're not expecting. I don't want to leave any prints on anything, you should know that." I said.

"Why would we run into something we're not expecting? Explain it to me. I feel stupid for asking, but you're making me nervous."

"Did you ever cheat on a girlfriend Danny? You know, stand her up for another girl." I asked him.

"Yeah, when I was younger."

"When you talked to her later, did you make up a story about where you were."

"Yeah, why?" He asked.

"What if she didn't ask? Was your alibi a waste of time?"

On the way to County Road 455, I told Danny about the key in Mark's wallet. I thought it would probably be the key to Becky's house. My reasoning was in the newness of the key. Becky and Mark's relationship had begun fairly recently. Danny told me more about Becky. He said she is a really pretty girl. She really liked Mark, and they seemed to be together all the time. This was going to be crushing to her.

We arrived at Becky's house. It was a single story in a neighborhood, two streets from County Road 455. It is the kind of house where you can almost reach out of the bedroom window and shake hands with your neighbor. Danny said the car in the driveway belonged to her. The outside light above the front doorway was on. I parked the Jeep on the street against the curb and we got out. Danny said that Mark told him they always used the back door to enter the house. The front door is blocked from the inside by the couch. Becky liked the furniture set up that way. We used the narrow walkway leading between the houses, to get to the rear. As we passed the front porch, I noticed the porch light again.

"Why do think the light is on?" I said.

"Don't know," he said. "Maybe she forgot." We rounded the corner and stepped up the two steps to get to the back porch. I noticed the door slightly ajar, and held my hand out to stop Danny. A door which is opened slightly can simply mean the person failed to close it all the way. This did not appear to be the case. The rear of the shiny gold striker plate had been extracted from its socket in the jam, and was sticking out a bit. The screw was missing. It looked like a forced entry.

"Does she have any dogs?" I whispered.

"No dogs, no cats." Danny whispered back.

I leaned over to the side of the door where the short wall the goes to the corner of the house. Danny stepped over to the opposite side. Neither of us was directly in line with the open doorway. I slowly pushed the door open and shivered a bit when the hinges creaked. There didn't appear to be any movement, although we heard music, softly playing from another part of the house.

"What's the floor plan like?" I said maintaining the whisper.

"Kitchen" he replied pointing just inside the door. "Dining room, behind the wall, probably where the music is coming from. The living room is beyond that. The bath and the bedrooms are down to the right." He said it while holding up two fingers, indicating two bedrooms. I stepped in and looked around the kitchen. All appeared to be in its place. I suddenly found myself wishing I had some kind of a weapon. When Danny followed and we were ready to move in through the house, I stopped again. I held up one finger, indicating for us to wait a second, and then I clapped my hands together, in effort to create the loudest noise possible. When the sound of the clap subsided, there was still no change in sound or movement. I could make out the music now. It was Fleetwood Mac.

We nodded to each other and moved into the dining area. She was sitting at the table with her back toward us. She was leaned forward, with her head turned to the right, and resting on the dinner plate. The table was set for two. There were two candle sticks in silver holders between the place settings and a bottle of wine resting at a cant in the ice bucket, now just half full of water. Her green eyes were still open. The pretty face was framed around the edge of the plate by the crimson red color of her blood. The face, now just starting the swelling process which quickly follows death. Her black hair came down from the top, opening around her ear like a river around rapids and continued falling through the valley between the table and her neck. Danny shrieked

"Oh Christ! Oh man, what's happening here?"

I gathered my thoughts as I looked around. She had been dead for probably just about as long as Mark had. I scanned the room and then went quickly through the other parts of the house. It all looked untouched. No robbery. It appeared that they came just for her. Only one reason I could think of. She knew something. She had been involved in some way. She had information about things and people and probably places that they couldn't let be known.

I knew we had to move quickly. It wouldn't be long before the Sheriff's people figured out where she lived, and came to question her. They could be on their way here now. But we needed to see if there was anything here to help us find out who did this. Chances were good there would be something. The lack of evidence of robbery meant they weren't concerned about anything like that, or they just didn't care.

I walked quickly back into the dining room. Danny suddenly shook himself awake, when he heard me. He had been frozen there, staring at her the whole time I was gone.

"We've got to get out of here!" he said moving toward me.

"I know, but not just yet. Go get the gloves. Don't run, and don't act scared. Check to see if there is anyone who might notice that we're here. Don't touch anything on the way out." I said as I followed him out toward the kitchen. I grabbed a dish towel that was folded over the handle of the oven. The stove was hot. I went to the door where I had pushed it open, and wiped it down. Then I came back to the stove. The oven dial, at the top of the rear tower was set to 350. Using the dish towel, I opened the oven door. The waft of burned beef circulated quickly. I closed the oven door and went back into the dining room to wait for Danny. I looked down under the table and found nothing out of place. I looked at the walls and noticed nothing wrong there either. There were two paintings and some pictures frames spaced on the two opposing walls. A single draped window in the wall between them. The frames contained pictures of her and Mark. Danny was right. She had been a very pretty girl.

I looked at the scene at the table again, and it jumped out at me. I noticed it first, on the opposite side from where she was sitting. The empty place setting. She had obviously been preparing to celebrate. The table was done up real nice and the napkins were folded in the way I'd seen at the fancy restaurants. The wine glasses were crystal clear. The silverware, or in this case, the silver, was an exact match for the knife I'd found on Mark's plane.

It stopped me. When I looked at the setting on her side, I found it distinctly different. There was so much blood. It had spilled from her neck and flowed out over the dinner plate and onto the table cloth. It had continued to flow a bit farther, and lay pooled over the silver place setting. In the light of the afternoon sunshine coming through the thinly draped window, it appeared to be a crimson set of silver.
Chapter Four:

### "Alright, let's just all stand real still...

**Danny came back in** with two pairs of the surgical gloves he had brought from his garage. We put them on. He said the neighborhood was quiet, but he could hear traffic on County Road 455. He was nervous and made a point to say he wasn't comfortable with all of this anymore.

"Open drawers and cabinets." I said. "Try not to disturb anymore than you have to." He followed me in to the kitchen and we began the search. We found nothing of significance there. We moved out to the living room, and other than some mail, utility bills and advertisements, on the shelf above the television, we again found nothing. She had arranged the small room to maximize its space. The couch was indeed, blocking the front door. There was an overstuffed arm chair, of a different color than the couch, placed at a right angle to it, and a wood coffee table positioned at the feet of both. The television was on the opposite wall. Its remote control lay in the seat of the overstuffed chair.

We moved to the other rooms. Danny went to the bedroom on the left, while I took the bathroom. The medicine chest contained a box of Band-Aids, a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, a jar of Icy Hot, a new package of Q-tips, an open box of tampons, and a bag of disposable razors. The toothbrushes and the paste were in a container on the sink, with a damp washcloth placed over the faucet. A used razor lay on the space behind the cold water tap. The cabinet under the sink housed spare toilet paper, some cleaning supplies, some folded bath towels, and the toilet brush. Nothing in the toilet and nothing revealed when I lifted the lid of the water closet. The garbage can had some toilet paper wadded inside. She had used a Winn-Dixie plastic bag as the liner. Two more bath towels were hung on racks beside the bathtub/shower combination. Soap and shampoo in the shower. I was convinced this room was clueless when I heard Danny say;

"Hey, come in here!"

I went into the bedroom and found Danny standing before a chest of drawers with the top drawer open. This was her room. There was a makeup area with a chair in front of a small desk. Attached to the desk, and against the wall was a large mirror, framed by small light bulbs. The light bulbs went from the bottom of each side of the mirror, to the top and across. The lights were all on, except the one in the upper left hand corner. This quality piece, out of place, with the rest of the furniture in the room, was probably the last remaining article she possessed from her childhood. A gift from mommy and daddy, she would treasure for all time. Sadly, all of her time had just come to an end. On the desk were various items which women use to pretty themselves. A hair dryer plugged into the wall, lay among the lipstick, combs and makeup items.

Danny handed me a stack of Polaroid pictures. The first picture in the stack showed her and Mark engaged in lovemaking, stark naked, on a frameless mattress. The picture had been taken by someone else. I flipped the picture over, hoping to find any descriptive remarks they may have noted there. Nothing. I moved through the rest of the pictures and saw more of the same scene, however there were different characters portraying the roles. In all of them, either Mark or Becky, or both, were captured. Some showed Becky with another man, and in some, with another woman. Another showed Mark with another woman. There were multiple scenes and positions and multiple angles of the shots. They were all taken in the same room, but from different positions, within the room. Only three of them in any one picture, indicating there were only the four of them in the room. In all of them the group didn't appear to show the shyness usually associated with amateur pornography. They all had either bright smiles or looks of concentration, as if in the company of longtime friends.

"Can you believe this?" Danny asked "Mark and Becky?" I shook my head.

"She should have been in a Bob Seger video." Danny said.

"Yeah, really." I replied.

I knew he was referring to the song about; a black haired beauty with big dark eyes ...with points on her own, standing way up firm and high. Night Moves, was the name of the song. There wasn't going to be anymore night moving for Mark or Becky. It was a lapsing moment to break both of the shocks. Finding Becky with her throat cut and the pictures of the orgy.

The last two pictures in the stack were taken in a separate room, perhaps a bar. This first scene showed the four of them together, fully clothed, with their arms across each others shoulders, smiling at the photographers. Two shots. Different arrangement of characters. The first of these showed Mark, Becky, the girl, and the guy, from left to right, facing the camera. The second showed a profile shot with Mark behind Becky, both of them facing in toward the center, and then the girl with the guy behind her, also facing the center. Both girls were face to face. In both pictures the guy was wearing a ball cap. Embroidered in full color, on the face of the cap, above the rim was the corporate emblem of Paradise Cruise Lines, the Meyers family crest. I flipped the picture over and written in ink, in female cursive, in the white area of the border was; H of P, and a date from last month.

"Bingo!" I said excitedly

H of P; had to be The House of Pleasure. The people in the pictures had to be the connection to the cruise ship. At least the guy was connected. Knowing we needed to move, Danny and I went through the last bedroom, finding the only use being the closet, where clothes were hanging on the rack, and an abundance of her shoes were strewn underneath. There was a shoe box, wrapped inside a large black garbage bag, in the corner. It had been tucked, very neatly in the corner. The contents were heavy. We opened the bag, pulled the box out and removed the tape which had the lid secured. Inside the box we found more pieces of the silver, all individually wrapped in factory paper. The entire shoe box was filled with it.

"Leave it." I said. It was time to go. I thought we'd found all there was to find and we made our way out the door. In a last minute thought, I pulled the key from Mark's wallet, out of my pocket and tried it in the back door. Not even close. The key would not even go into the lock. When we passed the front door, on the way to the car, I noticed the brand of that lock was the same as the back door. No sense to waste the time checking the key there.

We were on County Road 455, pointed back the way we came, before Danny finally broke his silence.

"What the hell is going on Jake? What kind of back door bullshit deal were they involved in?"

"I don't know Dan." I said. "We don't even know if this silver cruise ship deal is linked to their deaths. But I have a hunch it is. I have a hunch this ones going take us all the way around the farm, finding out."

When we came up over the top, I got that sudden sense of fear one encounters when they realize they have forgotten something very important, or they come to the knowledge they are about to be caught.

"Danny. We have to go back!" I said

"Back to Becky's?" He said "No Way, take me home first!"

"No, back to the plane. We need to get his GPS."

I had been thinking about how we needed to find out where Mark had been. Where he had taken the plane. River Ranch wasn't that far away. You wouldn't need to strap on gasoline to get there. Mark had gone farther. It was one of the reasons that I had the hunch. We needed to know where he went. We needed to know what was in that vial. The key, the silver, and don't forget River Ranch. He had been to River Ranch, but why?

Mark might have saved waypoints in the GPS. I don't know why he wouldn't have. Whenever I went somewhere that I had to plot, I saved the waypoint, usually under the name of the destination.

"We have to get that GPS." I said again as I flipped open my cell phone and dialed up Barbie. I wasn't going to make it home by six.

Danny's garage is a virtual yard sale. He has the largest collection of good stuff and junk that I have ever seen. The garage is large enough to manufacture an airplane, though one would never know it. The entire back wall is stacked with this and that, so deep, that you can't tell where the wall is. The good stuff is sometimes buried so deep amongst the junk, that it may never be seen or heard from again. But that's Danny's garage, and we always seemed to spend time there. It does serve very well for fixing things, from time to time. This early evening, it was providing a haven of privacy for us, to shake off the willies and collect our thoughts. Wendy is not home and wasn't when we arrived.

We had decided that the best time to avoid getting caught and going to jail, in our quest to retrieve Mark's GPS, was after dusk. Sneak right in, grab the unit and sneak right back out. The concerns about snakes and gators had drawn the bulk of the discussion, as neither us of wanted anything to do with either. We finally decided that Danny would don his hip waders, located after ten minutes of searching through the; this and that, and would be the actual thief. I would do the assisting with the use of a penlight laser beam to attempt to blind the eyes of any critters we encountered. Danny would also carry his .22 caliber pistol, just in case. We came to this decision by means of the only fair way we could agree upon. We flipped a coin.

Dusk was approaching, and I had been wearing a white printed tee shirt all day. Danny went into the house and brought me back a black one.

"A little more stealth." he reasoned. He had also changed into darker clothes. I removed all of the items we had collected from the Jeep, in case we encountered anyone snoopy. We both had that adrenaline, rushy feeling, and thought the best way to calm nerves was to have a beer. We decided that it might be more prudent to wait, until the recovery was successful, and then it could be a combination celebration, saying goodbye to Mark and Becky deal. Danny packed the cooler with ice and whatever beer, probably Natural or something else cheap, into the back of the Jeep.

We arrived at the spot where Danny had met The Civil Air Patrol this morning, and I kept driving down the road and around the bend, and stuck it in an open area between the palmettos and a row of pines.

"A little more stealth." I said.

We started our trek to the swamp by tripping over each other. In our haste and nervousness, I grabbed everything out of the back seat, placed on my side, because it was closest to the garage door when we brought it all out. Everything being; the pair of hip waders, the laser light, Danny's pistol, another mini Maglite, and a can of bug spray we remembered at the last minute. We were moving quickly. I was fumbling with the items and I held the pair of waders out to Danny, to lighten the load. I guess I thought he grabbed them and I let them go. They fell to the ground, and because we were moving quickly, I failed to stop before they became entangled in my feet and I tripped. The trip caused me to pitch forward, and reaching for the only support I could find close at hand, caught Danny in a tackle, worthy of an All American linebacker. We both went down. Danny must have felt the pain in his bad back, as he was pretty slow getting up. I held my emotion, until I heard him muttering about a stupid, Yankee, son of a stupid, son of a bitch, and my laughter burst. Danny soon recovered and began giggling the way he does. We picked up the gear and walked to the area close to the plane. The yellow crime scene tape was stretched across and tied somewhere that I could not see. I yanked the tape and it broke free and fell to the ground.

"I'm thinking about another coin toss." Danny said.

"No way." I said "I did the wading thing this morning. It's your turn. Come on, let's go."

"Yeah, but it was light, and you probably made so much noise splashing that Beaver in like you do, that everything scattered." He said

It was a dig. He was always doing it. He always had some comment about

the way that I fly. He was baiting me, but I wasn't going to bite.

"Come on. Get them waders on."

Again the muttering. I couldn't make it out, because I had moved to the edge of the water with the laser light beam, and was scanning for movement. The light wasn't very effective, but I chose not to relay this knowledge to Danny. Danny, in the waders now, stepped into the water beside me, still muttering. He flipped the flashlight on and took the pistol from my hand, shoving it in between his belt and small of his back. Prepared for battle, Danny would take a step, shining the light straight down into the water and pivot his body all the way to the right as far as he could, moving the light and bobbing his head, searching frantically for snakes at his feet. He would repeat the exact same head bobbing deal, when stepping with the other foot. It reminded me of Don Knotts, playing the fool. The wade across to the plane, in what had taken me mere seconds to accomplish this morning, was taking Danny what seem like minutes. I said nothing. If I had, It wouldn't have surprised me if he'd shot me. I can promise you, I'll be telling this story, complete with imitation, next time we're sitting around the hanger with the boys. Remind me to make Danny carry his bullets in his shirt pocket from now on.

Danny got close enough to the plane to shine the light and find the GPS gone. The radio and headsets also gone.

"Shit," I heard him say. "Came out here for nothing."

Danny started back toward the shore, this time not caring about looking for snakes. He was more intent on getting out of the water. He reached the shore and stepped up, out of the water, and handed me the light.

"Alright, let's just all stand real still and talk about why you're in my crime scene." The voice boomed.

It scared me. I shined the light toward the area where we came in. I saw the official looking uniform of a Lake County Sheriff.

We froze. Danny, standing there with one hip wader off and one still on. I was holding both flashlights, and was really getting concerned about the pistol still wedged in the back of Danny's jeans. The Sheriff stood with his hands on his hips, wearing the official uniform shirt untucked, tails hanging down over blue jeans, and a ball cap with the sheriff star emblem on front.

"Mr. Knight...thought I told you not to come out here 'til I got in touch?"

It was more of a statement than a question.

"Now I find you out here, violatin' a murder crime scene and trying to steal valuable evidence. I should haul the both of you in right now. Book you for it." He boasted. "What you got to say for yourself, Mr. Knight?"

Danny began a stammered attempt to reply. "Ahhh. Nothing...Wa-we wasn't doing nothing wrong."

The Sheriff spoke again. "Excuse me, I gave strict instruction. You boys are out here, after dark with flashlights, trying to be real quiet and hiding that Jeep in amongst the pines. I've been watching. Walked right in across a Police barricade and began tramping through a crime scene like thieves. What's it look like to you? What possible plausibility could you have for being here?"

I decided to dumb it down a little bit. I played it, in the character of a Polk County farm hand, with a tenth grade education, complete with southern drawl.

"Way we figured it Sherf, 'Bout the time all the weasels heard Markie's plane went down, they'd be runnin' out their holes, and come a raping. Figured we'd come get the 'spensive stuff, hold it fer his kin. Meant no disrespect to your yella tape, sir."

I gave him the closed, left eye look, with the slight tilt of the head, to show him that his flashlight was blinding me.

"We bagged it all this morning, as evidence. What's your name boy?"

I told him my real name. No sense to lie and get us in any deeper. The Sheriff led us out to his car, after allowing Danny to remove the other wader. Danny was careful to keep the Sheriff from seeing the gun. The Sheriff turned on the spot light, got my address, from my driver's license, and called it in. He asked for a phone number and said he already had Danny's information. I caught the name on the gold plate above his badge; Watson. I'd heard the name before. Whenever he asked; yes or no questions, like, was that my Jeep? I replied with just one single nod, or just one full shake of the head. Danny wasn't saying much either. He'd come a little too near to a close encounter of the jail kind, about five months ago, and wasn't about the ruffle the Sheriff's feathers. The Sheriff finished writing in his book, and the radio call back said I had no priors. He paused there looking back and forth at Danny and me. He was taking a long time.

"When we put up the tape, and declare the area a crime scene, that makes it County Property. That means you boys were trespassing on County land,...the after dark thing adds to it." He paused a bit, to see the reaction. "If I thought you were thieves, I'd run you in on that, and find some kind of intent and conspiracy charges, to go along with it." He paused again. "I'll let you go, but if I catch you in any more shenanigans, we'll be closing the cell door. We understanding each other?"

We both replied in the affirmative and added in the "thank you, sirs."

Hit the Jeep at a fast walk, and moved it out of there, with just enough speed to be respectful. The Sheriff turned his car in the opposite direction and he was gone.

"Son of a bitch, I thought he was taking us in for sure." Danny said when we had driven out of the Sheriff's sight.

Danny had been out on the Bay, off the coast of St. Pete one day, with some friends about five months ago, fishing and having fun. Danny has a bunch of boats. For a guy who doesn't work, and is on a fixed income, he sure has to ability to acquire a lot of material possessions. Chances are pretty good that if you need something, Danny has one.

Evidently, they caught some kind of shark. There are legal sharks and illegal sharks in Florida and Danny still swears it was the legal kind. Problem was, they had cleaned it and the other fish they caught, while still at sea. Big no, no. Compounded by the fact that Danny had forgotten his fishing license, on one of the other boats. The Game Warden paid them a visit, just as they were putting it into the dock. She was a brash, hard nosed type, spouting official regulations, saying, "Why did you try to hide the fish, under the shelf?" Danny, denying the illegal shark charge and not understanding why she couldn't accept that his fishing license was given to him by the State of Florida, due to his disability status. He should only have to show his Disability Card. He also couldn't make her understand that the filets were of legal size, and therefore she should forget about the "cleaning them at sea" charge. She wasn't buying any of it.

They commenced to screaming at each other, face to face, about as hard as two people can without coming to blows. Danny ended up coming home with five hundred dollars in fines and saying, "This ain't the end of it!" To his point we sympathized. Five hundred dollars is a lot of money to Danny. He professed that he would never pay the fines, and he didn't care if they put him in jail. He wore us all out with his continued ranting and denials, and his professions of promising not to pay any fines, all the way up to the week of the trial..

During the last two days before the trial, we all tried to convince him to pay the fine and walk away. We even offered to pony up the money. Danny's pride would have none of that. The day of the trial came, and we figured to get a call from Wendy asking us for bail money. Danny, we were told, marched right in to the Court House, way down in Bartow, and stood with his arms folded across his chest, waiting for his turn to tell this Judge a thing or two.

Maybe it was Danny's viewing of the Judge's character during the cases preceding his. Maybe Danny just got cold feet when it came time. Or maybe the reasoning we all attempted had finally sunk in. When it was his turn, Danny agreed with little argument, to plead, No Contest, and accept a payment plan for the five hundred dollar fine.

By the time we got back to Danny's, neither of us was in the mood for beer. We removed the cooler from the back of the Jeep, and put it back in the garage, untouched. We agreed to speak again in the morning, and I drove back to The Landing.

Barbie's car was in the drive when I pulled in. There are areas of the house I leave access to, for expected guests. They won't have to wait out in the rain, or they can grab something out of the little refrigerator I keep out on the Lanai. You can get to the back of the house through a screened door which is part of the pool enclosure.

The Lanai is the area under roof, between the sliding glass door to the house and the pool. The length of area runs about a long as the rear of the house and the width extends out about twenty five feet, before you hit the edge of the kidney shaped pool. There is a walk behind bar with stools, table and chairs, Jacuzzi, gas grill, refrigerator, and an old rocking chair with ottoman, placed in front of the flat screen television.

I hit the alarm cancel and went in through the front door. I have the push button type locking system, with no key required. The store bought units come with the four button combination code. I contacted the manufacturer and had them build me a special version requiring five pushes, which looks just like the store bought model. This keeps the savvy lock pick, with the list of all the probable four digit combinations in his pocket, dazed and confused. The common thief will yield to, the back of his mind pressure of taking too much time. Dejected and fearful of detection, he will scamper away.

I flipped on the lights, and went into the kitchen, reached into the big, double door refrigerator and pulled out the steaks and the bottle of Barefoot. I keep the freezer in the barn. The refrigerator, stove, and dishwasher, which never gets used, are all black enamel with burnished aluminum handles. The handles do not stain or fingerprint. As long as you do not touch the enamel, it never needs wiping. I grabbed two wine glasses from the glass rack hanging down from the ceiling, at the end of the big pot rack.

Juggling all of this, I flipped the lock on the sliding glass door, kicked out the safety stick and opened it. Barbie was enjoying herself, with an open bottle of Corona, flipping through channels on the flat screen, while lounging against the back wall, inside of the Jacuzzi. The water was bubbling, causing it to rise and fall enough, so that I could see she was nude. I smiled and she just said "Hey."

I put it all down on the bar, turned the gas on, and pushed the igniter to fire the grill. I walked over and kissed her. She told me she forgot the potatoes.

After the steaks, the air began to turn chilly, so we went into the living room, and I threw two big sticks of oak and some starter stuff, into the fireplace and lit it.

While sitting together on the tan leather couch and listening to some Sugarland turned way down low, I told her about it. I told her all of it.

I knew I could trust her, and I was thinking that I might get her to help with a part of the clue finding mission, my mind had begun to formulate. After the initial shock of the events wore off, she seemed saddened by the loss of Mark, though she hadn't known Becky. She expressed concern for Mark's sister and niece who had spent the day at the airpark one time, when she was there. We decided that she would call in an anonymous tip saying, "Someone better go out to Morningside Drive, Her car is in the driveway, the backdoor has been forced and she doesn't answer the knock." We used my cell dialing star, and then, six and seven before the nine one one. She hung it up when they started asking too many questions. We talked about my theories and the questions I needed answered. She didn't know anyone at the Sheriff's Department, or the Coroner's Office, or the Morgue. We talked about investigative observation. She had some thoughts and had heard some stories about the place in Tampa. When I mentioned taking the trip down to check it out, possibly finding someone there who knew about the guy and the girl, she agreed to be my date.

A little while later, dressed only in one of my bathrobes with the belt undone, she walked over, reached for my hand and whispered softly, "Come on...lets go."

Sunday. I woke early. The visions came in the lateness of my sleep. In those last minutes or seconds just before I woke. The sights of Mark, and then Becky. The blood and the knives and gunshots and Sheriffs all came spinning in from the sides, top and bottom, and suddenly my eyes opened wide. I got out of the bed and left her there while I went through the door to the shower.

I have the type of shower that has nozzles on three walls. Left, right, and center. One valve controls all three independently or simultaneously. I turned them all on and cranked the water up hot. I stayed there, in the middle of the sprays for ten long minutes just collecting my thoughts.

Once I was able to eliminate the thoughts about yesterday's ugliness, I began to focus on the sweetness of her last night. The sweetness of us.

She had been different this time. Her normal way, was to think we had a mutual understanding of each other's wants and needs. That the satisfying of those wants was the first and most important task. Whether she began or I began never seemed significant. The pleasure of giving was equally enjoyable for both of us. I knew that she derived a great deal of satisfaction in pleasing me. It made her feel proud. As if it was she was the craftsman completing her masterpiece, or she was the climber of mountains reaching the summit of her Everest. In our times together she had come to know all the little physical things that cause the sudden movements and sounds of my body and from my voice. She had been discovering those emotions both physical and mental, which are controlled by the sensors beneath the surface, way down deep, where only the ones who are familiar can be permitted to tread. And she knew that I could only be satisfied completely after finding the hidden points and the sensitive spots of her, and building on them one by one, block by block, rush by rush, continuing until the crescendo of it left her silently trembling and sated.

She had been different this time. For the first time she wanted the emotional more than the physical. She needed the holding and the comfort and warmth. She needed to know the touches and the kisses and more importantly, the feelings were coming from new places in the heart and in the mind. She needed to know the thoughts she was having were mutual. And that there would be something more often for us. A more often of the laughing and the smiling. A more often of the gentle caresses. A more often of the time we spent together. Slowly and silently it came sneaking up until suddenly, we were caught in the emotion of it and we were lost in the pleasure of it. At the brink of it, when we had coupled and that great magician and master of pleasure had come rushing at the both us. Knocking on each of our doors, bursting them open together, in the exact same instant of time it created the first complete synergy of us.

It lasted longer than imagined possible. And we both knew without saying, that it had never been like that for either of us. She had been different this time, and so had I.

When I finished with the razor and the toothbrush, I went back into the bedroom. She was still asleep. I saw the teeny tiny little drops of perspiration above her upper lip, shining in the light from the window. The sheet had been pulled part way, away from her, perhaps by my leaving earlier. She lay on her side revealing her back, part of her breast, and all of her butt. I could see the deep, tanned skin covering her body all the way down to where the bikini pant would start. There, it was much lighter, where she's kept it from the sun. In that lighter part just above the thigh, there was a softer texture to her skin. The area where the bottom meets the very top of the thigh. Where the contour of the line changes and becomes a slight ripple. The area that only the aging and the maturing will reveal is my very favorite part of her.

There was another thought, beyond our fondness for each other. Another thought I now knew we both shared. The knowledge that her care free life as a single mother, and mine as the work when its convenient and fly whenever I can, while holding back thoughts of settling down, were beginning to wane thin. Somewhere in between the beginning of our event last night and our waking this morning, a signal had been sent, and we would both be considering different paths for our lives.

I went into the kitchen and started the coffee. I went back into the bedroom and opened the big brown doors of the armoire, where I keep most the stuff that doesn't need hanging. She was still sleeping. I put on shorts, tee shirt and socks and slipped my feet into the clogs. The clogs would be a temporary thing. I take a run around the property every morning, because it's a good thing physically, but it also gives me a look at the land and especially the runway. To make sure the wild hogs haven't dug any new holes in there. The sudden catch of the wheel of the plane, in a rut dug a foot deep could cause it to snap right off.

I keep the running shoes in the barn. They always get wet during the run through the morning grass, and I store them on a shelf in front of the window where the sun will dry them. I went back into the kitchen, grabbed a splash of coffee from the dispenser on the front of the Hamilton Beach and downed it. The hot scald always wakes up the throat. I rarely speak in the morning before coffee.

I went out the front door, and was about to make the turn toward the barn when I saw Sheriff Watson standing beside his patrol car, parked in the drive. I have a set of photo sensors hidden in the gate posts leading into the lane. When an object breaks the light beam, it sets off the bonging of the bells in the grandfather clock in the front room, and a buzzer in the barn. I have the clock set so the bells don't ring when the clock strikes the hour. The sound carries all through the house and it is loud enough to wake you. It usually gives me an advanced warning, but not this morning. At that moment, I realized a flaw. He must have come through the gate, while I was showering, and the sound didn't carry in there.

Sheriff Joshua Watson was a tall, broad, burly type. He stood a little taller than me, and was much heavier, owning to the width of his chest and the big belly constrained by the belt. I had heard the story, though I did not catch the broadcasts, about one of his deputies who had tasered a drunk one evening, while the drunk was either resisting, or not resisting arrest. The stories seemed to conflict. The drunk had gone into spasms and convulsions, resulting in the obligatory ambulance ride to the Emergency Room for further observation. The news media set off a lightning storm. The national talk show pundits had the fuel for another week of headline topic, complete with the satellite TV crews standing in front of places which had nothing to do with the actual event, preaching about the atrocities taking place in Lake County, Florida.

Sheriff Watson is an elected official. He probably likes his job very much. To alleviate the media pressure and to remind his constituents of who their choice should be in the upcoming election, Sheriff Watson had volunteered to have the taser inflicted on himself. Thus proving that the result of the shock would not cause catastrophic damage or death.

The Sheriff, stood before live television, and gave the word to his Deputy to fire the taser. When the little darts, connected to the wires, connected to the Taser, hit the Sheriff in the chest, his body also spasmed and convulsed. The Deputy immediately released the power. The Sheriff fell to the floor and got back up rather quickly, proclaiming in an embarrassed tone of voice; "I'm alright, I'm okay," while the little darts were still sticking to the front of his uniform shirt. The news clip of that scene had been repeated over and over on the national networks, and I did catch it one day.

The Sheriff stared right at me as I turned to acknowledge him.

"I did some checking on you." He said "Seems you're enough of a big wheel to make me believe our conversation last night was an act on your part."

He paused, waiting for me to respond. I gave him the single nod.

"Maybe you know a little more than you let on. Maybe you know some things that I want to know. Maybe you'll tell me some things today, and maybe you won't. Maybe I'll have to remember some things about last night and put some charges on the docket." He paused, again. "Maybe I know some things you want to know."

"Okay Sheriff. Fair enough. How'd you know we were there?" I said in my normal voice.

His expression changed to a Mona Lisa smile. "Deputy went by and spotted the Jeep in there and called me. I don't live far. Interrupted my dinner" He paused a bit.

"Why were you there?"

"I needed his GPS." I said. "Still do"

"We gonna' play the twenty questions game, or are you just gonna' tell me why?" The smile turned serious as if warning me not to waste his time.

"He'd been flying distances. Far enough to need the extra gasoline. He was involved in something that got him killed. I want to know where he went, so I can find the what and who. He was my friend. They shot him down. They followed him from somewhere and they shot him down. He may have saved the waypoints in the GPS."

"What makes you think you're qualifi..."

"I'm probably not, but you had me checked out. You know that I've been around the block. I can put some puzzle pieces together."

"You're right" He said. "You might be smarter than the average bear. You might be smarter than my average Deputy. But that don't mean I'm willing to turn you loose on this investigation....and don't cut me off again, boy!"

I stood there thinking. I was just about to say something, when he spoke.

"I can't give you the GPS. It's already at the District Attorney's Office. They're looking at that stuff too. I will tell you this. One of the waypoints is down in Polk County. A place called River Ranch Resort. They haven't pinpointed the exact locations of the other places yet." He stopped and looked at his watch.

"What do you know about Becky Palmer?" He asked.

"Who?" I asked.

"Your buddy's girlfriend...Becky Palmer. Murdered. Got an anonymous call from a female last night...suspicious." He said inquiringly

"I heard he had a girlfriend, but I didn't know her. I didn't even know her name." I lied.

"You want to go snooping down to River Ranch, go ahead. It's out of my jurisdiction and I can't stop you. But if this gets in the dirt, out of this state, it's gonna' bring the FBI in to this."

"Appreciate that, Sheriff." I said sincerely.

"What else you got?" he asked.

"That's it." I lied.

"I expect to be hearing something from you before too long. Understand?"

I gave him the single nod, one last time.

He turned to go, moving around to the driver's door. He opened the door, stopped and looked at me for several seconds and then said;

"Jake, they killed your friend. Don't think they won't do the same to you."

I considered his words. "Thanks Sheriff, sorry about your dinner."
Chapter F ive:

### He picked up a rock and threw it at me.

**While I was running** I considered what the Sheriff had said. He said they hadn't pinpointed the other places on Mark's GPS. That meant he was landing in places not noted, or easily recognized. Places or way points, such as a resort like River Ranch, would stick out like a sore thumb. Mark would have all the standard stops locked in. The fly-to places, to stop for breakfast or to meet someone at their airfield. Those places could be easily eliminated, in my mind, and I'm sure the D.A. people were thinking the same. The other places would have to be non airfield locations. He could put the plane down in any grass field or even on the road somewhere. He only needed a few hundred feet. Mark was that good. The D.A. wouldn't recognize that. They wouldn't know or consider his special abilities. I needed those waypoints. I needed to look at them from Google Earth. I could see what they would overlook.

He had to have gone a distance. He had the extended range with the additional fuel strapped on. He had gone south for sure. River Ranch was south. He wouldn't come back north with the added fuel. He could stop anywhere for fuel. Well, not anywhere, but there are an abundance of fuel stops between here and River Ranch. And there would be no need. Mark's plane had the range to reach the resort. I needed to look at a map. Why would he need the gas?

Picturing the state of Florida and the position where we were, here in the Howey area, with the picture of where River Ranch would be, he had to go farther south. But why would he need so much gas? There would be places to get fuel, farther south. The only place he wouldn't be able to get fuel was out on the water. The Sheriff has mentioned something about the possibility of it going to the FBI. That meant he had something to make him believe Mark had been out of state.

I thought about what else the Sheriff had said, or rather what he hadn't said. His disposition had changed during the latter part of the conversation. He seemed, not friendlier, but more understanding. He knew that I knew more than I was telling him. He seemed to understand the reasoning behind what we were feeling. He dismissed that fact that Danny and I had broken the law, and misled him with our act, at the plane last night. He appeared, almost to enjoy being outfoxed by us. If he had not, he wouldn't have waited in the drive. He and his Deputies would have pounded the door down, until I answered, and probably already have Danny in the back seat.

This new knowledge of the Sheriff, or the new relationship with him, wouldn't get me a cup of coffee anywhere. But, it might get me some more information, if I was willing to give him something in trade. Problem was, I wasn't about to give up any information to anyone.

I ran into the barn, removed the sneakers and put them up. I rolled the bike out, thinking to take advantage of this beautiful morning and ride it over to Danny's. I bought this one, after years of being without, about a year ago. I had owned motorcycles since I was a kid, but had gotten away from them for a long time. My new scooter is a Ninja. It's not real fast, but the days of one hundred and forty miles per hour are long gone for me, especially without the helmet. I choose to reject the restriction, donning just the sunglasses and letting the wind blow through my hair.

When I went back into the house, I saw the light on in the library. The library is in a larger room of the house, though not the largest. It also serves as my office. File cabinets of records required to be kept stand off in one corner. I have a girl, Rose, come in once a week to take care of the accounts and pay the invoices. In one corner area, I have the computer complex set up. A big HP server, with enough power to tackle large Auto Cad programs and other drawing software. A smaller, standard sized Dell desktop, which gets most of the day to day use. Another Dell Laptop to take with me on the road, and a series of printers, two standard color laser printers, a combination fax-scanner, and an optical duplicator. There is also a medium sized plotter, which gives the ability to print large drawings and schematics. There is a small compact disc player off to the right of the computer. I keep the Kenwood stereo and the big Polk Audio speaker stacks in the living room.

I call it the library, because I've always wanted one. When I became a little more affluent, I decided to replace all of the books and novels that had been lost or discarded over the years vowing to never lose another. I installed book shelves along the entire south wall of the room, and from floor to ceiling. Capacity is endless and though I have put a good chunk in it, I find myself storing little knickknacks in the open areas.

I went in and she was there, sitting at the computer desk, by the table and the credenza. She was dressed in one of my tee shirts and I couldn't see what else. When she heard me she stood up and turned. She had a piece of paper in her hand. We walked toward each other watching each other eyes. Neither of us blinked or moved our gaze. When we were very close, my smile broke wide. Seeing this, she leapt into my arms, wrapping her thighs around my waist and her arms around my neck. We kissed, and held it for a long time. When we released the kiss, I felt her legs slide to the floor. We were still holding each other close. My mouth was by her ear.

"I guess this means you had a good time last night." I whispered

"I want us to be together." She said softly. It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

"Me, too."

"Jake?" She said softly, "What's it all about with your family? You never talk about your parents, or your brothers and sisters."

"No brothers or sisters," I said, "and I'm the only one left."

My mother was from Massachusetts, specifically Boston. She came to Manhattan to work. She had been married in her twenties, but her husband died in a construction accident, and the company had compensated her very well. His family was in the gallery business and she prospered there. She was always contemplating the future of her life.

I was led to believe that my father was a man named Dr. Snow. He was an older professor of archaeology, at Barnett College, in upstate New York. They saw each other a few times that I know of over the years, but she downplayed the whole father thing. I have his surname, and other than that, he was just more like my mothers' very good friend than my dad. I didn't learn the truth until the week she died. While lying on her death bed she confessed the truth about who my real father was.

