

Letters from the Grave

By

Frank Perry, author

Hampton Falls, New Hampshire

Books.by.frank@gmail.com

Synopsis

Jake Ramsey flies workers to oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico. Flying helicopters is all he's ever done for thirty years in the Army then in Louisiana. He lives alone in middle age, suffering from depression as a border-line alcoholic with no family and few close friends. His isolation stems from a recurrent nightmare as a young Army Ranger and pilot when his best friend was killed through Jake's bravado. As a deplorable hermit, Jake's life reverses when a young woman emerges claiming to be the daughter of his dead buddy. She transforms him and renews the joy of living after decades as a derelict. His life reforms through her inspiration and forgiveness. It's all a shockingly effective illusion to steal his life-long investment in gold bullion coins. While discovering the girl's charade, Jake meets and falls in love with a woman who was also fooled by the girl. Death and destruction follow as he chases the girl, only to find that she was manipulated by a maniacal killer.

Copyright © 2016 by Frank Perry

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to: books.by.frank@gmail.com.

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Acknowledgements

The author would like to acknowledge the contributions made to this book by Sandy Blair, my valued author friend and advisor, Richard Cesario and Beverly Heinle, who provided invaluable proofreading "red marks;" and Ken Starr, LTC, USA (ret.) provided valuable Army insight. My wife Janet Perry tolerantly read the early drafts, preventing too much embarrassment.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, world organizations, government agencies, regulations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author professes no medical training related to the subject matter.

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Other books by Frank:

  * Recall to Arms

  * The Cobra Identity

  * Reign of Terror

  * Letters From the Grave

  * Kingfish

  * Sibley's Secret

  * The Dolos Conspiracy

Prologue

Working on offshore oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico is a dangerous job, but traveling to and from the rigs by helicopter is, by far, the most dangerous aspect. Accidents happen almost every day. Most are minor but too often – they're catastrophic for all aboard.

Oil platforms are often hundreds of miles from the coast, and helicopters transport workers to and from the mainland daily. The National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) investigates numerous offshore helicopter crashes in the Gulf every year. Regrettably, most of the aircraft are lost and everyone is killed, so there is little evidence to pinpoint the causes. The usual conclusion of these investigations is "Pilot Error," although weather conditions are virtually always cited as a contributing factor. Pilot error is by far the leading cause cited for helicopter crashes in the Gulf oil industry, regardless of the actual cause.

There are more than three thousand oil platforms, operating in the Gulf of Mexico with thousands of workers flying back and forth twice per month. Bad weather and unpredictable wind conditions make flying over the water particularly hazardous. There is almost never a place to land during emergencies. When a helicopter gets into trouble over water, it is usually lost and never recovered. The sea and sharks consume all evidence. The brave pilots that fly every day, often on the fringes of hurricanes or other bad weather, are chancing fate daily. Supplying oil from the Gulf is dangerous business.

The Nightmare

The dream penetrated his resistance as it always did. Jake rolled with the damp sheet sticking to his body before a spasm sent him onto the floor, clearing the nightstand of its table lamp and alarm clock radio. He pushed himself to a semi-sitting position, allowing the demons to escape again into the clouds of fading memories. His head was bleeding from the fall and hurt from the copious amount of bourbon he'd downed, alone, before collapsing in bed. He tried to reassemble his nightstand, climbing back under the covers, hoping to get at least another hour's sleep before dawn.

This scene had replayed itself off and on for three decades since the jungles of South America. It was a psychological reconstruction of the same tragedy, over and over again. He'd been shot down twice on counter-drug missions in the Mountains of Columbia and Honduras as a young Army Warrant Officer, but the nightmare evolved from a single mission. It wasn't the most horrific experience of his combat tours, but through his own bravado he'd lost his best friend, the only friend he'd allowed close to him in the Army.

Jake had gone to junior college after high school before enlisting in the Army Warrant Officer program and was two years older than Bobby Lowe. Bobby had enlisted immediately after high school. Both boys wanted to be pilots, and the Army gave them the opportunity to do so without graduating from a four-year college as the other services required. Their visceral search for adventure, plus an effective advertising campaign by the Army, induced them to choose a program that ultimately trained forty thousand young people in the field of helicopter air assault – the modern cavalry. After flight training at Ft. Wolters, Texas, then Ft. Rucker, Alabama, Jake had preceded Bobby to U.S. Army South Command by six weeks, making him the senior pilot.

They were assigned to Joint Task Force Bravo (JTF-B) headquartered at Soto Cano Air Base, Honduras, where they shared quarters in a tent with meshed walls, canvas top and a wood floor. Everything was crude at the camp, and, when they weren't flying, most of the company worked fortifying the perimeter and digging new latrines. The tropical heat was more severe than anyone had experienced in the states, and there was no air conditioning at the base camp. Humidity levels were so extreme that perspiration flowed continuously. It was impossible to dry off even after showering. The only time they got a break from the oppressive heat was flying at altitude.

Jake didn't know Bobby before Honduras. The cot Bobby got as the "new guy" had belonged to another pilot who had been killed in action, KIA, supporting operations against drug smugglers. As new guys, they shared a common bond from the beginning. Two weeks after Bobby arrived, Jake became Pilot in Command of his own helicopter when more senior pilots completed their tours. His promotion came after recommendations to the company commander by pilots who flew with Jake as their copilot. Jake turned twenty-two during the first month in country, which was about median age for the men in the camp. Bobby was twenty.

A couple months after becoming a Command Pilot, Jake was flying a Black Hawk MH-60L gunship in the mountains of central Columbia when his ship began taking ground fire. Too low to roll out, he pulled the collective control up hard and twisted the throttle to full power, trying to maneuver away from the enemy. He could hear the gunners, firing the M60 machine guns as he pushed hard left on the cyclic, banking just over the trees when the windshield and instruments exploded in front of him. His copilot was dead with half his face blown away, and a gunner was hit in both legs when machine gun bullets ripped a seam through the belly of the chopper.

He radioed for help from the other gunships, which were already firing on the enemy, but it was too late to save his crew. The gunner died en route as Jake raced at top speed back to base. He had flown ten combat missions in six weeks, and these were his first casualties. He radioed ahead that he was declaring a medical emergency, but there was nothing that could be done for the dead soldiers.

After minor medical attention and debriefing with the company CO, Jake learned that Bobby would be flying copilot with him before getting his own ship. Depressed and unnerved, Jake leaned on Bobby heavily for rationalization and moral support, something he had never expected to do.

Over the next weeks, sharing numerous engagements, the men became emotionally attached. The strain was too great to carry alone. Both learned to cry and laugh together, forming a sibling kinship that would bond them forever.

Bobby was ready to transition to his own Blackhawk when they went on their last mission together. It was a night operation into a jungle near the Columbian border to extract a military unit that had been ambushed. En route, Bobby handled radio communications while they flew at three thousand feet to avoid ground fire. They saw llamas, migrating in the moonlight, providing unexpected entertainment to an otherwise dangerous mission. Tension was high, heading into a firefight at night in rough terrain, so lessen the strain, they discussed their prior lives in the States to deflect their thoughts. Jake said, "If we don't get back to the real world someday, who's getting your insurance money? Mine's going to my mother."

Bobby chuckled, "It's my mother, too, but I might need to change that if my girlfriend turns out to be pregnant."

"Okay. Sounds like you were busy on leave after Rucker."

"Yeah. I showed you Julie's picture. She's a real doll, and we're getting married when I get home. All my pay is going in the bank so we can buy a house."

"Man, are you nuts? You'll barely be in your twenties. You need to live a little before marriage. Let's go on R&R in Rio together, and you can fall in love every night if you want to."

