He walked over to where a dozen 55-gallon steel drums sat, picked up the hose attached to one of them and refueled the airplane, using a hand pump. Best to have a full load of fuel if he needed to get out of there in a hurry.
He went into the cabin, switched on the generator and the TV and opened a can of chili for lunch, then he sat down and watched a news channel while he ate. Then it came.
“South Florida airports have been alerted by the state police to be on the lookout for a small airplane, described as a red Cessna 182. The pilot, whose name is Jim Vernon, is alleged to be a hired killer who shot and wounded a man in Key West two days ago.”
That was it. As long as he didn’t land the airplane at a South Florida airport, they’d never find him. The rest of the country was his oyster, but he wasn’t ready to leave Florida just yet. He burned all his Vernon identification in the woodstove, then opened a small safe hidden under the floorboards and took out a packet of I.D.s. He selected a driver’s license and cards with a new name, Thomas Sutherland, and put the wallet in his pocket. He was cleaning up after his lunch when his cell phone rang. It was a throwaway, with no GPS chip, so he had no qualms about using it. “Yes?”
“Are you aware that the man you were sent to deal with is still active?” a voice said.
“I am. I’ll have to make another attempt.”
“The person who issued the contract has canceled it,” the voice said. “You can keep the first payment, but it’s over. Is there any reason to believe the police know who you are?”
“None,” he replied. “I’ve taken care of that.”
“I have another assignment for you, in the Northeast. Can you depart immediately? It pays better than the last one, and I already have the fi rst half.”
“I can’t leave until tonight,” he replied. “The airplane is hot in Florida. I’ll change the registration number this afternoon and get started after dark.”
“Good. Here are your instructions.”
He wrote down all the information.
“The subject lives alone and dines at home every evening around eight o’clock. A dining room window will give you the access you need, and there is considerable foliage on the property. You can drive within fifty yards, then approach the house.”
“Understood. I’ll call you when the job is complete.” He hung up and went to work. Using a hair dryer, he removed the registration number from the airplane, then affixed new numbers. He went back into the house and, consulting his collection of state and city maps and his aviation charts, he found an unmanned airport called Johnnycake, only a few miles from his target city, then mapped out his route. He would also take along a portable GPS unit. He packed fresh clothes and put his soiled ones into the washing machine, then he put everything he needed into the airplane. He had only to wait until dark, and he used the time to phone his wife in nearby Jupiter.
“How did your trip go?” she asked.
“Not perfect, but not bad. I had to settle for half the fee.”
“We’ve got some ripe bills, you know.”
“Don’t worry, I have a new job, and our man will deliver some cash tonight.”
“Are you coming home?”
“I have to leave as soon as it’s dark, so it will be a couple of days.”
“Oh, all right. I guess we need the money.”
“I love you. Take care of yourself.”
“I love you, too.” They both hung up.
HE WAITED UNTIL dusk, then started the airplane’s engine and taxied to the end of the short runway while he could still see without lights. Shortly, he was winging his way to the Northeast.
40
STONE, DINO, TOMMY and Annika sat in the nearly empty Key West Yacht Club. “Okay,” Tommy said, closing his cell phone,
“we’ve called every airport south of Palm Beach, and the state police are wiring the tail number all over the country.”
“I don’t think you’re going to catch him,” Stone said. “This guy is a pro. He knows you’re looking for that airplane.”
“What’s he going to do, throw it away?” Tommy asked.
“Paint it, change the tail number. There are thousands of Cessna 182s in the country.”
“Maybe we should notify paint shops, too.”
“I wouldn’t bother; you’re not going to catch him. Look what he did today: we didn’t expect him to hotfoot it out of there, and we certainly didn’t expect him to double back to the airport and take off. He’s good.”
“Everybody gets caught,” Tommy said.
“Except the ones that never get caught,” Dino added.
“I’ll bet the ballistics on that rifle would have matched the bullet that passed through, ah, Charley Boggs,” Tommy said.
“Did you recover the bullet?”
“Yeah, but the report hasn’t come back yet.”
“I’d be willing to bet that the rifle you found was just to throw you off the track,” Stone said. “The one in his duffel did the work.”
“This guy will be back at work soon,” Dino said.
“How does a man like this find his work?” Annika asked.
“He has an agent, just like an actor or writer,” Stone replied. “My guess is it’s Manny White.”
“Then why would Manny alert us about a hit man?” Dino asked.
“He didn’t, really. I mean, we weren’t very alert, were we?” Stone said. “He didn’t tell us enough to stop the guy.”
“You think Manny is capable of that?” Dino asked.
“I think Manny is capable of arranging a hit on his mother,” Stone replied, “if he still has one. Seems like Manny is the go-to guy for just about anything—skip tracing, murder, you name it.”
“Of course, you can’t prove that,” Tommy said.
“I guess if you could convince the Miami or state cops to tap his phone and his cell phone, you might nail him,” Stone said,
“but you don’t have enough on him to get a warrant for that, do you?”
“I guess not,” Tommy said. “Well, the good news is, he’s out of our hair. He’ll never come back to Key West.”
THE MAN NOW known as Thomas Sutherland refueled his airplane at a small airport in South Carolina, then continued northeast. Shortly after two in the morning, he checked his GPS, picked up his microphone and pressed the talk button rapidly fi ve times. Dead ahead, the runway lights at Johnnycake Airport came on. He landed and taxied to the fueling area. As his airport reference book had told him, there was a self-operated fueling station. He inserted a credit card into the slot, just as at a gas station, and fi lled his wing tanks, then he taxied to a remote area of the airport, shut down the engine and went to sleep, curled up in the rear seat.
HE SLEPT UNTIL nearly noon, then he walked up to the highway and found a diner, where he had a large breakfast. Back at the airfield, he found it pretty much deserted. An occasional airplane would take off or land, but there was no tower, not even an offi ce, just a bunch of airplanes tied down, waiting for the weekend and their owners.
As he stood there a Mercedes station wagon drove up, and a man and a woman got out.
“Good morning,” the man said, “or is it afternoon?”
“Barely,” Sutherland said. “You off to somewhere?”
“Yeah, we’re visiting some family in Maine for a couple of days.”
He opened the trunk to reveal four suitcases.
“Let me give you a hand,” Sutherland said, taking one of the bags out of the trunk. “Which airplane?”
“The Bonanza over there,” the man said, nodding. “Thanks.”