She had met him when he traveled to New York, under an assumed name to investigate some little gold statues that had cost the life of a very good friend. They met when she was assigned to deal with him. Their relationship led to a rendezvous at her apartment where I was conceived. He left like a thief in the night and many weeks later, she came to the knowledge of me. She sent a private investigator to find out who my father really was. When he returned later to deal the statues, she made an attempt to tell him, but changed her mind. Thinking that this would not be good news to deliver to someone like my father and realizing that maybe all they had together was sexual compatibility. She chose to go it alone. She passed on an invitation to marry another member of her husband's family. While still carrying me in her womb, she made the decision to take me away from the hustle of the city. She longed for a country environment, and chose the little town in South Central Pennsylvania where I grew up.

Though they married, it was really only on paper. The Dr. Snow connection enabled her to answer all the father questions. He busied himself with teachings and seminars and his search for antiquities ferried him all around the world.

She was a great lady, my mother. Very well read. Taught me to appreciate and understand the written word. Made me understand and appreciate a lot of things. She taught me to respect. On Sundays mornings I would awake to the sounds of Ray Charles, and Streisand and Garland. She is responsible for my love of music. Kept me practicing, with all those damn piano lessons. Finally conceded, and bought me my first six string guitar. I lost my best friend the day she died.

My real father was sort of a private detective. Private being the distinctive word. Unknown, under the radar, not wishing any type of publicity whatsoever. Definitely no advertisements. He lived his life as enjoyably as possible, and professed to be taking his retirement on the installment plan. Living conservatively well for periods of time, dependant on the duration of his current money cache. When the money got low, he would seem to drum up some business or profitable opportunity, which would enable the return or extension of a chunk of time to relax, and do exactly what he would like to do. More often than not, the opportunity would present itself before he went looking.

The detective part was not the usual type, in that he followed no rules, was not listed on any registrations, and would be more inclined to steer clear of any involvement with any authority. He never used the word detective, referring to himself as a salvage consultant. Publicly meaning, one who dives to retrieve that which has been sunken. Privately meaning, the retrieval of any valuables wet or dry, which could not be returned through legal results, proper channels, or by any other means that the rightful owner would have. Both the private and public definitions involved a fee or reward. In my fathers' case, usually half the value retrieved. My father had a significant knack for uncovering information in bits and parts, and then be able to piece the puzzle together, until a story materialized. Once he had it figured out, he would initiate the steps to negotiate a fair compromise, unlock the prize completely or expose the scam. He often encountered unsavory and dangerous individuals along the way. In the end, he may have been outfoxed by one of these unsavory types. Though no one knows what actually happened. He and his best friend left the marina one morning, aboard his houseboat with the dingy in tow. Without giving anyone any clear direction where they were going. They haven't been back since.

This installment retirement plan promoted his life as a beach bum, living aboard a barge type house boat, in a harbor off the channel waterway in Ft. Lauderdale. Surrounded by a few friends who also enjoyed the Florida sunshine. He kept his true friends few, his acquaintances numerous, and his occupation secretive.

I never knew my father or would not have been able to know him anyway, as a man. He disappeared when I was very young, and without the knowledge that I even existed.

She was very solemn, almost knowing that there were no words to say about it. A few minutes later, she held up the piece of paper, and asked.

"What's this mean?"

The piece of paper she held was the convenience store receipt. It had something written on the back. We had talked about all of the things I brought back from the plane, last night. I hadn't mentioned the receipt, or if I did, I hadn't mentioned the scribble. I held it under the light, and noticed it was a sequence of numbers, with colons in between. It looked like grid coordinances, and that's exactly what it was.

"Holy shit." I said "I can't believe I missed this."

"What?"

"It looks like grid numbers. Probably a waypoint. Fire up Google Earth." I said pointing to the computer.

"Punch them in on the search bar, exactly like he has them written. I'll be back in a flash. I need to take another shower. Have you had coffee?"

"Yes." She said laughing. "Go"

I came back dressed in jeans, a shirt in one hand and still rubbing my head with the towel. She had mugs of coffee, steam rising, resting in coasters on the table. She looked over at me.

"It's in the Bahamas." She said

"Bahamas?" I asked not believingly. I tossed the towel on the table, and pulled the shirt over my head.

She was sitting in the chair again, and had the picture drawn in close and she moved it back out with the use of the wheel on the mouse. The new view showed the Island of Nassau.

"Sure enough. Zoom it back in." I said, studying the picture while leaning in over her shoulder.

I have the newest version of Google Earth; you have to pay for it. It gives you the views in near real time. I think it updates every twenty four hours. It gives you the ability to get down real close, and the pixels stay clean. We searched the area which appeared like a short grassy plain. There were dirt roads running in odd directions, near the area, but not anywhere close to where the center of the grid fell. I moved the picture north, and stopped it there to search some more. We both saw the path in the higher grass at about the same time.

"There. What does that look like?" she said, pointing to a spot on the screen

I reached over, put my hand over hers, on the mouse and zoomed in a bit closer. There were paths pushed down in the grass. There were lines, within the fallen grass, running parallel with each other. Then, I noticed the lines were in sets. Two lines per set, and several different sets running, in various, semi straight runs. The grass appeared to be very dry. It looked as if some of it had started to stand back up, but it was impossible to tell. She moved her hand out from under mine to give me a little better access.

I zoomed in even closer to focus on just one set of lines, and followed the lines with the wheel of the mouse. I clicked the ruler from the toolbar and then clicked on feet. I snapped a ruler measurement between the two lines. They appeared to be about four to five feet apart. I closed the ruler tool, and then followed both lines as they turned together. The turns weren't sharp, more of a casual twist. They looked exactly the lines the wheels of Mark's plane would make.

"Looks like Mark put his plane in there." I said and kissed her. "Thank you, I would have missed that."

We looked at the screen again. I marked it with a pushpin from the toolbar. I zoomed out, then had a second thought, clicked on the search bar, reached around her and typed in; river ranch resort lakes wales, fl. The screen view moved way out and then moved northwest on the Earth. It zoomed back in on The River Ranch Resort area. I also marked it with a pushpin. Then I set the view to where I could see both pushpins on the screen, and clicked on the ruler again. This time I set the measurement to miles. A little better than three hundred miles, too far to fly, even with the extra gasoline. Too risky. I did the math to confirm it. Mark's plane has a ten gallon main, plus the three, six gallon tanks, twenty eight gallons in all. Three hundred miles at maybe forty-five land miles per hour, is six point seven hours. The plane would be too heavy to fly much faster than that. Multiply that by his burn. With the extra weight, I'd call it four gallons per hour, to be safe. That works out to twenty-six point eight gallons burned. Too risky with twenty-eight gallons onboard, way too risky. All of this isn't even factoring in the extra weight. Eighteen gallons, at eight pounds per gallon, that's one hundred forty four extra pounds. Plus, you had to subtract for winds and drifts. Mark did not fly from Nassau to River Ranch.

The area where the measurement crosses the ground in Florida, just north of West Palm Beach and south of Port St. Lucie is heavily populated. Even if he landed somewhere before the ranch, it would only save him forty or fifty miles, still too risky. Besides, the Sheriff would have mentioned another waypoint in the area. Mark landed somewhere else off shore. He probably hopped it, landing in multiple places. I had been printing pictures of everything on the laser printer.

I thought about calling the Sheriff, and then decided against it. I would keep my present course.

I was starting to get a little wide eyed from staring at the screen so intently, so I stood up straight and backed away rubbing my eyes. She wheeled the chair around and stood up, next to me.

"When do you have to leave for work?" I asked.

"In about an hour. I thought about calling in..."

"Better not. Save the days you have." I said, stepping close and running my fingers into her hair. "We'll do something together, maybe go somewhere."

"Okay. That sounds great."

"I'm going to see Danny." I said. "Set the safety stick in the back door if you go out there. Go out through the front, it locks when you close it."

"I know." She said laughing again, picking up the towel.

I wheeled the scooter into Danny's and found him walking in toward the house from the garage. We sat down on his back deck, Danny in the rocker and me on the bench, with cups of his secret mix of coffee. He swears by it and would never consider revealing the recipe. He probably didn't realize I'd seen cans of Maxwell House and Chock Full o' Nuts, on shelves among the; this and that. I'm sure he had some other ingredient thrown in there, though it didn't cause the type of interest with me, which others had. I just didn't see what the big deal was. His coffee is no different than what you get at 7/11. The real secret recipe is their French Vanilla and the ever elusive Blueberry flavored coffee. I have always kept my true feelings for his prize to myself.

I told him about the early surprise visit by the Sheriff and how he'd pegged me. I said I thought I might have worked it, so there would be more information from him. We talked about finding the evidence of Mark's plane, or another airplane in the grass plain of the Bahamas. He sadly said that finding the exact grid in Mark's wallet made it pretty obvious. I asked if he and Mark had ever discussed anything about flying offshore. We also tried to understand the fuel consumption calculations and Danny said Mark wouldn't risk it. He said he was too conservative and that he never ran his tank low.

He said he had gone through the little hutch cupboard, in the shack attached to the corner of the hanger at Gator, where Mark kept his plane. He didn't find anything. I suggested he keep that information between us, because I was rustling up a story of finding the Bahamas grid receipt in there to use as some thing to give to the Sheriff in trade.

Danny said that Wendy had heard that the Coroner had completed the autopsy. It was a .223 caliber, though she didn't know anything more. I asked him if he thought she might be able to get a copy of the Toxicology Report, and he said

"Doubtful." We were silent for a few minutes, and then Danny spoke

"Do you think we should get Tim in on this?"

"No. Why?" I said.

"Well, you know he probably still has some contacts." Danny said.

Tim Howell was a good friend of Danny's and an acquaintance of mine. I say acquaintance, using the term loosely. Tim and I didn't exactly like each other, it would be more like a tolerance of each other's presence. He always had an attitude towards me. I'm sure it stemmed from his background. It the kind of deal where the guy thinks he has an edge up.

Tim had been an investigator with the Florida Highway Patrol, and then somehow made his way into the FBI. As what, no one seems to be sure, but he has the proof he was associated. I always got the impression that Tim was the type of guy who worked for the FBI, taking the pictures and processing their identification cards. Tim was now retired. He took up the flying thing, and has graduated from powered parachutes, to a Kolb ultra light, to a Buccaneer like Danny's, to a beautiful custom made Searay, which is a limited edition, two seat, side by side version of the Buccaneer, only ten thousand dollars more fancy. The problem with Tim and flying was, he had crashed or busted up pretty good, everything he'd ever owned. It was a known fact. I had personally witnessed him bring the Buccaneer in not twenty five feet from where I was standing in front of my hanger, wheels up. He thudded the hull in, skidding it along on the grass until it came to a stop. Next time he put it down on the lake, he came back and quickly started bailing the water, using a Coke can with the top cut off. He bought that big fancy Searay for more than thirty grand and everyone said it was too much airplane for him. He and Mark had been putting it down on Cherry Lake, when something went real wrong. They hit the water with the landing gear down and flipped it. Broke it up so bad, the only thing salvageable was the motor. You can say what you want, but I know Mark didn't make mistakes like that.

"Look Dan. What happens if they want to get involved? They'll come around asking questions and maybe find out some things we've been holding back. Even if they don't, they'll stir up the dust enough to cause the guys who did to get wind of it and scatter." I said. "What if he was mixed up in drugs? They'll want to get the DEA guys into it. I don't want the publicity."

I looked at him and turned the tone of voice down.

"Come on Danny. I want to find them. I want to decide the justice when we do. I don't want to bring Tim in. Just go with me on this."

I could see that he was upset. He obviously had more faith in Tim than I did. I knew he was trying to find ways to find the answers, too. I knew he was mad, but I didn't want Tim anywhere near this. I left Danny there still rocking in the chair.

I had some things I could do on the computer, so I grabbed a hand full of throttle and headed back toward The Landing. I was on the road in, when I had a flash of instinct, and got the Ninja whoa-ed down enough to make the right turn onto the little stone lane. I took it slow through the stones and passed the quarter mile of chain link fence on the left until I came to the T in the road. The left turn continues in stone, but I took the right turn, down through the beaten down, grass pathway for another quarter of a mile, until the left turn puts you on the macadam that is Johnny's driveway. Macadam is like asphalt.

Johnny Miller is my best friend. He introduced himself to me, as the premier bearing salesman in, certainly all of Florida and in, probably the entire world, the first week I arrived here in Florida. Seems like a long time ago. Since, we have had many adventures and profitable excursions together.

The macadam used to be dirt. It makes its way up the hill to one of the tallest points in Lake County. At the top stands the three story, log cabin type, extravaganza, that Johnny and his former girlfriend Ronnie call home. The macadam is a new addition. It started out as a packed down dirt path. Johnny bought one of the Korean tractors, which cost less than the domestic types. He bought the box blade and the roller too. They worked that orange grove and cleared the area, until they were satisfied that the tractor trailer that hauled in the pre-fabricated pieces and parts of the cabin could get it up the hill. Someone plumbed in the rough and the septic. Then they called in the contractors to pour the footer and block up the first floor garage. A new set of craftsmen came in to stack the logs, and finish the inside, while the roofers had to do the rope over thing, because the pitch is so steep.

The macadam used to be dirt. Then, it got turned into the white dusty bit and pieces called washout. The remains of the stuff left over in the big concrete mixers. Yes, they really do sell that stuff. It's supposed to pack down real well. Not well enough though, and shortly after they tried shingles. Finally, they ponied up the fifteen grand for the macadam. Twelve o'clock and all's well, and then the rains came. Late spring and early summer, it's guaranteed to rain every afternoon for about thirty or forty minutes in Central Florida. Long enough, to cause the flooding up top, to run the water down the hill, and start to wash out the washout and the dirt from under the new macadam. They worked it on the weekends. They wheeled the barrow with the powdery stone stuff, and they added the sand and the water and they did the mixing. They wheeled a lot of those barrows. They poured the mixed along the edges, and they tamped it down with the tampers. They packed it in with the packers until it cured, and it stopped the damage.

I think he said the original estimate to have a concrete driveway put in, was a little less than ten grand complete.

Ronnie, at the time of the construction, was the highly, successful District, Regional, Semi-State, roving, whatever you call it, manager, of the bearing company, and Johnny's girlfriend. And, twenty two years younger. She and Johnny had bought the Orange Grove for a song, and should have bought the adjacent, matching, five acre tract beside it. Early in the process, they sold the house in the valley, not far from where we found Becky, and bought the used single wide. They parked it on top, pointed the hitch out toward the drive, so as to be easy to remove it when the cabin was finished. They live in their little nest in paradise, until the fighting started. Johnny never talks about how it started just that it did, and the next thing I knew, he bought one of those drive-job campers, and parked it across the way from the nest of paradise. They rode out the complete project separately and now Johnny lives on the first floor, while Ronnie, who moved her mother in shortly after the completion, occupies the second and third floors.The garage part went by the wayside during the fighting.

I turned it into the driveway and took it up the hill. About midway up, I noticed Johnny off to the right, a few rows deep into the grove wearing the floppy hat. He had a pair of pruning shears in his hands. He had a satchel of some sort hanging from his left side, with the strap up over his shoulder. He was looking at me and smiling. I took it all the way up, hit the kill switch, leaned it over on the stand, and proceeded back down the drive toward him. Johnny came out from the trees, and began his waddle up the hill. His legs were moving very quickly, but it appeared the steps were one foot right in front of the other. This caused the satchel to sway back and forth. He had abandoned the pruning shears, perhaps inside the satchel.

The floppy hat is a beige color, with the round brim sticking out from the base, eight or nine inches. It has a very bowl like shape at the top of the base, and starves for the something that is obviously missing. Johnny has sensitive skin, so when he found it at a yard sale years ago, he snatched it up, not caring about the price. It would be the perfect sun protector while working in the grove. When I commented on its feminine nature, revealing the former owner was probably a lady, Johnny denied it with a violent punch to my right arm.

Johnny stands, to where we can look at each other eye to eye. However, his frame is very slight, and he weighs in at about one hundred and thirty nine pounds soaking wet.

When we were about twenty feet apart I stopped, held both hands out to the side and yelled; "Jon-neeee!"

"Hail, the marauding conveyor maker!" He said with a sashay to the left and a wave of the arm to the right. "To what doeth, I owe the pleasure of your arrival, aboard the two wheeled steed?"

"I have graced your presence, this fine morning, seeking to test your knowledge of an island of tropic. But first, the more prominent question." I said in my best Shakespeare. "Whereist the fair maiden, whose cap you hath stole?" He picked up a rock and threw it at me.

Johnny is the peculiar type, which often raises the eyebrow of others. Thirty some years ago, he raced the fast bikes on the big tracks like Daytona and Sebring. He lived and enjoyed the lifestyle for several years, until the factory sponsored boys out classed him with the increased speed of the new technologies. He landed in upstate New York, where he went to work with one of the up and coming bearing distributors. He studied hard, and become known for his quick recall of what exact piece fit in that particular conveyed apparatus. He was recruited to Florida by the company he now works for.

He is the peculiar type. He told me once that he could never brush his teeth in front of anyone, male or female. Not, that he couldn't do the brushing, but that he couldn't do it effectively enough, and afterward it would always leave a very bad taste, festering in his mouth for the rest of the day.

These kinds of things are what probably started the fighting.

Johnny has taken multiple trips through the Caribbean. He owns some property in Jamaica, and goes there every year. We have a tentative plan, six years from now, to buy a large boat, and run a dinner cruise out of there. Four nights a week, three hour tour, Johnny at the helm, I at the stove. We would offer some type of varying entertainment, be it a band or duet, or a piano man, some showgirls, or maybe just a poker game. I would manufacture the cuisine. Maybe, four sets of couples nightly. Charge a staggering price, aim the marketing toward the resorts and if they produced the prospects, render them a finder's fee.

There is an old wooden utility trailer behind Johnny's house. It has been repaired countless times. When it was originally constructed it was not properly balanced, and as a result the tongue will rise until the tail end of the trailer rests on the ground. Johnny stores the box blade and the roller for the tractor, some grass seeding material, irrigation parts and other stuff in the same area as the trailer. There are also two steel barrels left over from burning debris during the construction. I went over and sat down on the ground at the base of the trailer and leaned my back against the bed, in kind of a lounge chair position. I reached over and snatched a stalk of grass, growing tall in the areas that the mower can't get to. I picked the long blades from around the stalk, discarded them and shoved the stalk in my mouth. Chewing it as others would do with toothpicks. Johnny had parked himself straddled across one of the barrels, after he laid it on its side.

I told Johnny the whole story. Then I asked him about the islands of the Bahamas, specifically about remote areas, flying restrictions and their air traffic control system. He didn't know much; other than he had flown on guided tours in and out of the airports and in and out of grass landing strips, and didn't recall any radio traffic. He said he had been all through Grand Bahamas, The Island of Nassau and the Berry Islands looking for property before he purchased the land in Jamaica. Some of the tours had been by helicopter, but most had been in four seat propeller airplanes. He remembered that they weren't many remote areas left except in the Berry Islands. He didn't recall any restrictive or no fly zone areas. No separate classes of airspace. The only radio traffic he could recall was when flying into main island commercial airports. The pilot would radio the tower and receive landing instruction. When leaving, they simply lined up on the runway, waited their turn and took off. When I asked if he thought that meant they weren't tracking with radar, he laughed. Explaining that the people of these airports were so lax, they wouldn't care enough to be concerned about what some American tourists were bringing in and out, as long as they were spending money.

Johnny suggested an interesting idea when were talking about my plan to tell the Sheriff about finding the convenience store receipt in Mark's hanger. He said he knew someone in the Engineering Department over at the University of Central Florida, in Orlando. His friend taught civil engineering and knew a lot of the academic staff there. He thought his friend might know someone in the hospital programs who could analyze the liquid in the vial. Johnny also came up with a great idea for why we would be in possession of the drug, if that's what it was.

We went into the cabin and he brought up the FBI website, on the Internet. He clicked around the site under he found what he was looking for. A click on the history icon, followed by another click on the FBI Seal and Motto, brought up a nice color picture of the FBI seal. Johnny right clicked to copy and paste it on a Word document. A similar search of The Florida Attorney General's website did not produce the same results. Johnny went to the Wikipedia website and searched for the seal of the Florida. When the page freshened, there in bold colors was the picture of an Indian maiden in an area of water in the foreground. The background depicted a tall palm tree set in front of sun rays and some ships. To us, the ships seemed out of place. The circular picture was surrounded by a yellow band with red lettering; Great Seal of The State of Florida and In God We Trust, with two stars separating the lines. Johnny also pasted this to the Word document. He continued to surf around until he found enough official looking identification cards and badges to complete his search. Next, he brought the pictures into a photograph enhancing software program, where he cropped some and enlarged others until he had all the pieces he needed to make an authentic looking FBI identification card in the name of Robert Carlisle, with a blank in the left corner. And a very good Assistant Attorney General of the State of Florida picture card depicting one; Jefferson A. Barrette, again with the left corner blank.

"Jefferson?" I said

"I thought it would make me seem more lawyerly." He said. "I considered putting the word Esquire in there, but I knew you wouldn't approve." I just chuckled.

"Do you think your duplicator can put these together?" He asked over my shoulder.

"Yes, I think so." I said.

"Good," he said. "Now turn around and say cheese."

When I turned around, Johnny took my picture with his digital camera and then handed it to me to take one of him. The pictures would be used to fill in the blanks on the ID cards. Johnny emailed the Word documents to The Landing and told me he would call when he had more information.

When I left Johnny's I took the bike down County Road 455 into the valley, and turned left into the shopping plaza at the corner of Highway 50. I went into the Publix grocery store to get something for dinner. I settled for a large package of nice boneless chicken breasts, two cobs of corn still in the husks, and a shaker of grated parmesan cheese.

I secured the sack to the rear of the Ninja seat with the bungee cord, I keep there. Right before I pushed the starter button, Johnny called.

"We have an appointment with a Dr. David Templeton, tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock sharp in his office. Dr. Templeton is an associate professor, in the BioMedical Sciences Department at UCF. His courses include instruction in chemical analysis and he teaches from the lab.

"Bingo!" I said, loud enough to send a mother passing by with her child in a stroller hurrying away.

"I think you should wear a blue sport coat, with a white shirt and a conservative tie," Johnny said, clearly proud of his accomplishment. "...and cop shoes."

"Hey Danny, we need to talk." I said into the cell phone. "Can you run on over here, I need to show you something. It's about Mark."

Danny took about fifteen minutes to show up. I used the time to print the documents on the optical duplicator. I wanted to have most of it ready before he arrived. I heard the grandfather clock bonging just as Johnny's new card came sliding out from the machine.

"What's up?" he said, and I could tell he was still a little disturbed about my refusal to get Tim involved. We had enough trust between us for me to know he hadn't said anything. Still, this was going to be a tough sell. I chose to play it with the presentation of the ID Cards first.

"Check this out and see if you can see what I've been thinking about." I showed him the FBI Identification Card, displayed as close to the real thing as Johnny could piece together. My face was displayed in the corner. Johnny had overlaid a white shirt and tie on my picture. The optical duplicator had synchronized all of the separate pieces of the documents that Johnny had produced. It sized them appropriately, matching them against the sample Johnny had snapped off the FBI Website. Then, after the production was complete, it put the laminate across both sides, sealed it and cut the edges perfectly.

"Where'd you get this?" Danny asked.

"I made it, and this one." I showed him the Assistant Attorney General card with Johnny's face on it.

"What do you need these for?" He asked. Although I could tell he was impressed with the forgeries, he still seemed to have some doubt about whether he would like my answer.

"Dan, we need to get the vial analyzed. Johnny found a Chemistry Professor at UCF, and got us an appointment for tomorrow afternoon. I think these cards may be good enough to pull off the story, but..." I hesitated briefly. Here comes the tough part.

"It would be completely convincing if we had Tim's Badge."

"Tim wouldn't ever part with...'"

"I know" I said. "I want you do borrow it."

"You mean steal, you want me to steal Tim's badge!"

It was a statement and he said it rapidly and angrily. He started to walk away. My voice made him pause.

"Borrow, I said borrow and I was really thinking borrow." I said "We'll give it back."

"Weee'rre not giving back anything 'cause I'm not taking anything."

"Don't you want to know, what he had in his pocket that probably had everything to do with why they followed him and shot him down?" I said. I had tried to turn it. To take the guilt of the theft off of me and put the fate of our friend all on him. And I had put a little heat on it when I said it. He stood with his hand on his hips, shaking his head for a long moment.

"Okay Mister Brainiac. How do you propose I do this?" This part would be easier than the sell had been.
Chapter S ix:

### "They're calling it Coyote."

**Monday.** On the way to UCF, I wondered what would become of the personal effects of Mark's estate. I remembered his mother, sister and niece lived in Daytona, and his father was somewhere in Alabama. I don't know why, but thoughts of them and whether they had been notified, kept running through my mind. I had a little bit of time to kill, so I took a slight detour and went over in the direction of Mark's trailer. I used the same route I had taken the other day. I pulled into the lane and went back around the bend. I noticed it right away. A stream of yellow and black tape running down the door, right along the seam between where the door would open and the side of the trailer. A six inch sticker affixed across the tape, Sealed! I couldn't see the smaller writing from the lane, so I got out and walked over. Sealed! Do Not Open, and in smaller print: by Order of the Orange County Sheriff. I guess there was a cooperative thing between the counties. Upon leaving, I drove by the house and noticed the same sticker tape deal on the back door.

Danny had surprised us by showing up last night at about eight thirty with Tim's FBI badge, saying he didn't want to talk about how he got it. He did the finger in my face thing, and made me promise to return it unscratched, unscathed and unmarked in anyway; tomorrow afternoon. When I told him that Johnny had modified an old leather passport folder to carry it and the identification card, he softened a little.

He asked me more about the plan, and then asked if he could come along. I played it as if three would be a crowd, rather than telling him, he might be a little too rough around the edges to impersonate an FBI agent or a lawyer. Barbie told me later that she had been cordial to him when he made some comment about my history with women, while I went in to get him a beer. I came back with two glasses of Barefoot and a Bud Light Lime and he said; "What's this?" I told him, "Try it you'll like it."

Over the drinks, he said he was sorry for being mad before, and that he couldn't figure out the depression. He talked about Mark a lot. We learned their relationship had developed over years of time, behind the stick and between the clouds. They had spent all the holidays together, mostly because Mark didn't have any one, and the thought of going to his mothers and having to face the "When are you gonna get a girlfriend?" questions, depressed him and made the time awkward. Danny said he had never flown with anyone so much like himself when they were in the air. They just knew what the other was thinking. Danny's relationship with Wendy was very good, but Danny spent more time away, than he did at home. Mark didn't go along when Danny and Wendy went out on Saturday nights, because he felt like a third wheel. All of the blind dates Wendy arranged for Mark had been uneventful.

It became apparent to us that Danny was seriously missing his best friend. They had become brothers. Danny had enjoyed it when Mark showed up with Becky because it had opened the door for the four of them to do things together. When he left, he hugged Barbie and said I'd better be good to her.

I was really concerned about being late, but I caught the remaining lights and got there on time to make the turn on Research Parkway with seven or eight minutes to spare.

We met the Professor in his office at two o'clock. He was a short man, dressed in a white lab coat, and wearing coke bottle, wire rimmed, glasses on his balding head. Johnny was dressed in a very impressive, expensive, three piece, dark brown suit, with matching tie and a light tan shirt. Cuff links and watch in the pocket. The suit was tailored immaculately, raising questions I didn't want to ask. He carried an elegant, soft leather, fold over type, brief case. Prominently displayed, inside the business card holder on the cover of the brief, was the beautifully crafted Assistant Attorney General ID card of Jefferson A. Barrette. I had heeded Johnny's request for my attire, including the "cop shoes" found in the back of a closet, and polished by Barbie this morning. My FBI identification card was inside the plastic case, attached to the recoiling string thing, which was clipped to my belt.

The professor was coolly polite and slightly apprehensive. I introduced us.

"My name is Bob Carlisle. I'm with the Bureau on temporary assignment, down from Quantico, working through the Jacksonville Office."

I pulled the passport folder out of my inside coat pocket and opened it before him, just long enough for me to see the pupils of his eyes focus, and then I closed it and replaced it in the pocket.

"And this is Jeff Barrette. He's with the Attorney Generals Office." They shook hands and Johnny said in his serious, practiced, lawyer voice

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Doctor."

"Please call me David." The Professor replied

"We got this guy on an interstate kidnap, and the statute of limitations is about to run out. We're in court with him later this afternoon and need to extend the case, and we found this in a bank lockbox yesterday using a federal search summons. It would really help if you could run this to determine the specific narcotic. I don't have the time to send it back to Quantico, and it will hold him long enough until Jeff can get the statute reinstated." I had said it as quickly as I could, keeping it coherent. I practiced it over and over this morning in front of Barbie. I handed him the vial.

"Do you have any thought about where I should start the analysis?" The question threw me, I hadn't anticipated it.

"No sir, I don't" I said.

"I assume you'll wait." He asked

"Yes sir, we need to." I said nodding.

"There's a coffee area down the hall, I'll meet you there." We waited and tried to estimate how long it would be, wondering how we would play it, if it took longer than a few hours. It was safe to assume that he knew the courts would close at around five or six. He surprised us when he showed up in about forty five minutes. He took us back to the office, and sat us in the comfortable leather chairs, in front of his desk.

"It's new. We've been conducting some studies of new generation hallucinogens, and one of the students recognized it. It gives the euphoric combination of the hazy high of marijuana and the focused intensity of cocaine, so its rapid popularity is understandable. It's sort of the best of both worlds. It was just listed on the illegal substance list, so you're in luck."

"It seems to be out of Mexico, but it may have ties farther south. Part Agave azul or blue Agave and, part Peyote cactus. The Peyote puts in on the illegal substance list. The blue Agave root is used in the distilment of Tequila. They're calling it; Coyote. The Agave root is combined with some specifically unidentified pieces of the Peyote, doesn't seem to be the button. They cook it to a certain temperature and allow it to cool slowly. It is then compressed with something similar to a garlic press, allowing the secretions to drain through a strainer and produce what you had in containment. Our information shows that a full tube of it will sell on the street for about five grand."

He stopped speaking and asked us to excuse him. He inserted a flash drive into the computer, looked at the screen, and then removed his glasses, wiping them with the tail of his lab coat. He replaced the glasses, and tapped a few keystrokes, and made two clicks of the mouse.

"There is a catch." He said when he resumed. "It doesn't work intravenously or by ingestion. I don't know, it might make you sick if you tried it. It has to have a sulphur primer and it has to have the reaction stimulated. The popular method, we're hearing, is to dip a paper match in to it, then push the match into the end of a cigarette, with the match head facing out. When the cigarette is lit, the sulphur in the match head stimulates the chemical reaction and the inhalation of the reaction produces the effects. You don't have to smoke the whole thing. Just a few puffs. The report is printing now." He said pointing to the printer. He handed the vial back to me.

"Hey, one more favor." I said "Do you have another one of these vials? I need to send some back to Quantico for the records."

"I don't have plastic, I only have glass." He said.

"That would be great." I replied. While he went to retrieve the vial, Johnny looked at me questioningly, but didn't speak. I looked at the report. It was professional, and in language I may or may not decide to decipher, at a later date. I had what I needed. When the Professor returned we tried to thank him and leave. He stopped us.

"Do you have a card?" he asked. I made a production of removing my wallet and searching without luck.

"It looks like I'm out. Would it be alright if I sent one along with your Commendation?" He quickly smiled and said that would be fine.

In the parking lot, Johnny and I took a moment to reflect before getting out of Dodge.

"I must humbly confess my amazement to you Squire." He said, and with his right arm across his mid section, he bowed slightly and then stood up and continued.

"The recent task performed by thee, was exemplary, and worthy of the highest stage in our land. I was only able to detect two miner deceptions of truth, which thou portrayed."

"Deceptions of truth?" I questioned "You mean mistakes."

"Accordingly," he said, and then chuckled. Failing to be able to continue in the Shakespearean voice, he smiled and spoke in his normal voice.

"One. There is no statute of limitations on kidnapping, and two, a statute can't be reinstated," he said.

"Ah, noted," I said. 'And I have one question for you. Wherever did thou obtain such immaculacy of attire?" Clearly pleased with my comment, Johnny just shook his head, as if to say it was a secret he would keep.

"Ask the yard sale lady if she... hath a cap to accompany." I said and ran to the Jeep.

Wednesday morning. When Barbie had just left for work, I stepped out the front and felt the hairs on my arms trying to leave town, in the wind. I looked at the windsock, and found it sticking straight out. Too windy. I wouldn't be flying today, even if I had wanted to.

Danny called a short time later and said the Sheriff had called him saying "You can get that plane out of there now." We made plans to meet at Danny's.

I arrived and found Tim Howell's pickup in the yard beside the driveway. Danny had me help him load a box of tools into his truck, before we hooked up the big flat bed car trailer to it. Tim came out of the garage and made small talk. He made no reference to anything concerning the badge, so that told me that Danny had gotten it back unobserved.

We took the truck and trailer out to the swamp, with Tim following in his truck. Danny had trouble getting it backed in close enough for the winch to reach the plane. The plan was to pull it out of the water, remove the wings on land, and take it back to Danny's until a decision was made on its disposition.

I knew Danny wanted the plane, but it would be up to Mark's family. Tim had also expressed some interest on a temporary basis, to give him something to fly, until he could either build or purchase a new one. I didn't care what happened to it, because I had no dog in the fight. We decided instead, to take the wings off first and then try to swing the tail around, hopefully moving the plane a little closer to the winch hook in the process. Tim backed his truck in as far as he dared, dropped the tailgate, sat down on it with his legs dangling and proceeded to watch.

Danny put the hip waders on again. I had come dressed in shorts and an old pair of sneakers from a box in the barn. We figured all the angles and calculated all the possibilities and lined our pockets with the best guess at all the tools we would need, and stepped into the murky muck of swamp water. Danny was muttering something about venomous snakes again.

I could see the ripples across the top of the swamp, and we were only about half way through the water when Danny stopped and removed his shirt. He balled it up and threw it towards the shore. The wind had a different idea, picking it up and sending it back into the water.

"Shit" Danny said and went to retrieve it. This time soaked, the ball of shirt made it passed the edge of the shore and landed in the bed of Tim's truck, catching Tim in the face with some of the spray on its way.

"That's bullshit!" yelled Tim, wiping his face on his tee shirt as we laughed. In the daylight and with more time to take notice, I immediately saw the holes going through several places in the wings and the horizontal stabilizer. Penetrations through both sides of the fabric, in what had to be additional bullet holes.

"Check it out." I said as I began counting. There were fourteen holes, counting each double penetration as one. Fourteen shots. These people weren't playing. They meant to do exactly what they did. It angered me, but it still didn't answer the question of whether there had been multiple shooters or an automatic weapon, or both, as the Sheriff had said.

We started to remove the left wing first. Undoing the links that hold the flying wires. These thin cables run from the fuselage out to the wing, below and above the wing to give additional support. Planes like mine and Danny's have aluminum struts instead of the unruly, pain in the ass wires. The wires are always catching on things and you can literally hang yourself, trying to cross under the wing without the knowledge of their existence. After the wires were loose, we started to unbolt the wings from the root tube at the fuselage. One stands at the end of the wing to support it, while the other removes the bolts. I was supporting the wing. We could have used Tim's help and let him know this, but he wasn't about to get wet.

When the wing was loose I began to swing my end around so both of us could walk in one direction toward the shore. The wing is lighter than it would appear, due to its aluminum and fabric construction. We were moving toward the water's edge, when a gust of wind took hold of the wing. In the attempt to hold on and save it, we both ended up under the surface of the murky brown swamp. I had the presence of mind to get the mouth shut and hold the breath, Danny was not so fortunate. He was yelling "Hold on! hold on!" and got submerged in midspeak. He came flailing up coughing and spitting swamp juice and yelled "Fuck!" once he regained control of the hacking.

The worst of it was yet to come, when he realized his hip waders were filled with water and the additional weight had lodged his feet securely into the muck. Unable to step forward, back, or to the side, he stood wavering and trying to keep his balance. Realizing this could get nasty, I made my way toward him as fast as I could wade. Discarding the grip on the wing, which was now barely floating and would sink once the interior filled with water.

By the time I got to Danny, he had lost his battle with balance and fell backwards with windmill arm swings and once again submerged himself. He had been yelling again when he went under. When I reached him, his arms were flailing out of the water, in attempt to grab at whatever he could to gain the needed support to get back up. That needed support eventually became me, and he damn near brought me under again with him.

"Tim! I need help, dammit!" I yelled. Tim reluctantly waded out to provide the assistance in helping Danny remove one leg at a time from each of the hip waders. Once we had established a moment of composure, Danny looked at Tim and began to express his thanks. He only got out a few words before the vomit came up, hitting Tim right in the breastbone.

"Oh Jesus Christ!" yelled Tim. "Oh. This is gross!"

We got Danny to the shore and parked him on his butt on dry land. Tim spent the next minutes alternating between consoling Danny and bitching at him, while I went to retrieve the wing. It had sunk and although I could move it, I couldn't get it up above the surface. I ended up dragging it, foot by foot toward the shoreline. When it was as close as I could get it, I dug through Danny's truck and then Tim's and finally came up with a dog leash with a snap hook on the end. Reaching the winch line out as far as it would go, I found I didn't need to use the rope to reach the dog leash at the end of the wing. I had Tim hold tension on the winch cable while I took up the slack by cranking the handle of the winch. It pulled the wing out of the water far enough to where we could slosh the rest of the water out of it. I didn't want to drag the wing across the ground any farther than necessary.

All of this took place while Danny was still recovering. He had been complaining that the loss of balance had strained his back. I set about intently on getting the plane out of the water. I realized I would need help and asked Tim to just help me with the right wing. Pointing out that he should just remove the shirt and wash the disgusting mess off, in the swamp water. He surprised me by admitting that it was a good idea.

Tim and I resumed the wing removal project, part two. This time after removing the flying wires, I took the wing loose from the root tube while Tim held the edge of the wing. Testing the wind, we decided to keep it as low to the water as possible and aimed it into the direction of the wind. We got it out with very little trouble. I went back to the tail of Mark's plane and made a good attempt at lifting it up. Turning it proved to be the difficult part. Like the waders, the wheels of the plane seemed to be anchored to the bottom of the swamp. The nose of the plane was at a forty-five degree angle to Danny's trailer. Even if we had enough rope to get to the nose of the plane, I was afraid something might rip loose if we pulled it out at that angle. I had a thought and seeing no other way around it, I sent Tim back to Danny's to get a long length of strong rope, or chain or whatever he could find amongst the this and that. I sat with Danny while Tim was gone.

"You alright man?" I asked.

"Yeah I'll be okay. My back just got wrenched when I lost balance." He said.