"Nah, I'm gonna marry Julie, not because I have to, but 'cause she's the finest girl, woman, I've ever known. I mean, I was a loser in high school, never had a serious girlfriend and never got laid! But in the summer at Wolters for basic, I met her at Lake Mineral Wells, and we were together every day I could get off. No shit, every day for the whole summer. She's going to college now."

"Well, good for you, buddy. If you don't get back from here, I promise to visit her and keep up your good work!"

Bobby punched Jake's shoulder as they both laughed.

On approach to the mountain coordinates, Bobby was able to make radio contact with the ground force and exchanged call signs. They approached a small valley from the southeast with information that the Columbian Commander and his radioman were surrounded part way up the northern ridge, under dense jungle canopy. Bobby radioed, "Tigerman, this is Sidekick 404, do you read? Over."

Within two seconds, the reply came, "404, this is U.S. special advisor (Army Ranger) 'Romeo' to TigerMan team, what is your position? Over."

"Romeo, we are entering the valley south of your position, ETA in one minute. Do you have ground clearance for helo extraction? Over."

With loud gunfire in the background, the response was, "404, we have a small clearing, but we're surrounded and can't assure safe landing. Over."

"Okay, Romeo, wait one."

In the cockpit Bobby pressed the intercom button, sounding hesitant, "Jake, what do you think, man? It sounds tight for a night pick up under fire."

Jake knew he had dodged fate a few times before but had always followed his orders. "Bobby, we're not leaving those guys down there if we can find them."

"Roger that, pilot." Jake felt apprehension in Bobby's response.

Speaking to the two gunners and Bobby, Jake said, "Keep a keen eye open guys. We can't tell the greaser's from the good guys unless they fire at us."

Banking right while losing altitude approaching the hillside, Jake asked Bobby to help find the LZ. Bobby radioed, "Romeo, can you blow smoke or otherwise identify? Over."

"Negative 404, (pause for gunfire) we got beaucoup bad guys everywhere. Can't pop smoke. I hear you southeast of our spot. You're close, look for a small clearing. I'll walk you in. Over?"

Bobby responded, "Roger that, Romeo."

Below the trees, muzzle flashes were lighting the jungle like headlights from a dozen cars, flashing underneath.

The radio crackled,"404, you're above us. Can you see the opening in the treetops? Over."

Without lights on the helicopter, the Blackhawk was almost invisible from the ground, but the flight crew could see the hole in the green carpet under them in the slivered moonlight. Jake pressed the intercom, "Okay Bobby, were going down there, tell Romeo we'll touch for five seconds only."

"Jake, man, don't do it. The slot's too tight for our rotors!"

Jake responded, "I've got it under control, hang on and use the Minigun." The Minigun is a 7.62mm, multi-barrel Gatling-style machine gun firing up to 4000 rounds per minute and powered by the helicopter's electrical system. It attaches to a swiveling pod outside the aircraft. It's particularly useful in dense jungle to repel attackers hidden in the foliage near the landing area.

Bobby started to protest, but kept his mouth shut while switching the master arm switch on the Minigun to the firing position. Jake said, "Bobby, confirm with Romeo which way they will approach."

After Bobby's query, Romeo replied, "We're uphill, north side of the clearing."

"Roger that, Romeo. Get ready to move, we don't plan to be a lamb down there. Over"

"You got it, 404. Out."

Jake pressed the intercom, talking to the two crewmen manning the door guns, "Men, our guys are coming from the north. Hose down everything else."

With that, Jake pulled back slightly on the cyclic to hover and simultaneously pushed the collective to begin their descent straight down through the trees.

Bobby yelled, "Jake, it's too tight, we could die doing this!"

Jake ignored him, determined to save the men below. His concentration was focused entirely on descending straight down through the trees. He clenched his teeth, knowing that bullets would be flying through the bird at any second. As the fuselage settled below the treetops, the four-blade rotor overhead swept through the branches, hitting one tree hard enough to send a four inch thick stump flying in front of them. They were flying a giant weed whacker. Shredded leaves and branches swirled inside all the openings in the helicopter. Bobby looked around nervously with his hand on the gun controller. His survival instincts had kicked in, and he was not comfortable with someone else, even Jake, driving the ship. His gaze spanned left and right, but night and the huge compost heap swirling around them obscured his vision. Jake kept going down, and it felt like suicide to all aboard.

The scene changed rapidly as automatic muzzle flashes came from all directions. The gunners in the back were firing in long bursts, returning fire. Jake did a magnificent job, ignoring the bullets passing around them, some hitting the aircraft. He just prayed that the engine and compartment armor did their jobs.

When the helicopter hit the ground, only the uphill, northern wheel, touched. Jake kept the power at full military setting, not letting the craft settle. Even with noise everywhere, he heard yelling in the back as the thud of men landing on the deck was felt in the flight controls.

Bobby stopped firing and whirled around to yell, "Is everyone aboard!"

Jake couldn't hear the response when Bobby yelled, "Jake, it's time to go! We gotta go man! Get the hell out of this shit hole!"

Jake yelled back, "Did we get everyone!"

"Hell, man, I don't know, let's go!"

"Not till all are aboard!"

Scared and angry, Bobby spun around in the cockpit, fanning fire from the Minigun in a ninety degree arc ahead of them. From the right side, an enemy jumped against Bobby's door, dropping a grenade between his legs before tumbling away in the darkness.

Bobby screamed, "Shit, grenade! Grenade!" He released his safety harness and began fumbling for the grenade by his feet. The burning fuse gave off intense light, threatening their night vision. It took less than a second for him to grasp it and hurl it back through the window frame that had already been blown out by gunfire when they landed, but too much time had elapsed, and it exploded only feet from his face. Both pilots were blasted with the shock, but Bobby had been closer and absorbed the shrapnel. He was thrown into the seat like a pigeon hit by a twelve-gauge shotgun blast, dead center. Jake could feel shredded tissue and blood spatters on the side of his face.

He pulled hard on the collective and controlled the cyclic masterfully, rising back up through the cavern they carved in the trees entering this hell. Pulling with all his strength, he willed the aircraft to shoot up faster. The gunners were back in action firing from both sides. At least they were still able to shoot. He had no idea if Romeo and his team were all aboard. He looked skyward, again chopping through thin branches, grasping for the open starlit sky above. Tears formed as wind blew through shattered windows. He refused to look sideways, trying to deny that Bobby was gone. He was just stunned and would grab the flight controls in a minute, when the daze wore off.

It was not going to happen. Bobby had died instantly that night. Jake never forgave himself, hearing Bobby's pleas for the rest of his life. Jake's vanity had killed his friend, his brother. For the rest of his tour, he never befriended anyone else. He was a loner for the rest of his Army career. He went through Ranger training, but spent most of his time flying SpecOps (special operations) missions.

Cold Sweat

He finally threw the sheets aside and squinted without his reading glasses at the clock radio next to him. It was 4:02AM, early even for him but too late to sleep more.

He braced against the chair, knocking the ashtray on the floor then stubbed a toe shuffling in the darkness down the hall to the only bathroom in his small ranch house. Switching on the light, he was startled by the same face he'd seen for years. He looked old. His red nose was the predominant feature below his bloodshot eyes. He peered closer, then stepped back, trying to find remnants of the young man he remembered in dreams, the man in the nightmare.

Using one hand for balance on the sink, he ran some water, waiting for it to warm before splashing his face. The fact that most of it ran to the floor or missed his skin entirely didn't matter, since no one else used the facilities anyway. His parents had visited years earlier, before they died. He was alone in the world. Staring at his wet features in the fractured glass, he wondered if there was still time to regain some youthfulness and lose the crags on his face. Thirty years of chain smoking and excessive alcohol left his skin grey and stained. His gray-brown hair was still full thanks to good genes from his mother's side. Except for the color, it still looked good combed over. He needed to loose thirty pounds.

It was a frequent ritual. He went through it most mornings, and it always ended by committing to start reconditioning himself - soon. Fortunately, his medical exams were good enough to fly commercially, the only profession he knew.

He brushed his teeth and ran the shower before returning to his bedroom for clean underwear and socks. He still had a few clean things, but the stack of laundry on the floor was growing. Living alone for decades, he never rushed to finish domestic duties.

After showering and shaving, he dressed in one of his vintage green Nomex® flight suits before going to the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of coffee. It was still dark when the percolation started, and he went out the front door to get the morning paper near the driveway. The delivery van was never accurate, throwing the folded paper at speed. It was useless to complain since he was the only person in the neighborhood who even got the paper, which would be happy if he cancelled it. He was barefoot, which was foolish in the steamy Louisiana morning when the snakes prowled around, but he disregarded the danger. In a couple hours, he'd be flying across the Gulf toward oil rigs beyond the horizon, where the danger was a watery grave and sharks. Pilots went down in the Gulf so frequently that the news media didn't even report most crashes. The bodies and helicopters were usually never recovered.

The paper was in the drainage swale by the road, partly soaked. Returning to the kitchen, he tossed it on the chipped Formica table and pulled a loaf of bread from the refrigerator. Living alone on the Gulf Coast, he kept everything perishable in the cooler. His normal breakfast was toast with peanut butter. He chuckled to himself that George Washington Carver would be grateful for the support. While the bread toasted, he sat with a glass of milk, scanning the headlines with his Costco reading glasses. His vision was still perfect, except for small print at arm's length.

All professional pilots are amateur meteorologists, and he found nothing else of interest before settling on the weather section. The National Weather Service was forecasting an active hurricane season based on water temperature patterns in the Atlantic. After flying the rigs for eight years, he was dreading each summer more and more.

Katrina had been unbearable. He had refused to fly one shift after eighteen hours in the cockpit. The pilot's first duty was safety, and he declared himself unsafe to fly without sleep that day. He had never gotten along with the owners at his company, and they weren't happy about his refusal to fly missions that got them triple billing rates during any crisis. The pilots got nothing extra, despite the danger. He rescued dozens, following the storm and shuttled in and out of Houma airport amidst hundreds of other emergency aircraft with no tower operations. It was as dangerous as any military operation he'd been on.

He had only taken seven hours off, but the owners of the company saw it as disloyalty. Screw them! He didn't need the job anymore. The only reason they didn't fire him was because the military had stopped producing enough pilots, and the newer Officers were paid better now. They stayed in the Army until retirement. None of the new breed needed to fly for minimum wages, as he did in the beginning. Owners of companies like Commercial Helicopters (CHI), his employer, got rich harnessing young men the Army had trained to fly. The Vietnam-era pilots were the original group to exploit, which was the main reason the air-taxi industry grew so rapidly in the Gulf. But now, after most had retired, lost their medical certificates or died, experienced helicopter pilots were scarce. The industry pushed pilots to fly too many hours at low wages. Flying was in the pilots' blood. When time weary and beyond retraining, they lived near poverty levels, doing what they loved, focusing on a retirement that would never happen for most of them.

Jake had been fortunate in a way. He'd never married and even at his meager wage plus his Army retirement pay, he was able to pay off his mortgage and make other tangible investments. The house wasn't much, and Louisiana property values wouldn't allow him to ever consider moving elsewhere, but the place was his free and clear with taxes below a thousand dollars a year. His truck was almost twenty years old. Without frills, he could keep replacing engines and other parts from junkers, doing the work himself. His wealth, if you could call it that, was in three large gun vaults in the back bedroom. One had guns in it, a collection begun as a child; but, the rest were filled with an amazing collection of gold coins and gold commemorative pieces and small ingots collected since his first paycheck. He had begun subscribing to the mint publications while in the military and bought almost every coin or medallion offered for investment. He often chuckled that they represented the most secure investment because no one could get the safes out of the house. Even when he was on extended flight circuits, gone for several days along the Texas Gulf, he never worried about losing the safes. The house could burn down without affecting his collection. In total, he figured the safes contained close to a million dollars due to increases in the value of gold over the years.

Finishing the paper, he turned off the coffee pot and the lights and locked the back door behind him as he walked to the carport. He thought, damn, another soaking day, I'll never get used to this. As he stepped up into the cab of his F150 and started the engine, he wiped the sweat from his forehead onto his sleeve. He wasn't required to wear the Nomex gear, but it was his last mental connection to his youth as an Army pilot. That night, he'd check his blood pressure again, knowing the elevated temperature would push him near the limit for flying. The only time he didn't drink himself unconscious at night was when his license was in danger of suspension. He would need to lose weight before his annual physical in the Fall. Smoking also contributed to the problem, but he refused to think about quitting that.

The old pickup started quickly, and he backed out of the narrow driveway onto the street before remembering to turn on the headlights. With a cup of coffee steaming in his left hand, he shifted through the manual transmission using his knees to steer. At this dark hour, there was no other traffic to worry about. He left it in second gear before coasting to a stop only a block away to pick up a rider. Will Ryan had joined CHI a few months earlier as a mechanic, and Jake enjoyed his company on the twenty minute ride to the airfield. Will had an old pickup, but he said the transmission was shot. Even though the mechanics made more money than rookie pilots, there was a hierarchy of respect for the men who actually flew over water days and nights, sometimes in the worst weather imaginable. The pilots routinely risked their lives to move workers off the rigs during storms. The esteem of the job had a lot to do with the reason men wanted to fly. There were no women pilots at CHI because the pay was low, and the schedule wouldn't permit raising a family.

Jake parked at the curb, and the inside lights were turned off as Will closed the front door of his old rental cottage. It was starting to mist, so the mechanic jogged across the lawn and jumped into the passenger side saying, "Mornin', Jake. Thanks for pickin' me up, man. This would not be a day for my cycle."

"Yeah, the weather service is forecasting morning showers and a steamy afternoon. Crank the window down some, Will. I don't have any AC in this bucket."

"Okay, but we could get wet."

"Hey, a little dampness in the breeze will feel good."

They rode on, mostly in silence, listening to the news station as Jake finished his coffee. Approaching the field, Will said, "067N is going down for her annual today, so you'll need to use one of the other helo's until we get the old bird checked out."

Jake reflected, "Yeah, the controls are pretty loose and the tail rotor is sloppy."

"I'll get it all inspected and she'll fly like a new bird when she's all fixed up." Jake knew Will was just a shop helper, but he liked to brag.

CHI was not the most safety conscious operation on the Gulf Coast but six hundred horsepower Bell 407 helicopters cost almost two million dollars, and they would never risk losing one in the Gulf to save a few bucks on maintenance. The FAA had mandatory annual inspections, but the more important assessments of air worthiness came from the pilots. Time in the air, mixed with corrosive sea air and harsh Gulf Coast weather contributed to faster metal fatigue. Equipment failures were sometimes unpredictable with manufacturer calculations made under normal operating conditions. The Bell Ranger number 067N needed a complete physical exam and some surgery by Jake's experienced assessment. Despite his difference with management, whom he avoided, the best helicopter in their fleet was entrusted to him. He was their top pilot.

Jake and Will separated after parking outside the operations hangar. Jake went to the dispatcher, Bill Jones, who was his only real friend on the staff. Bill (BJ) was several years older than Jake, but had failed his medical exam the year earlier, so he'd taken the desk job, hoping to keep earning a salary for another seven years before claiming Social Security. He liked Jake because they had both honed their flight skills in the Army, BJ in Vietnam, Jake in the Drug Wars.