"The propeller effect with the arms didn't work out, did it?" He chuckled and then told me to stop when he realized it was painful to laugh.

"That swamp water is the nastiest tasting shit I've ever tasted." He said. I wanted to ask him about what other kinds of shit he had tasted, but thought better of it.

"I know." I said lying. "I got some of it in my mouth too." Tim came back with a healthy coil of bull rope that Danny had told him to look for, right before he left. I hadn't told Danny about my idea, because I knew it would be risky. I grabbed one end of the rope and let it uncoil as I made my way to the tail of the plane. I had told Tim to tie a loop in the other end, once I had it all uncoiled and to fastened the winch hook to the loop.

I was planning to use the leverage of the tail, which extended back fifteen feet or so from the landing gear wheels, as a method to twist them loose from the muck. I figured that twisting the wheels might just get them unstuck. The risk came in if the wheels were glued to the bottom, which was quite possible because they had been stuck there for who knows how long. The risk was to the boom tube, a five inch diameter aluminum tube which formed the fuselage base at the nose and continued back the entire length of the plane to the tail. If the wheels were in a permanently anchored state, the boom could bend or even snap.

When Danny, still watching from the bank, realized what I was attempting he began to complain. I told Tim, over the shouts of Danny not to try it, to crank up the winch slowly. I stood by testing the tension of the rope while Tim cranked the winch. The rope got taut, then very taut, and with a suction sound similar to the last bit of water running down the drain in a bathtub, the boom and the whole plane turned just slightly. Fearing it would re-stick itself, I yelled to Tim to keep cranking. A little while later the tail was in line with Danny's trailer.

I refastened the rope to bring the tail straight out of the water, and after removing the rope when the winch had brought the plane close enough to connect the winch cable alone, we pulled the tail and the landing gear up onto the trailer. We used some ratchet straps to secure the plane at multiple points, for the ride to Danny's

"Before we leave," Danny asked, "can you get my waders?" Several attempts to remove the waders from their anchorage proved fruitless, and I would venture to say they will remain there forever.

We arrived at Danny's not wanting to waste anymore time sitting and stinking in the swill of the swamp water. We all agreed that we would get to washing the plane whenever we could and I stripped, wiped myself down with a towel found in Danny's garage, and drove home naked in the Jeep. The swamp water shorts, underwear and sneakers deposited in Danny's burn barrel.
Chapter Seven:

### "I know a lot about the killing, 'cause I found the plane."

**Thursday morning**. "Sheriff Watson please." I said when the dispatcher picked up the phone.

I didn't know how else to get in touch with him. I had thought about calling 911, but dismissed the idea when I remembered all those calls were recorded. After walking through the library, the kitchen and the bedroom, searching and wondering where I'd put those new phone books. They were left at the front door by one of those telephone companies who want to get you signed up with one of their exclusive, all encompassing, calling plans. I use the Brighthouse Networks. It gives you the telephone, the digital TV and the high speed internet all in one, and they don't supply the phone books. The books should have been in the library, but they weren't. Finally, I succumbed to the last resort. I called 411 on the cell, and got connected to the Sheriff's Office.

"He's not in the office right now." She said

"Can you connect me to his car?" I was thinking she should be able to do that.

"Is this official business sir? If it's official business, you're supposed to call 911."

"Could you give me his cell?" I asked.

"The Sheriff doesn't authorize the release of his cellular or home phone number."

"It's not... really official...I just want to talk to him." I said.

"If it's not official business, the Sheriff has left instructions for the calling party to leave a message and the Sheriff promises to return all calls, as soon as his convenience permits." She had to be reading this from a card. I hadn't anticipated this much red tape and I was getting the little pang of foolishness, of trying to figure out what to say next and not being able to.

"Aaah okay, um. Could you leave a message, telling him to call Jake Snow?"

"Number please?"

I rattled off the number to her, thanked her very much for her time, and snapped the cell closed. I wondered how long it would take for the Sheriff to get to his convenience.

I went out to the barn, remembering that I wanted to take a look at the water rudders on the plane. I'd felt the little tug and heard a noise, coming off the water after finding Mark. When I had parked her in the barn later that day, I saw the left rudder hanging out of place, but hadn't taken time to look at it closer. When I got to the barn, I went in through the steel door. It brings you in from the north end. There, on the top of the tool box cabinet lay the phone books. I now remembered bringing them out last week, when calling multiple hardware stores to locate a stainless bolt of special length and thread, to replace one of the turnbuckle ends. It should be known that stainless doesn't always mean stain free. Stainless bolts are not always all their cracked up to be. They will rust and fail if something went just slightly wrong, in the heating and forging process. I have snapped off the heads of quarter inch bolts, while tightening them with very little pressure. You are supposed to use a special bolt known as an AN Type on aircraft, but they are impossible to locate quickly, and I use a stainless replacement until FedEx can send me the proper aircraft bolt, in a day or two.

The rudder was hanging. I went around, checked the right one and found it in good shape. I went back to the left. The rudders are mounted to the aft, center of the floats. They serve to help the steering of the airplane when in the water. They are very effective when there is wind causing the plane to drift in the water. They work like the rear steering operation of an outboard engine on a boat. Turn the engine, and the rear of the boat pushes the front in the direction desired. They are mounted using two bearing blocks, an upper and a lower. An aluminum shaft runs vertically between them, with the rudder affixed to the shaft. The bearings allow the shaft to move back and forth. The rudder is mounted just high enough so that it will not touch the ground, or interfere with the landing gear operation, but low enough so the draft of the float will rest it below water level. It only works when you are in a water taxi mode. Once you apply some throttle and begin moving quickly through the water, the floats rise up on top of the water, also raising the rudder. At this point the aircraft tail rudder becomes the method of steer.

The water rudder is made of that special plastic invention called UHMW. Ultra High Molecular Weight plastic. Virtually indestructible. It is available in all kinds of sizes and shapes, and used for multiple purposes in all types of commercial and industrial applications. It might bend, but it will not break. It is very lightweight, and reasonably priced, considering its function. They are many different pieces and parts on the Beaver made of it.

Something in the water had apparently snagged the rudder. The mounting bolts of the bearing block, were pulled out of the rear of the float. I would need to spend some time on this repair. No time like the present. I went about running the extension cord and getting the drill and the bits, when I heard the little buzzer squawk. I looked out to the lane and saw the police cruiser coming in .I went over and pressed the button. The fiberglass bi-fold hanger door began to lift. By the time the door opened, the cruiser was close enough for me to see that the driver was Sheriff Watson. He pulled up close to the barn and stopped. As I stood by the door opening, he got out of the car, reached up to his shoulder microphone speaker and squeezed it. I realized he was engaged in conversation.

"...okay Mary... Break, Hadley, you got a copy?" The Sheriff asked.

"Yeah Sheriff, Go" A voice replied through the speaker.

"Hadley, I need you to run up to the Benson place and pick up their boy, Alderman Blake says he's been tearin' the church yard up with that four wheeler again."

"You mean Jeremy Bensen? Aw... C'mon... Sheriff...Every time we pick him up, they call One-Eight-Hundred Citation and them lawyers make it so he don't even have to show up in court," whined the voice.

"Hadley!...What am I paying you to do?" The Sheriff boomed.

"Yes sir. On my way."

The Sheriff shut the car door and muttered "Deputies..." He came over to the barn.

"Pretty fancy place you got here." He said not waiting for a reply. "You were looking for me, Jake?"

"Sheriff, we found something in the hanger, where Mark kept his plane. I was wondering if you thought it might be relevant." I handed him the spare vial and while he was looking at it, I handed him the store receipt.

"And this....it's grid numbers, he would have punched it, into the GPS. I looked it up. It's a location on the Island of Nassau, in The Bahamas. Google Earth is a wonderful thing, have you ever seen it?" He studied the numbers on the receipt, then flipped it over to see the location of the store.

"That the program where you can see the earth and zoom down on places real close?"

"Yes. "

"Yeah, they use it in the Tax Office, for reassessing. Seems people don't always tell the county when they put on additions or build a garage. You get a permit when you put up this Taj Mahal?" He asked looking at the barn.

"Yes sir. I did."

"Pretty fancy looking plane you got there." He stood observing the barn and its contents. He stayed quiet for a long time. I was thinking about investigative observation and wondering what was going through his mind as he looked around.

"I was thinking to get over to that airplane park, look through his hanger... just spread a little thin on the manpower right now. I'm carrying some of the deputy routine...shouldn't have to, but somebody's got to do it. Seen you boys got his plane out. What'd you figure's in the vial?"

"I don't know...probably drugs. Sure doesn't sound like Mark though." I said.

"People'll fool ya. Fool me all the time ...just like you did. What'd you find in the Bahamas? He asked.

"Tire tracks from his plane."

"How're sure it's his?" He asked.

"Looks like his wheel width, and the grid numbers marked the spot. Looks obvious to me. Doesn't make much sense though, he had to have stopped somewhere else between there and River Ranch...the range is too long. What can you tell me about what they found on his GPS?" I asked. He stayed silent. All during the conversation, his eyes had never left the barn and the Beaver. It was starting to annoy me. I had visions of reaching over a slapping the shit out of him. I would tell him to stop treating me like a suspect, or a school boy. I'd tell him I thought I could investigate this case better than...

"You're right Jake, he was in Nassau...Grand Bahamas too. The Bahamanians don't care about nothin'. The DA people were looking for something like maybe what's in that vial. Some reason or motive. All the other locations on the GPS were north of River Ranch, and nothin' more'n sixty miles from where his plane was. The gunshot was a two twenty three caliber, probably M16 or an AR15. Multiple shooters or one set up to fire bursts. Ballistics can't confirm, 'cause they only found the one bullet. The wound went in to a place just below his heart where he was able to stay alive for a little bit. I don't understand all the technicalities of the anatomy but, long enough to land the plane in there. Orange County found nothing in his house....Hang on a minute."

He pulled out a book style notebook and flipped through some pages. He stopped at one page; studying, then flipped to the back page and scribbled something, flipped forward again, then back again and scribbled one more time. Then, he reached up to the top of the last page and ripped it out, and handed it to me.

"Grand Bahamas grid." He said.

I repaired the water rudder by remounting both the upper and lower bearings. I was putting the tools away when Johnny pulled his van into the lane. We went into the house and puttered around talking about the plan to check out the swinger place. We got on the website, looking for clues about what actually goes on at a place like that. There seemed to be all types of activity. We finally did locate a note which insinuated that things really didn't get into full swing, if you'll pardon the pun, until closer to midnight. And, that they didn't kick everyone out and close the doors until six in the morning. I needed to check with Barbie first, but I was thinking to drive down tomorrow night.

We wanted to see just how popular this Coyote drug was, so I typed in 'coyote' on the Yahoo browser. Every thing coming up was related to a small wolf like carnivorous animal. I tried 'coyote narcotic' and came up with zero. Lots if stuff using each word in the same sentence, but nothing putting the two together. Los Coyotes is a middle school in Los Angeles. Los Coyotes Indian Reservation is in San Diego. Next, I entered 'coyote drug' and a thousand stories about drug smugglers appeared. I guess they term 'coyote' went all the way back to Pablo Escobar in Medellin, when he started referring to his drug runners as coyotes and mules. Additional word combinations were getting us nowhere.

"I guess it's not as popular as the Professor led us to believe." I said to Johnny.

"Maybe there just hasn't been many arrests, remember he said it was new."

"Well, you'd think there'd be something." I said. "Let's check out something else."

We took a trip to the River Ranch website. This was a quite bit more interesting. It was a Cowboy Dude Ranch, complete with all the amenities. I started reading the resort overview.

"At River Ranch near Lake Wales, Fl. We encourage you to release your inner cowboy with many different activities..."

"Want to be a cowboy Jake?" Johnny asked.

"Yeah right...I have enough things going on. I think you're the one who should learn to rope a goat" I said.

"If they've got cowboys, I bet they have cowgirls too, do they have a dance hall?"

The bonging of the bells sounded.

"Must be Barbie." I said.

"What's up with you two?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Has she been spending the nights here?" This time he did.

"Yep. I think she might be around for awhile." I said not looking for or caring about his reaction. We looked around the site some more. This was a really big place.

"Check it out John." I said "Smoke house grill, pool, hot tub, tennis and basketball, 18 hole golf and mini golf...shooting range, full service marina and boat rentals. Marina comes in off the Kissimmee River...riding and boarding stables. I wonder if the have goats?...A complete RV campground, look at that John, you can take your camper down there, stay for week...probably come back a new man."

"Shut up." He said. I went back to it.

"Oh, and look at this. A Saturday night rodeo, I bet they do have Dance Hall Girls."

"What are you boys up to?" Barbie asked.

"Hey baby, we found out that River Ranch is a cowboy dude ranch, Johnny was hoping they had a dance hall. He took one look at the site and phoned in his reserva..."

I didn't get it all out because Johnny knocked me right off of the chair. Now, I was laughing so hard I couldn't move. Johnny was giggling and going about picking up all the stuff that got knocked off the table, when I went down. Barbie was standing there with a smile on her face, and shaking her head slowly.

When we collected ourselves and the jokes were losing their luster, I went back to the computer and we all looked at the site again.

"Where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Oh yeah...Saturday night rodeo. Maybe we'll go see the rodeo on Saturday. ..Wait, I'm serious." I said when they both started to object, "I need to go down there and snoop around....I guess we'll see how we feel, I should probably go down there in the daytime anyhow."

I couldn't find anything related to an airport, until I saw a Resort Property Map icon, and clicked on it. There was an airfield down in the extreme right corner, marked by an arrow, and next to the Welcome Center. It appeared to be more than a quarter of a mile from the main resort area, on the other side of what looked like a shooting range, from the air. This entire operation was a pretty fancy deal. I wondered how Mark would fit in at a dude ranch.

I checked Google Earth and found the airfield on the northwest side of the resort. Long, paved runway. I snapped a ruler measurement, almost five thousand feet. Almost a full mile. Why would they need that? I started studying the terrain and the approach, and caught myself. We'll see this from the ground first. I needed a vehicle to go wondering and snooping around.

"Do you want to go over to Harrison's for dinner? Johnny asked

"I don't know. They'll want me to go up."

"That's the whole point." He said. "You always have fun up there."

"Just don't know if I'm feeling that festive." I said slowly shaking my head

"Bring the widow, she always has a good time when..."

"I heard that Johnny!" She said cutting him off. She was in the kitchen.

We went to Harrison's. It is a very nice dinner club. Not too expensive and a great atmosphere. Steaks, Chicken, and Ribs. Ice cold bottled beer. Top shelf liquor if that's your fancy. They also bank a nice selection of white wine. The tables are all set up to face the stage. Set in a semi-circle. There are no seats with their backs to it. The first level has four tables. The next level behind is elevated, and because the semi circle gets larger, it holds more tables. The levels continue to elevate in tiers as they go back. They have a house band every night and the national acts on a couple of weekends, during the year. Sometimes they have performances and plays. They encourage local talent to sit in with the house band, and the boys always get along real well with each other. Everybody always has a good time.

When we got to the parking lot, we could see there were cars in over half the spaces. Johnny had called in a reservation earlier. We walked in the door later than most of the dinner crowd. We heard a lot of "hi's and how ya doin's." I saw some people pointing our way from across the dining room. Barbie and I had both been here on the same occasions, but never together as we were tonight. I could see and hear Danny up on stage tuning his favorite Gibson six string. This particular model, a Les Paul, was a gift from all of us for his birthday, two years ago. He gave me a smile and the thumbs up when he saw me. Joey Dean was sitting behind the big Zildjian rig. There are Fender Vibroverb amps, stacked up all around the back. Johnny had brought his tenor sax, and a trombone and coronet were racked, up on the stage. There is also a sound mixer board, set up on the second tier, center. They sat us on the third tier, two tables to the right of center. We ordered just before Danny stepped up to the microphone. During the dining hours, the man at the mixer keeps the volume levels turned down to a level where you can still have a conversation.

"How ya'll doing tonight?" Danny said and received a lot of applause. "I'd like to take a moment of remembrance tonight. One of our hero's has fallen. Mark Easton died in a plane crash recently." There were whispers and murmuring. Danny stood with his head bowed for a long minute.

He broke his stance and turned to the other boys in the band and nodded. He stepped back up to the microphone.

"Ready for some Jimmy Buffet?"

This was received with light applause and Danny could attribute it to his announcement about Mark.

"Well alright then." Danny started with Cheeseburger in Paradise, and followed it with Fins. He had the crowd doing the left and right arm thing, in time with the lyrics. The crowd was in a party mood, and everybody likes Buffet. Danny continued with two more songs, originals from his repertoire, with one quietly dedicated to his friend. Danny actually has some things recorded. I've heard some of his country tunes, and they are pretty good. When he finished, he took the Gibson over by the piano, and plugged it in to an amp there, as someone I didn't recognize, playing bass stepped forward and started to sing. He was holding a big white, expensive looking Gretsch and belting out the Southside Johnny tune; I don't want to go home. He was nailing it. I could see that Danny planned to be up there all night. I could see Wendy, up front at one of the floor level tables. Her table was full with friends. We finished eating and I asked for coffee. The waitress brought it over and leaned down between Barbie and me.

"How about you Jake?" she asked

"Oh, I don't think so...not tonight." Johnny spoke to her when she came by the next time.

"Who else is coming up?"

"Dave's up next and he said he wants you to sit in for some Hornsby and Cohn. Johnny looked at me and smiled.

"I need to change a reed." He said, and he got up and went toward the stage, carrying the saxophone. A little while later, Dave Graham came out to join the boys and the crowd went wild. We have our own little, local, all star groups, here in the Clermont area. Nice fan base and everybody always has a great time. Dave sat down at the Korg piano, addressed the audience and went into some very fine renditions of That's Just the Way It Is, and Every Little Kiss. He pounds the ivories, without thought. Then he rolled into a medium speed solo for a few measures, which reminded everyone of something else, and then stepped it right down to a dead stop... and into Walking in Memphis.

" _I put on my blue suede shoes, and I...boarded the plane._

Touched down in the land of the Delta Blues, in the middle of the pouring rain.

_Touched_ _down in the land of the Delta Blues...in the middle of the pouring...rain."_

"Absolutely Fabulous!" I shouted, as we stood with the rest of the crowd and cheered. Dave and the boys did a few Eagles tunes and then took a break. When they came back up on stage. Johnny looked at me and just raised his head in kind of a half nod upward and smiled. I knew what was coming. Danny stepped up to the microphone and said "Ya'll about ready for Jake?"

"Jake, Jake, Jake" and "Come On Jake!" I heard the crowd. They were standing and clapping now. I raised the left hand.

"Naw...not tonight." Barbie reached over and put her hand on mine.

"Go ahead Jake. I haven't heard you for a long time." I smiled at her. I stood up and held up my hand.

"Just a few," I said and made it through the crowd with some high fives. When I got on the stage, we huddled briefly. I leaned in to see if we would be in agreement. In a soft voice I said,

"How're we feeling?" They gave me nods.

"Jake, this is Pete." Danny said introducing the bass player. I shook his hand. "How's your catalog?" I asked.

"Hear it, play it." He said.

"Cool." And then to the group I said. "Let's do Stewart, then Elton... Your Song, and Henley's Innocence, and then maybe we'll take a couple requests." I said to them. "Okay, Johnny and Danny...bring it in strong on The Cat."

I stepped over to the piano and adjusted the stool. I like to be almost standing with my butt just resting against the stool. It gives me the freedom to get my arms almost fully extended. I tapped the keys and heard a good feed through the monitors. I adjusted the microphone, so it swung in from the side, over the top of the keys. I looked out at the crowd.

"Hey Now!" I said to cheers.

"I've really come to appreciate great pianists, so we're gonna do the first ones in a tribute. See if you can guess who they are, and I'd really like to thank Dave for struttin' his stuff for us!" This brought an acknowledgement of applause for Dave, and then they quieted down quickly in anticipation. I started alone, the mixer kept the volume low, and the overhead spot was on my hands, moving on the keys. When the third stanza hit, the boys came in with their parts, and the mixer brought up the volume and the lights, right on cue. I smiled, and for the first time since I had started, looked out at the audience. Then, looked back over to the boys and gave them the nod. We're all in time.

" _On the morning from a Bogart movie, in a country where they turn back time._

You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre, contemplating a crime.

She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running, like a watercolor in the rain

Don't bother asking for explanations, she'll just tell you that she came

_In the Year of the Cat."_ At the break Danny picks it in a Spanish style, right up to the time when Johnny comes in with the big horn.

" _When morning comes, and you're still with her_

...and the bus and the tourists are gone

... _and you've thrown away your choice, and lost your ticket. So you have to stay on._

But the drum beat strains of the night remain, in the rhythm of the newborn day

You know some time you're bound to leave her, but for now you're gonna stay

_In the Year of the Cat."_ Johnny finished up with the horn, I gave a nod to the mixer and he faded it down. I looked at him again, giving him a wink when I hit the first key of the next song and he brought it back up quickly.

" _It's a little bit funny..."_ We do it in Elton's Australian Concert version. The entire accompaniment comes in slowly, building it up until we're all in there now. This part always brings a big smile to my face.

" _I sat on the roof, and I kicked off the moss..."_ I point out to the crowd, as if I see someone in the back.

" _It's for people like you that... keep it turned on..."_ It's built pretty well now and I'm hammering the keys.

" _Anyway the thing is... what I really mean..."_ I look right into Barbie's eyes.

" _Yours are the sweetest eyes...I've ever seen."_ All of us are really putting a lot of power into it.

"... _how wonderful... my life is... while you're in the world!"_ It ends, with a rifle of the hand down the keys, and I don't forget to point.

"That's your song!" They are all standing and applauding, and arms waving. It's raising the roof. I stand off to the side of the piano, salute them with a pointed finger moving across, and then turn to the boys and give them the single nod with a pump of the right fist. I stepped right back up and hit the keys again. Johnny knew to play the organ parts on the sax. The boys are ready and bring it back after two seconds, just at the right time.

" _Remember when the days were long and rolled beneath the deep blue sky..."_ I played almost the entire song with my eyes closed because it is truly a very beautiful song and it has special meaning to me. I moved the head in bobs and shakes in time with the bass and the drum. Most of the time my left leg pivots off the ball of my foot. I really need to bring in a lot of air before each line of lyric, and sending it back out, tends to furl the eyebrows, when hitting the highs with the voice. I'd lean back and to the side during the instrumental riffs, when I am hitting the keys with both hands in sync. We finished it after the mixer brought it down slowly. I stood up and looked at the crowd's gracious applause, and saw sincerity there, and it moved me. I think it moved all of us.

"What song is it you wanna here?" I said in my best Ronnie Vansant, from back in the seventies. I moved away from the piano and picked up the Fender Stratocaster and strapped it on. I love this guitar. It puts out the best southern sound I know, and its got a great little wa-wa arm. Bob Wilson from the house band took my place at the piano. The crowd was yelling for Freebird, Sweet Home, Outlaws, Molly Hatchet.

"Don't wanna do Freebird, but here's one from the same album." I looked at the band and held up three fingers. Danny started, the audience immediately recognized it, and I stepped up, front stage center.

" _I was cutting the rug, down at a place called the Jug_

With a girl named Linda Lu

When in walked a man, with a gun in his hand

_And he was looking for you know who..."_ We were all having great fun, the audience was singing along, some were dancing in the aisles.

"...' _cause that's my women there and I'm a man who cares and this might be all for you."_ I turned turn the band, smiled.

" _I said excuse me..."_

We ended in unison, and I heard some one yell. "Sultans"

"I heard that!" I said and turned to the boys "Ready?"

Joey hit the sticks and we all hit the second note together. I came in with the lead riff.

" _You get a shiver in the dark,_

It's been raining in the park, but meantime

_South of the river you stop and you hold everything..."_ This is one of my all time favorite songs.

" _There's competition in other places._

_Oh but the horns keep blowing that sound."_ Johnny steps up.

" _Way on down south,...way on down south...Londontown."_ I decide to take a little creative liberty with the lyrics.

" _Check out guitar Dan, he's the leader of this band_

Mind, he's strictly rhythm he doesn't want to make it cry or sing

And an old guitar is all he can afford

_When he gets up under the lights to play his thing_." Danny holds up the new Gibson, and it draws applause and shouts for him, so I do the same thing for my best friend.

" _and Johnny doesn't mind if he doesn't make the scene_

He's got a daytime job, he's doing alright

He can play the honky tonk, just like anything

_He's saving it up for Friday night._ " Johnny gets the same rewards from the audience and tosses in an improvised horn solo. The next part was all mine, but since Johnny went off on his own, Danny and I went off on ours, too. Instead of going into the last verse, we brought the ending riff up first, and used it to duel with each other. We drew it out for more than a minute, standing face to face, in the competition. We were both running our fret hands up and down the scale and it was very cool. Right before we came back around the corner to do the verse, I leaned over and said to him. "End it on swing...and I'm done." I stepped back in front of the mike, and Danny passed the message to everyone. This time it was all me.

" _and then the man he steps right up to the microphone_

And says at last just as the time bell rings

Goodnight. Now it's time to go home

And he makes it fast with one more thing

_We are the Sultans...We are the Sultans of Swing."_ At the last word, swing, we ended it, held our arms up and thanked the audience. They were fantastic to us. I unstrapped the guitar and placed it back in its stand. I made my way to the front of the stage and we all did our thank you salutes. I started to move off the stage amid the shouts and applause hearing the chant start small and suddenly get louder.

"One More Song! One More Song! One More Song!" Then, I heard Danny and Johnny saying it, while Joey kept the beat of the chant on the kettle drum. They wouldn't let me off the stage. Finally I stepped back up, grabbed the Fender again, and moved back to the microphone. I looked out at Barbie; she had a look of pride, and seemed amazed by the audience response.

"Thank you so much! It sure is nice to be playin' for ya'll again! ...We'd like to finish with another tribute, this time to Southern Bands, and if we don't mention your favorite, it doesn't mean we don't love them too....And it also pays a special tribute to the great state that we all live in! ... Let's see if I can take it way down into the growl for Mister Danny Joe Brown, rest his soul." They went wild again and I didn't have to tell the boys a thing. Danny started the lead and hit the whistle.

" _I've been to Alabama; people ain't a whole lot to see;_

Skynyrd says it's a real sweet home but it ain't nothing to me.

Charlie Daniels will tell you the good Lord lives in Tennessee, ha!

But I'm going back to the gator country where the wine and the women are free..."

As I was singing and looking out over the crowd, I noticed the entrance door open and Sheriff Watson walk in. I continued the song. When we finished, the mixer brought the lights up. I was grateful. I have a deep respect for the big rock groups and all the professional singers, and even the cover bands that perform year round, three or four nights a week for upwards of two hours. I envy their dedication. Doing this is massively enjoyable, however it drains you. It takes an intense amount of concentration to get all the notes and chords right, while listening to make sure you're in time with everyone, and getting the voice inflections just the way your mind thinks they should be. I always get the tension pressure in the temples, sometimes associated with too much coffee and not enough food.

This is massively enjoyable. The boys were all enjoying the adulation. It strokes the ego, yet we're not so naïve to think we could do it for a living. This is a small town with a small fan base. We said the "nice job's" and the "lets do it again soon's," and I looked out over the audience, now mulling around toward the exits, trying to find Barbie. Not finding her where we were seated, I scanned the room and stopped when I found the eyes of Sheriff Watson, locked on mine. He nodded to me and then gave a tilting motion of his head toward the door. I acknowledged him and flashed a five fingered hand. He nodded back and walked over in the direction of the door.

I found Barbie on her way out of the Ladies Room, and filled her in. She asked if I wanted to go to see him alone and I told her I thought we'd be okay together. We'd see him and then go home.

The Sheriff had parked his car, inconspicuously in the back row of the lot, and held his hand above the cars to catch my gaze when I was looking. It didn't draw much notice. When we got to him, he was leaning against the front fender. He nodded to Barbie and with a brief touch to his hat, said "Maam." He gave me a questioning look.

"What about her?" he asked.

"She's cool." I said

"Looks like you're pretty popular up on that stage." I smiled.

"We had a good time tonight." He straightened his body away from the car, and stood placing his hands on his hips. He looked at me as if considering what he was about to say.

"Seems that vial of liquid you gave me yesterday, was a listed narcotic, but I guess you already knew that." He said this with an ire of disturbance in his voice. It was the same ire, I remembered from our first encounter, when he busted Danny and me at Mark's plane. It caused some tingling on the back of my neck.

"Seems." He continued. "The Professor of Bio Medicine, down at UCF is related by marriage, to one of the guys who works in the chem lab at the Coroner's Office. They talk a lot. He gave a description of some people looking remarkably similar to you, and probably that sax player," he paused momentarily. "Said two guys from the FBI showed up, wanting an analysis of the same stuff, quick like, to take to court. There are no FBI drug cases pending." He paused again, looking at me. I felt frozen and stunned.

"Yeah Sheriff...that's true." I said.

"What're you up to Jake?"

"I apologize Sheriff." I said, in an act as sincere as I could play it.

"I guess I just didn't feel that you were doing the give and take thing, like I need you to. I needed to know more, so I figured I'd throw you a bone and see what you'd give back." I paused to catch more thought and then continued.

"I can't take any publicity, Sheriff. I have a good business. It works for me. It gives me a nice life, living it just about the way I want to live it...and I can't be in the papers or on the television with this. I can't take the risk of my customers forming negative thoughts. I try to stay under the radar...but I'm going to find out what happened."

. "Okay boy, I'm reading you clearly. What's it gonna' take to open this up between us?" he asked it without the former tone. I didn't know. I still didn't know if I could trust him. I didn't know if he was ready to trust me. I was thinking about it when I started to feel that it was rapidly coming to a now or never place. Something between us had to break. I decided to break it.

"It's going to take trust, Sheriff. The kind of trust, where you won't the snap the cuffs on, when you find out what I've already done. Where you'll respect that I'm going to do this, with or without the law. Where you'll let me do what I have to do, without trying to reign me in. And if I get hurt in the process, I'll know that you'll keep it off the books and out of the press." I stopped again, reconsidering. Here comes the moment of truth between us. Whether he would see it my way, or I'd be in the back seat with the silver bracelets.

"I know a lot about the killing, 'cause I found the plane."
Chapter Eight:

### "I've seen him go from calm to mean as a snake, in two seconds."

" **Whoa boy!** I'm telling you right now, I WANT NO MORE SURPRISES!" The Sheriff boomed. He looked around and saw that the loudness of his voice had drawn the attention of some in the parking lot. He stepped up close to me and said in a voice just above a whisper.

"I want to know every frickin' thing you know, and I want to know now....Sorry Maam." He said and looked at Barbie.

"Well Sheriff...We'd better go to my place, 'cause I can't tell you without showing you too."

"Let's move!" he said.

The conversation between Barbie and me, on the way home was mostly a nervous rant by me. My mind was reeling. I had this vision where I could hear the clanging echo, over and over of the cell door closing. I told her one of the locations in the house where I keep cash hidden and then I gave her my check card and told her the pin. I was thinking she would need money to bail me out. Use the check card first, I said, if the bail is more, then get the cash from the house. She was trying to calm me down, saying the Sheriff would be okay once he heard it all. I said he was going to freak. Two crimes scenes, one unreported. Evidence stolen from both. I was thinking about lawyers and jails and judges. I told her to call Johnny right away. Remind me not to take anything with me out of the house. No wallet, no phone, no ID. She and Johnny might need everything if this went on for awhile. She would have the phone for contacts to call customers saying I was called away for a death in the family or something.

We arrived at the house and I was still shaken. She leaned over, just as I put the Jeep in park, and kissed me.

"It's gonna' be alright Jake... Don't worry."

The Sheriff pulled in right behind us and got out. When we got in the house, we took him to the library. He wasn't wearing the radio. He had on a blue denim shirt and black jeans. He wore the hat I'd seen him wearing the night at the plane. Barbie asked if we wanted something to drink. I declined and the Sheriff accepted a Diet Pepsi. His attitude was inquisitive and he asked a lot of questions. He asked for Barbie's personal information. The story began. It started to get all jumbled together and finally he stopped me. He told me to tell it from the beginning, so I started with Mark's plane and Barbie helped me display all the things I found on the plane. I progressed through telling Danny, and when I mentioned Becky he stopped me. He showed the anger again, wanting to know why I hadn't told him before. I explained that I couldn't. We told him about Barbie calling in the anonymous tip. We showed him the pictures. I gave him the lab report from UCF, and showed him the FBI ID card. Barbie showed him the cruise and the swinger's club information I'd gotten from the internet. I showed him Mark's tracks on Google Earth. We punched in the new grid numbers and it showed us a field. There was nothing readily apparent found there. Grass mostly. A large clump of trees off to the side. One thing for certain though, you could put a plane down there. I told him what my plans were for tomorrow.

When I had finished and I was pretty sure we hadn't left anything out, he went over the highlights and took some notes. He asked a lot more questions about Becky, most of which we couldn't answer because I hadn't known her and neither had Barbie. I kept Barbie out of all of it. He asked more questions about Becky, related to the crime scene. I told him a fairly thorough search had revealed only the pictures and the box of silver. He asked if we saw a diary. He said her folks had said she kept a diary every night. They didn't understand why it was missing. I told him I'd already discovered the what. I had a good idea about at least one or two of the who. And, that my ultimate goal was to uncover the entire operation. He thought that was dangerous. When we were finished this time he said he had to go out and call in.

"What do you think? She asked.

"I don't know what he's thinking."

"His attitude is calmer." She said.

"I've seen him go from calm to mean as a snake, in two seconds." I said. The Sheriff came back in and sat down. He took his hat off and scratched his head. He seemed to be thinking again. He looked at his watch and then he looked at Barbie.

"Maam, you seem like a real nice girl, and I really wish you weren't involved in all this, but you are. If Jake had left you in the car, or in the bar, I'd have felt much better. I have to tell you both right now, that my hands are tied. I wouldn't be able to let all this just walk down the street. Questions would be raised, that I'd have to answer. Sometimes I feel like I'd like to quit this job. Sometimes it just doesn't seem to be worth the frustrations and the headaches. But for now, I need to hold onto it. You can understand. The people of Lake County elected me, based on the trust and belief, that I would maintain justice. A scandal of any kind would be disastrous." He was doing the pause thing again. I was really scared. It was past the worry point. Not so much for myself, but for her. He was taking the both of us in. I was hoping I could call Johnny before we left.

"That's why it is very important that you comprehend it. You have to completely understand what's involved and how dangerous it could get. You have to be in complete agreement... That I was never here... and we never had this conversation.

Friday morning. We were sitting on the lawn chairs out by the barn, just at the edge of the runway, waiting for the first golden rays to peek up in the east and reach for the clouds. Mugs of steaming coffee and warm pannini sandwiches, hot off the press in the kitchen. It is a very special time of day. The smells are so unique. The surrounding sound of the birds announcing the new day, and the wetness of the grass all go away shortly after the sun rises. There is no other picture that compares to an ever changing Florida sky. We were sitting by on the ready line, waiting to fly.

We had been up late last night and I was concerned about Barbie, considering she would be going in to work later this morning, and our plans called for a late night tonight. I planned to crawl up on the couch this afternoon, read a novel and let the eyes close for a couple of hours. Barbie said she'd also try to lie down at her house for a few hours after work. The real party wouldn't get started in Tampa tonight, until after eleven.

The Beaver was already out. Preflight complete and she had been warmed up. Barbie had talked me into an early morning flight. Don't get it wrong. I am not fond of passengers. Things can go wrong and get stupid in the air. Passengers can freak, grabbing the stick or pushing the pedals. I only take to the skies with people I feel comfortable with. But, I had welcomed the chance to say yes to her. I wanted her to experience the feeling. You get a whole new perspective on the world from a thousand feet above it. It cannot be felt the same way, in one of the commercial jets because they go to fast. It can only be the real thing, at somewhere less than their speed.

We were silently treasuring the very special time we shared, after he left us, last night. Last night, we decided to calm the nerves with a glass of white, after saying good night to Sheriff Watson. I went to the wine closet and selected a bottle. We talked about the close call we thought we had. Relishing in the lucky break we gotten and promising to keep it to ourselves. We talked about moving forward, and the plans for the next move. Later, Barbie said she had a surprise for me and she went in to change into something more comfortable.

When she returned, she was wearing a cotton summer dress, the type I had never seen her in. It had a wispy weedy, flowery pattern, and fell to just above her knees. The top seam line, not close against her neck, yet not so low as to be revealing. There was six or seven buttons leading part way down from the center point of the dress. All but two were buttoned. The sleeves extended out from her shoulders a short way, then tapered in toward where the dress met the opening under her arm. She had taken the pony tail out, and her hair flowed down over her shoulders. She wore classy leather, sandal thongs, on her feet. She was carrying my Fender, hollow back, acoustic guitar and leaned it in the corner of the rocking chair.

She went about busying herself with turning on the Kenwood, adjusting volume levels, trebles and basses, while I stood sipping a new glass of white, wondering what she was up to. She moved the coffee table out from in front of the leather couch. She struck a match on the hearth and held it with two fingers, while holding her other hand in front, protecting its flame from candle destination to candle destination. She had to use three matches. She walked over toward me with a devious little smile, and I realized she had something different planned. Walked right by me and retrieved the ice bucket from the cabinet. She walked over and turned the lights switches off. The candles were the only lights on in the house. She walked back to the dispenser and pushed the silver arm, filling the bucket with ice. Picked up the freshly opened bottle from the top of the butcher block, on her way back to the living room. While she walked, she shoved the bottle into the ice and placed the bucket on the end table. She went back over to the stereo, pushed the button to open the compact disc changer, looked at the discs in the rack, and pushed the button again to close it. Hit the play button, selected the track and then hit the pause. Satisfied, she turned to me, pointed her index finger, palm up and flexed it forward and back.

"Come here you." She said. "Bring the glasses." I walked over and she took my hand, leading me to the leather couch, turned me, and took the glasses from my hand. She let the glasses rest on the end table in the corner, beside the ice bucket. She came back to stand in front of me and gave me a soft little push to sit me down. She stepped over, picked up the hollow back, and handed it to me.

"I've been wantin' to do this thing for you." She said shyly "Will you play for me, while I sing for you?"

"Sure baby, what are we playing?" I asked. I had never heard her sing.

"Sugarland's, Want to. I kinda think... it relates to us. You know...we've known each other for a long time and been together at night and then not again for a while...too long. I'm not talkin' about recently. I'm talkin' about our history, how it relates to the song. It's close... it has meanin' for me." She paused. "I want to express my feelin's for you...in a different way... with compassion, so maybe you'll see it's comin' from my heart.

"Wow." I said softly "That's pretty cool." I looked at the guitar and then back at her.