"Mornin', BJ." Jake saw his buddy, sitting head down, working on the morning flight assignments.

Looking up, BJ responded, "Hey, Jake, so you were able to rise and take a deep breath for one more day on this earth. Good to see you."

"Yeah. Looks like a beautiful day for flying if you're a penguin."

"Penguins don't fly, Jake. They just flap their wings to impress the girls."

"Isn't that why we fly!"

BJ retorted, "Yeah, right. I see more ladies walking around the airfield while sunning myself than you ever see flying out there. Gee, I wonder if those Army recruiting posters were phony?"

"I don't know. All I can say is no girls ever looked at me twice as a pilot -- even when I was worth looking at!"

"Heh. Well, it's fun to dream about anyway. Since neither of us ever found a woman desperate enough to marry, I guess there won't be a second generation of fools bred for this work. Anyway, you'll be in 0978E today while Rube's on leave to San Diego, seeing his sick mother."

"Yuck, that's the oldest Long Ranger in the fleet. The engine's rusty!"

"I know, but it's got a new set of inflatable's, and I know you like to fish."

"Where to?"

"Head down to Port Arthur for a 0730 pickup, flying to platform F27. Two mechanics with tools, so watch your gross (gross weight limit for the helicopter)."

"Roger that." Jake took the logbook from a cubby below the assignment board and went out to the flight line to pre-flight the helicopter.

0978E was first flown in the 1960's and was acquired by CHI about ten years ago after heavy use and several complete overhauls during its lifetime. It was past its theoretical life but continued to pass annual inspections. The pilots knew it would end up at the bottom of the Gulf someday.

Jake went out to the helipad and opened the door of the helicopter, placing the log book and his helmet on the seat before performing a pre-flight walk around. He checked all the rotor edges, the fluids, the fuel and made sure all the hatches were secure. There were no leaks and everything looked okay, so he sat in the pilot's seat and went through the turbine start checklist. When the C20 turbine exhaust reached stable output temperature, he radioed Operations that he was departing VFR (Visual Flight Rules -— no flight plan) to the CHI terminal at Port Arthur on the Texas Coast.

The flight took about twenty minutes, flying below the cloud layer under two thousand feet. When he landed, there were three platform workers waiting for a ride. With huge meals served on the platforms around the clock, week after week, the typical worker weighed over two hundred fifty pounds. With tool boxes, the helicopter would be overloaded. The company put no policy limits on the pilots if they felt they could fly safely. Another passenger meant more revenue, and he was expected to fly them, even if no one ordered him to exceed the aircraft's factory limits.

One reason Jake was the top pilot was because he could manage an overloaded aircraft better than anyone. A helicopter pilot would be fired if he allowed the turbine to overheat, so flying at maximum torque and maximum throttle, while managing helicopter health, took thousands of hours of experience.

One of the tobacco chewing Texans, who appeared to be around three hundred pounds, said, "Hey, pilot, does this old rig have enough in her to get us all to Noble Lorris Bouzigard (Platform F27)? I ain't fond a takin' a swim a hunert miles out!"

Jake responded calmly without looking directly at the man, "Well, that depends, Bubba. If we start to go down, we'll throw out your tools. If that doesn't work, we'll toss one of you out. But don't sweat it. I'm low on fuel anyway so we've got a little extra weight margin."

The man looked genuinely worried. "Look, funny man. I ain't happy 'bout flyin' in these box kites, so don't be bein' funny. I always take the boat, but the boss says I gotta get there fast."

Jake was reassuring. "Look, partner, I get to do this every day. Been doing it for a long time. Let me worry about driving, and you just enjoy the ride."

"Well, okay. But, I won't be enjoyin' it."

He got everyone aboard and distributed the weight for better handling. Then he called CHI control, "0978E departing Port Arthur for NLB platform with three passengers and tools. VFR within minimums. Expect to fly at 1500 feet to 27 33.5657 (North) by 94 34.0732 (West). Out." At least they could draw a straight line on the map for his flight path if they needed to search for them.

The weather was stormy, and the ride, eighty miles over the Gulf to the platform, made all of his passengers sick. Jake had a package of barf-bags, but he would still need to clean the cockpit once they landed. He didn't enjoy the flight either, but lousy conditions and swirling wind at the landing made him focus more on landing the helicopter than personal discomfort.

At a thousand feet, they could normally see the platform over twenty miles away, but the storm clouds limited visibility to about one mile. The gulf below was dark and forbidding in all directions. There was no landing beacon on the platform, so Jake followed the GPS heading, making several adjustments for drift in the swirling air. He saw the dark shadow of F27 like a large alien skeleton rising in the mist ahead. After circling twice to gauge wind direction, he flew onto the small landing platform under full power, modulating the controls to compensate for the wind shear. After a soft landing, the passengers were all woozy disembarking.

There was a small crew working on the platform. After tying the aircraft to the helipad, he used a role of paper towels to clean inside. After years of ferrying workers over the Gulf, he'd done this a hundred times. All the aircraft in CHI was fleet carried cleaning supplies.

When he finished, he went to the galley for a coke where the cook was busy at work. He knew most of the cooks and often ate on the platforms. Sometimes he would fish with his small collapsible rig in the luggage compartment. "Hi, Jake. Wanna stay for lunch?"

"Thanks, Roscoe, but I couldn't fly if I ate here -- too heavy for the helicopter. You serve more good stuff at one lunch than I eat in a week."

"Well, suit yourself. We got plenty. How about some fried chicken for the ride back?"

"Okay, but not the whole bird this time. It's much appreciated, man."

"All right. Comin' up."

The weather deteriorated further, and the flight back was going to be below visibility minimums, essentially flying blind in the storm. He would only use instruments without any visual references. He wanted to get back to base as early as possible before the weather got even worse.

The helipad on the platform was elevated above the working deck about a hundred feet above the ocean, providing rotor clearance above most of the equipment. Jake asked a couple workmen to help him push the tail boom of the helicopter around to point the nose into the wind. It was almost wasted effort with the direction changing with each gust. He'd need to time the liftoff carefully with winds blowing up to forty knots. Even this high above the ocean, spray was bathing the platform.

Inside 0978E, he closed the fuel control and pushed the starter button. When turbine revolutions reached about fifteen percent, he allowed a small amount of fuel to flow and pressed the ignition button. Engine RPMs increased slowly, taking several seconds to reach full speed and normal engine TOT (Tail Out Temperature) at full throttle. Jake waited several seconds for a gust to blow more or less at the nose of the helicopter before takeoff. Liftoff was rocky, but there was no damage.

The flight back to base in Lafayette was like driving in a car at night during a violent thunder storm without lights or windshield wipers. His only advantage was that no other aircraft were flying, and he only needed to remain upright and heading toward land. Anything could break in the turbulence, but he worried mostly about the hydraulic system which gave him power assistance (like power steering in a car) for the flight controls. He hoped the hydraulic system was strong enough for the constant corrections, fighting the swirling air. Power was at one hundred percent and torque was at eighty percent, which should have given him about 115 knots forward speed, but the wind added and subtracted continuously from actual progress across the surface, so he said a little prayer that fuel held out. It was impossible to gauge flight time required to reach base in these conditions. He would be a lot happier once over land.

"Ah, CHI base, this is 0978E en route. Please advise weather at base. Over."

"Jake, this is BJ. Everyone's gone home with the storm. You're the last bird out. Over."

"Roger that, BJ. How is it over the mainland? I'm inbound from F27 with about a hundred miles of ocean to cross. Over."

"I dunno, Jake. I'd tell the newer pilots to stay put on the platforms. Maybe Port Arthur is better. Not so far from you. Over."

"I'm okay, BJ, as long as my arms hold out. This thing's like driving the Baja race. 978E (Echo) is flying good, I just couldn't handle a hydraulic problem if the unit overheats. But as long as I've got power assist and a bottle of Advil, we'll be okay. Will you make sure the tower lights are on when I approach? Over."

"Sure thing, buddy. I'll be here when you arrive. Out."

For the next hour Jake endured a ride like Disney's Space Mountain, except that he was actually controlling the collective and cyclic on the bird, while his feet kept moving the pedals, constantly adjusted course with the tail rotor, toward home. It was exhausting, but adrenalin kicked in, and the pain went away.

At base, BJ answered the phone in the Tower. "Oh. Hello, Mr. Sharp." He listened. "Yes, we still have one bird out, 978 Echo." another pause. "Jake Ramsey, sir." Pause, "Yes sir, Jake's the best, he'll be in in less than an hour." Pause, "Yes, sir, it's good Jake took the old bird today. He's never lost one yet."

The call ended. Rain drove sideways, pummeling the glass as the afternoon looked like midnight under the thick dark clouds. The helicopters were all chained down, and all he could do was sit, waiting for 0978E.

The radio startled him. "BJ, are you there?"

"Hey, Jake. Yep I'm here."

"Good, I'm starting my descent blind. Do you have the lights on?"

"Yeah, Jake. Everything's lit up."

"Okay, look. I think I'm coming in from the Southwest. No poles or towers that way. I'm gonna turn on my landing lights, which will be blinding in this crap, so you'll need to be my spotter."

"Okay, Jake. I'm here." He worried, looking into the torrent of black rivulets across the tower glass. There were no lights in the sky.

"Jake, I don't see anything!"

"It's okay, pal. Keep looking. I've got some GPS blanking cuz of the buffeting, but I think I'm close."

BJ turned off the inside lights that were reflecting off of the glass and saw a small dot intermittently coming in his direction. "Jake. Jake, I've got you in sight about a quarter mile out. Looks like about fifty feet AGL (Above Ground Level)."

"Okay, BJ, I've got you in sight."

Jake slowed forward speed as he approached the buildings. He couldn't see them, but the prismatic light flicking through the blackness created a familiar pattern. The helicopter oscillated violently as the swirling air tossed it about. He flew over the Ops Center at about one hundred feet. BJ couldn't see anything, but heard Jake pass overhead. Jake couldn't see anything but vague shadows of buildings reflected in the landing lights. He flew past the helipad and circled to approach from the opposite side coming in over the runway with no obstacles in the way. Under normal conditions, he would hover down.

On final approach, his senses piqued as the winds changed radically near the ground, circulating through the buildings and bouncing from the deck below. It was treacherous with poor visibility and severe buffeting. At the final moment, he set the bird down without flaring to avoid exposing the underside to the wind gusts, which could topple the helicopter once the rotor was neutralized. The landing was hard, but there was no damage to the helicopter. He left the controls in neutral positions with a slight down force while BJ secured the tie-down chains. They both felt relief when the fuel shut off to the engine and all electrical was switched off.

That night, after securing the helicopter, Jake and BJ agreed to have a drink together some time in the future. Both wanted to be home this night. When he got there, Jake felt the pain of fighting the storm in his shoulders and arms. He took four Advil and went to bed, missing his normal evening binge.

In the morning, the weather was still overcast and rainy, but the vicious winds had subsided. He was stiff and was massaging his shoulder muscles when the phone rang. "Hello."

"Hey, Jake, it's BJ."

"Oh, hi, BJ. I must have overslept."

"No problem. How are you feeling?"

"Stiff and sore, but otherwise good to go."

"Okay, look. The management wants to compliment you on your flying yesterday. They were all expecting you to spend a few days out there."

"Yeah. That's me. Always thinking about the company and keeping their birds on the ramp for more revenue."

"Well. Here's the deal. Since you brought 978E back undamaged, they want you to spend the rest of your rotation (three more days on flight status) on paid vacation. Compliments of the owners."

"Huh, what will I do with the time off?"

"I don't know. Go paint something or mow your neighbor's lawn. Just relax."

"Well, I guess I will."

"Take care, buddy."

Jake never planned ahead more than two days in a row. For all the years since retiring from the Army, his routine was the same. He either went to work and spent his evenings getting drunk, or he worked around his house and yard, then got drunk. It was a simple routine.

He lived in a modest tract home build in the sixties when the oil industry was strong in Louisiana. Most of the houses were around a thousand square feet with three bedrooms and one bath. The yards were unfenced, so kids and dogs ran freely through his property. As a single person, with no children, he sometimes enjoyed the activity, but most of the time, he stayed to himself and didn't socialize. It was a stable community with very little turnover. He bought the house when he retired from the Army and had just paid off the mortgage. Over the years most of his neighbors had remained distant without much in common. He was happy being left alone.

His quarter-acre lot had some tree and shrub plantings, but was mostly Saint Augustine grass, thick and tough. With a couple days off, he decided to do some work on his truck and mow the lawn. The lawn grew almost six inches per week in the summer. He worked until noon then spent the rest of the day indoors, avoiding the oppressive southern heat.

Around sundown, he remembered to get the mail. His Army retirement check was due. He'd been drinking heavily, and his hand slipped off the door knob then he jerked it open with enough force to dent the inside wall. He lost his footing when stepping out onto the front stoop, misgauging the distance below the door threshold. His neighbor across the street, T.W. Boudreaux, was sitting on a folding chair on his front stoop drinking a beer, watching the comic act, as Jake stumbled across the grass toward his mailbox. He'd seen this act before. "Hey, Jake. Wanna beer?" Jake smiled to himself thinking...another beer T.W.?

Jake drank frequently with T.W., but he felt too woozy to cross the street. "Naw, T.W., thanks. I'm tryin' to cut down." He stumbled and fell, grasping his mailbox for support. Regaining his footing, he continued, "Heh, that damn thing moved! D'ya see it?"

"Yeah, Jake. It jumped 'bout two feet. Heh."

That was the last conversation that night. He went to bed before it was dark. He had no family, except one brother out in California, but they didn't talk. He also had a couple Army buddies, but they had wives and kids so didn't share much in common with him. His parents were both dead. He didn't own a computer and didn't have cable television. He led a basic existence. The next several days were all repeats.

Bobby's Girl

It was an easy day to fly. The helicopters always flew under VFR (Visual Flight Rules) over the water and this day was a beauty. At five thousand feet, they could see the giant drilling platform from thirty miles away. The water was deep azure blue, and the wind was almost non-existent. Jake had been invited to eat with the crew at lunch, the normal custom, before returning to his home field. It was three o'clock when he completed tie down of the helicopter and returned to the ops hangar to fill in the logbook. The helicopter had flown with no faults to be recorded.

He sat with BJ and a couple other pilots drinking coffee until quitting time. The hangar always had a faint smell of co-mingled jet fuel, lubricants and coffee. Pilots felt most comfortable in this environment. At four o'clock, Jake was leaving for five days off after nine days of continuous flight status. As he clocked out, he was struck by the irony facing him. With no hobbies or other off-duty activities, time away from the job was nothing to be excited about.

Walking to the maintenance hangar, Jake whistled at the door and yelled, "Yo, Will, you ready to go?"

The reply came from a workbench in back behind Jake's 407, "Not if you wanna fly this thing again. I'll stick around for a while and ride the bicycle home later."

It wasn't an uncommon scenario. The mechanics usually preferred to finish whatever assembly they were fixing, and the hangar had a couple bicycles that some used at lunchtime or to travel home if they lived close enough.

"Okay, suit yourself, fella. I'll pick you up next Thursday." Jake headed for his truck.