"I think it's supposed to be a mandolin or a banjo." I said trying hard not to break the mood.

"I know...but I know you can make it sound good." She leaned in and kissed me, then spun on her right foot and went back to the stereo. She asked if I was ready. When I nodded, she hit the pause button again. The music started and she adjusted the volume. I didn't use the pick. I played it with three fingers, picking the strings, my thumb above them. She began to sing.

" _I packed a cooler and a change of clothes_

Let's jump in, see how far it goes

You've got my heart and your daddy's boat

We've got all night to make it float

We could sit on shore

We could just be friends

Or we could jump in

The whole world could change in a minute

Just one kiss could stop this spinning

We could think it through

But I don't want to, if you don't want to

We could keep things just the same

Leave here the way we came

With nothing to lose

_But I don't want to, if you don't want to."_ She was doing it magically. She was putting a little more twang in her voice than normal, and it was sounding great. I was really surprised and I couldn't have kept from smiling, if I had wanted to. She moved her head slowly, from side to side, while reaching down deep to carry the range on the lyric; in. She was doing this thing, standing with her feet together, her arms raised above her head, and bouncing just slightly at the knees, while doing the chorus. Holding both hands to her chest and then pointing to me on the last line of each stanza, But I don't want to, if you don't want to. She began again.

" _I got your ring around my neck_

And a couple of nights I don't regret

You've got a dream of a degree and a shirt that smells like me

Yeah we both got dreams

We could chase alone

Or we could make our own

The whole world could change in a minute

Just one kiss could stop this spinning

We could think it through

But I don't want to, if you don't want to

Never waste another day wonderin' what you threw away

Holding me holding you

I don't want to, if you don't want to

But I want tooooo,

_I want yoooooooou!"_ Her dance started in a slowly moving sway, building faster, matching the tempo of the music and her voice, until she reached the point where the arms were above her head again and her knees were doing that bounce. Watching her do that dance, and hearing her sing, in the flickering light of the candles, I knew. I knew that I had finally found what I'd been searching for all these years. It sent a strong stab of emotion through me, my eyes misted and I felt the trail of the water droplet run down my cheek. It was an unbelievable feeling.

In the finish, she carried the long range on the lyric; to, and carried it even longer on the lyric; you. I almost couldn't finish the warm down. She turned and went to the stereo and stopped it. When she turned to look at me, I could see she was crying too.

"Baby you don't need the cd." I said "You're wonderful." She smiled wide, skipped across the short distance and came into my arms. She hugged me tighter than she ever had before, and then turned her head to the side, placing her mouth to my ear, and said in a whisper;

"I think I love you Jake." I pulled her away softly, to look at her. Her eyes were dancing, scanning my face, and her smiling lips were trembling slightly.

"I think I love you too."

She wanted to fly down over Disney World, but I told her that the airspace is restricted. You would have to fly so high, that you wouldn't be able to see anything. They say the State of Minnesota is the land of lakes, I tell her. Well, let's give those Viking fans an argument; Central Florida style.

If you leave The Landing to the east, the very bottom of Little Lake Harris is just a half mile, and a slight turn of the stick to the left. Little Lake Harris's shape resembles China from the air. We took it up the west side of the lake. We stayed in close to the shoreline and flew right along the sleepy, little, town of Howey-in-the-Hills. The first citrus juice plant in Florida, was founded here way back in 1921. The lake does a little concave curve along the town. We came to the top of the curve and I started the swing northwest. I took it a little higher to crossover State Road 19. The top of the little lake begins to narrow when we get close to Horseshoe Island. It really is shaped like a horseshoe, she says. We went through the narrow pass, and saw some gators down in there. Look back up and Big Lake Harris jumps right out in front of us. The lower you fly through here, the larger the lake appears. There are nine lakes in the Harris Chain of Lakes. The chain eventually feeds into the St. Johns River, and goes all the up to Jacksonville. They hold weekly bass fishing tournaments here, on the Big Lake.

Now were heading west along the shoreline passed Yalaha, and pretty soon we can see the town of Okahumpka, about three miles out off the port side. We're starting to run out of water, going in this direction, as the odd shape of the lake makes a nice little bay, right in front of Leesburg. We see some other planes in the air. Leesburg air traffic control tells us we're okay. Long, wide, sweeping, one hundred and eighty degree turn to the right. We look over to the left, out the high side of the plane and see Monkey Island where they based the story for The Pirates of the Caribbean movie.

Just about the time we bring it out of the right turn, we start the same long sweep to the left and see the beautiful estate home, parked out on the point. There is a lot of money in that estate, I tell her. She thinks it beautiful. The wide left turn continues and we leave Lake Harris behind and jump over both State Road 441 and County Road 44. Back over water again, this time it's Lake Griffin. You can put a boat in at the State Park here, and catch just about any type of fish you want; Largemouth Bass, Black Crappie, Bluegills, Shellcracker, and three or four different kind of Perch. We're heading straight for the Point of Picciola Island. Picciola, when viewed from the air looks remarkably like the state of Florida. We follow the shore as it curves slightly to the right and keep it in the turn. We take it way down low and just about kiss the point of Treasure Island, jutting straight out from the eastern shore. Due north now and lets just bring it on down real slow and circle around little Bird Island. Straighten out of the turn and take it north a little bit farther, until we're just about at the northern tip of Lake Griffin. Here, I turn us all the way around.

I put some more power in it and we're going back the way we came. Now, I cut the power back and slipped it to the left. Barbie's getting a little nervous. I have a big smile on my face. I pulled her out of the slip at about seventy feet above the water and begin the approach. I level her off at six or seven feet, float through the air and let her stall, gently touching down on the water. When she settles in, I push the throttle forward and we're up in about five hundred feet, just in time to clear the shoreline of Treasure Island.

"Jake!" she screams, "What are you doing?"

"I'm just havin' fun!" I sing. "Can't you see?" We jump it back over the highways and point her to the east. Over land now, we're passing the City of Tavares. This is the county seat of Lake County. Be careful, I tell her, the Sheriff's Office is over there on the left. Lake Eustis would be about a mile to the north of his office. We are now over the western edge of the quaint little lake named after the quaint little town of Mount Dora. The railroad came through there in eighteen eighty-seven, and an old train station is still there today. To the right we can see the proposed location for the new Seaplane Base. I have to find out more about it. Lake Dora's water is coming to an end as we turn and take it southeast. Mount Dora has its own little private bay and it's off to our left.

I told her that we're going to be over land for a little while, and I apologize because we've left Lake County now and we're creeping into Orange. We pass to the right of a nice little grass airstrip in Zellwood. I think the name of it changes every fifteen minutes. Across the street is where they used to have the Zellwood Sweet Corn Festival, but I heard it's been put on hold for awhile. Pretty soon we'll see some other activity in the air, because Apopka Airport is two miles off the port side. Ah, what the hell, lets do one more lake, and we change course to the southwest and over Lake Apopka. This lake is the fourth largest lake in Florida and we're flying almost right through the middle of it. When we get to the other side we'll be back in Lake County. I'm going to show you something really cool, I tell her. Something you would never expect and probably would never be able to see, unless you have what we have. A slow flying airplane. We're coming to the west bank of the lake, and I bring the power back again, to get it slowed way down. I am respectful of the owner, but I take it low enough to see the peninsula sticking out. We circled the shore line until she sees them. Wow, she says, is that a buffalo? It is. Smith's Island, all cleared out on the peninsula, and surrounded and separated from civilization by a half a mile of tall trees. He is raising them there in his own little paradise. Bet you won't find that in Minnesota, I tell her.

We follow the shoreline north until I see a familiar landmark, and I turn her northwest across the land again. We start to see the lower end of Little Lake Harris again, but we're not going there. I swing it hard left, before we get there, slow her down and cut the power. Take it in a sweep to the right and set her down, nice and easy on the runway of The Landing. The whole trip covers about seventy miles and took just over an hour an a half.

"Beautiful." she says. "Very, very, beautiful. Thank you very much."

"You're very welcome." I reply. "Now, what's the best thing out of Minnesota?"

"I don't know." She says.

"Interstate 35 South, into Iowa"

Barbie went off to work and said she'd leave the job early to take a nap and then come by, so we could stop where I wanted to, before going to Tampa. We had also agreed to get something light to eat in the area.

I went for a run and then took a shower. After watching Sports Center, on the Lanai, and stuffing too much of what I shouldn't be into my mouth, I went into the Library. I started fiddling around on the Internet and found myself searching for more information about the lifestyle of the people we would meet tonight. It is a lifestyle, I learned. It is a cultural religion.

Couples actually live their weekend lives hopping in and out of the beds of newly found friends. Some were single, but most seemed to be married. But, it appeared to be a couple thing, single men were discouraged. Although, the addition of a single woman could become a bonus for the other two. Some of the married ones even had kids. And there were different ways that they enjoyed their carnal pleasures. There seemed to be categories, of as many variations as the number of playing cards in a deck.

At the extreme, there were the whack jobs where pain and pleasure go hand in hand. No need to dwell here any longer. The information I was getting started there, and appeared to be working its way backward. Next, were the men or women, who would solicit the services of those who could deal with the infirmed or the impotent. They were like sexual physical therapy coaches

Then the research went into the area of fetishes, and I learned the jokes they tell about some of these things are true. Fetishes are irrational reverences or obsessive devotions to objects or body parts which become a necessary part of sexual gratification. That which is unnatural and outlandishly strange to most of us, is exciting and held in awe by some.

I moved on and found there are those who choose to live parts of their lives, in what I would consider a far worse place than the gutter. I would call it closer to living in the pipes, which travel into the ground and spill their deposits into septic containment. They find their satisfactions in the lowest scale of the prostitution trade. Catering to the chemically additive desires of women and men, who willingly trade their bodies and services for a few extended moments in a land where all their troubles seem to run away.

I had to get away from this article. I skipped around websites which I thought might be closer to the advertisements on the House of Pleasure website. I finally found a listing for a chat room which displayed the conversations of the participants. I could not participate myself, without signing in and logging on, an event which required joining The Club. But, in an effort to entice me to join, the ongoing, live, typed conversations discussing the expectations and encounters of swingers and swinging people were scrolled down the left half of the screen. The right half had a color drawing of two couples in bed highlighted with a flashing reminder that I could obtain a lifetime membership for just nine dollars and ninety-five cents.

Reading and keeping up with the scrolling text was hard, because the annoying flash on the right would tend to break my concentration. But, the conversations seemed to divide the participants into five basic groups. Listed in order of newest to oldest, in relation to the length of time spent in the lifestyle.

First, the Curious. Those who thought they might be interested, or might never, ever be. They've heard about it and either need, or are curious about a spicier diversion than they can normally find.

Second, the Watchers. These types had possibly engaged in skinny dip type nudity, or something similar, and thought advancing to the next stage of sharing intimacies with others might be interesting. Though, they are not yet to the point of sharing their or their spouses' bodies.

Third, the New Entrants. Those who have engaged, and are interested in continuing this variation. The long term results are predictable. Their personal relationships grow or thrive, or are shortly destroyed during this experimentation. Or, they decide after a series of carnal escapades, that enough is enough. Or, they end up immersing themselves in this lifestyle, long term.

Fourth, the Dominates. Ones who take the lead position, getting their kicks being in command or getting their desires filled. Their better halves take a back seat, or are left to participate with a less than desirable better half.

And Fifth, the Long Time Swingers. Years of experience and if the bodies have been preserved, remain the stars and highlights of their group. If the opposite is true, they are often reduced to something close to begging for the desired attention of others in the life.

Okay, it's time to find something else to entertain myself with. I found myself in a disturbing mood. I knew Mark well enough to be dazzled by the thought that he was involved in something like this.
Chapter Nine:

### "When the truth is found... to be lies..."

**We left for Tampa** late in the afternoon because I wanted to stop and see a friend at another light sport airpark down, near Plant City. We actually had lots of time to kill, and I liked it that way. The sky had turned dark for this time of afternoon. It looked more like it was moving into evening. The forecast didn't call for anything serious in rain or thunderstorms, but you couldn't tell it from the heavy cloud cover rolling in. The deep shades of gray, dark, medium and light completely filled the sky where it had been bright and sunny only a few hours ago.

We jumped on the turnpike and took the new 429 toll road to drop us out on I-4 West, just below Disney. I could have taken Highway 27 south, down to Davenport and picked up the interstate there, but you have to negotiate all those red lights. We were feeling curiously optimistic about what lies ahead in the evening for us. We discussed the things I had learned in the chat room about swing clubs, and agreed that we wouldn't be getting involved with anything more than was necessary to obtain the information about Mr. and Mrs. Unknown. After a while we got tired, running out of points to talk about and I turned on the Sirius Satellite and flipped it to The Comedy Channel. Jeff Foxworthy was in a routine.

"Have you ever noticed that single people have the best sex stories?... See we know this, 'cause they share 'em with everybody...You know these people, you see them in the break room at work, they always have a crowd gathered around... So there I was...Tied up to her bed...Motor oil smeared all over my body...She came in the bedroom with a saddle and a set of jumper cables..."

We were laughing so hard I almost missed the exit. We turned off of I-4, and took State Road 39 about eight miles north and turned right into the lane that took us back to Blackwater Creek Airpark. Blackwater is an airpark with a precarious and limited runway. There is only one way in, and the same way out, unless you like to live dangerously. It is set within a beautiful forest of very tall pine trees. I don't know if it is a natural clearing, or whether they took out all the trees, to make the runway. You bring it in from the south through an alley long enough for a 747 style approach. There is plenty of grass to put it down. The runway ends up against the tall trees. If you bring it in from the north, you have to crest the tall trees and then slip it, to get it down and stopped before their property runs out. I think the neighbors put up a fence at the boundary line. There is the rolling dihedral wind effect to deal with. When the wind blows through tops of the trees, it tends to break up and start a rolling, tumbling deal, which will lift the plane or dance the wings. It's real scary because you can't predict it.

I know the owner of Blackwater. He is a very nice older gentleman who opened this park back about the same time that Gator evolved. He and his wife live in a little cottage house with one of their mothers, right there at the park. I met him when I was looking at the airpark deal with Mr. Merritt. We were looking at their style of hanger.

He was walking through the community gathering area when we saw him. He remembered me. His naiveté showed and he asked me about the pretty Spanish girl who had been with me the last time. He laughed because he thought she had taken too many pictures. How many angles of the same hanger did she think she needed? Barbie raised an eyebrow at me, but continued her cordial attitude and even laughed along with us when he told a funny story later.

I love airplanes, especially Ultralights and Light Sports. We walked out through the hangers and saw some Bucks and the same red and white Hornet, in the same condition as it had been the last time I was here. It was still for sale. He had told me then, when I expressed interest in it, to be careful because he thought it had just been put back together to look airworthy. He told me the same story now. No progress, but the guy pays the rent every month. There was a beautiful, solid red Titan Tornado. Very fast for a Light Sport. It has aluminum wings that make it able to withstand some serious G forces. You can take it faster than the class rules permit. Maybe as fast as one hundred twenty. I have been interested in them since I just missed buying one that had been damaged in a hurricane, when the hanger collapsed. It was over in the Sarasota area, the owner would never answer the phone, and when I got there he had sold it, an hour before. The pictures on the Barnstormers website showed the damage as nothing I couldn't repair. He said this one was impressive. We were still there when the shadows from the trees started darkening the airstrip.

We heard the familiar airplane sound from above and a Cessna-like plane landed and taxied in toward the tie down area. When it got closer I could see it was an all blue Aeronca Chief, showing its age. They made them in the mid nineteen forties. I know because a friend of mine in Kissimmee had one. They were an early military trainer just after the war. Public demand had continued the manufacture until late in that decade. It was one of the first airplanes to use a steering wheel, instead of the stick, to control turning. The steering wheel is called a yoke. It also moves in and out to move the elevator, up and down. My friend's was well maintained, but this one left a lot to be desired. As he came by I could hear a thup-thup, sound in the noise of the engine that didn't sound good. There was a lot of blue smoke coming from the exhaust pipe, and he was only idling it. The dull blue paint was fading on the fabric wings and fuselage, and I could see spots where someone had brushed over it in a close try at matching the previous paint. It looked tacky.

"That guy..." he said. "I told him that engine needs looked at."

"What does it need...rings?" I asked.

"Probably needs more than that. Compression is low for sure, in at least one and maybe more of the cylinders. The guy is kinda freaky, doesn't want to talk to anybody. He rolled it here about six weeks ago, and paid me three months in advance. His name is Fred Martin, but he told me to call him Red. It didn't smoke that bad when he first brought it in. He should have saved some of the advance to pay for the engine repair. He takes it out for a couple days at a time, and then brings it back and it sits in the sun for awhile. He came in one night late, after dark with no lights, and the field isn't lighted. He's lucky he didn't end up in the trees," he said.

"Hey, I meant to ask you the last time." I said, "If I bring my Beaver down sometime, how can I get some gas to get it back north?"

"Oh, there's always somebody around, who'll run you up to the gas station. If not, you can borrow my pickup and the cans and go."

We shook hands and he said goodbye to Barbie in his gentleman manner. We started to walk back to the Jeep and I noticed the guy at the Chief finish up tying it down. He was freaky looking. He had on a red bandana, covering his scalp and tied in knot at the back of his head, just above the hair. A long red braided pony tail stuck out from under the bandana and bounced from side to side when he walked. Scraggly red bits of beard on his face and chin. Dirty jeans and biker boots. I was thinking to myself; How does he fly with those boots? His faded, red tee shirt had the concert dates of an ACDC tour from four years ago. This guy was into red. His clothes looked like they had been slept in. He had that lazy gait in his walk that told me he didn't like physical labor. He went over and got into an old '78 or '79 rusty, silver El Camino, started it and backed out. The Florida sun had not been kind to silver paint. He eased it out the lane and we heard him hit the accelerator hard when he got it on the paved road. Wheels squealing as he went south.

"So, you gonna tell me about Miss Espanola?" She asked

"Naw, better you don't know." I said.

"Did she take a lot of pictures of you?" She asked teasingly.

"Keep it up and I trade you to Freaky Red for that beat up Aeronca."

We went down to the Brandon area and turned on Adamo Drive and drove by, what we thought was the House of Pleasure, and then went to kill some time eating dinner at Outback Steak House. After a light dinner, we drove around some more and then went back to Adamo Drive, and pulled into the parking lot on the right side of the building at about ten forty-five. I checked twice to make sure the doors were locked.

The exterior at night was sparsely lit. They weren't advertising, certainly not with any effect. There was a raised concrete entranceway, framed on each side by Greek style pillars, enticing you forward. A small sign saying; no one under twenty one was permitted and no other signage. We opened the steel doors to what we hoped was the House of Pleasure. It was. Before us was a desk similar to that found in older hotel lobbies.

The man greeting us at the door appeared to be the Master of Ceremonies type, with his sparkling sequined dressed, female attendant by his side. "Welcome" they chimed in unison, as they continued to serve the couple ahead of us. His mastership advised the male of the party to remove his ball cap, as hats of any kind were not permitted. They should have had that sign on the outside door.

He welcomed us again, when it was our turn. Asked if we were members and found that we weren't. Would we like to join? Were we aware of what type of establishment we were in? And were we in any way, shape, or form, affiliated with any type of law enforcement entity? No? Okay...sixty dollars please. No photography allowed and that means cell phone cameras too. He asked our names, first names only, and would we please sign the waiver? He filled out, signed, and handed us the same membership card that I had found in Mark's wallet.

His next assignment was to push us into the joint, suggesting we relax and join the couples in the Bottle Club, connected through the narrow hallway, but a separate establishment. When ready and if we desired, a tour of the House of Pleasure, through the doors behind the desk could be arranged.

We smiled and proceeded through the narrow hallway into the Bottle Club. There was a small buffet spread out on a table as we came to the end of the hallway. There were little plastic plates. Rolled lunchmeats, little cheese blocks, chicken wings and meatballs in sauce, ending with napkins and a box of toothpicks. We passed by without partaking.

It's called a bottle club because they sell no alcohol. They probably don't have or can't obtain a liquor license. If you want to drink you have to bring your own bottle. They keep the bottles or whatever you brought on shelves behind the bar, and make money, charging you for the setups and chasers. The atmosphere seemed not too far removed from a typical dance bar. There was that one exception; the revealing activity on the dance floor. I caught the sight of a girl bending forward in a provocative dress, and bringing the bottom hemline up over her butt. She wore no panties. There were boobs appearing every few minutes. Mostly everyone seemed to be in good spirits, speaking freely to each other.

We found a table off to the side, but in the general area of the room where the most activity of mingling was occurring. As I looked around the room from table to table, I could pick out the types I'd learned about on the internet. There was the country boy type, strong and tall with the big smile, everybody's friend. His significant other was the meager, shy little girl type. There was another couple to the left of us. This time the girl was the dominating type, selecting the prey for her pleasure while leaving him with whatever her victim was attached to, big, small, pretty, or horrid.

Then there were the curiosity seekers. The ones who had heard the stories whispered since they were young and still wet behind the ears. They had finally garnered enough nerve to come to such a place, and only then in a pack of six or eight. Their women felt safety in numbers, and actually had no intention of entering into anything more exciting than a boob flash on the dance floor. Their men conspiring with each other on ways to convince the women to give it a try.

The final group I could spot, although I was sure there were other types and variations, were in the same category that I had placed us. Watchers. Couples who don't have the desire to share themselves with others. But, might like or think they might like, to be engaged in the watching of others and having themselves watched during sexual activity.

We needed to find some who were willing to work with new people. More importantly, people who had been here when Mark and Becky were here, and hopefully seen them with Mr. and Mrs. Unknown.

Aside from the categorization of the groups, Barbie noticed and pointed out, how amazed she was at the variety of people here. There were all races, creeds, colors, ages, sizes, shapes, and sexual preferences.

There was a DJ in a long black tee shirt with the yellow emblem of Kicker speakers, on the front. He wore his black ball cap backwards, and was standing on a raised platform, behind a table with two exposed compact disc players. A microphone stand had been placed in front of the table, its neck extended across the table toward him. Within his reach was a small sound equalizer. He was playing dance music and playing it loud enough to cause distortion through the speakers when the big bass and the drums sounds hit.

"What's up with that?" I said to Barbie, referring to his hat. We were sitting there, able to hear the couples at the table next to us conversing.

"See the red head on the dance floor?" One of the guys said.

"That's Brandy." He was holding his beer glass in front of his mouth, as if to block anyone from reading his lips.

"Wow" the girl on the other side, after turning to look at the redhead. "She's hot. Have you two been with her?" she asked. Beer glass was nodding. His girl spoke;

"Two weeks ago, in the veil room, she spent 30 minutes with Tom, while I was with her husband Brad. That's him, the one she's dancing with."

The redhead was swinging it. Her dark purple skin tight dress stood in stark contrast with her red hair. The long red plume of hair was winding around like a fan blade, as she rotated her head and moved her hips in time with the fast pace of the music. She was heavy and full up top, and from there it got skinny and stayed that way, the whole way down to her legs. It had to be silicone.

As Barbie was watching her, I noticed an attractive couple coming through the hall from the entrance foyer. They stopped and looked around, as if searching for someone. When they continued to walk, they passed by us, headed in the direction of the bar. He was carrying a bottle of something in a brown paper bag. As they passed, with her in front of him, she leaned back and turned her head toward him. She spoke in a loud tone so that he could hear her over the music.

"It doesn't look like Becky and Mark are here." She continued walking. Barbie and I had both heard it, and looked at each other. She backed her chair and started to stand, but I put a hand on her thigh to keep her sitting.

"Hang on." I said "Let's just watch them for a minute." We watched them stop and stand chatting with the bartender. Barbie and I whispered a plan to each other. When we got to the bar, Barbie tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and smiled.

"Hi." She said giving Barbie a once up and down look and then turned to do the same to me. It had been subtle, but not subtle enough that I didn't notice.

"Hi. I'm Barbie and this is Jake. We don't want to seem weird, but we overhead you saying something about a Mark and Becky. Would that be Mark Easton and Becky Palmer from Orlando?"

"Yeah." He said "Do you know where they are, they said they were coming."

"Mark's mom is not doing well." I said, gambling on the idea that this couple didn't know them that well. "They're up in Daytona with her."

"Oh that's too bad." She said looking disappointedly at him. "We were looking forward to seeing them again."

"They gave us this picture and said to see if we could find the two of them, they couldn't remember their names, but they said they had a good time." I said, handing her the picture of Mark, Becky and the two others. They looked at the picture and returned it, shaking their heads.

"They also mentioned another couple...Do you remember what she said their names were Barb?" I asked Barbie in an attempt to cue her. Barbie played it well. "Umm...It was...

"We're Dave and Cindy." She said.

"Yes, that was it. Dave and Cindy; how are you?...Becky said you were really pretty, but you're actually gorgeous." Barbie said.

"I'm sorry, what did you say your names were?" Cindy asked.

"Barbie and Jake, from Orlando." Barbie replied lying. "We have to be honest, we just learned about this place from them, and we're really interested, but a little shy about just jumping in. Can you point us in the right direction to sort of...help us get our feet wet." Barbie had hit it just like we planned.

"Oh sure." Dave chimed in, smiling. "We were where you are now, not too long ago." He paused for a second and then spoke again.

"You have to be really careful; you can get in with the wrong type of people really easily. This place is full of people who will tell you anything to get you in bed."

"Yeah." She said. "Don't look now, but there's a little blonde with her bleached blond husband, in the corner table over there. When we were new, we were going to go into a private room with them, and Jay, that's another friend of ours, told us not to. He said the guy is into pain....he likes to make it hurt. They call each other Blondie."

The gossip continued to flow. I had to find a way to turn it into finding out more about the unknowns, but I didn't want to rush it and blow the whole thing. I needed to be patient and maintain the cool, smooth relationship we were building.

We found another table farther away from the music where we could talk without screaming. He asked if we wanted to share his bottle of Captain Morgan Parrot Bay rum and I said sure. He asked about a mixer and when he returned from the bar with the setups for all of us, he and I continued to chat while Barbie was engaged in becoming Cindy's new best friend.

It got explained through the next half hour that we weren't real crazy about sharing our bodies, at this point. We were comfortable with nudity and had gone skinny dipping with friends at the pool, but had never had sex in public. Cindy and Dave were understanding and explained to us, that if it was right, it would happen when we were ready, and comfortable enough with the people we happened to be with at the time. They told us about the other rooms through the narrow hallway and said we should go over and see for ourselves. They were really nice, and I must admit the mental pictures of undressing her, crossed my mind more than once. A short time later, they wanted to dance and we wanted to explore the House of Pleasure, so we agreed to meet back up at some point.

We walked over to the doors and his Mastership opened the door closest to him and waved us through. There was a hallway in front of us, extending the length of the building. Off to the right was another hallway leading to another section of the club. On each side of the hall were rooms of different sizes, laid out in themes.

There was a jungle room on our left side as we walked through. It was empty, but there were painted pictures of lions, elephants and gazelles on the walls. The artwork was impressive. There was music playing in the room, but the hallway had been quiet. Assorted, stuffed, wild animals were strewn all around the queen mattress on the floor. There were no windows in this room and we had viewed it through the open door.

The next room was active. They were two guys and two girls standing around the doorway as we approached. The girls were giggling. They must have been in their early twenties, and were conversing with someone else in the room. As we passed by, I glanced into the room and saw a girl dressed in a Catholic school uniform lying provocatively on the bed. Her partner was shirtless and wearing boxer shorts. She was trying to lure the hallway group into the room with her finger. When we had passed, I stopped and turned to watch. One of the guys took a girl by the hand and pulled her in toward the door. She stopped him by placing both of her feet in front and doing the backward lean of a water skier. When he realized her reluctance he stopped pulling and made his way back out of the room, shrugging his shoulders and saying, "Damn, I was really ready for that!"

We moved down the hall and found the next room occupied by three people in their late sixties or early seventies, at least that was my guess. Two men and a woman. All three were gray haired, heavy and with wrinkled skin from head to toe. They were also mostly naked, with the woman lying on her back at the edge of the bed. The shorter of the two men, wearing a cowboy hat and boots and was mounting her as the taller man watched. The watcher appeared to have already had his pleasure and was slowly pulling his underwear over his feet. The room was setup like an old west saloon. The louver doors swung in and out, there was a lighted chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a piano in the corner. Beside the piano was a poker table, with cards and chips,. There were chairs tucked under and an old wooden keg, with a brass spittoon resting on top of it. The old couple on the bed was getting very busy and she was murmuring unintelligibly, but it sounded like she wanted more of something. We kept going, maybe a little quicker in the step, as we walked away.

Proceeding to the next room, and finding it had a definite throw back to the nineteen seventies theme. We could see it wasn't occupied as we looked through the window. A single psychedelic strobe light, flashed intermittently. Swimming paisley bubbles being projected on the back wall from somewhere. Jefferson Airplane songs playing through the speakers. White Rabbit had just ended and Someone to Love began immediately;

" _When the truth is found... to be lies..."_ There was thick shag carpeting and bean bag chairs tossed around a much larger bean bag thing centered in the room. The larger thing was decorated with a 'peace sign' emblem.

On our left was a room with leather bound tables, benches and chairs around the edges. It was much longer in length then the others had been and it was empty of people. It was apparatus of a medieval time. There were chains and shackles attached to the walls and ceiling. Objects made of wrought iron placed here and there. A wood rack where heads and arms are imprisoned and some other pieces of equipment which also looked painful. The room was darker than the previous rooms had been. It was decorated, in what I can best describe as a dungeon.

While we paused there, another couple passed by us and entered the last room on the right, closing the door behind them. If they had gone straight, the hall entered a locker room and shower area. We followed the couple down to where they had entered. Just at the time we noticed the window, the curtains were drawn across it from the inside. We continued a little farther, ducking our heads in to view the shower area and then turned to go back down the hallway. We observed a gap between the end of the curtain and the edge of the window on the far side. The curtain was open about four inches there. This room had a kind of Cupid theme where posters of the boy with the arrow had him chasing and shooting at younger people all around the room. The walls were painted pink, fading into red and then into a light orange creamy color. As we watched through the glass, unnoticed by the inhabitants, she performed a slow teasing dance while he sat on the bed. She seemed to be enjoying her performance. The slow seduction had him totally focused on her movements. She had that exotic flair, which told me that maybe she had practiced this routine in public before. Perhaps on the elevated floor with one hand on the golden pole that extends from her feet to the ceiling.

As she took off her clothes one by one, he matched her shoe for shoe, shirt for top, shorts for panties, until they were both completely nude. In the following minutes came a period of kissing and heavy petting, until she straddled him on the bed, and began another slow undulation. She began to lean, arching her back, with her arms reaching way back and finally taking his feet in her hands. I could feel Barbie inching in closer to me and for the first time since we entered the hall, she spoke.

"Wow. I'd like to try that." We heard other voices down the hall while watching the couple in the Cupid room. As we made the way back toward the beginning of the hall, we heard them in the dungeon room. The door had been left open and we stopped at the doorway. There were two girls already embraced in activity on one of the leather bound benches. A brunette going down on her friend. Barbie came up against me and squeezed. She seemed to be feeling the same effects of the eroticism that I was having. There were more men and women in the room watching, some engaged in fondling each other on the side chairs and one man doing his own fondling, alone.

As we made our way back up the hall, Cowboy Hat came out of the saloon, still naked, but without the boots and walked down the hall toward us. He carefully avoided eye contact as he passed by. We heard the old woman yell. "That's not fair! That's not fair!" And as we got closer to the saloon doors we heard her crying. She let out another burst. "You both got yours but I didn't get mine and that's not fair!" We turned in time to see that Cowboy Hat had entered the shower room.

We were anticipating the Catholic school girl activity, but found the door closed when we passed, though there were noises coming from inside. There was no one in the Jungle room either.

We entered the other section of the club. This room was different, it was long and wide. Wide enough for the right side of it to be set up as a lounge, with leather couches and love seats arranged in several separate living rooms, like one might see in a furniture store. There were about twenty or so people sitting and lounging around in small groups and in pairs.

Through the center of the hall, there was a walkway leading to the far end where it opened onto a dance floor area complete with a Wurlitzer juke box. On the left side on the dance floor, there were chains coming down from the ceiling connecting to a hanging swing of the type someone would sit in rather than on. Straps of leather fastened together without much covering the area in the seat. On the left, about half of the way back, there appeared a veiled wall of thin sheer material. On the other side of the material were two sheeted mattresses, side by side on the floor, the heads of the mattresses were against the left wall. It made for a see through, enclosed room with a very low watt of light emitting somewhere from above. There was room to walk around the double wide bed, but not much more inside the veil.

We sat on a leather love seat in front of the veil room and as we were sitting there, another couple joined us sitting on the long leather couch at a right angle to us. She was the redhead in the purple skin tight dress from the dance floor. We said hello and at that moment, two couples approached the veiled room. One of the men held the veil aside like a curtain, let the other three pass through and then joined them on the inside. The light in the room was very dim, allowing us to just barely see the outlines of their bodies. One man kissed one of the women as the other two quickly shucked themselves out of their clothing. The kissing couple took more time undressing each other. As we watched, the four of them moved onto the beds, and the two women began to be with one of the men. I had been preoccupied with watching what was happening behind the veil, and wasn't taking notice of what was going on with the couple on the couch beside us. Barbie stuck an elbow in my side to get my attention. His pants were open and her head was in his lap, slowly bobbing up and down.

We decided to go back to the bar. When we went back into the Bottle Club we saw Dave and Cindy still on the dance floor. They were dancing closely during a slow melodic song. Dave lifted his fingers up from her shoulder and smiled briefly, before snuggling his face back into her hair.

We went over to the bar and observed the bartender engaged in conversation with another guy. They were talking loudly enough to hear each other over the sound of the music. I had worked up a possible scenario of asking him if he could identify our mission targets and stood listening and waiting for a chance to talk to him alone. The bartender was shaking his head.

"No, I disagree. Ozzy doesn't even come close to Neil Peart as a lyricist." He said. His partner in the conversation questioned him.

"Oh come on. What about I'm going off the rails on a crazy train?" He said. The bartender reeled off;

"If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice, or how about Always choose a path that's clear, always choose freewill. There's just no comparison."

"Okay." The partner rebounded, showing the signs of slight inebriation "A shot in the dark, one step away from you. Just a shot in the dark, nothing that you can do."

"There's just no comparison, what do you think?" He said looking at me.

"Sometimes it's not always just the words of the lyric." I said. "Sometimes it's in the way their voices inflect them. I'm kind of partial to "Call it blind frustration. Call it blind man's bluff. Call each other names, your voices rude, your voices rough."

"Yes!" the bartender responded. "He knows the deal." The conversation partner just held up his hands and walked away, muttering "frickin' college boys!" The bartender walked over to us smiling.

"Rush fan?" he asked.

"Bigtime!" I said to him, hoping the chance I was waiting for had arrived.

"What can I get you?" he asked.

"Ahh...There should be a bottle of Parrot Bay under there somewhere." I said.

He stepped back and leaned to the side to see under the countertop, staying that way as he went looking down the bar. He located the bottle and walked over toward the stacks of glasses and looked over at me.

"How do you take it?"

"Straight, with ice." I said holding up two fingers. He brought the two high ball glasses over, shoved them into the ice bin, and screwed the top of the bottle off. He reached for one of the glasses in the bin and stopped when he retrieved it.

"Is this yours?" he asked, holding up the bottle as the point of the question.

"No, it belongs to Dave and Cindy...we're sort of with them... it'll be alright."

"I don't know." He said cautiously. "I could get into trouble; he didn't say anything to me about sharing." I put on my best persuasive smile, and tried to keep it light.

"Hey man, if there's a problem... I'll buy the bottle." I said handing him a twenty dollar bill. He pocketed the twenty and finished pouring our drinks. In my mind the light had turned green, it was go time.

"How long've you been working here?" I asked

"Almost a year." He said. I held one of the pictures up for him to see.

"Ever see the guy with the hat in here?" I asked.

"What are you, a cop or something?" He said looking at me with his head cocked a bit. I brought in the chuckle right on schedule.

"Ha-ha! ...No, of course not. The other couple is our good friends. They couldn't make it tonight, and told us to look for these two, but we can't remember their names."

He stood looking at me, then over to Barbie and then he looked back to me. He was studying us, as if undecided about our character and whether he should just tell us to get lost, or call security. He dropped his head and began rinsing something in the sink. My hands had been folded together on top of the bar and I separated them, opening my palms, as I asked the question.

"Do you know them?" He looked back up at me, and with a frown and replied

"They're not here tonight. They show up once a month or so. He's a waiter on a cruise ship out of Miami. He's Croatian., but he's legal here...Name is Cristov, first name begins with a Z. It's too hard to pronounce. He just goes by Zee. Her name is Emily. You need to pay me again..." I reached him another twenty in a handshake and held onto his hand.

"I know its Paradise Cruise Lines; do you know the name of the ship?"

"Yeah, he never stops talking about it. It's the Sunshine Dreamer."

"Thank you." I said with sincerity and released my grip on his hand. I started to explain, but he cut me off.

"I don't wanna know... I don't care." He said turning and walking toward another customer down the bar, pocketing the bill on the way. We left the bar with drinks in hand and found Cindy waving at us from the table, so we sat down with them again. I said I hoped he didn't mind that we'd gotten the shots of the rum, and he said that was fine. Cindy stated that she was beginning to feel frisky and they had made a date with another couple in one of the House of Pleasure rooms. She had cleared it with them for us to join the party, even if we just wanted to watch. She said they were supposed to meet them in ten minutes.

"So, what do you think?" Cindy asked Barbie.

"Yeah, maybe we'll check it out." Barbie replied. "Which room?"

"We'll have to see what's available, I hope we can get the Cupid room." She said.

"We were thinking about getting something to eat, and then we'll come looking for you." Barbie said giving us the out we needed.

"Great." Dave said with a smile as they started to leave. "I hope it will be fun for you guys."

We waited until they had gone through the hallway before we got up. We walked out toward the hallway and stopped to chat at the buffet. It was quieter there, as the music from the bar didn't carry to this point with the same decibel level as it did near the dance floor.

"Did we get everything we need?" She asked me.

"I think we got all we're gonna get...I got really lucky at the bar." It was true. We had discussed the type of people to try to make the connection with, either not considering, or dismissing the bartenders. I guess maybe I figured there would be some loyalty between barkeeps and their regular customers. We found out that this bartender's loyalty always traced back to a dead president.

"Seen enough baby?" I asked.

"Yeah, let's go home."

We left the building thanking his Mastership and his partner, saying we had a fabulous time and promising to return soon. In the Jeep, Barbie mentioned regretting not being honest with Dave and Cindy about Mark and Becky's current breathing status. She said she felt bad because they had been so nice to us. I said she was right, but it was probably better that we hadn't mentioned anything. She reached across the console box and kissed me, commenting about the House of Pleasure, recalling the sights and sounds.

"Another experience." I said. "To mark up on the been there, done that, checklist."

"Well, we've been there, but we haven't actually done that...not that anyway." She said laughing. We toyed with the idea of getting a room for the night. The drive to The Landing would take over an hour, and we could not deny our arousal. It had been an interesting evening. Live sexual performances are a horse of a different color, when comparing them to watching a pornographic movie, or a Cinemax late night program. I reasoned to make the drive home, when I thought of something which gave me the immediate need for the use of an internet computer.
Chapter Ten:

### "Don't you dare tell anyone about this."

**We didn't arrive** at The Landing until almost three in the morning. I went into the library while Barbie went into the bedroom. I searched the Paradise Cruise Lines website, looking for information about the Sunshine Dreamer. Satisfied with what I found, and turning in the chair as she came through the doorway dressed in another of my tee shirts.

"When is the earliest time that you can call your supervisor?" I asked.

"She's working the night shift this week, I can call her now." She said

"See if you can get some time off on short notice." I said handing her my cell.

"It shouldn't be a problem...Why?"

"Because..." I said, drawing out the suspense. "We're going on a cruise...."

She said we should look at discount websites, so I got on the internet and started searching for cruise information. There were five hundred and ninety-seven million sites available when I typed in "cruise." I finally settled for one called everywherecruise.com. They carried Paradise cruises, so I jotted down the one eight hundred number and called. A guy with an older voice, pausing in every mid-sentence to draw on his cigarette, informed me that there was space available on The Sunshine Dreamer. It was leaving Sunday afternoon at five. The ship would arrive at Key West the following morning at eight and depart again at five that evening. There would be a spectacular, fun filled day at sea and then a port of call in Cozumel, Mexico on Wednesday. The ship would depart again at five in the afternoon to return to the Port of Miami on Thursday morning.

He promised to give me the straight scoop about cruises when he found out I hadn't cruised before. Taking the effort to make me believe he worked for me and not Paradise Cruise Lines. He offered three different types of package options. The first was what he described as a tiny compact state room that I wouldn't be happy with unless I would be traveling alone. I informed him there would be two of us. The second option at additional cost, offered a slightly larger room with slightly more amenities within. The amenities included mirrors in the bathroom and Cruisevision, cable quality TV.

The third option, in which he was driving the hard sell, offered exclusive amenities found nowhere else on any cruise ship in the world. A personal butler valet, in room spa bath, a small refrigerator and dinner in the elegance of the Aragon Room, where we would enjoy the finest cuisine experience on any sea. I booked the third option, The Elite Package.

I chased her back into the bedroom leaving my clothes lying where they dropped, as I peeled them off. I caught her in the shower and we washed off the creepy, imagined, feeling on our bodies, left over from The House of Pleasure. We both regained the erotic feeling we had after leaving the bar. It had been rekindled by the rejuvenating shower, and we took it with us to bed.

We left Saturday afternoon, at about one o'clock and took the turnpike over through Orlando and down passed Kissimmee on the east side. I called Johnny on the way and told him about the events of last night and what we had discovered about the unknowns, now able to give him the name; Zee. I said we were on our way to River Ranch and asked if he wanted to meet us there. He said he was busy cutting tangerines and tangelos, in the upper part of the grove. He wouldn't be able to make it. Then he went into a dissertation about the tending of a citrus grove. How the stems of the fruit had to be cut, to enable a new one to grow on the same stem.

"If the fruit is just plucked off the stem, the stem will die and it will take longer for a new one to sprout and produce." He said.

"Good information to know," I said, "for the next time they call me to appear on Jeopardy."

"Always the clown," he replied laughing. When I told him about taking the cruise, hoping to discover the Mexican connection he said to tell Barbie to watch my back. He wanted to know what he could do while we were gone, explaining that he doubted if there would be any cell phone signals once we left Miami. I asked him to find out what he could about the Coast Guard and anybody else who tracked incoming air traffic radar. I was primarily interested in airplanes running drugs into the east coast between Miami and Cocoa Beach.

"Find out how they do it." I said. "And what their tracking criteria are."

"I'll see if I can find out how they eliminate some and continue to monitor others." He said with enthusiasm in his voice. I knew he felt a little dejected and feeling left out when I mentioned the cruise thing. Johnny was in a position to take off from the daily grind of bearing sales whenever he wanted, but I was selfishly considering the time on the cruise alone with Barbie. Now I had given him an assignment which would contribute and keep him somewhat in the loop.

"Great, and check the speeds of aircraft that they watch and how low the radar can see. I don't think they can track the whole way down to the ground."

"Aye, aye, sir," he said, "and have a great time." We hung up.

River Ranch was close to one hundred and fifty miles down the turnpike from The Landing. We got off at the Yeehaw Junction exit about an hour and forty-five minutes into the trip, and turned right to head west on Highway 60. We pulled into the parking lot and parked beside the uniquely peaked roof of the Stuckey's convenience store. It's not the restaurant any more, but it's still the same company. They share the roof design with the old Red Roof Inns. I noticed the big Tourist Information place with the hotel, had closed down. We grabbed some drinks and potato chips and got back on the road. This area, called Yeehaw Junction is kind of a last chance gas stop between Vero Beach and Lakes Wales, and was probably somewhat of a little boom town, before they brought the turnpike and I-95 through. You can buy fresh strawberries, cherries and alligator jerky by the side of the road there.

A friend told me to make sure we stopped at the flashing red light, by the famous Desert Inn Motel, because the Osceola County Deputies are always lurking and ready to write you the big ticket. Highway 60 is a two lane road. It's a long stretch of barren road consisting of fenced rows of pastures, hayfields, and farm land and not much else. The most interesting thing you see might be when they open it up from two lanes to three and the center lane becomes the passing lane.

Terrestrial Orlando radio started to fade out, so I hit the seek button and it stopped on 99.1. It's a country music station. I like Country Music, but it's not my favorite. I guess it's because most of them always have to throw the Jesus thing in there. It seems like their way of saving themselves or something. Barbie likes country so we leave it there.

We crossed the Kissimmee River and we're now in Polk County. On the left, we saw the big sign framed in large river rock of the River Ranch Resort. "The World's Largest Dude Ranch." Big, dark, pewter colored, standing horse statue, in front of the sign. We took it left and the road wound back for a mile or two until we came to the gate. The cheerful cowboy stepped out of the gate house and welcomed us. He gave us a resort map like the one I had seen on the website, with information about the resort listed on the back.

The entrance to the airfield is just inside the gate to the left and we pulled in there. Not knowing the procedures and wary of any restrictions they might have, we walked from the parking lot around the Golf Pro Shop & Airport Operations building, and through a little swing gate out to the airplane tie down lot. No hangers were visible anywhere. There were 12 planes in the lot. A big six seat Piper, a Beechcraft Skipper, a newer, canvas covered Velocity with the canard wing. An older, beautiful red and white Cessna Skylane and a Searay like the one Tim and Mark flipped in Cherry Lake. Looking at all of them there on that little paved area, it was easy to add up the zeros. Half a million dollars in just six or seven of them. There were some other ragtag Cessna's and Pipers, which I didn't even count. Mark's Drifter would have been out of place among these airplanes.

We walked out to take a look down the runway. It was a long look. The pavement goes on and on and we couldn't tell where it ended. The grass is cut low for a hundred feet on each side of the pavement, enough room to bring a big 707 in there. There was something of color, way down on the left side, and I couldn't make out what it was exactly. Barbie said she thought it might be an abandoned kite or one that had come loose from the grip of a child and caught on something. With no wind it would just rest there, she said. Pretty big kite, I said indicating I wasn't in agreement about what she thought it was. It was something bigger.

We turned when we heard the shooting start. Way off to the right of us about five hundred yards, was a shooting range. We could see the men aiming and firing, then taking their turn at the end of a line of six of them. Once they had all fired, they'd move to another spot and start again. Just beyond the Pro Shop, a golf cart path took you up to the range and beyond. Encountering no hassles about wandering in among the aircraft, we entered the back door of the building and found the boy at the desk to be friendly and informative. There was a radio rig set up on a pedestal podium to talk to the incoming and outgoing air traffic. Several items related to golfing, which we learned from him was directly across the road, past the gate house. For five dollars and thirty-five cents we rented a golf cart. He said we could use it to tour the resort. He said to bring it back in a couple of hours. He also told us the tent camping area costs about fifteen dollars a night. Barbie went out to the Jeep to retrieve the map and I went to select our exploration chariot. A very young girl came by, riding a horse that looked much too large for her. She was dressed in expensive riding gear and I was amazed to see her posting so beautifully.

The ride took us up about two hundred yards from the golf cart hut, along a thick grove of Live Oaks. It was a primitive camping area for tents and small campers, though I discovered soon that it was not so primitive. There were power hookups and hose bib connections, spread sporadically through the grove. Heavily shaded tents here and there, with grownups and children appearing to be enjoying the tranquil setting. A dog, tied to a tent stake was watching us carefully. There was smoke trailing away from an unattended campfire.

We could see another camping area, also heavy with oak trees farther up the path, on the other side of the cart path from the shooting range. Bigger travel trailers and the bus type campers in there. We drove over to watch the shooters. There were six trap houses. Each about six feet square and at least twelve feet high, made of brown painted wood and trimmed in white boards. Some, but not all had long storage sheds extending back toward us. There was a fence to separate the public from the contestants with warning signs attached. In between the trap houses they were green concrete gun rest tables. The men, some dressed in western authenticity, would stand in line and fire at the clay discs being thrown from the trap houses on their left and their right. They were rotating turns and positions within the area. I suppose the best score wins, I told Barbie.

We followed the cart path and it dropped us out on the main road just past the Chapel. We could see a sign for a petting farm over on the right, and a rodeo arena off in the distance through the parking lot in front of us. There was a lot of activity here. We turned left and followed the road past an impressive Lodge and Conference Center. We saw signs pointing to a General Store, so we snaked the cart around the roads and came to a little cul de sac, complete with Post Office, Western Clothing Store, Arcade, and the General Store. We browsed around for a bit in the quaintness of the place. They have barrels for trash cans with handled lids to make them more attractive. Barbie learned from an employee in the restroom that we could rent boats, and swamp buggies over by the Marina. They also offer guided tours and programs for just about everything you could imagine.

Moving on, we passed by the tennis courts and found ourselves in the parking area of The Smokehouse Grill. Nestled over to the left side was another sign indicating a Bait and Tackle Shop. Feeling a little hungry we decided to try the cuisine. We walked in and were greeted by the hostess who asked if we would like a booth inside, or a table on the patio. We chose the patio. Big beautiful flagstones arranged in pattern make up the floor. Round and square wood tables and chairs. The entire back wall of the patio was screened, overlooking the Marina, and we walked out there while waiting, after our orders had been taken. There were wood plank decks and sidewalks with stairways leading down to the docks. Nice size marina with slips for about thirty good size boats. A lot of pontoon party barges in there. Everything was fresh and clean and very peaceful. There were white tower pedestals with water and electric service spaced periodically around the entire dockside. Up top, next to the bait shop, was a gas pump with long hoses leading down to the dock.

The marina basin was about two hundred feet across and surrounded by cream colored, concrete poured walls. It extended in length, about five hundred feet and opened to continue up to another RV campground. There was a break in the back wall of about seventy feet and a canal had been dredged leading out to the Kissimmee River. You could probably bring a boat in from just about anywhere in central Florida.

Barbie had ordered the Rodeo Burger and I got the Double Decker Grilled Cheese with tomato and bacon. Hold the tomato.

Before heading back to the airfield we stopped by the Rodeo Arena. We watched from an observation platform as they herded the horses out of the arena and into the paddock. Barbie made a comment about how cute the young cowboy in the green shirt was, and I gave her a nice little pinch on her butt.

We were getting tired and I was looking forward to the drive to Miami and parking it a hotel bed for the night, but I was still curious about the color at the end of the runway. The resort map depicted another tent camping area, on the other side of the runway and dangerously close to the Trap and Skeet range. The shooting had stopped in the lateness of the day, so we ventured over there on the golf cart. We just made our way lazily passed the campground until I thought we were out of sight of the Pro Shop. I put the pedal down to the floor and only had to ease up in the areas where the grass was rough. We were moving down the far side of the runway. As we approached the color it became a blue and white nylon cabin tent, laid over on its side. There was an open area behind the tent, in a clearing of the trees. It was secluded by the tall trees behind it. It was not quite at the end of the airstrip. We crossed over the runway in the golf cart. Someone had pitched the tent in there and made it their private camp. The tent must have been blow out onto the edge of the runway by the wind. The flexible canopy support poles were still fixed in their nylon slots, so the tent was still holding its shape. The stakes were still attached to the cords. They must have been pulled loose from the soft sandy dirt by a strong wind. Big stone fire ring, a camp table and two folding chairs were set in a place beside where the tent had been. There were tracks in the grass, so they had brought in a vehicle or two. The tracks led to a trail leading out to the hard road, somewhere outside the resort. I could tell the camp hadn't been occupied for a few days or maybe a week. The remains of the ashes inside the fire ring had the dull dead look, after the morning dew from several days had lay upon it. I found an aeronautical tactical map, of the east coast of Florida, inside the tent when I zipped it down and peaked in there. Otherwise the tent was empty.

"Somebody wants some privacy." Barbie said.

"Yeah, and they're flyers." I said holding up the map, and tossing it back into the tent. I pulled the zipper on the doorway back down. Then Barbie and I dragged the tent back inside the clearing and I stomped the stakes back into the ground.

"So it wouldn't just be kids hanging out?" She asked.

"I wouldn't know of any kids in need of a Tac map, but whoever it is, it looks like they're avoiding the gate." I pointed to the tire tracks.

"Someone being secretive." she said.

"Yeah, but not subtle enough." I said walking back to the golf cart. "We saw it from the end of the runway, and anyone landing would see it from the air. I'd ask about somebody about it, in casual conversation if I landed here." We got back into the cart.

"Let's go to Miami." I said. We took Highway 60, back to the east and put it on the turnpike south. We took a room in the Biscayne Bay Marriott for the night, after getting some dinner at Pollo Tropical.

We arrived at the port of Miami at about three thirty and were directed to Parking Garage D. I was flabbergasted to find they charged twenty dollars per day to park, in advance. What a racket! We bypassed the attendant trying to get us to use one of those silver carts they use to carry luggage. Our two bags had wheels and we extended the handles and towed them behind. Barbie also carried another bag, into which she had stashed her purse. I had the laptop case over my shoulder.

The Sunshine Dreamer was docked adjacent to the road, with a huge white building at the edge of the dock connected to the tunnels leading to the middle decks of the ship. There was another Paradise ship docked further down the road called The Elegance. I had noted it when I went searching the cruise ship website. Both ships appeared massive and I wondered if they were sisters.

They formed us into a long line swiveling through the serpentine gates to the Customs stand. They checked our passports and sent the luggage through the X-ray machine. Like airport security, they made us remove belts and shoes and all the contents of our pockets. While in line there, I was surprised to find many carrying cases and special six packs of liquor and wine. When I inquired, the gentlemen informed me that when I saw the price of a glass of wine aboard, I'd wish I had thought of the idea.

It took about thirty more minutes for us to get through the ground floor and up the steps to the Check-In desk. The attendant was dressed in a blue blazer and was overly friendly. Her demeanor was that of the lady who works in the office and greets the ninth graders on the first day of High School.

"Welcome. You are entering a brand new world of wonder and excitement." She asked for the passports again and a major credit card, and took our pictures. When she learned that we had never experienced the adventure of a Paradise Cruise before, she stepped the happy talk up a notch. She went into a mile long dissertation about all the amenities and that it's always so much fun to explore the ship. Take the time to see the differences of each and every deck, and learn their names. There are nine main decks, with two more exclusive state room elevations fore and aft of the pool area on deck nine, which is called the Lido. There are unfortunately for us, areas of the ship which house the ship's staff, laundry and kitchens and we would not be allowed access there. But, don't be dismayed, there isn't anything exciting happening in those areas anyway. There will be a list of all of the following day's activities aboard, delivered to your state room every evening of the cruise.

"Oh I see you chose the Elite package, exceptional choice, sir. I'm sure you will be very pleased with all the extra services available and provided with the Captains compliments inclusive, in this package." She lowered her voice and informed us that although the elevator did stop on our stateroom deck, our key card and those of the other guests who had selected the Elite package would be the only access to the door opening to the corridor.

"Your privacy is one of our most important priorities. Your preselected dinner hour will be at six, in the Aragon Room and please try to be prompt." In closing, she thanked us for choosing Paradise Cruise Lines and issued us each a little blue credit card. "This card must be kept on hand at all times, and would be used for access to our rooms and to embark and disembark the ship at our destination ports of call. It is also needed to purchase anything and everything while aboard. Please do not lose it."

We decided our first stop would be to stash the bags in our stateroom, and overheard some of the passengers as they stepped off of the elevator. Evidently the state rooms weren't quite ready on their decks. We learned that the elevators in the center of the ship didn't travel to deck ten, The Congress Deck, where our state room was located. We looked at a large, framed brass engraving, hanging on the wall outside the elevators, which depicted a drawing of the deck we were on, and another of the entire ship. Our deck was aft and we would have to walk through the ship to reach those elevators. When we found them, we rode up the six flights to The Congress Deck. Just as the lady had described, there was a closed door between the elevator and the corridor leading to our state room. The key card opened it, as advertised.

Four doors down the narrow hallway we were greeted by a smiling, tuxedoed man introducing himself as our Executive Butler. I guessed this was a fancy name for a room steward. His heritage was unclear, but I could tell it was somewhere in the islands. The accent of his voice, with a slight English tinge provided no clue. Of course, our state room was ready, right this way, sir. Another service pitch followed.

"Was the position of the queen bed with relation to the reclining chairs, adequately placed within the room? At what temperature limit should the water for the spa bathtub be set? Would the lady be requiring any additional lotions or bath oils, other than those provided on her dressing table? Could I assist you with the setup of your laptop connection to the ships satellite? Please select your choice of complimentary champagne from the list on bar." He understood how luggage tended to wrinkle pressed attire, and it would be his pleasure to return anything we needed, promptly freshened. He would be happy to cater to our every whim and please don't tip him or his staff now, there would be time for everything in the way of extra gratuity, at the end of our journey.

When he excused himself, we settled in and spent the next several minutes jokingly addressing each other as kings and queens would address their personal attendants and valets. The jokes were in no way meant to diminish our impressions of the service, or of what we had observed in the time we had been aboard. The room was really luxurious, and Ricardo, the butler, had seemed more than sincere. Not being accustomed to any of this, Barbie was having fun.

The reminder of our purpose here brought us back down to earth. Our cruise had a mission, an investigation to determine who had killed Mark and Becky and why. The main character or prime suspect happened to be employed aboard as a waiter of some sort. I didn't feel the need to track his every move, instead I was more interested in his activities, if any, at the Port of Cozumel, Mexico. I had picked the Elite package for two reasons. The first was because the odds were low that he would be assigned to any of the dining rooms associated with the Elite. I wasn't real crazy about meeting him on the ship. It would be awkward to explain our presence at a later encounter of him off the ship. I was more into an incognito approach to view his whereabouts. The second reason was Barbie. I thought she would enjoy the pampering and circumstance. And she wouldn't have been left wondering what it would have been like, had I chose a less expensive package. There was certainly a desire to impress her.

At about five-fifteen we felt the ship moving, we were making way toward Key West. We were due to arrive at eight in the morning, and the only interest we had would be if Mr. Zee and his friend got off the ship. Barbie and I had both been to Key West. The island is a little bit too touristy for my taste, the Hemingway impact included.

Barbie suggested we go looking for the Aragon Room and grab a glass of white, somewhere in the area. We found the dining room doors closed with a fancy sign promising to open promptly at six, so we walked down the curved stairway, outside the entrance to the piano bar below.

"Look Jake." She said pointing to the piano. "They knew you were coming."

"Yeah right." I replied sarcastically. "My luck, it would be out of tune." Barbie sat in the lounge chair off to the side and I went to the bar and selected a bottle of Schmitt Sohne Riesling 2007. When I had asked for two glasses, the barman suggested the bottle was priced about the same and added the third glass. Sounded like a great idea until I signed the thirty-seven dollar chit. I now appreciated the man in the waiting line's idea of bringing his own.

WAt ten after six, we were seated on the left side of the top floor, of the two story Aragon Room. The elegantly, appointed room was a deep oblong shape, not quite circular. The center of our floor opened to view the lower dining area. There was a wide staircase leading down to the Maitre D's podium. On our table was the silver place setting. I picked up the knife and winked at Barbie. I had glanced briefly at the spoon and the fork, in the shoe box, in Becky's closet, but I took a little more time to study their elegance now.

We stayed with the Riesling for dinner when the drink attendant appeared. The waiter introduced himself as Lumin. He wore a black tuxedo with crushed velvet lapels and a nicely engraved silver nametag with black lettering. He graciously thanked us for his opportunity to make our dining experience aboard as pleasurable as he could. He explained his duties and we were one of only four tables he would serve. He was Italian, from Trieste and when I told him I had been there, it gave us a moment to become acquainted. He offered his choice of appetizer and told us the Chateaubriand and the Prime Rib was very good tonight. We said that would be fine, and he scurried away.

It was when I was finishing the last dip of medium rare prime into the au jus, that Barbie motioned with a tilting turn of the head. Across the open area from us, stood Mr. Christov, serving desert to the couple sitting at a table against the rail. I was curious how she recognized him, because he looked completely out of place there in his tux, compared to the picture we had seen. I had not expected him to be this class of waiter. Fortunately for us, we had drawn a different table based on our state room number. He seemed proficient when he served them and laughed politely at something she said. I wished we had brought the camera.

I asked Lumin if he had other duties than the Aragon Room, and he assured me that the ship kept them all as busy as possible. Most of this staff would be somewhere on the Lido deck buffets for breakfast and lunch.

"Do you get some liberty time at the ports?" I asked.

"Each of us rotates for two days off during the entire cycle however, we always have to be back aboard to have our tables ready for the dinner guests. The cycle consists of the two weeks the ship spends traveling to different destinations. This cycle is the four day tour to Cozumel, and a seven day that takes us to Nassau, St. Thomas and St. Maarten after this tour. I have a day off in Key West tomorrow and another when we get to St. Maarten." He replied.

I caught myself watching him, without realizing it. He moved through his tables with a professionalism and confidence which was intimidating, not just for his skills as a high end waiter, but more for what I knew about his private life. Mr. Christov was Croatian, though not necessarily though his heritage. Only the younger ones and the very, very old ones could claim real Croatia heritage. Croatia...brought back a memory from my past.

I was aboard the USS Guam, doing Marine Corps helicopter maneuvers in the Mediterranean Sea. Our first stop in Italy was the huge port of Naples. The ship was assigned there for a long time. What a nasty, little, polluted, piece of crap, town. I learned more about the beauty of Italia, by traveling on ship sponsored liberty excursions into the interior cities later that month. There are some fabulous sites to see there.

When we eventually left the nasty port, we sailed down around the horn and up the eastern side to the city of Trieste. Italy is shaped like a ladies boot. Trieste is way up, on the top of the back side. When liberty call was sounded a group of us rented mopeds, and donning cameras and six pack coolers of beer, proceeded to race through the northern Italian countryside. After an hour of sight seeing we came upon a long chain link fence beside the winding road. Sure that it was a military installation, and thinking it was probably a NATO aligned facility; we cruised right up to the main gate. We had seen some signs, but not recognizing the language we paid them little attention.

The Yugoslavian border army came storming out of three different buildings, fully dressed in fatigues and carrying weapons. They put us up against the fence, with automatic Uzi machine guns in our faces. They stripped the film from the cameras and they confiscated the beer. They held us right there, until an interpreter arrived and then they marched us into one of the buildings. Several anger filled minutes of screaming at us ensued, until finally someone agreed to get on the telephone and contact the ship. We were reluctantly allowed to leave after about three hours of an emotion filled, state of panic

Croatia used to part of that country called Yugoslavia, and was held in close alliance with the Soviet Union, until the breakup. Later, they held democratic elections, and the country was split into what the United Nations now recognizes as Croatia, Bosnia, Macedonia, Montenegro, Serbia and Slovenia. I think the warring factions are still alive and kicking there today. Even though that had been along time ago, I could not help transposing Christov's face onto one of the armed Yugoslavian guards, running out of that gate house.

We passed on the dessert and decided to take an evening walk on the open Lido deck. There was an Asian female voice coming from a hidden speaker in the elevator, announcing the deck level and accompanying the single bell ring, when the elevator stopped on the floor.

"Deck nine, Leeedo" The Lido deck housed a good portion of the passengers on each end, but the entire middle portion was opened to the air. There was an almost complete perimeter walking deck, devoid of any lounge chairs, and it made for a nice, starry night stroll. The middle portion was sunken into the eighth deck and had hot tubs and pools spread around, which were surrounded by the lounge chairs and tables of the pool life. Forward of the pool area were the buffet dining areas, separated only by partition walls to provide an intimate atmosphere. There before us rose the largest video screen I have ever seen and they were playing selected footage and songs of the great Ray Charles, so we paused in the stroll to enjoy his genius. We stayed and eventually pulled up chairs at a table and ordered two more glasses of white. The concert footage was followed by the movie about him starring Jamie Foxx, who does a remarkable impression in the challenging role.

We went back to the state room after the movie.

Monday Morning. We rose and went to breakfast early enough to find Mr. Christov organizing the return trays and silverware into slotted containers next to the bus tub. He was working the buffet tables on the starboard side of the Lido Deck. This silverware was standard stainless, with no special crest. There were several different buffet lines, each specializing in its own morning cuisine. For those wanting a quick trip through the line, there was a chafing dish assortment of bacon, sausage links, scrambled eggs, toast and fried potatoes. We picked this line and found a table just outside of his section. The food was not bad, considering it was mass produced in a little kitchen behind the line. We finished and Barbie walked down to his bus station to get a look at his name tag. He smiled and greeted her as she handed him her tray. When she returned, she said she now understood why it was hard to pronounce, so she spelled it; Z-o-e-l-j-c-a. I agreed, and we decided to keep calling him Zee. We went back to get prepared for the possibility of a departure just as the ship was tying anchor lines in the harbor of Key West. The sight of Zee working on the Lido deck had eased the building anxiety that had been growing since we woke this morning. I had a pretty good idea he would be staying aboard, but we wanted to be ready just in case.

We hung out in areas where we could spot check him now and again during the remainder of the morning. We pretended to be sunning on the lounge chairs, I reading a book and Barbie with a magazine. Barbie would take the camera and pan across the entire area of that section where he was working. The camera is the type of digital where you look through the viewfinder, as you would with a thirty-five millimeter camera. However, this model allows you to snap six pictures in the span of about five seconds, while you are panning. The camera is also quieter than most. Mr. Christov's picture was taken six times in one pass, and he could never have known it was taken at all.

I took the opportunity to scan the pool area for bikini clad girls. There were a lot of them despite the fact that we were in port. Bikinis are like statistics. They show a lot, but they still cover up quite a bit of vital information.

At one point during Barbie's watch period, she had to play hide and seek in the elevators while following him back to the staff quarters. We later learned he was on a short break. The cell phones were not picking up any signal so we had no method of communication. We made an agreement that if we got separated and it got to the panic mode, determined by a twenty minute time limit, we would each return to the state room. I was just about to get up when I saw her hurrying toward me. She said she was just coming to check in with me before returning to a hiding spot where she could see his return. She kissed me quickly and took off in the direction she had come from. A little while later, I saw him back at his bus station preparing for the lunch buffet. She followed shortly thereafter.

It was safe to assume he wouldn't be going anywhere when the kitchen crew stopped bringing out fresh platters and chafing dishes of food to replenish the buffet. We had learned about the departing procedures earlier, and been able to see the ferry boats working all day. The ship was not able to pull up dockside, so passengers were ferried to and from the loading dock. This eased my mind, but I wasn't really able to relax completely until the announcement came that the last ferry to the island was now departing. Zee was still at his station.

Now that we had a little better than thirty six hours of free time, Barbie suggested the much anticipated shower, after which we could enjoy some of the ship's attractions. We raced back to the state room and found it had been made up.

The bathtub spa had one of those hand held shower heads which can also be fixed stationary. Barbie had shucked herself out of the shorts, panties, blouse and bra, before I even got my shoes off. She was now perched on her knees inside the spa. She worked the shower controls and looked at me, then went back to working the controls again. She shut the shower off and flipped on the nozzle which fills the spa.

"I have a better idea." She said. "Lets take a bath together, and would you please pour me a glass of champagne?"

"Absolutely!" I said and went to open the bottle of Piper-Heidsieck Brut, which Riccardo had placed in the bucket of ice for us, while we were gone. After I returned the bottle to the bucket, I tossed her a bottle of Essence of Lavender bath oil.

"Don't you dare tell anyone about this." I laughed.
Chapter Eleven:

### "I made up the whole thing, to get them to shut up."

**After we were dressed** for dinner, I downloaded the pictures Barbie had taken of Zee on to the laptop. I took her through the photo software that Johnny had given me. I showed her how to play around, cropping and enhancing the pictures without losing the original. When she had a good feel for what she was doing, I pulled a flash drive out of the case and explained the importance of having all files on a backup disk.

"This is a flash drive." I said. "It's sometimes called a jump drive. This one is capable of holding four gigabytes. That's quite a bit of pictures and data storage. Whenever you are finished, or to a point in the work, where you don't want to lose anything, always save to the hard drive and then save it to the flash. If something happens to the computer, we'll still have access to the data."

We walked through the ship and took the elevator down to the Aragon Room. Lumin smiled when he saw us, shook my hand and asked about our day on the island. We replied that we had stayed aboard, but I remembered to ask how his day had been. He told us that he had some relatives in Key West and on Marathon, and he enjoyed spending time with them. They had young children who called him Uncle Lumes, because they couldn't yet get the pronunciation right.

He asked about our reluctance to go ashore today. It seemed to him, that on this short cruise, all passengers would be anxious to experience Key West, if not for its cultural sites and shopping, then just to get off of the ship. They always seemed ready for every exotic port of call. I lied, and explained that being from Florida, we had experienced all of the Keys many times, and this cruise was a relaxation period for us. A way to remove the stresses associated with the high pressure lives that we led. He replied that he was pleased that we held occupations which kept us busy, for busy people were prosperous people. After that he was quiet for the rest of our dinner. In the lie, I had failed to realize the impact it would have on him. I should have just said we had been to the island before and that we wanted to relax today. I've said before that I have an innate ability to rub people the wrong way. I had slighted him. I had made him feel small and I was sorry that I did.

When I mentioned it to Barbie, while he was attending another table, she said she hadn't taken it that way, and didn't think he had either.

"Then how do you explain why he's been so quiet, since I said it."

"I don't know Babe," she replied. "But he's being paid to serve us dinner. He has no right to pass any judgments on you or me or anyone else. He would naturally have to understand that if we could afford to be here, we must have some measure of affluence." I looked at her and smiled. I had the sudden thought that I was liking her mind, more and more everyday.

At eight o'clock there was a Magic Show in what they called the Coliseum. This was a show room in the front of the ship spanning three decks in height. The seating was arranged in a semi circular manner, similar to the way it was in Rome. The stage was on deck four with floor seating and cocktail tables before it. An elevation of comfortable lounge seats on deck five, and the balcony seating on deck six. The magician was also a comedian. Luckily his magic out matched the comedy. He and his partner appeared in different costumes during every act of the show.

To begin, he solicited a middle aged lady from the audience; blind folded her and gave her a sword. He promised us that after she picked a card, and it was returned to the deck, she would be able to stab it when he tossed the cards in front of her at the count of three. He started the count, reaching three and sent the cards through the air before her. She failed to stab and the cards fell to the floor. He played it off as a symbol of her lack of enthusiasm and dismissed her. Next he called up a young boy of about ten named Davy, on the premise of including him in the next trick and then decided that the cards needed to be picked up. He asked the boy to help him and Davy scurried about picking up the cards. The magician actually only picked up two. When Davy was finished, the magician thanked him, and sent him back to his seat. Dismayed, the boy bowed his head and returned to his seat while the audience laughed and clapped. The magician then went into a series of real events making things appear and disappear, his flamboyant gesturing keeping in time with the big band sound coming from the orchestra.

Another assistant, this time a pretty female, played the girl sawn in half and the girl who's head would rotate and move up and down the slot, while the arms and legs remained in place and the fingers and toes wiggled continuously. He was very good. In between acts, scantily clad female dancers performed their routines in unison and they were also impressive. The magician and his partner had found a very effective and entertaining way to kill the time it took to set up their next act. Though they were dressed in bustier type attire, the dancing girls were in no way lewd or obscene. This was a family show.

His most memorable performance involved him dressed as a big game hunter, while the partner was dressed in what I can best describe as a Spiderman costume, without the color. The costume was a very dark gray. They had a large woven basket wheeled out to the center of the stage. It looked like the kind of basket the old time, snake charmers would use in India. The sound of the flute would draw the cobra up out of the basket, readying the strike.

The partner stood on top of the basket, and after raising his arms above his head, he dropped down into the basket. The magician pulled the magic sheet across the opening and said the magic words. Then he proceeded to light seven swords on fire. He stuck each of the first six swords through the sides of the basket at angles, their flaming tips appearing out the opposite side. The seventh sword was plunged straight down through the opening and shuffled up and down, until it penetrated the bottom of the basket. He waved another wand under the flame of the sword. He then removed all seven swords and extinguished the flames. When he waved the magic sheet across the opening this time, the female assistant appeared standing on the basket. Another wave of the sheet, and she disappeared. Another wave and this time dark gray Spiderman was standing on the basket. He started a wriggling dance, turning and rotating his feet to opposing sides on the lip of the opening. Suddenly, to the heart pounding anxiety of the audience and the beating of the large jungle drum in the background, he dropped to his knees and reached a long arm into the bottom of the basket. In one sweeping move, he appeared standing back on the top of the basket holding a ten foot anaconda snake.

At the end of the show, the magician called up the blindfolded card stabber and Davy - the card picker upper, presenting them both with very nice gifts. Then the female assistant blindfolded him, gave him the sword and had him pick a card from the deck. She displayed the card to the audience and returned it to the deck. The orchestra played the tense building climatic rendition as she counted to three. The cards went into the air, the sword swooshed and the displayed card appeared stuck fast to the end of his sword.

The audience stood in ovation. The magician and both assistants took bows. In his final address to the audience, the magician stepped up to the microphone.

"Where's Davy?" he said, pointing to the remaining cards on the floor. "I need his help again."

We were up at the front of the ship, the forward observation area on the Lido Deck. It is a narrow, but beautiful wood deck which carves into the wind with the shape of the bow. It gives the opportunity to look out over the lower decks cascading toward the front. Someone had conveniently brought teak wood lounge chairs out there, and we were sharing them with another couple, in the Tuesday morning sunshine. The ship had been underway since last evening, now making sixteen or seventeen knots toward the western tip of Cuba. The couple opened the bulkhead door about ten minutes after we stepped out of it. The breeze from the movement of the ship was brisk, but being down in the chairs, it was kept out of our faces by the forward wall of the deck.

They came over and she said "Hiyall." Then she introduced herself and her husband, telling us they were from South Carolina, and that they had saved up all year just to take this cruise. "And isn't this great, four days on this beautiful boat, with all the beautiful stopping places, and the beautiful people that live there." She had said all of this in a span of about four seconds.

They were very chatty, and had we stayed longer than we did, I'm sure they would have told us their entire life story. As it was, we just got the events of their yesterday, before I could take no more. They actually did take the time to ask us two questions. The first was, where were we from? The second, why did we pick a cruise, leaving from the state where we live. We had to lie again.

Barely waiting for our answer, they proceeded to tell us about their day in Key West. Sadly, their sightseeing was abruptly cut short when Marion had called her nineteen year old son to check in. He told her that he had just been fired from his job, packing boxes into UPS trailers, because he had told the supervisor that he thought she was pretty. Marion was really upset because she just knew that, Jack her husband, would have to make the son's car payment, just like the last time, six months ago when he lost the bakery job.

Marion had handed the pay telephone receiver to Jack, and now Jack proceeded in telling us his portion of the story. He had pried the truth from the son, Tommy, after an argument lasting through three operator requests for additional quarters. The truth finally came forward when Jack had threatened to let the car be repossessed, when he got home and called UPS to get their version. Tommy had actually told the supervisor that he thought her boobs were pretty, and that he would like to find out if they were real. Tommy said the manager had reluctantly let him go because he had violated the sexual harassment policy. The manager explained that he would be happy to give him a good recommendation, should a prospective employer care to call, however if asked, he would have to reveal the reason for the termination.

Marion seemed to have a problem with all of it. She was flabbergasted, or acted that way, about the boob thing, but she couldn't understand why he had to be fired for saying it. Why couldn't Tommy just apologize and go back to work. The hardest part for her to understand was the manager's statement about having to reveal the reason for the firing. Jack, now frustrated with discussing it, chastised her in front of us.

"Marion, Marion, MARION!" He said, talking over her while she kept whining about the manager. "How many times do I have to tell you...? LET IT GO! The boy made a big mistake. You can't say things like that to people in the work place."

"But Jack, you didn't get fired when you got caught pinching my butt in the restaurant that time." She replied.

"That was different Marion." He said. "The manager was my best friend, and that happened twenty five years ago. Things are different today, honey." I couldn't contain myself anymore. If I had tried, I would have embarrassed myself and Barbie, and probably Jack and Marion by laughing hysterically. The other choice would have been to get up and walk away from them. I chose to change it up by telling them a story.

"You know..." I said. "The truth about the sexual harassment thing." The statement must have caught their attention and they focused it on me. I continued.

"It all began in Texas, back in the early eighties. The incident wasn't even reported by an employee. The first suit was actually filed by a hungry young lawyer who overheard two guys, in a bar one night, talking about pinching Suzy's butt in the break room. They said Suzy didn't seem mind at all. The lawyer listened long enough to find out the name of the company. He did some quick research by calling a friend on the telephone, at the end of the bar, and put two and two together the next day. It was a small enough company that weeding out the Suzie's came easy. He followed her home and convinced her father that the company would pay her a lot of money, because they had taken no responsibility in protecting her right, not to have her butt pinched at work. He actually coined the phrase; sexual harassment. Suzy didn't even want to be a part of it. She liked the guys. She thought they were fun. The father joined the lawyer in the smelling of the money. It became an historic, precedent setting, court case. The company had to pay three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in punitive damages, which set off a scramble by all Human Resource Managers across the country, to complete or reform all the current policies and procedures. Incorporating in the new ones, rules against any conduct which might be interpreted as offensive. Today, it is actually possible to be fired for telling a female she is pretty. The story always brings the memory of the villain, dressed in impersonation, as the curmudgeonly, old man who wrote the book, in the movie: A Murder of Crows. The old man had told the Cuba Gooding character,

"If it weren't for lawyers, dear boy, we wouldn't need lawyers."