Even though his morning routine never changed, it felt good to have a few days off. The schedule for all pilots was to work seven days straight then get five days off. That way, no one felt unfairly treated when their shift overlapped a weekend or holiday. The flight schedule ran continuously for 365 days a year. If someone wanted to take time off out of sequence, it was up to them to negotiate a trade with another pilot.

Because Jake was single, he often filled in for some of the family men over holidays and birthdays. Working during the holidays distracted him from the loneliness that compounded when Thanksgiving and Christmas were being celebrated in all the other households around him. He enjoyed being out in the Gulf, sharing a heavy meal with the crews on the special days. It also explained why he'd gained the excess weight.

He stopped at the market on the way home and bought a frozen pizza, bourbon and cigarettes. His evening ended like all the others when he went to bed with dishes unwashed, smelling of ash and booze. Mercifully, Bobby's ghost stayed away, and he slept through the night undisturbed. In the morning, his head ached and mouth felt dirty, but it was no different than most mornings since leaving the army.

By ten o'clock, he was sitting on the driveway behind the house under the carport, trying to remove the blade from his mower. It had been sharpened dozens of times and worn down to be almost ineffective, and it was time to replace it. He didn't want to spend any money on a new mower as long as the motor continued to run. With everything on the underside of the cutting deck covered with dried grass and worn stone-smooth, it was hard to get a wrench to engage the blade retaining bolt. Each time the wrench slipped, his fingers grazed the inside metal wall of the mower base. He cursed through pain-clenched teeth.

He didn't see her approaching from behind when he yelped, "Shit, fuck, son of bitch," while shaking his knuckles.

She cleared her throat, "Ahem, excuse me. Are you Jake Ramsey?"

He looked up in amazement, just staring at her trim form and beautiful young face. He said nothing before she spoke again, "I, I knocked on your door for several minutes, then thought I'd see if you was back here, which, obviously, you are." Her speech and mannerisms were timid. He just stared at her. He hadn't had anyone young and pretty in his presence for decades.

After several awkward seconds, he spoke, "Yeah. I'm Jake Ramsey."

"Oh. Well, I guess you're the man I was tryin' to find."

Jake stood up, but his hands were filthy, so he didn't offer to shake. She didn't appear to be selling anything and carried a small sports bag and back pack. "Ah, what can I do for you, miss?"

"I'm not sure. You see, my name is Callie Lowe and I was tryin' to find the man who knew my daddy in the Army. He was a pilot and wrote my momma about his best friend, Jake Ramsey. All I know is his name an' he flew helicopters."

Jake found himself appraising her without saying anything, "I, ah, I knew a Bobby Lowe, but he wasn't married."

She stood erect without making eye contact, saying, "I think you knew my dad, who I never knew. He was killed in South America by drug smugglers before I was born."

"What was your mother's name?"

"It was Julie, Julie Morgan back then, but it woulda been Julie Lowe if my daddy had married her. They planned to get married when he returned. She was pregnant. She wasn't sure before he left, and I guess she didn't tell him for sure before he died."

Jake stared at her in amazement, trying to see any trace of Bobby's features in the girl. She was about thirty, so probably didn't qualify as a girl any longer, but was this really Bobby's baby? His memory had faded over the years, and he couldn't remember Bobby's face details anymore. It seemed odd, since they were such close friends, that the imprint was gone. Or maybe the girl looked like her mother and wouldn't rekindle the phantom image.

"Ah, miss. I was Bobby Lowe's friend when he died. If he's the same man, we were close friends."

"That's what my mother said. She gave me his letters before she died a few months ago, and you're all he talked about. Jake did this. Jake did that. Jake and I did so-and-so. It was real eerie readin' personal messages from someone I could only imagine, but she talked about you like you was a close frien' of hers. She had the letter you sent when he died and read it to me so many times it fell apart. I think she was disappointed that you didn't come to see her but said maybe it woulda upset both'a you too much."

Jake felt stricken by the thought that he could never meet Julie now. He could not have looked into her eyes without boiling over with guilt for Bobby's death, but he let his friend down doubly by not caring enough about the person he had loved most. He couldn't admit to Callie the real reason for avoiding her.

He looked past her saying, "I always meant to go see her, but wasn't able to face anyone right after that. The years went by, and I guess I just never realized how long it's been. Some of the memories are still fresh in my mind."

Callie looked at him with a degree of sorrow for opening old memories. She could see the pain in his face. "I'm sorry to bring all this back, I just thought -- just needed to find you. I had some help at the library with a computer and they was able to track you down by the Internet. At least I hoped it was you. I came from Abilene hoping you would be the same 'Jake' he wrote about."

"Yeah, I'm Jake," was his reply.

Reconciliation

Jake stared at her for several moments without speaking. "Young lady, I don't know what to say."

She glanced at the ground first, then at him. "Sir, I don't know either. It's just ... well, I didn't know where else to go." Moisture was forming around her eyes then she stepped up to him and put her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face against his chest.

He was overwhelmed. He'd never had a girl hug him before, and he stood immobile without saying anything. She released him and stood back saying, "Momma told me that you're the closest person to family that I got."

He didn't understand. "Don't you have any relatives or a step-father?"

"Momma died, and I ain't got nobody."

He felt an enormous loss for a woman he'd never met and for the betrayal of his best friend. She went on, "My daddy's folks never knew me. Momma and them was not friends. She came from the 'wrong side of the tracks,' if you know what I mean. I don't know any of the Lowes, or where they even live."

He was bewildered. "Callie. Are you saying you're alone now?"

She sniffled, "Yes, sir. Momma and me lived in a old trailer an' she was kinda sickly for as long as I can remember. We lived on welfare, and I had to take care of her."

"So, you don't have a job?"

"No, sir, I did some work at restaurants and such, but I didn't finish school, so folks think I'm dumb. I ain't dumb. We just never had no money, and I had to take care o' momma."

"So, how did you get here? How did you know to look for me?"

She wiped tears from her eyes with her dress sleeve, obviously embarrassed. "Well, like I said. Momma still had all o' Bobby's letters and read 'em to me over and over growin' up. So, you was kinda a God figure to Bobby and us. He talked about all the brave things you did. I know she didn't know you, but she kinda felt like you was kin. So, when she passed, the social workers stopped her pay, and the bank people come to take the trailer back. That's three weeks ago.

"They put me in this public shelter and helped find next a kin, and, o'course, there wasn't no one. So, I told 'em about you. I showed some o' Bobby's letters, which is about all of her stuff I kept. All I got is my clothes and the letters.

"Anyway, they did some inquirin' and gave me your address and printed a local map. After that, they gave me a bus ticket to Lafayette and I walked here from downtown after that."

He stood mesmerized, unsure what to do or say. She added, "I ain't got nowhere else to go." Her eyes began to water again.

Jake shook his head to clear his mind. "Forgive me, it's hot out here. Let's go inside. I want to warn you, I've lived alone all my adult life and don't get many guests, so the house is messy, and I only have water to drink unless you want some booze this time of the day." He put his hand loosely on her back, beckoning her to walk with him.

"Oh, no, sir, water's fine. I don't like to drink. An' don't worry about the house. You shoulda seen the mess I grew up in. Momma was no housekeeper, and I had to do ever'thing anyway. I never learned what proper housekeepin' was."

The air conditioning was like an arctic blast when they entered the kitchen from the back stoop, even with the thermostat set at seventy-five. Callie shivered momentarily.

He offered her a seat at the dinette and ran tap water into two glasses. "Here, after your long trip, this will help. Have you eaten anything?"

"Not today, sir, but I used the travel money they give me for food whenever we stopped along the way. That ran out last night."

"Do you have some place to stay?"

She looked down, "No sir."

He listened but didn't speak for several seconds. Then he said, "Look, Callie. I could probably put you up in a hotel near here for a few days or if you want to stay here for a while, I got a spare bedroom that's kind of an office. It has a couch that folds out into a bed, but it's never been used."

She stood and wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed his cheek. "Oh, thank you, sir. I didn't know what I was gonna do. I don't wanna be a special burden an' cost you no extra money. I would like to stay with you here for jus' a little while to get back on my feet, so to speak."

He was perplexed by her affection. "Okay, so here's the deal. You and me are going grocery shopping after you've had a chance to clean up. Do you need to rest?"

"Oh no, sir. All I done is sleep on the bus."

"Great, now listen. First rule, you call me Jake."

"Okay, sir ... Jake. What's the rest o' the rules?"

"I don't know. We'll make them up as we go."

The rest of the afternoon was like a shopping spree. They didn't buy groceries until late. First, he took her to Wal-Mart for new clothes. She was so grateful and said she'd never had brand new clothes before.

He bought steak for dinner and an assortment of vegetables that neither one knew how to prepare. Both were excited.

Later that night, after eating and sharing a bottle of wine (he passed on the temptation for hard liquor), he helped her open the sleep sofa and they laughed a little bit. He realized how hard it was for her to feel joy after what she'd been through. His life was no model of normalcy, but his childhood had been healthy and happy with loving parents in Southern California. She'd had none of that joy. She'd been deprived in every way for almost thirty years. He decided then that things would be different for her from now on. They would be different for him as well.

After two more days, Jake was feeling more comfortable with Callie around the house. In fact, he enjoyed her company. When it was time to go back to work, he regretted having to leave her alone during the day.

Each time he returned at night, she had a new surprise waiting. Sometimes it was dinner. She also methodically cleaned each room, one each day. After eight years in it alone, every inch of every room was filthy and smelled even worse than it looked. Of course, it was even worse as a smoker's house. Each day, the house smelled better. He'd had no idea how much it had deteriorated since he'd bought it in pristine condition.

Day after day, with sufficient cleaning fluids, dusting and vacuuming every inch, the inside environment improved. He appreciated her effort and enjoyed her company. They played board games, and he had cable television installed. In the past, he used the computer in the hangar for the internet, but he wanted her to have a PC at home and surprised her on the last day of his on-duty cycle. She said she'd never used one before, but she learned to use its basic functions quickly. The relationship was bringing joy to both of them that neither had felt for a long time.

On his first day off, he got up a little later than normal and stayed quietly reading the paper while the coffee brewed. When he heard her stirring, he made a big breakfast of eggs and bacon, and slice cantaloupe for the first time in years. She appeared in fresh jeans and a tee shirt, drawn by the breakfast aroma. She walked in saying, "Good morning! It smells so good in here."

He glanced at her while finishing his presentation on their plates. "I can't cook much, but I'm good with breakfast. Here, enjoy this. How about some orange juice?"

"Gee, I never had it so good. Can you really afford to have me around?"

"Don't you worry about that. I've been with CHI for eight years and make decent money, a lot more than the rookies. As a matter of fact, I thought we'd travel down to New Orleans and I'd show you around, then we could have dinner in the French Quarter."

She pressed her fingers together as if to pray. "Oh, wow. I ain't been there, ever. We could have some fun!"

"Yeah. Maybe we can even get you some more clothes. What else would you like?"

"Oh, Jake. You been extra nice to me. I already got more new stuff than I ever dreamed."

"Nonsense. I've never had anyone but myself, and I really enjoy buying you things. You're sort of like the daughter I never had."

She put her hands on the table and looked excitedly at him, "Well, okay. I really love this, too."

In less than half an hour, they were backing out in his pickup for the trip south. In eight years, he'd only been to New Orleans a few times and then only to go to Superdome with BJ to watch the Saints play. He needed to use a map to find his way around the city. He'd never been to the French Quarter, but had always heard about the jazz and food.

They had a great time together. It didn't even occur to Jake that he didn't miss smoking. He'd thought it was one of those unbreakable habits, but Callie convinced him not to smoke in the house anymore, and he just seemed to stop craving the tobacco. If it was addicting, he wasn't feeling any withdrawal symptoms. Even more amazing, he wasn't drinking much and was eating better. Over the next several weeks everything about life between Jake and Callie seemed to get better. Even his neighbors noticed it and invited the two of them to dinner and other social gatherings. He was no longer the hermit down the street, and she was the pretty surrogate daughter that was changing his life. Even the management of CHI became friendlier to him, probably because his attitude was better.

Jake and Callie joined a local health club under a "family" plan. After a month of conditioning, they were regular fixtures, working out at least five nights per week. Callie enrolled in a GED program at the local community college in the fall and spent most nights studying. She was immediately self-conscious of her poor grammar and made a concerted effort to improve her speech. Jake had completed his college degree in the Army, attending several schools at night. He was certainly no scholar, but could generally speak correctly. She asked him to correct her language whenever she lapsed, and it didn't take long for everyone to notice the improvement. She even started talking about getting a job, and attending college someday.

After three months living together, their routine had evolved to simulate a true father/daughter relationship. Both felt comfortable about giving each other advice and scolding certain behaviors. Jake loved every minute of it. During this period, she also met Will Ryan when Jake took her to work with him to meet everyone. Will and Callie were about the same age (Will was three years younger), but Jake wasn't thrilled about Will as a deadbeat, although he didn't say anything to Callie. Will asked her out once his pickup was drivable, but she declined, making up some excuse to save his feelings. She told Jake that Will wasn't someone she would ever regard seriously.

One night after months living together, Jake asked Callie to join him in the living room after supper. He sat next to her on the couch with a manila envelope closed in his hands. She wasn't sure what it was about but showed some apprehension, as well as curiosity. He looked at her saying, "Callie, you've brought joy into my life that I never expected, nor felt I deserved."

She reacted quickly, "Oh, Jake, I feel the same way!"

"Okay, but let me finish because I have something I think is important to say. In here (patting the envelope), I've got my will that my attorney prepared. It makes you're my sole heir."

She took on a serious expression and placed her hand on his. "Jake ... I don't know what to say. I didn't expect this. I don't deserve this."

"Look. I don't have anyone else, and you've become like a daughter to me. I'm just glad we finally met. I couldn't feel more joy if I had my own family, and you're it as far as I'm concerned. I could never want anyone as my daughter any more than you. I mean look, I'm twenty pounds lighter, tons healthier. It's all because of you.

"This doesn't change anything now. I want to continue to give you whatever you need as long as I'm working. So, this will only counts once I'm gone. And as things are going now, I hope we have a lot of good years together. Hell, I'd like to see you go to college, get a job, get married, have kids -- the whole thing."

She put both hands on his and kissed his cheek. "Gosh, Jake, this is too much to believe. Just this summer, I was begging for help, with no prospects. Now all of that has changed. It's kinda like fate, isn't it?"

"Yeah, fate. That's a good way to look at it. So come on, let me show you the will, and then I've got some other things to show you in case I get hit by a train."

Port Arthur

Jake's on-duty rotation began the next day. It was his turn to man the base at Port Arthur, Texas, on the Gulf. Twice per year, two pilots from Lafayette would drive to Texas to provide relief for the pilots at PA to go on leave. It meant that the relief pilots would be away from home for seven days. Jake had often volunteered for PA to spare the family men in Louisiana. He liked the freedom from household duties and pocketed some of the per diem at the same time. This time was different. It was his normal rotation, but he didn't want to leave Callie alone for a week. She had taken care of herself all of her life, so he wasn't worried about her being alone. He would simply miss her. It was the first time since she'd found him that they were staying in different locations. This was the feeling he had saved so many of his buddies from experiencing, but now it was his turn, and no one else ever volunteered to go to PA.