The story had subdued their enthusiasm for talking and after a few more minutes, we excused ourselves. On the way back through the ship, Barbie asked me a question.

"How did you know about that sexual harassment story?"

"I didn't." I said. "I made up the whole thing, to get them to shut up."

After lunch we were just fiddling around in the state room when I noticed Barbie browsing over the ships daytime activity brochure. She had stopped at the pages in the middle and I looked over her shoulder to see what had caught her interest. She was checking out the Sunshine Dreamer Spa Accommodations. I reached for the phone and pushed the butler's button. When she asked what I was doing, I just shook my head. Riccardo answered shortly, and while looking at her straight in the face, I asked him if he could get Barbie into one or two of the ship's pampering services, on short notice. Riccardo promised to get back to me, after he said he would see what he could do. He hung up the phone and I held the receiver cocked in my neck and pretended to continue the conversation with him.

Meanwhile Barbie was shaking her head and wagging a pointed finger, while mouthing the word no.

"They're booked up 'til when?" I said. "Oh Riccardo, that's really disappointing. Are you sure?" I starting to shake my head and then cupped the mouthpiece and said.

"He doesn't have enough clout to get you in. I thought he was the real deal, but this is disappointing."

"I don't want you to do this." She said. "Did you see those prices?"

"I don't think he can....Oh Okay Riccardo...Yeah, nice try....Yeah, okay thanks." I hung the phone up. It was only back in the cradle for about thirty seconds, and Barbie was going on about how nice it was for me to try, when the phone rang.

"Hello.... hey Riccardo" I said. "Yeah...alright thanks." He had hung up again, but I continued the game. Being as nonchalant as I could, I looked at the clock on the wall. I had about ten minutes to get her there. I replaced the receiver on the hook.

"He said that people sometimes cancel, and that we should go up there, and check out the services, and maybe put your name down, in case someone does." I lied.

"Really...well it might be fun to take a look at what they offer." She said. On the way to the spa we noticed the ship was almost at dead rest in the water. We found out later that the Captain timed his arrival at the port in Mexico with the departure of the ship currently moored there. It actually didn't take a full day to get to the Island Of Cozumel, so we were in a type of waiting period here. We would get back underway later this evening and arrive when the dock would be open.

We walked into the atrium room, on Forward Sun Deck Eleven. Riccardo was already there. They came out from around the reception desk with the rolling chair and spoke to her.

"Miss Allman, would you please have a seat while we take you in for preparation?" They were Oriental twins, slim and fit and very attractive.

"Whadayamean?" Barbie said looking them and then looking at me.

"Go with it, Baby." I said. When they wheeled her away, I thanked Riccardo and told him that she had no idea about this.

"I was my pleasure, sir." He said. "Now you should hurry after, before they close the door, and you miss the fun. There are sports magazines on the rack, in the hall there."

This might be cool, I thought. I hadn't expected to be allowed in. They had wheeled her into a private room where there was one of those bamboo, changing wall things, and told her to undress behind it and put on the blue bathrobe. There was a mini steam room over at the end of the wall. I knew this because the door had been opened a crack and I could see and smell the heat coming from there.

"My name is Hanni," said the one on the right. "And my name is Yanni," said the one on the left. I was going to have trouble distinguishing them if they changed positions.

"Would you be interested in any of our services, sir?" Hanni asked.

"No thank you." I said. Barbie came out and Yanni led her into the steam room. I had grabbed a Sports Illustrated from the rack on the way in, and I sat down on the easy chair, and started flipping through it. I could hear Yanni explaining to Barbie, the dousing of the hot rocks with the ladle of water from the bucket. She told her to get nice and sweaty, so that the pores would open, and then they had a special way to close them again. Hanni had disappeared behind a curtain and I could hear water being drawn.

Barbie was in there for not much more than five minutes, when I heard her exclaiming how hot it was. Yanni asked her if she was ready to come out, and Hanni said to wait because she needed two more minutes.

"Hang in there girl." Yanni told her. In a little while Hanni poked her head around the curtain and signaled to her sister that she was ready for Barbie. She asked Barbie if she was ready to come out. Barbie said she was more than ready. Yanni opened the door and a big cloud of steam came rolling out of the narrow doorway. Yanni was smiling when she saw Barbie. Her skin, through the vee opening of the robe at her neck, had turned a lighter shade of sunbrown. Her hair was mop like. I chuckled and she smiled back at me.

The bathrobe was withdrawn and another was thrown around her very quickly. Hanni drew the curtain aside. There was a clear cylindrical chamber, with an open doorway, and Hanni motioned Barbie forward. When she had walked into the chamber, she asked Barbie to remove the bathrobe. Barbie did so, with a strange wondering look on her face. I had no idea what was about to happen, so I just shrugged and nodded. Hanni closed the door and secured the handle latch.

"Stand very still, with your feet planted firmly on the ground...No, don't look up." Hanni told her. "Okay Yanni, she's ready. When it happened, I remember standing up, clenching my teeth and wondering how cold the water was. The ceiling of the chamber opened somehow, and a bunch of water fell from above. It quickly filled the chamber up to Barbie's shoulder line, and I heard her scream and saw her bobbing around, her arms held tightly against her chest. The water had not fallen straight down on her head, instead it kind of washed down along the cylinder walls. It took no more than three seconds to fill the chamber, and by the time it reached her shoulders, it was already draining. When the all water had run out, Hanni opened the door and asked her how she felt.

"Actually....after the initial freeze shock, I feel really wonderful... refreshed." She said.

"It's done that way, to snap the pores shut, as quickly as possible." Yanni said, appearing from out of nowhere. "It's a very healthy way to cleanse your body from the inside out."

"We have to get you dried and prepped for the next segment, so come with me please. Sir, have a seat, we'll come back and get you when she's ready" I returned to the chair and continued with the magazine, but I wasn't able to concentrate. It was about five whole minutes before the excitement resumed. Hanni came back and led me down a hallway to another room. Barbie was laying face down on a leather mat about one inch thick. The mat was part of a larger massage table, and there were large and small, round rocks along her right side. She was only covered, across her butt by a white towel. Yanni walked over, after I was seated in another chair and handed me a pamphlet.

The pamphlet read, Asian Hot Stone Therapy. Combining the deep penetrating heat of Volcanic Basalt Stones with massage therapy to relieve muscular tension. It is designed to provide a soothing relaxation from deep within the areas of your body which have never received massage attention, from even the most competent masseur.

I looked up from the pamphlet and Yanni was handing me one of the stones. It was warmer than warm, in fact it was hot and I dropped it on the carpet.

They applied the stones to the top of her back and began working in tandem down her body, across the towel and down her legs. The stones seemed to have flat spots or curvatures, to keep them from falling off, when she winced, and murmured oohs and ahhs. When they were complete at her calves, Hanni removed the towel and Yanni laid a larger flat stone across her butt.

"How're you feeling girl?" Hanni asked her.

"This is amazing, Jake you have to try this." She said. The stones were left in place until they had cooled to the point where there were no longer effective. I estimated this to be about twenty-five or thirty minutes. The stones had left little white powder trails, when they removed them and Yanni came back with a steaming moist towel to blot them away. When she was wrapped in another blue robe, they escorted us around the corner from the stone room and through a swinging door labeled Mud Treatment. They didn't give me a pamphlet this time.

Barbie was undressed again and asked to lie down, face up in a large but shallow, light green, porcelain sink thing, on top of the same type of table that was in the stone room. They had placed folded towels on the bottom where she would lay. Hanni went over to a stainless kettle, which looked like my kitchen mixer bowl, only much bigger. It appeared to hold about three gallons, and she stepped on a little peddle on the floor next to it. The mixing spoons began to churn something. After a minute had passed, she released the peddle. She dipped a finger into the kettle and came over to me, wiping her finger into the palm of my hand. It felt more like a clay than mud, and she confirmed this when I asked her. It was light gray in color and felt a little bit grainy. When I looked over at Barbie, they had covered her hips with another towel. Yanni had fired the tips of three incense sticks, in a holder resting not far from Barbie's face, and the smoke was trailing across the room.

They applied the mud, again working in tandem, this time Hanni started at her feet working her way up, and Yanni started at the breasts. They were doing circular motions, smearing the clay over her in a thin coating, and Barbie had her eyes closed. When they finished with her body, Yanni carefully turned her face into a raccoon, doing the little circle smears, across her forehead, her cheeks and nose and then around her chin and down her neck. The clay seemed to be drying rapidly. Before it had cured, they helped to roll her over and they repeated the procedure over her back, stopping at the curve of her butt, and resuming at the top of her thighs.

Hanni kept looking at her watch. When it was time, she asked Barbie to smile really wide.

"It feels like my face is cracking." Barbie said.

"Okay, great. Now I want you to turn over slowly and carefully try to sit up."

I saw the dried clay cracking into spider webs all along her body. She managed it well enough on her own, with only minor assistance from Hanni. Yanni had been busy placing a step stool next to the table and then rolling out a wide paper mat that led to a shower in the corner of the room. Hanni was helping Barbie to step down the stool.

"It's not going to be freezing again, is it?" She asked when she saw the shower.

"Just the opposite," replied Hanni. "You can test it before you get in." The five shower heads were configured like a light rain coming down, and as soon as she stepped in, Hanni drew a curtain. Yanni escorted me to the door and said I could wait for her in the Waiting Room beside the Salon. Don't forget to take the magazine. I thanked her and went out to the hallway, thinking that I owed Riccardo, big time for this.

After a dinner of shared steak and crab from the Lido Deck Buffet, we decided to go down and waste a few bucks at the casino. Barbie was feely a little lazy after the spa treatment and fell asleep until way passed our dinner time. I wasn't concerned, because I felt there wasn't much more to observe about Zee in the Aragon Room. Walking toward the central elevator banks, took us out through the pool area and I glanced back at the movie they were playing on the big screen. Will Smith was driving one of the new red Mustangs. He was spinning it sideways through the corner of a street that looked like Manhattan, only different. There were no other cars moving on the street and then I noticed green vines growing on the buildings and grass peaking its way up through the cracks of the street. This was taking place sometime in a futuristic setting. It looked like a good movie, but we kept going.

The casino was a very well lit and brightly flashing room taking up most of the center of Deck Three. It was the only place on the ship where you could spend real money. They had the new modern video type slot machines placed in a circle around some sort of exotic plant centerpiece, the top leaves climbing out along the ceiling over the machines. I was pretty sure they were fixed to the ceiling somehow. Probably had the wires and the security cameras hidden in there among the stems and leaves.

We stopped to watch two happily absorbed women playing craps, at one of the tables. One was a blonde in her late twenties, dressed in a blue halter top dress. The top ropes of her dress were braided and ran around the back of her neck and back down the front. She wore round black beaded earrings, hanging down to the level of her chin. Her girlfriend was older, and wore a similar dress only this one was a peach color. Peach was throwing the dice. The gold bangles on her wrist tingled when they moved. They were winning and causing a lot of people to take notice when their shouts of joy reached the far corners of the room every time the dice stopped on the board.

Barbie had said no to the slots and didn't understand craps. I had no clue about Baccarat, so we bounced back and forth between the roulette wheel and the blackjack tables until we each lost a fifty. I was glad I had stashed the rest of the money in the state room before we went to dinner, and when Barbie laughingly suggested we could win it all back with one spin on the giant Lucky Wheel, I was glad to tell her I was out of cash.

Beyond the casino there were some more quiet lounges where they set up private havens for the smoking crowd. Soft music playing from the doorway as we went by. Toward the front of the ship, there was another lounge called Enchantments, with the loud sound of rock music emanating. I looked in and saw a four piece band on the little crowded platform in the front. Behind Enchantments was a large bar with couches and tables and a medium sized stage. They were doing karaoke in there and when I realized it, I did an about face and started back toward the other lounge.

"Don't you just want to check it out?" she said.

"Nope."

"Ah come on, it might be fun." She pleaded.

"Nope." By now I was on my way to a booth in Enchantments. She came in behind me with a big broad smile and shaking her head. She sat down and had to shout over the band playing Sweet Home Alabama.

"I don't understand. What's the difference between that place and Harrison's?"

"I don't know." I had to shout back. "I did that one time and it was a disaster. It made me feel foolish. I'm just not interested....Check these guys out." We watched the guys finish the song and then go into A Touch of Grey originally done by The Grateful Dead. They were talented. I could tell it was a variety cover band, but they were very peculiar. The lead guitar player was Caucasian. The drummer and the bass player were Asian and the rhythm guitar player who was also the vocalist was Hispanic. Desperado was their next tune and then they took a break. I had taken her up to dance to the Eagles song, stopped the lead guitarist on his way off platform and asked him if they ever played in Florida. He gave me the deer in the headlights look and with an accent I couldn't quite place; he said they couldn't do that. It struck me kind of funny and then I remembered hearing about this kind of thing from Johnny before we left for the cruise.

The cruise lines hired foreigners to work the cruises. They needed no visas or passports because they never left the ships. Johnny had read it to me over the phone, from one of the publications he keeps below the lamp stand, in his living room. I was remembering what he said, when he read the article written by a columnist from The Miami Herald.

We used to hear about all the injustices of those working in third world country sweat shops. The famous actress, who employs children in Taiwan or Mexico, sewing fabrics together for her new fashion line. Crack the whip style overseers, making the kids work eighteen hours straight, with no water and no bathroom breaks, for three cents an hour. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration. But you get the gist. Today, there is a different thing happening on one the largest cruise ship lines in the world. American owned, but registered in Panama, to avoid the tax laws and the Employee Labor Act rules. Waiters and waitresses are employed or contracted, to six month terms working fourteen or fifteen hour days, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They make the equivalent of seventy-five dollars per month. No tips are allowed on a daily basis. No cash is used on board during the cruise. They give the passengers an account card, which they use like a credit card to pay for everything. Do the math. It equates to about two dollars and fifty cents per day. Looking at it, from the cruise line point of view their staff receives free room, board and uniforms. However, in truth there is no other option. The staff has to reside on board. This is a moving vessel, not a place where one can go home and come back in the morning. The wait staff relies on closing tips from those they have waited on. This is why their service is often extraordinary. The sad truth is that the closing tips come at the end of the cruise, when passengers settle their on-board accounts. Most, after a week of running up tabs at the bars, and scheduling severely over priced shore excursions get a reality check, upon being presented with the final bill. It's not unlike the sticker shock experience of buying a new car. The reality check sends their minds scurrying, and seeking ways to reduce the damage, they opt to forget the extra special services rendered by the wait staff and signing off on a mere pittance of gratuity.

Rather than wait the twenty or so minutes for them to come back on, we finished our drinks and went back to the state room. We thought it might be better to get to sleep early. Tomorrow was the big day.

Chapter Twelve:

### "I think we're going to make him famous today."

**Although it was not a pleasant experience** , I wanted to take no chances so we arrived on deck three at seven-thirty in the morning. The ship's crew, assigned to readying the landing ramp for those departing was not happy when I told them we would wait. They asked us to leave and come back later, no less than three times. We stood our ground.

When they finally permitted us to leave the ship, we plunged our little blue cards in and out of the machine that keeps track of the departing passengers, and walked down the gangplank. The concrete dock extended out from the shore about a full quarter of a mile. The gate leading through to The International Cruise Terminal was not occupied. I guess I expected some type of customs pass through. There wasn't any. On the other side of the gate, there were excursion activity people with signs and placards telling us where we should go, if we wanted to snorkel or see the Mayan Ruins, or go to any of the several beach resorts. The patio brick walkway led off to the left, through a city of Mexican specialty shops. Everything you can imagine, or find to buy, anywhere else on the Island of Cozumel, can be found within that single half mile from the ship.

Once we got through the maze, the walkway turned to the right, and I could see a roadway off in the distance. I wanted to check to see if there was another way out of there, but it appeared to be fully closed in. In the area between the maze of shops and the actual street was a long pavilion type covered sidewalk, where the local taxi drivers were hailing all passers by. I noticed more taxis lined up on the street, so we went out there. Standing behind a large cactus plant, at the entrance to the terminal, I held the binoculars on the walkway leading to the covered sidewalk. Twenty minutes later I saw him coming. He was carrying a black travel bag. It seemed to be containing some type of bulky content. I waited until I could see him clearly before stowing the binos.

"Zoom in and snap his picture." I said to Barbie. "I think we're going to make him famous today." We moved closer to the standing cabbies, and I had Barbie find one who spoke English. I had briefed her to ask questions that required more than a yes or no answer. At the third cab, she waved at me. I waited until I saw Zee walk out to the street and hail a passing taxi.

Our cab driver was about thirty years old. He wore a white short sleeved shirt with company patches on the sleeves. He said he had been a driver for about four years, and he could take us anywhere, and tell us all the histories of the island. He encouraged us to charter him for the whole day. When I explained that we were private investigators, on a mission to follow that white Honda taxi, just pulling away, he perked up and assured us he would be able to follow without being detected. The promise of a bonus probably helped.

We were following Zee south, on what we came to know as the Island Perimeter Road. His taxi moved through the double lane highway, in a way that convinced me that we wouldn't be turning off at any of the narrow side streets. We were traveling along the coastline. The cab driver, whose name was Julio, proceeded to give us the sight seeing tour. I was seated beside him in the front with my eyes fixed intently on the white Honda. The Honda was almost a hundred yards ahead. Julio pointed to an open bamboo hut, on the edge of the land, before it dropped off to the beach. Inside the hut were two massaging tables, and Julio told us that it was part of the Jeremiah Christopher Massage Center. You could have a massage on the beach. Barbie, who was in the center of the backseat looking between the two front seats, through the windshield spoke, almost non-chalantly.

"Did that deal, yesterday." We kept moving through signs for Paradise Beach and Allegro Beach. Julio would spiel off facts and stories as we went. We passed Chankanaab Lagoon and the road turned to wide, flat, hard packed dirt. Other than the beach on our right, it appeared to be barren ahead. I had Julio back off to about three football fields of distance between us and the Honda. The beach would be sandy for long stretches and then there would be periods of hard, rough, chunks of stone. There were a lot of swimmers and jet skis in the water, and we were encountering traffic coming toward us. We got to where the beach came to a point. Julio told us that the road would swing back inland and then take a hard left turn at the southern most tip of the island. I looked at the meter and saw we had come thirty two kilometers, almost twenty miles. We turned north at the tip and it still didn't look like we would be stopping any time soon. Barbie asked Julio what we could expect to see up ahead. Julio said there were some beach houses and some isolated restaurants and road side stands, but nothing like the city where the port was. I noticed the first side road I had seen since we got on the dirt, leading off to the left and I asked Julio about it.

"That is the Carretera San Jose Highway. It is a dirt road for only about two kilometers and then turns to pavement, Senor." There was a very large residential complex on our left and Julio told us it was La Casa Gordon, evidently somebody Gordon's house, because he didn't elaborate. The Honda was slowing ahead. It pulled off to the right side of the road, into the sandy dirt parking lot of a place called Coconuts Bar and Grill. The lot had fourteen other cars parked there. Julio responded to my cautious tone well. He had slowed the car down to a crawl and we watched Zee get out of the Honda, carrying the black bag and go up steps leading into some trees. Barbie was taking pictures.

"What's up there?" I asked, because we couldn't see what lay beyond the trees.

"It is a restaurant by the sea, Senor. Very popular place as you can see. There are cabanas which overlook the ocean. The food is very good. Do you want to go up?"

"No. Pull up over there and turn around, so you can be ready to follow him back."

Julio didn't seem to understand how the Investigadores weren't going to investigar. I gave him a brief class on investigative observation.

"Just watch." I said. We waited for thirty minutes. Julio had turned off the engine and there was no air conditioning. Barbie and I were fine. Being from Central Florida, we thought the ocean breeze was nice, but Julio was suffering. I told him he could turn the engine back on, but he replied something in Spanish, that made me believe he would tough it out.

We were parked about fifty feet from the restaurant sign. It was a colorful cartoon of a big eyed fellow in a large sombrero. Coconuts, was written in sloppy cursive across the bottom, with Bar and Grill encircled under it. The big eyes were actually supposed to depict coconuts. There was a white pickup truck parked beyond the sign, with the same logo painted on the door. We could see the stone steps where Zee had gone. The Honda was parked near them. The large flagstone steps were framed by cypress wood posts at every elevation point, and there was rope strung between as a sort of handrail.

Zee came bounding back down the steps and into the white Honda. He had moved too quickly for any of us to see if there was anything different about the bag, or for Barbie to get a clean focus. But, we had seen him carrying something black. I needed to know what he had in the bag. The laws of common sense told me that if the bag was empty, it would contain something now, unless he was planning to stop somewhere else. I must have been talking out loud when Barbie responded.

"How can we get ahead of them without causing attention?"

"I don't know." I said and then a thought came to me. "Julio, where does that Carry San Jose road go?"

"It goes back to the city, Senor." He said

"Is it shorter or longer than the way we came?"

"It is a highway, Senor. It is almost a straight road. It is a very much shorter distance." He had smiled and nodded when he said it.

"Do you think that his taxi driver will go that way?" I asked.

"Not unless he is directed, Senor. The driver will always take the longer way, to get more kilometers on the meter. It means more for his pocket, Senor."

"Bingo!" I said, smiling for the first time since we left the ship. We slowed down about a half mile before they got to the turn and watched them drive right by. Julio turned the cab to the right and drove northwest on the Carretera San Jose Highway. I was just hoping my hunch was right. I thought he had made the drug deal in Coconuts and was headed for the ship.

The road was very straight and I estimated we had shaved ten minutes off the return trip when I could see the tops of the cruise ships getting closer. Julio pulled into a little open space, across the street from the terminal. The meter showed eighty seven kilometers. As I opened the door I looked over to him.

"Nice job Julio, you take American dinero?" I said handing him a fifty.

"Muchas, muchas gracias mi amigo!" he said, with wide open eyes. I took that for a yes. We waited under the pavilion with the binoculars until we saw the Honda. I cased the binos, and we moved quickly back through the shopping maze. There were Mexicans in uniform at the Sunshine Dreamer gate leading to the concrete dock. We heard them say, have your photo identification and ship cards ready. We presented the cards and I stood ready to open the binocular case. No one asked to see it. I had gone through the gate before Barbie and when I turned, she was right behind me. They hadn't searched her purse either.

Our conversation on the way to the ship, revolved around the lack of any Customs Inspection at the International Cruise Terminal in Cozumel, Mexico. We walked up the gangplank and were asked to do the push-pull thing with the blue card again. The ship attendants had us put the binocular case and Barbie's purse with the camera inside, on the conveyor that fed through the X-ray machine. We knew Zee had something in the bag, Barbie had confirmed it when she zoomed him in at the gate. We were wondering how it would pass the security check. The machine saw everything. Plastic, steel, glass and even cloth. We had made sure he came through the customs gate behind us. Barbie had gotten more film of him, and it would not be long before he came up the gangplank. We parked ourselves over by the bank of elevators and pretended to be searching for something in Barbie's purse, while we waited.

We were astonished to find that Zee passed right by the X-ray machine, carrying the bulging black bag and joking with the ship attendants, when he came aboard five minutes behind us, marching right on by and into an open elevator.

We had skipped breakfast this morning and we were feeling hungry. A call to room service promised that a full course of ham and eggs, toast and the ship's special hash browns would be delivered in forty-five minutes. I said no thank you and was there an alternative? The nice lady with a Pittsburgh accent told us we could have an omelet made in a little specialty kitchen in between the buffet lines on the Lido Deck. She was right, and the cook even tossed some of the leftover hash brown potatoes back on the grill for us, while the bacon and cheddar cheese omelets were being made. I brought the laptop case and the camera card with us and after the late breakfast we went back up to the forward observation deck and found some privacy there. Barbie wired the little MP3 speakers into her ears and was listening to some music while I got to work with the pictures. There were five or six of every shot she had taken and I selected the best of each and put them in a software file folder of their own. Then I went into the folder and made copies of all of them, naming the copies as part two of the original. I cropped and zoomed and enhanced all of the part two's and saved everything to the hard drive and to the flash. When I got finished I saw Barbie talking to the MP3. At first I thought she was singing but I noticed the earphones lying on her lap.

"What's up?" I asked her.

"Did you know this has a voice recorder?" she asked me.

"Does it really?" I asked her back and not waiting for an answer I said. "I didn't know that."

"Yeah and its voice activated, It's even picking up my whispers."

"How'd you figure all this out?"

"It has a menu, look." And she moved over to my chaise. "You can use it by turning it on, or by the voice activated mode. You can hear through this little speaker in the corner."

"Huh, that's pretty cool." I said "Might come in handy sometime. Wish we could have planted it on Zee when he went into that restaurant."

I was in the mood to celebrate, not in a party kind of way, rather in the accomplishment gained way. I signaled Riccardo to see if he could have another bottle on ice for us this evening. We went to the Aragon Room for dinner, and got started with Champagne. Tonight it was going to be the full blown deal. I ordered a Parisian style baked onion soup, and Barbie had a bowl of Asparagus Cream Veloute. Mr. Christov appeared no different from the last time we saw him. He gave no indication of being involved in narcotic smuggling. For dinner, Lumen suggested a pan seared Fillet of Tilapia for Barbie and I chose the broiled Supreme Free Range Chicken with a blackberry port wine reduction. I put aside the fact that port is a red wine.

"Pretty fancy names for all this food." She commented

"That's why they call it fine dining." I replied. For dessert we each had the Warm Chocolate Melting Cake with vanilla ice cream, and with our coffee, Lumin brought us high ball glasses of Courvoisier. We thanked Lumen for his service to us and I left a fresh fifty under the coffee saucer. This would be our last night in the Aragon Room.

I expected Zee to make his play, or trade, or dope deal, when we arrived back in Miami tomorrow morning. I expected to play the taxi game again, except this time I wanted to follow in the Jeep. Riccardo had come through with the bottle of Champagne, and was just leaving our room when we arrived there.

"I put your luggage departure tags on the bureau, sir." He told me. "If you have your bags out here tonight, I will get them to customs for you."

"How's that work?" I asked.

"There is a number on the tag, sir. When they call your number you can go down and your luggage will be ready." I went through the room and looked at the tags. They had the number twenty-eight on them.

"What does this mean...Twenty-eight?" I asked.

"They will start with the number one, sir. About every twenty minutes they will call a few numbers. I assumed you and Miss Allman would enjoy staying aboard for the morning."

"We appreciate the considerate gesture, Riccardo. And we have been exceptionally pleased with how you have taken care of us. However, Miss Allman has to be in Orlando by noon and that's about a four hour drive." I let the white lie hang there on the edge, until he responded.

"My apologies, sir. I can have you off the ship right away....I should have taken the time to ask, rather than assume." He said and produced new tags with the number three on them, from his inside jacket pocket.

"It's fine Riccardo, and thank you very much."
Chapter Thirteen:

### "Last chance..."

**We put the Jeep** in the parking lot in front of the Elegance after retrieving it from Parking Garage D. I now realized why they had directed us in there. The lot in front of the Sunshine Dreamer was a torn up cluster of construction. Riccardo had been true to his word and we were called to exit the ship at eight ten. I had hesitated and then put the third fifty under the pillow of the bed. He deserved that and the split automatically taken as gratuity on my credit card. I had backed the Jeep in to an open spot, at the end of the first row in the lot at eight thirty-five. It gave us an unhindered, direct access to the road out of the Port of Miami.

We were waiting with the binoculars again. Barbie was in the driver's seat. I had tilted the passenger seat back a little and put the drivers side rear window down, so I could turn slightly and look out the window with the binos. I had carefully watched all of the passengers ahead and behind us, while departing and he hadn't shown his face. As a precaution, I had Barbie wait outside the terminal, watching for him while I picked up the Jeep. I picked her up there.

We were waiting and watching. You could hear the loud speaker calling the numbers and the passengers were filing out of the terminal. They were busying themselves with greeting parties and hailing cab drivers. I noticed with curiosity the number of people who walked straight across the road to select the nearest cab. They did not pick the taxi in the front of the line and were quickly directed back there. It made me wonder if the drivers belong to some kind of union, or if the owners had an agreement of some kind. I saw a family with a small child trying to negotiate a ride, and being repeatedly turned down. Evidently, they had forgotten, or chose not to drag a car seat with them on the cruise. The cab drivers were not willing to chance the fine.

We were waiting and watching, and now the crowd was thinning to the point where only a few straggling couples appeared at the front of the terminal. We heard the number twenty-eight called over the loudspeaker. I was beginning to suspect he wasn't coming. I told Barbie to stay and watch, while I walked over and spoke to someone standing at a podium, who looked like he was associated with the cruise line.

"Excuse me, hi." I said "If someone was trying to get in touch with one of the crew members, how would they do that?"

"That would be really hard today, they didn't tell you that? This is the busiest time for the crew; they all have to turn their departments around. The ship sails again at five, and the new passengers will start checking in about noon." He looked at me and then spoke again.

"Who are you looking for?"

"Oh, it's just an old friend I haven't seen for a while." I said. "She doesn't know I'm here, it was going to be a surprise. I thought she would have been out by now."

"Who ever she is, I don't think she'll be out today. Nobody gets liberty granted during the turn around in Miami. She has to wait until they do the shut down in three weeks."

It stunned me, and I didn't have anything coming to the front of my mind to say back to him. I waved a thank you and starting walking back toward the Jeep. I had just stepped off the curb when I turned to look back at him.

"Where is she sailing to next?" I asked, pointing to the ship. He looked up from the podium.

"Nassau."

The stun turned into remembrance and that turned into a complete understanding. It spelled out the whole Nassau to Grand Bahamas to River Ranch connection. Zee couldn't pass off the drugs in Miami because he couldn't get off the ship.

"What do we do now?" she asked when I told her about the conversation.

"Are you off work for the rest of the week?"

"Yes, why?"

"Let's go to the airport...I think were going to Nassau."

The boat was leaving at five o'clock and due to arrive in the Cruise Ship Port at Nassau at eight A.M. We parked in the short term lot at Miami International and packed enough overnight things for one day, in the big spare center pocket of the laptop case. Barbie threw everything she thought she'd need in her purse including the camera, binoculars and the MP3. We went into the terminal and caught the arrow sign pointing to Bahamas Air. The kiosk told us that Flight 228, would leave at four and arrive in Nassau at five. We booked the flight one way.

It is not fun killing multiple hours in the Miami Airport, but we found a lounge where the barmaid let me drape the laptop power cord over the bar, and she plugged it in. I wanted to save as much of the battery as possible. I was able to pick up a WiFi signal and we surfed around finding things to entertain us. We ate too much of the snack food and ordered too many plates of nachos and cheese fries. It killed me to pay those prices for junk food. We boarded the plane and I started working out some direction distances by scaling them from the satellite pictures I had printed in the library at The Landing.

We arrived in the Bahamas on schedule and the cab driver told us about the Nassau Palms Hotel, while he drove out of the airport on the wrong side of the road. They do that in the Bahamas. He said the hotel was inexpensive and an okay place to spend the night. The Nassau Palms is about eight miles from the airport on West Bay Street. The innkeeper said they had a room for one hundred and nine dollars per night. We took it. Looking out the window I saw a scooter rental place and ran the idea passed Barbie. She thought it might be fun. I thought it would help us to get closer to the grass field.

The man at the rental place was reluctant to let me have one of the larger ones to keep overnight. It had large, hard plastic, lockable saddle bags where we could put the laptop and Barbie's purse. I pointed out that he didn't open the store until nine A.M. and that I would have to find someone else if he wasn't interested. I have found that in today's economy a fifty dollar bill works in wondrous ways. It will buy you a pretty decent dinner, get you all the way through the ticket office and the popcorn, candy and drinks at the movies, and serve as a good tip to the waiter on a cruise ship. I held one up and said "Last chance," to the scooter rental man and it sealed the deal. He went into the back and came out with a little combination chain, so that we could lock it up.

We were losing the sunlight, but by using the scooter headlight we were able to find the route to the port and where the Sunshine Dreamer would be docking. West Bay Street actually becomes East Bay Street, then we turned left on Woodes Rodgers and it took us right to the waterfront. It was getting too late to try to find the grass field, so we rode along the beach and said nice things about the landscape and to each other. I told her I was really proud of how she had stayed interested in this deal. She said it had been one of the most exciting times of her life.

We went by the straw market and walked through the casino. Bored in the anticipation of tomorrow, we decided to go back to the hotel and have dinner. I figured we'd have an hour and a half of morning sun before the ship docked, so we planned to find the grass field early. We set a wake up call for 5 A.M. with the front desk, took showers and climbed into bed together.

The call came at five thirty, but we still had time to find the grass field. We took West Bay Street to Blake road and turned left, following it until we came to John F Kennedy Drive. A right turn took us to Coral Harbour which runs along the east side and feeds into the airport. We stayed on Coral Harbour.

At the end of the runway the road curves to the right and then continues due south. Barbie held the satellite picture map against my back and navigated. It comes to a circle where it junctions with Adelaide Road, and civilization begins. We took the circle around to the right. We could see the backs of the houses in the developments on both sides of the road. We came to a dirt road going off to the right, very wide as if to be used for a turnaround place. We took the right and then it turned sharply to the left and narrowed. The road began to wind left, and then right and then left again through the trees. There were a lot of little trails going off to the left and Barbie counted as we passed them. There was a large body of water on the right. It was like a lake. We finally came to the one marked on the map and turned on it. The trees were beginning to thin and we were coming to the grass field. We had come almost a mile and a half since we left Carol Harbour Road. We saw a clump of palms and palmetto trees close by, that would make a great place to stash the scooter and observe the activity. It was also undetectable from the dirt road.

When we got back to the port at seven thirty, the pilot tugs were bringing the Dreamer dockside. We found a great location on the second floor of a shopping house called Festival Place, overlooking the water. Barbie went out to grab us some breakfast biscuits and coffee.

We waited. At ten she went out again and brought back two Kielbasa sandwiches and a large cup of Pepsi. I was getting nervous. The passengers had gotten off starting at about eight thirty and I had seen the ship runners wheeling supplies on to the ship for over an hour. At eleven, we saw the Captain leave the ship. At twelve, we saw Mr. Christov. He was carrying the black bag.

We hurried down the stairs and took the scooter down the waterfront and back to East Bay Street toward the airport as fast as it would go. When we got to the end of the dirt lane, we pulled the scooter up and stuffed it into the short palmettos. We could see something through the trees. It was the blue Aeronca Chief we'd seen at Blackwater Creek, the day we went down to Tampa. It was sitting at a tilted angle in the grass. Leaning up against the left engine cowling of the plane, with his arms folded impatiently was Freaky Red from the Blackwater Creek Airpark. We were shocked by the sight of him. The world is really a very small place. He was occasionally swatting at some bug flying in his face. Looking closer with the help of the binos, I could see why the plane was tilted. The left wheel had been removed and lay there, beside the axle. He didn't appear to either have heard or noticed us, maybe because the wind was moving through the leaves and fronds of the trees.

We were there for about an hour and five minutes when we heard the sound of an automobile coming down the dirt lane. Zee appeared behind the wheel of a new little silver Kia, rental car. It explained why it had taken him so long to arrive behind us. He drove right up to the plane and got out, holding the black bag.

"What took you so long?" We heard Red say to him.

"I had to work the breakfast shift 'cause some jerk had an upset stomach. Then the condiment bottles have to be refilled, clean napkins from the laundry have to be rolled, it all takes time... I didn't get off the fricken boat 'til noon" Zee complained and handed the bag to Red.

"Dgit, dgit, dgit, dgit," went the camera when she snapped the pictures. They continue talking, but we were only able to make out bits and pieces because the wind was noisy through the trees. Red pointed to the plane and shook his head. Then Zee raised both of his hands in the air like he was talking to heaven. Red was complaining about something and pointing to the tire. He picked up the tire and I could see that it was flat. Zee started shaking his head, and flailing his arms, then he pointed to his watch. Red was gesturing, and we could hear a piece of it.

"...want me to do. I can't fly the fuckin' thing like that!" More wind noise and Zee pointed to the car and went to the driver door, opening it. Red ducked under the wing of the plane and opened the door. He placed the bag in behind the pilot seat, closed the door, twisted a key in the lock and trotted out and around the car to the passenger side. Zee already with the engine running, spun the tires turning it around and headed past us and out the dirt lane. It was twenty minutes to two.

When we were sure they weren't coming back, we went to the plane. One half of the sliding window on the passenger side door was missing. There was a piece of cardboard duct taped in its place. I hadn't noticed it at Blackwater. He'd never find one to replace it, I thought. He'd have to get a piece of acrylic from Home Depot and cut a new window in. I pushed the cardboard until the tape let loose, reached in and opened the door from the inside handle. There was a sea of empty soda cans and bottles, empty bags of potato chips and a box of cookies. There were marks and dents, where the paint was scraped off of the window sill. How could that have happened? I was thinking he might as well replace the whole door. There was a new Indian Chief headdress sitting on top of the dash panel, its feathery tails falling down over the panel behind the passenger yoke.

I reached over and slid the black bag toward me, over the flat panel behind the seats. Opening the zipper, I found a styrofoam case and lifted it out of the bag. It was made from some type of previously used packaging. The top half of it pulled off and there were forty seven little plastic tubes of Coyote, placed inside the drilled holes in the styrofoam. It was a specially made case to hold the drugs. In one corner there was an open hole and I could see daylight through the bottom. The bottom corners matched the same type of styrofoam piece that I found in the tool box of Mark's Drifter.

"Let's dump the stuff right here in the grass." She said.

"No...I think he'll check it before he leaves." I replied.

I looked back inside and found that the bag had been resting on a blanket with something underneath. It was a rifle and a tool to tow the airplane around by hand, from the tail wheel. The rifle was an assault weapon and it looked like an M-16, but I knew the difference. The AR-15 was originally built by Armalite Corporation back in the fifties. It was an assault rifle but not an automatic weapon. They sold the rights to Colt and Colt later modified it for the military, making it automatic and renaming it M-16. There were later modifications until it became the M-16A2, the classification used by the military today. The automatic cyclic rate has something to do with a pin called a sear. The AR-15's are easily modified. The serial number has been ground away. There were bits of paint at the very end of the barrel. The paint matched the color of the window sill. I put it all back like I found it and we went back to the hiding spot. They had been gone for two hours.

A short time later, we could hear a car coming down the dirt road at a high rate of speed. It was going on four o'clock. The silver Kia came into our view, and he drove it up to the same spot as before. When they got out of the car, Red was carrying a big bag from Kentucky Fried Chicken and two bottles of Coke. Zee took the spare tire from the back seat and put it on the ground next to the wing strut.

"I don't understand why you won't stay at a hotel." said Zee. We could hear them more clearly than before.

"I ain't paying no hundred bucks to take a shower. I'll stay in the plane, and get started in the morning. I knew I wasn't going anywhere when you didn't show up 'til after one. I'm runnin' out of light and its two hours to the high rocks of the other island and I ain't staying there."

"Suit yourself." said Zee, and he looked at his watch. "I gotta go. I'll be in touch with Stew."

They shook hands in the clutching way. Zee got in the car and drove away.

It was time to go, but we had to be careful not to let Freaky Red know about us. I pulled the scooter loose from the palmettos and pushed it over to the dirt road, while Barbie kept looking back to see what he was doing. Red seemed intent on getting the tire back on the plane. She said he wasn't having any luck. I knew it would not be an easy task. I would have gotten Zee to help me before he left. When we reached the part of the road where the trees start to thicken, we couldn't see him anymore. Barbie climbed on the back and I started the engine. We took it slow until we got back on the hard road.

"What's your game plan now Jake?" she asked

"Back to Miami to get the Jeep, then to The Landing to pack the plane." I replied.

"Pack the plane with what?"

"Camping stuff. He gets his first light at quarter to six in the morning. He has to refuel in Grand Bahamas. At best, he does the whole trip in six hours and gets to River Ranch by noon. I want to be there when he lands.

"We're going camping?" she asks unbelievingly.

"Yep, best way to get close to him. Get you all dolled up to lure him in to the campfire. We'll be hospitable and talk to him, you know...like cowboys do."

"I don't think he likes to talk much, and I don't have to get dolled up to lure anyone in." She said it sarcastically and stuck a thumb in my ribs.

"Good point." I said laughing. "We'll just poke around a little and see what falls out. I want to know more about it. Maybe find out who else is involved. Then we see about calling in the law.

We caught the five-thirty flight back to Miami, and pulled into the dirt lane of The Landing at about ten-thirty. It was pitch black except for the pole light illuminating the hanger. I had forgotten to leave lights on in our haste to depart.

I talked to Johnny on the way home, and he reported his findings. He is a very resourceful man. The DEA only got involved when the Coast Guard alerted them, or if they wanted them to monitor a tip they had received. The FBI was not a player, unless it involved interstate trafficking. NASA only watched the skies when there was space travel happening. The Coast Guard would be the main player in this situation. They monitored air traffic from anywhere off shore into the continental United States. They had several stations and radar cutters afloat for this express purpose, but what Johnny told me next opened up the little loophole in their defense of drug running. Coast Guard radar could only pick up heat signals down to about sixty feet above the water. And they treated everything traveling less than fifty-nine miles per hour as warm blooded and non aircraft, rejecting the monitoring effort of it to concentrate on other faster flying objects. They were able to determine size, but not specific enough to disseminate an Ultra Light plane from anything smaller. They also could not determine shape. Zee and Red had found the hole. They had used Mark's flying skills to keep the Drifter under the radar and slow enough, that if he showed up on their screens, he would be dismissed as a bird. It tied up one answer to the many questions I had.

I wanted to get the plane ready to leave by eight, when the sun would be well up over the horizon. I dug in the corner of the hanger to get the nylon tent and two of the bagged, fold up Coleman camping chairs. I grabbed the air mattress and the little portable foot pump from one of the camping totes. Barbie picked out some older sheets and a quilted blanket from the closest in the west bedroom. The sleeping bags were great for singles, but not so good for people who wanted to sleep together. She packed the clothes and fresh toiletries into two carry bags. I was separating all the items into three piles on the hanger floor when she came back out. She had the laptop case strapped over her shoulder because I wanted to see if it would fit above her head in the rear seat of the plane. She could use it as a purse, and among other things, it would also hold the binoculars, camera, and the MP3 player. It fit nicely, bungeed to the support arms that led from the boom tube to the wing root. The tubes flared out at the bottom to support the rear seat and then tapered back inward to join the root tube where the wings are bolted to the fuselage.

I had to be concerned with weight and balance. It had been a serious consideration when positioning the retractable landing gear on the floats. That weight/balance ratio went from fore to aft on the fuselage. When packing the plane now, I had to be concerned with balancing the added weight of the camp supplies across the wings, in the hollow area of the wings. It is a great place for storage because there are inspection zippers in the fabric of the wings, used to insure all the joints and connections are tight and safe for flight. I planned to stuff the air mattress and the sheets and blankets in there. I would strap the tent and the chairs to the boom tube, just to the rear of the propeller. Hence, the three piles.

Barbie said she had plugged in the laptop to charge the battery, knowing we would be without electric power. I wanted to take a lot more, but I was afraid we'd get too heavy. I have a camp stove and a portable shower. Folding table and more camp chairs. Two large totes that have all the cooking utensils, spare propane cans and all the extra stuff you need when you go on a trip. It all fits well in the rear of the Jeep and strapped to the cargo roof rack. We looked at all the stuff and decided to just buy what we couldn't take with us at the General Store. We'd eat at the resort restaurants. When I was putting the lids back on the totes, I did grab the camping coffee pot, and a spool of hardware wire. Then I went over and chop-sawed three pieces of quarter inch steel rod to make a tripod over the fire for the morning coffee. I could wire it together.

After it all had been fitted, bungeed, strapped, and secured, in or on the Beaver, I remembered the extra gas can. I would need to refuel once we got to River Ranch. In the past, I had always just seat belted it into the rear seat, but Barbie would be sitting there. When I looked at the Beaver, it already had the appearances of one of those Canadian bush planes they take on the hunting trips into lands where no man has gone before. It looked ridiculous. Another accessory wouldn't help or hurt the appearance, but a six gallon can is large and I couldn't find room for it. Attaching it to the boom behind, where the chairs and the tent were strapped, might cause a wind disturbance to the elevator and the stabilizers. It might present flight control issues, and there didn't seem to be anywhere else to stash it. I finally settled the problem by selecting two old three gallon cans and stowing them, one in each of the wing tips, with the other stuff.

Satisfied with the supplies we were taking, she helped with the preflight, checking all the controls for free workability and making sure the items in the wings wouldn't move around while we were in the air. The last thing we did before calling it a night was to top off the fuel tank.

The flight to River Ranch was pretty uneventful. We'd gotten in the air on schedule and I'd made a couple passes over the airstrip at the house to make sure she was steady in flight. The windsock had been dancing just slightly telling me there were gusts, but the added weight seemed to be compensating well. I used the GPS to navigate and took her straight over to the southeast, once we passed by the west side of the theme parks.

On the way down she asked me if I'd ever had a frightening experience while flying. I've actually had many, but I just decided to tell her about the time Danny and I had been in a two-seat Super Drifter one day, when the engine sputtered. We were out yanking and banking, flying it way down low with the cows, and hopping it up over the fence lines. Danny was teaching me some stall maneuvers, and some hard climbing turns. I was in the front seat and Danny gave me command. We had been actually racing Mark in his Drifter, which is a single seat with a smaller engine. Mark's Drifter is much faster than the Super. Mark was making us eat his prop wash, when we would race across the pastures. I brought it up over a fence line, through some more throttle into it, pulled the stick back and kicked the right rudder. The Super climbed out to the right, and we were only at about 200 feet, when the engine quit.

At least that's what we thought. Danny yelled; "My airplane" and I said "Take it." We were still in the climb and in real danger of stalling. You do not want to stall at 200 feet. You may not be able to recover in time. This is the kind of situation Danny describes as "getting dead."

Her immediately put the stick forward, pulled the throttle back, and pedaled the rudder to neutral, while I looked for a place to land.

"There" I said and pointed toward a dry, rain water retention pond.

"I see it." He said and put the airplane into a descent toward the ground.

I suddenly saw that it appeared to be marshy, toward the middle of the pond and relayed the message to Danny. He was able to hold the glide slope long enough to get it over the marsh, and he set it down in time to get it stopped before reaching the side walls of the pond. When we were stopped, we both realized that the prop was still turning. Danny put a little throttle in it, and the engine responded. We decided to shut it down, to make sure it was okay, and to try to figure out what had happened. We figured that, although there was an adequate amount of fuel in the tank, the yanking and banking and the last hard turn, combined with the steep climb, had jostled the fuel around enough for the carburetors to suck air. About this time, Mark had located us, and was descending in to see if we needed help. Danny waved him off, with a Seminole tomahawk arm swing, in the direction of Gator field. No sense to bring Mark in, as we weren't exactly sure we had enough length in the pond to get it out of there. We strapped back in and fired the engine. We taxied down as close to marsh as we felt comfortable, and turned her around to the opposite end of the pond. We had some confidence building conversation and then Danny put the throttle forward and we got it out of there, with room to spare. We decided to keep it straight and level during the short hop back to Gator.

I started the approach to the resort runway and saw a big, red Ford F-250, parked next to the tent in the clearing. I was curious about it. I had suspected that tent might belong to Freaky Red, but seeing another truck there eliminated that thought. He was also flying in, so unless he was meeting someone, it wasn't his tent.

We landed and taxied it down to the tie down lot. I glanced at the time on the GPS clock before I turned it off. It was nine twenty-five. We went in to the Pro Shop and made the arrangements to camp and rented a golf cart for the day. We signed in as Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Elton. There was a small stack of wood out by the carts that the teenage boy in the Pro Shop said we could have. We put the fire wood into the rear of the cart, and took it out to unload the supplies from the plane.

There was only one other camper, a travel trailer in the campground, close to the Pro Shop. It was a Sunline duel axle, about twenty foot long. It had the model name of Saturn. Nice rig. I walked around it admiringly. It was white with red and brown, side by side stripes running down the length of it. Framing the two doors were two aluminum hinged posts with a rolled up canvas awning between them. It had a rooftop air conditioner. I flipped open one of the receptacle lids, on the lower side panel, and found a 110 volt outlet, so there must be a generator in there somewhere. I peaked in the windows and it all appeared neat and tidy. I saw a small double bed in the rear room where the second door led in to. There was a plastic, accordion like, door thing for privacy. Nice little sink, stove and oven arrangement with a microwave tucked up in the cupboard above the range exhaust hood. The table in the front room was one of those kinds with a single leg to hold it up. Remove the stick, and the table folds up out of the way to make room for the fold out bed. Convert the cushions of the booth chairs to make a twin mattress. The owner had a bunch of cowboy pictures and western scenes spread over every wall. I also noticed the electric powered drop leg, with a leveling bubble, on the hitch. Two big propane tanks covered by a fancy plastic enclosure with a battery box behind it.

We set up the camp site far enough from the trailer to give us privacy. The tent went up in two minutes and after I had the mattress inflated, Barbie made up the bed with the sheets and the blanket. I brought some rocks over from a previous camp to make a fire ring, and set the chairs up beside it. We took the cart and the gas cans and went down to the Marina to fill them up. It would take two trips. When we returned from the first trip the red Ford was parked beside the camper with the windows rolled down. Now I was really curious. When we returned from the second trip, we heard activity inside.

He came out of the camper and waved to us. He was a cowboy. He had the classic hat, I think they called it a ten gallon, and he was dressed in jeans and a patterned shirt. The shirt had embroidered pockets, slanting inward toward the buttons. There was a silver oval buckle, depicting a rodeo rider on his wide brown belt. He wore a handkerchief draped around his neck as if ready to raise it up over his nose while robbing the bank. He introduced himself as Stewart and told us he liked to camp here because it was close to the skeet range. He said he liked to shoot and he had shot guns, rifles and pistols in the camper. He was expecting a friend to land his plane anytime now. It sparked the thought process in my mind as I watched him walk away. I was hoping that his friend was Red.

The fire was starting up nicely. Barbie and I sat in the chairs beside it. I wished we'd had more cargo load capacity in the plane. I was missing some of the staple items I'd had on other camping trips. I was thinking about a table and cooler full of beer and eggs and sausage. We forgot to bring a flashlight and Barbie started making a list of things to buy, when we went to the store. I had always brought the hollow back guitar along, to pick a little camp fire song, in past adventures. The sun was high in the sky now and Barbie mentioned that it was almost noon.

Stewart came out of the camper and went toward the Jiffy-John at the far end of the campground. I went into the tent to retrieve the item I needed to carry out a chance opportunity. Sneaking over to his truck, I nonchalantly stuffed the MP3 player under the passenger visor, after I had set the voice recorder to the voice activate mode.

I couldn't have timed it better, and was back in the camp chair when we heard the door of portable toilet slam shut. Stewart went to the truck, got in and drove down the golf cart path, around the Pro Shop parking lot to the main road and turned right. He took it out through the gate and down the road, out of our sight.

In less than five minutes I saw movement through trees, down by the clearing with the assistance of the binoculars. He was back at the tent. We spent the next forty minutes on the laptop, organizing the photographs and listing the evidence information into a chronology for the police to use. I had no intention of delivering anything to anyone except Sheriff Watson, and then only on the premise of remaining completely unattached to it. Barbie had started doing the enlarging and the cropping of pictures to enhance the faces when we heard the sound of a small plane flying over. We went out and recognized the Aeronca on approach to the south end of the runway. He brought it in low and went by us before setting it down about halfway down the strip.

He slowed it down, but continued down to the end, turned it around to the left and settled it there. The prop stopped turning. I had the binoculars and Barbie had it zoomed out as far as the camera would go. She said it was a long way down there, but she did think the picture would show him carrying the black bag. He appeared to be carrying more than the black bag. Stewart had walked out beyond the trees to greet him. They went out of our sight and then we saw the movement of the red truck contrasting with the green of the pine trees. Five minutes later, Stewart brought the truck back and nosed it in to the camper, with the driver's door facing us. It caused me to sigh. I wanted to be able to retrieve the MP3 and the way he parked it, would make the steal difficult.

Red got out of the passenger side and had to walk around the rear of the truck to go to the door of the camper. Stewart was already inside when Red walked in front of us. I could see him looking at me and then to the Beaver. I waited until I could see them sitting down at the table before I tried for the MP3. I walked over there slowly, careful not to cause any disturbance in the dirt with my feet. I figured if I got close enough, I would be able to hear them and if I heard any pause in their conversation, I could just keep going toward the Jiffy-John. They were talking, I could hear the noise but I couldn't make out the conversation. I got to the truck and leaned in through the driver window, but I couldn't reach far enough to get the player. I couldn't risk just lowering the visor, because the player might fall on the floor. They had the hand hold of the rifle stuffed between the rear of the seat and the back window. It rested there atop the back of the seat. I pulled my chest in through the window and supported myself with the right hand on the bench seat, while reaching up over the top of the visor and grasping the player, with the left hand.

I made too much noise getting out when the knee banged into the driver door. I sat crouched below the door for several seconds, then popped my head up and looked over to Barbie for a sign that the coast was clear. It came in a moment. She had been sitting in the chair where she could see the activity, and she just moved the four extended fingers of her hand in a closing way toward the palm. I went to the rear of the truck in a duck walk, before standing up and walking back to our camp.

"Nice job," she said when I sat back down in the chair.

"My adrenaline is still pumping like mad. Let's wait a couple of minutes and then go for a walk and listen to it."

We didn't get the chance to take the walk. They both came out of the trailer and started walking toward us. Red had the remaining five cans in the six pack holder dangling from his left hand. Stewart had two folding camp stools.

"Hey, this is Red." Stewart said while he unfolded the chairs.

"Hey." We both said in unison.

"That you're float plane?" Red asked me.

"Yeah." I said getting the first real look into his eyes. They were brown eyes with the white parts splashed with red spider webs. He had beer foam trapped in the wisps of the mustache. He didn't let the eye lock last for long. Parked now on the stool, he was giving Barbie the once over, up and down. Make that the twice or thrice over.

"Ever take that thing on a long trip?" He asked, though I wasn't immediately sure he was speaking to me, or about my plane. He had kept his eyes on her when he asked the question. He didn't take his eyes away, until I responded to the question.

"No, this is about as far as it gets for me."

"Where is it that you come from?" he asked.

"Lake County." I said. "I have a place."

"What kinda airstrips they got up there?"

"There's Grass Roots and Gator. One called Osborn's not far away. There are a lot over in Orange County. I used to keep her at Gator then I got my own place. Put in thirteen hundred feet in the grass."

"Sounds nice." He said. "Better'n the place I'm at."

"Where's that?"

"Blackwater Creek," he replied, "sixty some miles west a here." He pulled a knife out of his pocket and started whittling on a piece of the firewood. The knife was large. Larger than most would carry in their pocket.

"So how come you never took that thing any where, what do you call it?" he asked pointing to the Beaver.

"It originally started out as a Beaver, but I modified it quite a bit over the years, adding the floats and the four stroke Geo."

"That thing got a four stroke in it?" He paused and then "Damn, guess you don't have much upkeep?" I didn't want to engage in technical air plane talk, so I just shook my head.

"But you never had a hankering to take it farther?" He asked. I realized he was trying to get to some point in the conversation.

"Like where?" I replied.

"Oh... I don't know, maybe over to the Islands. Bimini or The Berries, it's not too far."

"I don't have the range." I said.

"So strap some tanks on. We know'd lots a people who done it."

"If I wanted to do that, I'd buy a bigger plane." Then I asked him. "So you've never been up to Lake County?"

"No, I ain't ever been north of Polk." He was still whittling the stick. When he had spoken his eyes were turned down and to the left. That's what liars do. The position of his head was cocked a little to the right, allowing me to see the carotid artery in his neck. It was pulsing more rapidly than it should normally do. That confirmed it. He now had his focus on his right knee where he rested the stick, while the other hand carved away at it.

"Let go get something to drink, honey." She said

"We got plenty-a beer in the camper," Stewart said and he handed a beer over to me.

"Little too early for us to start that." I replied. "But thank you anyway."

We decided to take the golf cart. It would get us farther away, to a private spot quicker than walking. We found a secluded area behind the Chapel and parked the cart in the grass. I turned the player on.

There was some noise from when he originally went back down to the clearing. He had flipped through radio stations, staying on them momentarily and then changing it again. Evidently, when he parked the truck, he turned the radio off. We heard the door open and close and then silence.

Next, we heard a scuffling noise and then the sound of the truck doors open and close, one after the other. This must be when they both got into the truck. Then the engine started and the transmission clunked into gear.

"Got any beer in that camper? I'm fuckin' spent."

"Just like you said... Budweiser."

"Any problem getting' the front money?"

"It's in the briefcase under the booth cushions."

"All of it?"

"Yep."

"Great,...gonna' drink 'til I pass the fuck out."

"How was the flight over, Red?"

"It sucked, fuckin flat tire in Nassau, took us an hour and a half, just to find a fuckin' place to fix it. Bastard fuckin' island ain't even that fuckin' big. Zee thought he was gonna' be late back to the boat. Then, another half hour to patch the son of a bitchin' hole. Stupid Bahama guy wanted to balance the wheel! Can you believe that shit?"

"Really?...Hey be quiet now...we're coming to the gate"

We could hear the truck brakes making a squealing noise and then it stopped. Some shuffling noises and then a different voice, that of the gate keeper.

"Afternoon Stew...Going over to the range later?"

"Probably do just that Wally...you coming over?"

"Nope, not today. The missus got something for me to do, after my shift ends.

"Well, see you next time Wally."

"You too Stew... be safe over there."

We heard the truck start moving again. I could tell he was turning the wheel into the Pro Shop parking lot and turning again, to go toward the camper.

"So... you got the tire patched?"

"Yeah, good thing I didn't need a new tire, I'd still be in that god damn field....Then, flyin' that fuckin' low over the water scarred the livin' shit out of me. I ain't fuckin' doing that no more. Find somebody else. I'll just handle the distribution, and split the take with ya. My plane ain't meant to fly like that...it needs worked on."

"I don't know Red...should have thought about that before you wasted Mark. Ain't going be easy finding another pilot willing to do it.

"I told you! Fuckin' Drifter Boy left me no choice. Had me stressing the motor real hard to catch his ass.

"C'mon Red, the clip was empty, and it was a twenty rounder. Don't sound to me like you left him much choice."

" And you know it'd just be a matter of time 'til he got greedy. Him and that bitch. Good thing Zee knew her address. Ya shoulda seen that! ...heard the noise when I broke that back door in. She was so-o-o scarred...acted like a zombie when I led her in the dinin' room... sat down and just stared at the wall...had the table all fixed up...bet she didn't even feel the razor...Shoulda did her before I did her. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!...Aw c'mon Stew; you know that was fuckin' hilarious."

"Red, I don't want to know anymore about it, it makes my stomach queasy."

"You're a fuckin' pansy boy Stew, you damn sure ain't no cowboy!...Man the fuck up. You're in this as deep as me, and you need to be strong and tough. C'mon, let's get a beer.

We heard the truck stop and one door open and close, while the other just opened. We heard the movement of something, and then the other door closed, and we heard foot steps walking away. The voice activator shut off.

"My God!" Barbie said. "He's a real pig!"

"They both are." I said. "Can you believe it? What assholes they both are. We have to be careful, sounds like he wouldn't hesitate to hurt anyone. You stick close by me whenever he's around"

"Stew actually seemed pretty nice, before I heard that conversation. I was actually beginning to question whether he was involved." She was quizzical.

"They're both bad news." I was thinking about what we had just heard. "We still don't know all of it. Can you believe the conversation we had with them at the fire?

"It sounded like he wanted to see if you were interested in flying over there." She said.

"Yeah, like he was getting ready to recruit me." I said. "And he doesn't want anyone to know he was in Lake County. I knew he was lying before, but this tape confirms it. I need to pry some more information out of them and then we can take it all to the Sheriff."

"He's dangerous Jake. I don't think you should mess around anymore. Don't you think we have enough?" She asked it with concern.

"You're right. He is a scary bastard. Maybe I'll just see what I can get from Stewart." When we finished buying the drinks and some other items from the General Store, we headed back to the camp. We arrived to find them back inside the trailer. I broke two small branches from one of the low hanging Live Oaks and stripped the leaves off until they both had points on the ends. Barbie was stirring the fire and adding more wood. I tore open the package of hot dogs we bought at the store and skewered a dog on to the end of each stick. I handed one to her.

Stewart came out of the trailer carrying a shot gun and walked by us with a wave. He crossed over the cart path and went toward the skeet range. Her hot dog was blackening on one side, and she said it was done enough, while handing the stick to me. She reached into the bag and removed the buns and some mustard and relish packets. I was watching Stewart when she took her stick back and loaded the dog onto the bun. He had put the shot gun down on a table and then gone into one of the sheds. He came back out carrying a box and went back to the table. His back was to us.

Red came out of the trailer and went to the Jiffy-John. The beer must be paying its dividends.

"Would it break your heart if we got out of here today?" I asked her.

"Not a bit," she said.

"Okay, sneak over and get the rifle from the truck, while I get the dope. Hurry, we don't have much time," I said and we got up, leaving the food on the chair. We both went toward the trailer, branching off when the truck and the trailer were between us and the Jiffy-John.

I went into trailer quietly and rummaged around until I found the black bag tucked in between the wall and the bed, in the back room. When I came back forward, I remembered to lift the cushion of the table booth. Nothing there. I lifted the other one and saw a thin brown leather briefcase, standing against the wall of the storage compartment. I closed the door as softly as I could and turned to see Barbie going into the tent. Stewart was still at the gun table. He appeared to be cleaning the shot gun. Red was nowhere in sight.

I stashed the briefcase under the air mattress and put the black bag in the corner with the two pillows covering it. I told Barbie to put the rifle up between the head of the mattress and the tent wall. We went back out to the fire, just as we heard the truck start. Red started to back out and turned to look out the rear window. I could tell he noticed the rifle was gone. He stopped and looked out beyond us to where Stewart was. He looked at us and then turned as he finished the backing up. He drove down the cart path faster than the resort people would approve.

When he was out of sight, I told her to watch Stewart and I went back into the tent. Removing the pillow cases from both pillows, I stuffed the black bag and the briefcase into one and wrapped the other, the best I could, around the rifle.

"What's it look like?" I called out to her.

"Stewart still has his back to us." She said. I came out of the tent walking quickly and went to the cart. I told her to stay there and keeping watching. I took the cart down to the Beaver. I opened the pillow case with the bag and the briefcase and put it on the rear seat. I strung the seat belt through the handle of the briefcase and through the nylon carry straps of the black bag, and locked it into the receiver. I pulled the belt tight and wedged the stock of the rifle under the bags. She could just hold all of it, until we got out of there. I could put the Beaver down in a pasture or field when we were far enough away. At this point the tent and the rest of the camping stuff could be retrieved later, after the law took Red and Stewart away.

When I had the cart back in front of the fire I told her to go in and save everything on the laptop, and pack it up. I was going to have one more conversation with Stewart. I heard her mumble something about having more enhancements to do, as I walked across the cart path and through the grass.
Chapter Fourteen:

### "An eye for an eye..."

" **Hey** , you're not supposed to be in there." He said. He had been fiddling around at the green gun rest table, when I walked over to the shed. This shed was the last one down the line to the left and closest to the campground. It stood extending back from the trap house, and an open padlock was hanging on its hasp with the door slightly ajar. I hadn't gone in there. I had just opened the door wider, and was standing there, hoping for him to say something.

"Check this out. What is that?" I said, pointing inside the shed, with an incredulous look on my face. I was trying to lure him into the shed, and it seemed to be working. I stepped back out of his way, as he approached and went by me, and into the shed. He flipped on the light as I followed him in, pulling the door closed behind me.

When he discovered nothing out of place, he turned and was just about to say something when I pivoted on the left foot, and sent the heel of the right one into his sternum. I hadn't launched it hard, rather with just enough pressure to send him backwards into the stacked boxes of clay pigeons. The boxes went sprawling with him. He was down on the right knee with his butt sitting on the right foot. His hat was on the ground to his right and he was reaching for it. The left leg rested on top of one of the open boxes and the foot was pointed out toward me. It didn't look comfortable. When he recovered, he appeared bewildered. Out of my pocket came the MP3. I hit the play button and the sound of his conversation with Freaky Red came to life.

"And you know it'd just be a matter of time 'til he got greedy. Him and that bitch. Good thing Zee knew her address. Ya shoulda seen that! ...heard the noise when I broke that back door in. She was so-o-o scarred...acted like a zombie when I led her in the dinin' room... sat down and just stared at the wall...had the table all fixed up...bet she didn't even feel the razor...Shoulda did her before I did her. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!...Aw c'mon Stew; you know that was fuckin' hilarious."

I pushed the stop button.

"Who the fuck are you, and what do you want?" He said, putting the hat back on his head.

"Let's just say I'm a friend of Drifter Boy's... you know, the one you and Red conned into flying the Coyote over from the Bahamas. I know all about Mr. Zee too. As a matter of fact, I've got the money and the bag, and the only thing keeping me from calling the law in is, I want you to tell me why you didn't keep your end of the bargain."

I paused savoring the changing expression on his face.

"Start talking dude, or I'll have to start doing the convincing and this time it'll hurt a little more." I had noticed his expression change, from bewilderment to wonderment, and now to the look of a sly little fox. At the same time I saw his left hand inching under his thigh, reaching. He made the play. I ducked as the two clay birds passed over my head and shattered against the door behind me, and I dropped the MP3. He had done it quickly and he was back on his feet now. I guess he was opting for the convincing, I'd promised. I wasn't concerned, figuring his best thought was to just get out the door and run. At worst, I could easily tackle him in the six foot width of the shed. He was in a crouch. Knees bent and his hands out to the sides. He was trying to circle, first to the left and then to the right. I took a step closer, and seventeen tiny needles danced on the back of my neck. My heart was beginning to pump a little faster. I did the crouch thing too. We were now high school wrestlers on the mat, preparing to do the dance to the pin.

There wasn't much in the way of tools or weapons in the shed. He'd left his shotgun on the gun rest table and he'd already tried throwing the clay. In this situation you want to watch the midsection. A quick glance at the eyes doesn't hurt, but his movement will start from the belly button area. I wasn't going to try to incapacitate him. Just take the next step toward getting him to talk to me. The next step in the convincing process. I was still watching his middle, when I raised the open palm of the left hand into the air, and gave it a quick little shake. I was watched his eyes now, and when I saw them move to my hand, I put the right instep nicely into his groin.

He went right to his knees in pain, and then rolled over to his right side into a fetal position. The mouth was open and a sound, combining the growl of a dog and the scream of an adolescent girl came forth. It had started in the scream and it was now continuing in an extended groan. His hands were grasping his pants outside the testicles. The hat had fallen again. I crumpled the hat into a roll with my hands, destroying its precision press, and shoved the brim into his open mouth. I added a right knee to his left ear, and put some weight on it.

"What we have here is a failure to communicate." I said. I guess the pain in his crotch was subsiding, because he was mumbling something muffled, through the hat brim, and he starting patting me on the back with his left hand. I stood up. He got up to a sitting position and using both of his hands, pushed himself back away from me. He was still sitting on the ground, when he said.

"I don't know what you're talking about." It took just one more step toward him, with the facial expression stern and the head cocked a little to the right.

"Wait! Wait! Wait! ...Okay, I'll tell you, but it wasn't me! It was Red!...Don't hurt me anymore! ...Please!"

"Start talking." I said.

"It was Red's idea, he planned it. He said that Mark wouldn't make a fuss. It was about the money." He paused and then continued.

"Red didn't have any of it. I got the buy money fronted from the guy we sell it to. Red said he'd give it to him in full, when he made the next run. Red explained that the next batch would all be profit money. Mark said that was bullshit, and there wasn't gonna be a next time. He wasn't gonna do anymore runs unless he got paid today. A little while later, when Red was in the Jiffy-John, Mark grabbed the styrofoam case and told me he was going to find someone else to sell it to. Next thing I knew, Mark was in the air. When Red came back, I told him the story. He was mad as hell, and smacked me for letting Mark take the stuff. He ran the whole way down the runway to his plane, and took off after Mark. He didn't come back that night. Next morning he landed in here carrying the case, and asked me if the guy had been here to get the stuff. I said I had to call him. I asked him what happened and he told me Mark had crashed his plane. It was later when I saw the window busted in the Chief that I started looking around. I found my rifle in there behind the seats. I could smell that it had been fired, and I checked that the magazine clip and it was empty. I went to Red and started asking questions, and he said that since I was in it, as deep as him he'd tell me. He said he had to stress the little Continental engine in the plane to catch up with Mark. He calls him Drifter Boy. He said Drifter Boy really knew how to fly that plane, and he tried to talk to him using hand signals, to get him to land, but he wouldn't. Red said he had that throttle maxed out for a long time just getting close to Mark, and that's not good for it. When Mark wouldn't listen Red said he had to punch the side window out with the barrel of the rifle. He said it was a pain in the ass getting that window knocked out. Then he just started shooting little bursts until Mark swamped the plane. Red said he had to find a field, like a half a mile away to put down. It took him a long time to find where Mark was, and when he found him, Mark was dead. He said he had to wade into that nasty swamp to get to the plane and he took the stuff from the box where Mark kept it. Then he said he flew back to Blackwater, that's where he lives, and got all the notes that Zee gave him from when they checked out Mark and his girlfriend. Her address was in there, and he drove up to Orlando or somewhere up there, to her house after dark. He broke in and killed her too, because he figured she knew what was up with the drugs and stuff, and when they found Mark, she'd tell and we'd get caught. And that's all I know."

"That's quite a bit." I said, and started tearing the little green plastic straps that were wrapped around the clay bird cases to keep them from opening.

"What are you doing?" he asked worriedly. He started inching his way over to the left side of me.

"Don't you move Stewart." I said. "Just sit right back down and wait 'til I get finished here."

"But, what are you going to do with those straps?' He asked. I had lifted enough of the little tabs ends of the heat pressed straps, and ripped them loose to do what I was planning.

"You know Stewart." I said and started walking slowly over toward where he was.

"I think if you hadn't gotten yourself into this criminally insane deal, I might actually like you. But, since your pretty deep in it, like Red says, I don't think I can trust you to just stay here, while I go have a little talk with him. I said don't move Stewart!...You be a good little cowpoke and I'll be gentle, but if you want to get stupid, I'll have to start the convincing all over again."

"Okay, okay, but you can't leave me here." He was almost crying now.

"Don't worry Stewart, I'll come back in a little while and let you loose." I said and began to bind his ankles. I couldn't let Red go now, after hearing what Stewart said. We needed to have a similar chat, like the one I just had with Stewart. I turned the cowboy over and bound his wrists behind his back. It was tricky to get the plastic straps to stay knotted, but I found that a square knot with an extra cinch would hold well enough. When I was done, I bent his knees back, and connected a line between the ankles and the wrists and ran a double strand around his lower thighs, just above the knees. He was starting to complain when I dragged him toward the middle of the shed, so I ripped a piece of the flap of one of the cartons. I folded the cardboard in half and then in half again. I had him open his mouth, to a good deal of his displeasure, and shoved the folded cardboard in there and had him bite down. I took his handkerchief scarf from around his neck and retied it over his mouth to keep him from spitting the cardboard out. The last thing I did was to connect another line from the one going to his wrists, through the unbroken straps of two of the heavy cases of clay birds. If he pulled very hard, it would put pressure on his ankles and knees and I told him that.

"Just lay back and take a nap, Stewart. I'll be back in a little while. I picked up the MP3 player and shoved it in the front pocket of my jeans. I went out of the shed and closed the door. On impulse, I closed the hasp and hung the open lock on it to secure the door. When I turned to go back to the campground, an ice cold shiver raced down my spine. I launched the legs and moved the arms and quickly gained the full speed of the sprint toward my tent. I had seen Red stepping out of it and climbing into our rented golf cart. As I ran, he stepped on the accelerator and headed toward the runway. He didn't look when I shouted. He was focused on running away from something. Something I feared was horrible. I headed straight for the tent and slid to a stop at the entrance. I crouched and leaned to push the nylon doorway open with both hands and saw her laying there.

The world suddenly changed into my own personal segment of The Twilight Zone. It did not completely stop, but it slowed way down to a crawl, and everything seemed to go to black and white. The noise must have been escaping my mouth for long moments before I realized it. I had screamed in reaction to the knowledge of it, but my ears couldn't hear. I was lost in the total silence of my mind. I fell forward to my knees inside the tent. The bottoms of both palms went to the tops of my eyebrows and pushed back against the bone there, hard. My eyes quickly flooded with tears. I couldn't move another muscle. I couldn't go to her, or touch her, and I couldn't even see her through the tears, but I knew.

I knew she was gone. A hundred thoughts of her raced through the movie projector in my mind. Thoughts of the past, thoughts of yesterday and thoughts of what we would never have. All the hopes and dreams and plans of the future of both of us, melted away right before my rainy day eyes. She was no five week deal. I could have known her all my life. She could have been my forever girl. I loved her, my thoughts were swimming in it, and in that moment my ears regained their ability.

"NOOOOOOOOOOO! GOD... DAMMIT... NOOOOO!"

The internal, learned, mechanism which controls the emotions over the time when one grows from a small child to a full grown man suddenly failed and the regression began. I cried like that small child I had been many years ago.

It all seemed like a lucid dream. She was laying there on the air mattress with both shoulders flat and her left arm out to the side. The blanket bedspread still holding the neat fold of her bed making just a short while before. Her right arm was straight, along the right side of her and tucked under the slight lift of her hip. Both of her legs were bent slightly at the knees and her feet were pointed toward the corner of the bed. Her toes were only separated by a few inches. One sandal abandoned by the doorway, the other twisted sideways and held on her foot by the thong in between her toes. Her head lay over to the left side, against the blanket and the long beautiful brown hair was spilled across her chin and her neck. The hair was also covering part of her upper chest where the blouse had been torn. Her left breast was exposed in the ugliness of the scene. He had plunged the knife right through the nipple and into her heart. What once had been the perfectly round, pert, dark brown, point of her breast, was now split open and colored red with a narrow river of blood trailing down her left side. The knife was on the floor of the tent at my feet. The same knife I had seen him whittle the piece of oak with. The laptop was standing on its side like an open book with the fractured screen doing a stutter of on and off flashing. The picture of Zee and Red in the field doing the handoff appearing and disappearing.

My mind regained a sense of coherency and started reeling through thought; I had only been gone a short time.- I shouldn't have left her alone.- What will I say to her daughters?- What should I tell the police?- Stewart was still tied up.- Red must have seen the picture. - I had wanted to have a discussion with Red...

"RRR-E-DD!!" I screamed in a growl. I picked up the knife and stepped out of the tent, looking in the direction I had seen him go. I saw the Chief, taxiing on the runway. He was getting away. I started the sprint to my plane and stopped it quickly. I had the presence of mind to look at the knife in my hand and contemplate it. Deciding I might not have the chance to use it on him in the exact same fashion he had done to her. The legs moved awkwardly back to the tent. I tossed the knife inside and reached to pull the zipper of the doorway down.

He was getting away and I ran as hard I could to the tie down lot. By the time I got to the Beaver he was in the air, coming over my head and I saw him veer it off to his right to the west. I flipped on the switch and pushed the button. She cranked and I was moving toward the runway. I didn't turn it. I didn't look at the sock. I didn't wait to talk on the radio and to get any clearance. I just checked the runway for other planes and steered her onto the flat. I throttled it wide open and was up in seconds. I didn't even think to put the dark glasses on until I got the wheels rotated. I had to take it off in the opposite direction than he did, but by the way I had seen him turn, it wouldn't matter.

I was burned, more pissed than I can ever remember, but the concentration of this chase was alleviating my madness. I knew I would have to get it up real high to be able to spot him. This would cost time. He would be able to get farther away. I put her in a slow turning bank and looked toward the west, searching for him.

I was flying too fast. I could hear the wings chattering and I didn't like it. The airspeed indicator showed seventy-nine knots. It reminded me of the kids who line up the Honda's and the Subaru's at the end of Lee Vista Boulevard and drag race down to the school, beating the shit out of the stock engines. You saw the same cars later with smoke coming from the exhaust. The vibration caused the rifle to become unwedged from the pressure of the bags holding it, and it fell to the ground. I heard the pillow case go through the prop and saw the shreds of it when I looked back. I tried to see where the rifle would land, but I was too preoccupied with catching him. I knew he had no weapons, unless he had grabbed a pistol from the camper, on his way into the tent. We were now weapons even.

I got her up to about fifteen hundred before I saw the Chief. He was about two miles off to my port side, at about a thousand feet. He was taking it west and didn't appear to be flying it hard. When I swung it left to follow him, I started to think about what I would do when I got close enough. I was high enough now that I could gain speed in a dive angle and close on him pretty fast, but I needed time to think so I kept inching closer to him, maintaining my present altitude.

I'd gotten the speed down to where the wings would only start to chatter when I let the stick fall forward without realizing it. I tried to keep the airspeed right at seventy, by maintaining a level stick. It was hard to concentrate on keeping it level because my mind kept slipping back to the vision of her laying there. It was ripping my heart out.

I had to stay focused on how to deal with this son of a bitch, once I caught him. If I let him see me, I was afraid he would take it faster and leave me chasing. If he had enough fuel, he could fly it right out of my view and disappear in no time, at ninety. I couldn't let that happen. I remembered Mark doing tricks one day over the steel rooftops of the hangers at Gator. He would bring his plane in over the roofs low, and as slow as he could before it would stall. He touched the roof over Randy's plane one time and we scrambled to make sure no damage was done to the roof or to his Kit Fox. Fortunately, we found no damage. It happened on an early Sunday morning, before any of the regulars had arrived and we promised each other to keep it to ourselves. We had been sitting in his hanger on the lawn chairs and the discussion finally got around to what would have happened had he been in my plane, with the landing gear up. We decided that the skegs would have ripped the tin right off, and probably caught the plane enough to send it out of control. If that happened, it would be very hard to recover in time, to keep from dying in the crash.

The skegs are little round, aluminum discs welded to the bottom of the floats, designed to keep them from skidding or sliding on the surface of the water. They act to give the floats grip or bite. There is also a spray rail on the inboard sides to keep the splashes of water from shooting up into the cockpit during landings and takeoffs. Remembering the ripping of the tin roof discussion had given me a great idea. It was definitely dangerous and I wasn't sure I would be good enough to pull it off, or if it would even work. They key would be to get to him the first time. If I missed, I might lose him forever. If I let him get away from me, I might not be able to prove anything. The voice recording probably wouldn't be admissible in any court. Lawyers. "If it weren't for lawyers, we wouldn't need lawyers." Even if I could prove something, I wasn't thinking in that the direction. I wasn't thinking about the law, or police, or sheriffs, or courts. I didn't want to deal with any of that. I wanted my own revenge, my own way.

I now had a crystal, clear understanding of the minds of vigilantes. They say they have blinders on, and those who say it are right. I was not worried about any cascading effects or repercussions. I was not going to be put in any cell. If they tried, I'd find a way to get away, or I'd die doing it.

I was catching him slowly. He was about four thousand feet out and still about four hundred feet below me and I was doing my best to stay in his blind. The sun was directly off my eleven o'clock, almost straight out from the bow and starting its journey toward the horizon. The plan I was formulating was a onetime shot, and there was a very good chance of taking out both planes. At this point, that option was justified in my mind. I was taking this guy down, even if I had to go with him. It would involve maneuvering the plane to come down on his blind spot, just above his head, where both of his wings met the fuselage. Time it well, and with enough speed in the descent, to put the Beaver in position where I could slip her to the left just before the impact and rip the wing with the right skeg or the spray rail, or both.

I was catching him slowly, within a thousand feet now and he still hadn't seen me. He seemed intent on a direct flight path to his destination, which I now estimated as Blackwater. Still half an hour away at present speed. I had time to make this work. I started to descend, dropping it down about fifty feet per minute trying to gauge distance and speed. I would need just the right forward pitch combined with the right dive path to connect with him. Too much or too little of either and I would miss.

Missing by a little could be catastrophic. Perhaps the overshoot would send my tail into his prop and bust it up. Losing my tail would end any control of the aircraft. Undershooting would send me below him and as soon as I passed him, the element of surprise would be gone. His field of vision in that Chief, was really only limited by the spots directly above and directly behind him. He couldn't see through the wings. His left side was almost completely unobstructed. The right side was only limited by the part of the door, easily overcome by a twist of the yoke to skew him right and open his vision passed the cardboard window. He could also turn in the seat to see about forty-five or fifty degrees to either side of his rear. My only other option would be to sneak right up behind him and my plane just wasn't fast enough to do that.

I was catching him faster now. The descending angle of attack that I had chosen seemed to be working out just about right. My adrenaline was kicking and I could feel my heart beating in the temples. This was going to get real dicey in about thirty seconds or so. I was focusing my complete attention on the point of his plane where I wanted to make contact.

I came down on him from about two hundred feet higher than he was. When I felt the timing was right, I pushed the stick forward and held it there at the attack angle. I was rapidly picking up speed. The chattering began. It seemed to increase and I was talking to the wings, telling them to hold on just a little while longer. I felt the vibration begin slightly at first, then more severe, and then the right side became violent. I chanced a look at the wing and the struts, and saw the midpoint support had separated from the outboard strut. It was shaking in unison with the vibrating strut and I could see it wasn't going to last long. I had broken the clamps holding the strut support to the under wing in the past, but always in controlled flight and I had kept her down to around fifty until I could land her. This was a different situation, and I swore at the luck of the moment. The few seconds it had taken for me to view the strut damage, were forgotten immediately when I looked back to the front. The violence of the shake had drifted the plane to the right a little farther than I was comfortable with. I kicked the left pedal just a bit to correct it. I was twenty five-feet from impact.

This is the point in a landing descent, that you ease the stick back to level it off for the beautiful float down the runway. Although every landing is a butterfly stirring event, it always becomes very enjoyable at the moment you have it leveled off and you are keeping it aloft until it stalls in and touches down. I had no time to think about the beautiful floating now, it was show time.

At ten feet I pulled the power back, threw the stick over and slipped it to the left, catching the middle of the right float on his wing. I could not hear it, but I felt the impact. I caught the wing of the Chief just left and forward of where I had planned, and the front of the right float was over his left shoulder. I brought the stick back to neutral and was easing it aft, left hand was on the throttle. Just before the time where I would send it wide open, I felt us lurch to the left. He must have reacted to the impact and the sight of the float through his left window. The surprise fear probably caused him to turn the yoke with the movement of his head when he looked out the window. His immediately correction of the yoke back to right had caused the sudden lurch. In those milliseconds when he had righted his ship, the Beaver reacted differently. In the lurch I felt the right side rise and when I threw the throttle forward, the tip of the left float, now under his wing and aeliron, dug in and the lift ripped fabric. The wind caught the bulk of it, and a sizable piece caught on the leg of my landing gear on its way. It remained there flapping, but I could not pay it any mind. The Beaver was yawing to the left and even with right stick maxed, I could not correct it. The float tip was still under his wing. In his horror below me, he must have been turning left while I was trying to turn it right. It was creating a standoff. Reacting out of panic, I kicked the left pedal hard, let it come back, and felt the Beaver lift free. However brief the free feeling was, the sudden panic returned instantly when the wind reacted to the position of the flight controls. I still had the stick maxed to the right causing her to knife edge, left wing high, while she came clear of the Chief.

I followed the natural, rolling, descending, turn by bringing the rudder over with right pedal and was still catching my breath, when I caught sight of him off my starboard side at three o'clock. He must have taken his plane the opposite way, and now we were circling into each others path. It was about to become a game of chicken. The one big problem with this was that if I consented to eat his prop, I could not be sure he would just die in the crash. Before I had to make the decision I saw him lift, his plane climbing across my bow from right to left. I saw what I thought might be a golden opportunity and pointed her directly at him. I was gauging speed and distance again, thinking that his angle and mine would intersect with an impact of his tail. I could roll it right to avoid the wing if the timing was right. He saw me coming and put it in a dive causing the floats to miss him by several feet.

As I rolled her back left in the chase, he was now below me. I could see the hole in the wing of the Chief and it appeared to be tearing forward toward the leading edge. His left aileron also had damage. I began to think how I could use this to my advantage. A check of the altimeter showed me at eight hundred feet, and I estimated he was a hundred feet below, but he was also climbing. It was a smart play on his part. Get it high in case the wing shreds, it would give him more time to find a place to put it down. Compass heading showed him directed south and I corrected the Beaver to follow him. The same hidden position I'd used before wasn't going to work again, because I saw him turning it and lifting his wing to find where I was. He must have finally remembered his original heading, because he pitched it to the right and we were now headed west again.

My thought that the wing's torn fabric would cause it to rip completely away, wasn't proving to be accurate. The tear appeared to be stable. I had to think of another way to surprise him and was deep in that thought when I realized I was catching him quickly. I couldn't figure out why he wasn't flying it faster, and then I remembered. The thupping sound and the blue smoke at idle, I had seen at Blackwater. He was down on compression. Down on compression meant down on horsepower. He couldn't fly it faster because he didn't have the power.

I now had another option and that new option gave me another plan, but first I would have to distract him again. I wanted him to roll it into a turn again, enough so that I could get far away to the west and come back at him. With the aileron damage his turn would have to be wide and it would take a long time. I swung out to the right and then brought her back to the left so I was now coming up on his starboard, at about seventy knots. I figured his best turn option would be to the right because he had the damage on the left wing. If he surprised me and turned left I'd just bury another float into him. This idea began to appeal to me but the more I thought about it, a left turn would be doubtful; he wouldn't want to lose sight of me again.

If my wings were chattering I didn't care enough to notice anymore. I came up along side him at seventy feet above and continued forward until I was at his two o'clock. This time there would be no surprise. I took a deep breath and rolled it left, brought it out of the roll and pointed it in the descent, straight for where I guessed he would be when I got there. He wasted no time turning under me, once he saw me coming. He turned it hard, and I used my descending forward speed to roll it quickly back right and into a climb. I pointed her straight into the sun and kept looking back left and right, to watch his progress, as I continue to climb. I had her in the best possible speed and feet per minute, climb combination that I could get. By the time he got the Chief turned around, I was cresting nine hundred feet and still climbing. He brought the Chief around and continued his flight behind me, also climbing again. I could not tell his speed and could only guess by the glimpses that he was two thousand feet back. Plenty far enough. I just needed a little more altitude. I could not tell if he could see me. I was doing my best to keep the Beaver between him and the sun, hiding out as I gained height and distance, but it had not been easy.

If my guess was right he could not see me. Another problem was about to present itself. If he didn't see me, I was sure he was scanning the skies looking for me and I didn't want to give him anything free. I needed to turn completely around, and head it back to him, without his knowledge of me. One time I saw this guy named Rhett, do a cork screw maneuver in his Dragonfly, taking off away from me and then doing a twist it and turn, roll, twist it back kind of deal to where he brought it right back over my head. I wished now I had dogged him, until he showed me how. But I had no idea how he had done it, and I wasn't going to try it. My best idea was to take her straight up, just a little bit left of the sun until she stalled, then let her fall to the right as she always did, and bring it out of the stall into the dive. When I could feel her diving straight, I pulled the stick back hard into my belly and she leveled off, this time I felt her vibrations again but they didn't concern me. I could see him dead ahead at my twelve o'clock and two hundred feet below. The climb had taken me to about fourteen hundred. In the dive I had lost a lot of it, the altimeter now read eleven. He was fifteen hundred feet out, but we were closing fast, in a two to one ratio to our airspeed. I didn't have much time. The plan still relied on the fact that he couldn't see me and that he didn't know where I was. Try staring at the sun sometime. You'll take your eyes away quick, and that's what I was hoping for. Even if he could see a black dot, he wouldn't know which way I was flying. By now, he probably thought I'd given up. But it wouldn't have mattered what he thought. I was coming to him from the sun. With the sun directly behind me, so it would blind him if he looked at me. Out of the sun, they call it. Just like a red devil, with horns and pitchfork, I was about to become a very bad dream for him.

On that late Saturday afternoon, I came out of the sun with intense concentration focused on one single thought, I was taking him down. He had killed her. He had taken her life away and he had taken her away from me forever. She was my baby. We had developed to the point where I wanted to look at no other. She had become the most special part of my world. And in that sordid twisted world of cockiness and egomania that is my mind, it was not fair! And this unfairness required a simple kind of equal justice;

"An eye for an eye, mother fucker!" I came out of the sun, red and black wings shaking and chattering. Aluminum floats glistening and reflecting sparkles from their swing and sway. Pirate flag standing tall and whipping in the wind. Closing very fast now. Five hundred feet away from the beginning of the end of his life.

At two hundred feet out, I was twenty-five feet higher. If he didn't see me now, he wouldn't have any time to react when he did. I brought her right hard, paused one second, then kicked the left pedal to the floor, pulled the stick all the way left and guided her home. This action took the Beaver right briefly, and then brought her back hard to the left with enough momentum in the turn to knife edge her high. High enough so that she would take the impact in her belly. I saw the splinters hit the windshield. I felt something smash into the floats in a glancing blow. I didn't feel anything else. I brought her out of the knife and pulled her up into a long climbing left bank, looking out the port side.

The Chief was in major trouble, because he had no power. The splinters in the windshield came from the shattering of his propeller. He was porpoising it, and there was oil blowing out the exhaust. He was pulling the yoke back and letting it come up to an almost stall then pushing the yoke forward and letting it fall to lose altitude, then doing it all again and again in an effort to get it closer to the ground. Stalling it would kill his airspeed, but at this rate he wasn't getting it down fast enough and the Aeronca Chief was never designed to be a glider. There was something else wrong. I couldn't see all of the damage, but it was obvious that he couldn't turn properly. It appeared he only had the rudder and the elevator. His ailerons weren't functioning at all, probably snapping a cable during the impact. I just kept it close enough to watch.

He was still at about seven hundred feet, when his porpoise plan developed a serious hitch. He was descending too fast. Nervousness, panic, fear, call it what you will. He probably wasn't able to maintain complete focus on everything he needed to do and he lost what he thought was the easiest thing to control. He was descending too fast, and this time when he brought it up for the stall, the speed took him farther up and quicker than he had gone before and he couldn't nose it back over forward. Instead, the Chief climbed straight up until it could climb no more, paused there briefly and then slowly rolled over to the right side. It went into a spiral dive and with no aileron control he had run out of options.

I watched as it began to pick up more speed and the spirals got smaller and smaller until it went nose in. Fireball erupted and it was no longer an Aeronca, and he was no longer a pilot.

I found myself turning the plane to fly back to her. I noticed something strange about the way the floats were positioned. The right float tip was much higher than the left one. She had taken some damage. A visual inspection of the landing gear components didn't reveal any problems, but when I tried to rotate the gear down it got stuck. The right leg of the gear was catching on the float. The mounts appeared to be intact however, I couldn't see below the nose or behind the rear seat. The right float seemed tightly secured when I extended my leg out, and put pressure on it. It must have gotten twisted enough to catch the gear leg. I kept trying to get the gear down, and then I saw the problem.

The impact of the Chief had dented the float and spread it wider at the point where the leg gear goes down. I wouldn't be able to fix it in the air. And I wouldn't be able to get the leg down for a landing. I didn't want to risk questions about who I was, or why I landing a damaged craft in the water by the Marina. What if the float was split? It would take on water and sink. My mind told me to get Barbie out of there as quickly as possible. If I did get the Beaver down, I might be able to do some makeshift fix, with the gear leg. The only option was to belly land her in the grass beyond the south end of the runway. But another hard impact could do permanent damage to the floats and the structural integrity of the airplane. I didn't have the luxury of the time it would take to get Johnny or Danny to come down and pick us up.

The grass on the south end of the runway was at least three hundred feet long before it encountered any obstacles or trees. I wouldn't need anywhere near that much room. I had never bellied one in before, but I had seen Tim and some other guys do it. If I could keep her level enough to rest her in softly, the plane would come to a stop very quickly. I was just worried about the skegs digging in and causing it to high side or even flip. I reached down to tighten the seat belt across my lap.

The landing called for the long slow 747 jet style approach, and I had her down to about ten feet when I was only half way down the runway. I was holding the stick firmly and easing the throttle back, ever so slowly. When I could see the end of the strip I pulled the power back and tried to keep her aloft as long as possible. The rear of the left float caught first in the grass, and when the rear of the right touched it slammed both fronts down harder than I wanted. The plane bounced back up airborne and then dropped flat on both floats and skidded to a stop. I had put the left hand on the aluminum tube where the windshield connects for impact support and when the floats hit the second time, my hand slipped and broke the lexan where it was mounted to the tube.

I wasted no time worrying about it. I unbuckled and left the seat to the right. I wasn't able to see the nose wheel from the air, so I checked it first. There was no damage there. I went to the left side and it all appeared functional there as well. I pulled the piece of Aeronca wing fabric off of the gear leg and threw it on the ground. I took a glance around the area to see how much attention I had attracted. There was no one at the shooting range and those in the campground further up the pathway hadn't seemed to notice. The good thing about the landing was that it made little noise. There wasn't anyone on the tie down lot either. The skegs had torn the ground up pretty good though. I saw the teenager peek his head out and look my way, and then go back into the Pro Shop. There were golfers returning from the course across the main road.

The major damage was as suspected, on the bottom of the right float. Now that I could see it from the ground, it was busted up pretty badly. It would have to be replaced. If I had put her down on the water, it could have been disastrous. The right front mount block was bent, causing the float tip to be raised. Though it was still pretty solid under the weight of my foot. I checked all the other mount blocks, all the way around and found nothing broken or bent too much. I reached up to the stick and released the gear lock lever. The legs dropped and stopped when the right one hit the bent float. I sat down on the ground and put both feet on the float, put one hand on the gear leg and the other under the wheel, and pulled. The leg might give just enough to get it around the bent part, but I couldn't get the wheel down any lower because it hit the ground. I left it wedged there, tight against the float and ran over to the camp.

Stewart's camp stools were on the ground, leaning against his trailer. It reminded me that Stewart was still tied up. I had no intention of letting him loose. When I returned to the plane, I set one stool to the rear of the gear leg and put both hands under the wing spars and lifted the right side off the ground. I balanced on the right foot and maneuvered the stool under the float with the left foot, but it turned crooked and I had to start all over again. This time with the stool turned ninety degrees, I was able to get it under the float. Make a note to thank the designers for not making the Beaver too heavy.

I let the float down on the stool and after sinking slightly into the ground, it stabilized and held. I had to do the same to the other side and the practice from the right one made the left go easy. I went back to the right side and kicked the wheel until the leg dropped below the bend in the float. It was still pressed tight against it, but it wouldn't matter as long as I could get the lock closed.

Now, I had to get the nose up. Not wanting to take the time to go back to the camp for something else to block up the front, I just stood as far forward on the left side as I could, while still being able to reach the gear lever. I lifted the front and felt the left rear sink a little. I reached and pulled the gear lever forward and heard the lower, nose wheel lock, click. The left rear had sunk into the ground just enough to prevent the wheel from rotating far enough to lock the main gear. I had to do the wing lift thing again to get the stool out and then put it back under in a different spot.

I tried to swing the gear down and into the locked position, but something wasn't right. When I got over to the right side I saw that the lock mechanism was bent and would not be functioning without some major repair time and tools. This was a major setback. I stood there contemplating the problem. I had to get her out of here before somebody discovered what had happened.

I ran back over to the camp with an idea. I dug out the quarter inch rods and the spool of wire that we planned to use for coffee in the morning. I had left them outside the tent, on the ground. I used one of the rods, wedged into the ground to hold the right wheel down as far as I could. Then I bent and wrapped the other ones around the axle and the gear lock in attempt to keep it in place. I used the wire for additional strength and to secure the rods.

I lowered the plane and moved it back and forth, then pushed forward. Finally I took the chance of raising it up again on the right side, then letting it drop. The gear leg stayed in place. I used some more of the wire to tie the outboard wing strut back in place, good enough to get us home. I took the bag and the briefcase, still inside the pillow case, from the rear seat and put them on the seat in the front.

I had lost a serious amount of energy, working on the repair. I was sweating profusely. But I had to do this, I had to take her home. Unzipping the tent, I got emotional again. What I saw destroyed any feelings that I had left when it comes to caring. I could never again trust the human race to be sane. Never again, would I believe in the spirit of humanity. Never again, would I become emotionally involved. I was beginning to question my own sanity, and it hurt like hell. What kind of bullshit world are we living in, anyway?

She lay there as I had left her. It was hard for me to look at her. I pulled the thumb drive from the broken laptop and shoved it in my pocket. I pulled each side of the blanket and sheets to the middle over her, wrapping her up like a mummy. Folded the two halves of the laptop together and tucked it in the lower end of the folded sheets and blanket, by her feet. Then I brought the extra lengths of the sheets and blanket from the bottom and the top, to the middle sealing her and the laptop in. What to do with the knife? I didn't want to touch it again, but I just didn't matter to me anymore. I closed it and shoved it in the back pocket of my jeans.

I checked outside to see if anyone was in sight and saw no movement. I carried her over to the Beaver, put her in the rear seat and brought the seat belt across. I ran the bungee straps we'd used to secure the tent and the chairs to the boom tube, across her in 'x' patterns to keep the sheets in place and to keep her from falling forward. I needed one more, quick trip to the tent, grabbing her personal things and stuffing it all into the laptop case. The briefcase, the laptop case, and the black bag all went into the wingtips, with a pillow on each end to help keep everything in place.

I flipped the switch on and pushed the starter, firing the Geo and checked the flight controls. I taxied it down through the grass and out onto the runway. I didn't care about the tent, or anything else I'd left behind. They were material possessions, and something told me that I would not be needing those kinds of things anymore. I didn't care about Stewart. I wasn't going to look for the rifle, Barbie had taken pictures of it. To the best of my recollection, I hadn't left anything that could be linked with me. We hadn't even registered under our own names.

I quit thinking about it, when I was in the air and climbing. I set a northwest course, non-stop for _The Landing_.
Chapter F ifteen:

"...for one more day with you."

**When I'd touched down** with her at _The Landing_ , I took the Beaver right over to the hanger and pushed her and Barbie inside, and closed the door. On the way to the house, I flipped open my phone and called Sheriff Watson on his cell, telling him he should make his way over, at his earliest convenience. I think I'd interrupted his dinner again. I had put the flash drive in the Dell desktop and printed most of the pictures and narratives when I heard the bonging of the bells. I had the knife, the drugs and all the cruise and flight documents lain out on the table. The briefcase had gone unopened, into the hidey hole in the back of the linen closet just outside the spare bedroom. No need to mention anything about the money.

Sheriff Watson kept his attitude calm and cool. He went through everything, studying each piece of paper and physical item with intense interest. He gave back everything that had our names on it. I didn't have to ask, he just came out with it. He promised to keep me out of it. There would be no press conferences. There would be no newspaper headlines with my name in them. He called a trusted Deputy and helped him get Barbie into the back of the county patrol utility vehicle. He said he would take her to the Eastside Funeral Parlor and go over and tell her family. It would be listed as a mugging that went bad. He told me to wait a day or two and then call Mr. Potter, to schedule the funeral and make the arrangements. He said we had missed Mark and Becky's services.

Before he left, he threw one of those lumberjack arms around my shoulder and told me to get some rest. He said he'd come by after the funeral to see how I was doing. I got emotional again, as they drove out the lane.

Five days later, in a little cemetery called Taylor Memorial, in Lake County, they performed her burial service. I wasn't present at the service in the church. Two tall concrete pillars at the entrance hold the strands of the wrought iron fence surrounding the cemetery. We put her over on the left side, next to the McFarlane Memorial. Under a nice big Live Oak. There is a white statue which watches over her. Our Lady of somebody or other.

Her mother was there, with her two daughters. I had never met her mother. It was one of those things we were planning to do. Her oldest daughter, Stephanie, came up to me and hugged me. She said her mother had said some really good things about us. Danny and Wendy were there, as was Johnny. Tim Howell was with Danny. There were a few others, who I did not know, but not many.

The priest read his parts, speaking about how she would be safe now, leaving a world where some misguidance had not been kind. Her mother cried through some of her upbringing stories, with the kids holding her up in comfort. When they asked me to say something, I just shook my head and looked at my feet. I had been standing there, uncomfortably, with my hands laced together behind my back, rocking slowly forward and aft. I didn't wear a suit. She wouldn't have wanted me to.

I didn't want to be here. We shouldn't be here. I was sick inside, feeling the loss of her. Somewhere over the rainbow there is a place where stupid shit doesn't happen. Where people are not tempted to delve into the world of dangerousness. Where people simply enjoy living. I need to find that place, quit what I'm doing, give everything away and move there. Maybe it's time go find a place in the islands. I hadn't felt this way since I'd lost my mother. I was feeling pain and guilt and frustration and loneliness. I guess its called bereavement, and I knew that her family could lay claim to those rights much more than I could, but I didn't care.

I am not a religious man. Like Barbie, I was baptized Catholic. My mother was Catholic but she didn't work at it, and we never discussed it much. I believe she shared the same feelings that I have now. When I was very young, we went to this church and then to that one, until I was about seven or eight and then we didn't bother anymore. There were just too many others things to do on Sunday.

I believe in the principle attributed to the famous English logician and Franciscan friar, William of Occam, way back in the fourteenth century. Occam's Razor states that the explanation of any phenomenon should make as few assumptions as possible, eliminating those that make no difference or those which imply insufficient evidence to provide more than just a tentative explanation. It is often paraphrased as "All other things being equal, the simplest solution is the best." Occam has been cast as the primary opponent of Thomas Aquinas. Aquinas is held to be the model teacher for those studying the priesthood, and was canonized by the Catholic Church. In part, for his perfection of the great "medieval synthesis" of faith and reason. Although Occam was born six years after Aquinas died, it has been determined that they disagreed on most issues. Occam destroyed Aquinas' synthesis, and was condemned for it by the Church. Occam's Razor, when applied to the philosophy of religion, argues that in the absence of compelling reasons to believe in God, disbelief should be preferred.

I am ruled by the science of fact, and to me, the known factual realities of the universe just don't support the whole God and Heaven thing. I think I can best describe my feelings in this direction, by stealing a line from the lady who worked at the SETI compound, in that movie, Contact. She said something like "...as a scientist, I believe in empirical fact. What if science revealed that he never existed...What's more likely? That an all powerful, mysterious God created the universe and then decided not to give any proof of his existence, or that he simply doesn't exist and that we created him, so that we wouldn't have to feel so small and alone."

I don't know if that's her exact words, but for me, she nailed the idea. I just don't believe in what ninety-five percent of the people of the world believe. I think the Church is the greatest business scam of all time. But make no mistake about it. Even though I am not one of them, I have the appropriate respect for those who are believers. I will not push my thoughts on others, choosing instead not to talk about it, unless they ask me.

I waited there a long time until after they were all gone. I had said my condolences to her family and that I would stop by soon. Danny and Wendy came over and said some nice things about her and I murmured appreciation. Johnny came over, in a dual effort to raise my mood and to express his feelings, put both hands on my shoulders, pulled me close and whispered in my ear.

"Your queen has fallen in battle, Sire. But, she was will live forever in the annals of our histories."

He had also said it to try to bring a smile to my face, if only for a brief time. It didn't work.

"I appreciate that John." I said. "Thanks, man."

I waited there a long time. They lowered the casket and the attendants filled the ground back in. There was dirt left over. They asked me if there was anything else they could do for me. I thanked them for their service.

I wanted to say goodbye to her in my own way. A way that she would understand and appreciate. And I wanted it to be just us. When they were finally all gone, I went to the Jeep, and got the hollow back from the back seat. I came back over to the place where she would rest, as they say. I wondered what her family would want her marker to say. I wanted to scream again, like I did when I found her.

For me this one had been real. However brief it was, we had shared a very special kind of time. There were the beginnings of planned future times together. We had laid the foundation for the tomorrow of our lives. It was not supposed to change. She shouldn't have been put in that situation. It was in every way, my responsibility.

Barbie loved country music. I remembered a song that had been one her favorites, one that also has very strong connections to the way I was feeling. In the thoughts of the minds of the group Diamond Rio, comes a story of the hopes and prayers and feelings of someone who has lost someone, and someone who might believe that there really is a God or an all powerful wish granter. I picked up the hollow back and slowly strummed the strings.

"Last night I had a crazy dream

A wish was granted just for me

It could be for anything

I didn't ask for money

Or a mansion in Malibu

I simply wished, for one more day with you

One more day

One more time

One more sunset, maybe I'd be satisfied

But then again

I know what it would do

Leave me wishing still, for one more day with you

First thing I'd do, is pray for time to crawl

Then I'd unplug the telephone

And keep the TV off

I'd hold you every second

Say a million I love you's

That's what I'd do, with one more day with you

One more day

One more time

One more sunset, maybe I'd be satisfied

But then again

I know what it would do

Leave me wishing still, for one more day with you... "
Epilogue:

**It had been a full week** since her burial, and I hadn't set one foot outside the house since that day. I had turned on the television one morning and flipped on CNN. I caught the news report part way into it.

"...Sheriff's Departments in three Florida counties worked in conjunction to sting an intercontinental drug running operation, involving the new designer drug, Coyote.

Miami Dade officials arrested Zoeljca Christov this morning aboard the Paradise Cruise Lines ship: The Sunshine Dreamer. Christov is a Croatian national, employed by Paradise Cruise Lines. Meyers Incorporated, the parent company of Paradise Cruises declined to comment.

Meanwhile in Polk County, Stewart Riley, an unemployed cattle hand is also being held for extradition in the conspiracy. Riley was discovered tied up in a storage shed by River Ranch Resort security officials who notified authorities. A third suspect, Frederick Martin is still at large. All three are also expected to be indicted in connection with the vicious, Lake County double murder last week, of Mark Easton and his girlfriend Rebecca Palmer.

Lake County Sheriff Joshua Watson coordinated the sting. A CNN exclusive report last week described the details of both murders. Easton was a light plane pilot believed to be..."

I turned it off. I didn't want to hear any more. The video had shown Zee being escorted off the ship in handcuffs. The next shot moved passed the courthouse in Bartow, when they talked about Stewart, and then flashed a picture of his driver's license on the screen. They were showing an aerial view of Gator Airpark when I turned it off. I guess Coyote would finally make the Google hit on the Internet. I heard the bells in the Grandfather clock tattletale on some visitor, so I walked out into the morning sunshine, remembering the events of the last couple of days.

I'd finally gotten around to opening the briefcase two days after the service. There was one hundred and seventeen thousand five hundred dollars in used twenties and fifties inside. I suppose it added up to about half of what Dr. Templeton had said the Coyote was worth on the street.

Johnny came by one day and said he'd gone down to the pharmaceutical site on Tradeport, and told them I'd had a death in the family and that it had hit me pretty hard. Danny called one day and then came over when I didn't answer the phone. I gave him fifty eight thousand dollars, almost half of what was in the briefcase, and told him to give some to Mark's mother and some to Becky's family if he thought that would be appropriate. I told him to make up a story about where it came from.

At my request, Johnny went over and picked up Barbie's mother and her daughters one evening, and brought them over to the house. It had turned chilly, so I drew the slatted vertical blinds to close off the Lanai and threw two big sticks of oak in the fireplace, and lit it. When they nodded in unison that it would be alright, I put Sugarland on the Kenwood and turned it down low enough, so we could have a conversation. It had been Barbie's favorite CD. Anna, Barbie's mother, had introduced herself at the door and she sat on the leather couch with her granddaughters on each side. I sat in the rocking chair with the fire crackling behind me. Johnny had disappeared, probably into the library.

I told them that one day, when I could, I would tell them how it happened and why. But right now we had to let all the dust settle. We talked about her and cried. The tears dried after we had been silent for a little while, and then we talked again and cried some more. I told them that we had fallen for each other, and that we were looking forward to sharing a lot more time together. I got them smiling and then into full laughter with some of the stories from the spa when we were on the ship. Anna told me that Barbie had told her that she was in love with me.

Johnny came back in and fixed everyone something to drink. Just about the time I would have needed to put some more wood on the fire, Anna said they should be going. I asked her to stay for a few more minutes and went to get the rest of the money from the briefcase. I told her that it would go a long way toward paying the college tuition for the girls and that Barbie had meant for it to be for that. When they started to ask, I cut them off and said I would tell them when the dust settled. We got together in a group huddle hug kind of thing and promised we'd get together again soon.

I walked out into the morning sunshine on this day, because I heard the bonging of the bells. Sheriff Watson drove in the lane and parked in front of the house. I walked out into the grass, feeling the wet dew on my bare feet. I put both hands in the front pockets of my blue jeans and stood looking into the sky, as he walked over to me.

"How you doing, boy?" He asked.

"I'll be alright sir." I replied with the hands still in the pockets.

"You did a very thorough job putting it all together, Jake." He paused. I thought he was waiting to see my reaction. I gave him two nods. He went on to explain how the Miami Dade authorities had arrested Zoeljca Christov, but they had no evidence to arrest his friend Emily. The Polk County Sheriff's Office had been called to investigate a man tied up in a trap house shed at River Ranch. Seemed they had a warrant for Stewart Riley. He was currently locked up in Bartow, pending extradition to Lake County. The whereabouts of Frederick Martin were unknown. A Lake Wales area farmer had called to report the unidentifiable remains of an airplane fire in his cattle pasture, located north of State Road Sixty, on Old Lake Wales Road. It was lucky because the airplane crashed not far from the railroad tracks, and the CSX cargo diesels comes through there twice a day. There were other neighboring reports without specific confirmations. He said that all came up on the Intra-County Police Blotter. Polk County authorities had called to ask him to check out the N number of an airplane registered in Lake County, as seen by the farmer, in an aerial dogfight with the plane which crashed into his pasture. He told them he checked, and the plane's engine had been removed for overhaul, some two weeks before, and was still awaiting parts, at Felix's Garage in Winter Garden. Among the charges still piling up against Christov and Stewart, were accessory to murder and conspiracy to traffic. All official statements to the media had been run through him personally, and Barbie and I were never mentioned.

"Thank you for that, Sheriff." I said. "I won't forget it."

"If I thought I could control some of that Wild Bill Codyism, I'd offer you a position doing this kinda thing full time, on my staff." He said. I looked at him with the head cocked to the right, the left eye almost closed and the right one squinting from the morning sunshine.

"Please don't take offense, Sheriff...But you couldn't afford me."
A note from the author;

I hope you've enjoyed _A Crimson Set of Silver_. If you have, you may want to explore the other novels in the Jake Snow series. They are currently available where you found this one,

You may also find some additional insight into the series at;

### www.alanmeyersstarkey.com

A synopsis from each novel is available for browsing, as well as a deeper look into Jake's history, and the inspiration for the series. There are also some pictures which you might find interesting.

On the following pages, you will find an excerpt from part of the next adventure of Jake Snow; _A Strange and Wayward Smile_. Jake and Johnny travel to Boca Raton to look some strange things taking place in and around a local university.

Thanks for your interest and I hope we can both look forward to more adventures with Jake and his compadres.

Alan.
Chapter Six:

"...I don't really believe her intent is murder."

**The following morning** we set up again and sort of held our breaths when the TV came to life. The picture was doing the same rolling thing it had done yesterday, but the light was dimmer. We could tell that the signal being transmitted was very weak. I was having a hard time trying to control the roll and beginning to believe the battery didn't have enough power left. I could get the rolling to slow down almost to a stop and then it seemed like I went too far and the rapid rolling started again.

It was after eleven when Johnny said it called for a more sensitive touch and kept bugging me to give him the transmitter. I told him to give me a couple more tries and the second time I got the rolling down to real slow I just took my finger off the knob. The picture slowly came to a stop started to roll the opposite way, stopped again and the picture blinked. The camera showed a clear picture for maybe one full second. A hazy image of what we had seen yesterday and then began to roll again. Johnny and I just stared at each other. I wasn't sure and was just about to shake it off when Johnny said;

"Yeah, I saw it too." In that snap shot of time, in that fractional second that the image became clear, we both saw the standing profile of Linus Peres, the missing student, straining against the chain that was fastened around his waist like a belt. He was wearing a pair of athletic type shorts, no shirt and no shoes. The chain led back to the auger. Each new moment in my mind was bringing the whole picture closer, into a crystal clear certainty. Theresa Stanger was involved, in full effect, with the kidnapping and harboring of the Lynn University student.

There was not much more for us to do, and I began to think that Jacobsen would be bringing his cruiser down the street at any minute, so we packed it up. Still dumb founded and without any immediate direction in mind, we went back to the Residence Inn.

"What are you thinking, Jake?" Johnny asked me with that incredulous attitude that he has when he can't believe something his mind is witnessing. "We have to report this now! What happens if she kills the kid? How are you going to get around the fact that we had knowledge?"

"Who says we had knowledge?" I replied. "Who knows about any of this besides you and me?"

"That won't matter if she kills him, will it?" He fired back. I could see he was becoming more passionate as the discussion ensued.

"John. Calm down for a minute, let's analyze the situation. You saw him; did he look like he was in an unhealthy state?"

"Jake! Helloooo! He was chained to a stake in the grass for Christ's sake! That's not a very healthy situation, is it?" He flailed his arms as if to gesture to the jury in a court room. "Ladies and gentleman, please help me to explain the situation to Madman Jake Snow, the solver of problems unsolvable, the slayer of dragons unslayable. Please help me make him understand that this kid is in danger! Dire Straits even!"

"Johnny," I said in a calming voice. "I was mistaken. Let me re-phrase. I paused and watched him shift his weight to the other foot. The gesture was like saying; _Okay now let's hear more of the same bullshit._

"I didn't mean to say he's not in danger, of course he is." I said. "But, I don't really believe her intent is murder. What I meant to infer was that he wasn't starving. She seems to be feeding him. He doesn't appear to be weakened by it. He's just being held captive...okay chained. But, don't you want to know why? Doesn't it make you want to find out what she's up to?" He was shaking his head, not wanting to budge from his position. I thought about how to convince him and then said.

"What if it's about a ransom? What if she's performing some type of experiment? What if she has more people involved? What if there are more people missing in Boca than anyone realizes?" This got his mind to stir a little. I could see a change in the focus of his eyes. I decide to add in the clincher.

"Look at it this way Mr. Prosecutor, we call the Chief and he sends in Jacobsen or some other dimwit. They storm in there and tramp all over the evidence, or they drag their feet and try to be respectful and give her all kinds of time to cover it all up. Either way...she ends up walking or with a next to nothing prison sentence." It seemed to be working. I not only needed his help, I wanted it desperately. But, not to the point of putting him in harm's way. We'd have to figure out a way to get in there. I came up with the icing on the cake and said to him with my Shakespearean act in full colorful bloom.

"Where hath disappeared thy sense of adventure, my worthy friend? Let us pursue this unruliment, til the Court Jester can sing. Let us ambush this wicked scoundrel and nab her with hand painted red!" He tried, but he couldn't hold back the smile. It was a game we often played with each other. Sometimes it would be an opening greeting, sometimes it would be the finale before we said goodbye for that day. It always seemed to mark the point of an agreement or a challenge. More importantly for me, he couldn't disagree with the heart of it.

"Okay, Jake." He said. "We'll try it your way. I just hope we're not making a big mistake."