After driving five hours to get there, he settled into the company apartment in the hangar that he would share with the other pilot and called Callie in the evening.

He was strangely relieved to hear her voice, even though he didn't think she had any outside activities planned. He said, "Hi, how you doing?"

"Jake! How was your trip down?"

"Oh, you know. I didn't run over any armadillos."

"So, what's it like there? Is the apartment nice?"

"I don't know. I used to think it was nicer than my place, but that's not true since you cleaned up everything and made it feel like a home."

"Sounds like you miss it here."

"That's true. I do miss it. But hey, I'm a grown man, and you're almost thirty, so we can take care of ourselves, right?"

"Oh yeah. But, I do miss you and want to see you home real soon."

"I know, sweetheart. Me, too. So, I'm gonna let you go now, and I'll call again tomorrow night."

"Okay, but don't call too early."

He was cautious asking, "Oh, why?"

"I've got a date with Will."

"You mean a real 'he's-gonna-pay' type date? He's only a minimum wager, you know."

"Now you sound like my father. Telling me he's not good enough for me." There was strange inflection in her voice.

"I feel like your father, so just be careful."

"All right – 'Dad'."

"Okay. Enough said. You have fun, and I'll call tomorrow – late."

"See ya."

After the receiver clicked dead, he wasn't quite sure what made him uneasy about Will. Callie was more mature than anyone her age because of the way she grew up. He told himself not to worry about her.

That night, his dreams kept him awake, but it wasn't about Bobby this time. It was about Bobby's daughter, his daughter now.

The week went by quickly with constant around-the-clock air operations along the Texas Coast. The mid-Fall weather was stormier than usual, so helicopters were constantly on call to get repair teams to the derricks and getting sick workers home. Jake spent the night at Port Arthur after his last flight, resting before the long drive home. It was still dark in the morning when he set out for Lafayette.

He drove with the windows open. The early morning air was thick with moisture, but cool and refreshing. He loved fresh air and would not live in the stifling Louisiana summer heat forever. He planned to retire in a few more years and live off his investments. He hadn't figured on cashing in on his coins, but had enough in a 401K to live modestly along with his Army pension.

The sky was ablaze with light an hour later as he drove into the rising sun. Half an hour after that, he was shielding his eyes from the glare as the air temperature began to rise. It was just becoming uncomfortable when he turned into his driveway around nine o'clock.

The squeaky hinge on the screen door broke the silence as he tried to enter quietly through the kitchen. Once inside, he stood motionless for several moments, listening for any sign of life. He had tried to call Callie the night before, but she was not home before he went to bed for his early departure. He quietly removed his shoes to keep from waking her, but he heard her footsteps, as she entered the kitchen, looking like she just rolled out of bed. She was wearing cotton pajama bottoms and a tee shirt. Without a word, she shuffled over to Jake and put an arm around his neck and her head against his chest saying, "Hi (yawn), I must have slept in. Welcome home."

He smiled as she slipped away and sat by the kitchen table. "Hi. I hope I didn't wake you?"

"Not really. I was just bein' lazy. I figured you'd be home later, so just didn't feel like rushing it, but I'm glad you're back! How 'bout I make us some coffee and cook you breakfast?

"Coffee's great. You don't need to rush breakfast."

She responded, "I'm hungry."

"Didn't Will feed you?"

"Oh, you said it. He don't have much money. I think it all goes to rent and keepin' his old junk truck runnin'. We went bowling and stayed in the snack bar. It ain't much for food if you're human."

He smiled to himself. The local bowling alley was decrepit. He'd never been inside but imagined what it was like from the cars and trucks parked outside. "Well, we'll do better today."

For several days, they took short driving trips and visited local landmarks. Jake wasn't particularly attached to Lafayette, or the South, in general, but it gave them something to do, still getting to know each other. They had fun. They ate out frequently. Occasionally, they would talk about Will, but he wasn't a major topic, and Callie didn't seem terribly interested in him. On the last night before Jake returned to work again, they sat together watching television when Callie asked, "Tell me about Bobby."

The wine they were sharing made Jake mellow. "You know, Callie. It was so long ago, I don't remember very much."

"It's okay. Just tell me what you remember. I'd like to know anything. Momma told me from her side, but you saw him different. I'd just like to know how he was as a soldier."

He looked at her, then down at the coffee table where he set his wine glass. "He was full of life. He talked about your momma all the time. He only knew her for a part of a year, but he was in love. I'm sure of that. Only when you're young can you experience that kind of passion from a short time together. Since he knew he would be leaving the States once his training was done, I think he accelerated all of his emotions and probably knew your mother better than most men could have in such a short time.

"He said she might be pregnant with you. But he never knew for sure. He would have told me. That's the way it is when two pilots fly together in some hot situations. You become like brothers." He paused, trying to hide his guilt for Bobby's death.

"So you and him talked about everything?"

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"How ... how did he die?"

"Callie, I really don't want to talk about that in much detail. It's too hard." He paused for a moment then continued. "He was a hero. We got into a scrap trying to rescue a squad trapped in a jungle ambush. Bobby was firing the Minigun, hosing down the jungle all around us, but one of the greasers, our term for enemy, ran up and threw a grenade through Bobby's shattered window. Bobby's side of the helicopter had taken most of the gunfire, but he was okay." He took a deep breath and slumped a little further, continuing, "Anyway, he unbuckled and went after the grenade. He got it in his hand while the fuse was burning and threw it back out the window, but it was too late. The thing exploded right by him. He was hit and killed immediately. His body protected me. He saved my life. If the fuse lasted another second, I think he would have been all right. I lost my best friend that day, and I think about it all the time."

She snuggled next to him when his eyes watered. "Jake, it wasn't anything you did. It was just what happens in battle. I'm glad you was okay, and I'm glad Bobby was a hero."

Helo Down

He went to bed shortly after that without talking further. In the morning, he left quietly before dawn, careful not to wake her. He'd had one of the best night's sleep in three decades. Bobby's daughter said it wasn't his fault. No one had ever been able to lift that burden. He still felt responsible for Bobby, but the pain was lessened by talking to her openly. He rolled the window down, letting in the temperate morning predawn air. The drive to Will's house was refreshing.

As usual, the inside lights went out as he pulled to stop in front of Will's rental house. He'd barely stopped rolling when the passenger door opened, and Will jumped into the seat beside Jake. "Mornin', Jake."

"Mornin' to you too, Will. How's it been going?"

"Well, sir. I finally got m' truck running. It needed a wata pump, and the transmission needed flushin', but it's now okay to run in the heat, and the transmission shifts better."

"Sounds like something a helicopter mechanic could do in his sleep."

"Yeah, well. It's mo' the money than work to get it goin'."

"Yeah, I suppose. Anyway, you can still ride with me if it saves you some cash."

"Ah, thanks, Jake. I kinda like the ride in together anyway. Ain't so borin' this way, and it makes me get up on time."

Jake smiled. He had heard the shop boss say that Will was basically lazy, and they had to watch his work. He didn't seem interested in learning anything and would probably never get promoted or paid as a full mechanic. "How's the job going, Will? We haven't talked about it much."

"Oh, you know. Same old, same old. I keep pluggin' away and figure I'm doing okay. We'll see what the boss man says come raise time."

Jake felt like giving him some advice but didn't want to encourage him if he was a slacker. It was better to let the professional mechanics make the call. He didn't want an incompetent mechanic working on his aircraft.

Will stared out into the darkness. "You know Callie and me, we went out while's you was gone?"

"Yeah, she told me." Jake didn't know what, if anything, else to say. He'd rather that Will stayed away, but he had to work around the guy. He didn't want to agitate someone who might work on his helicopter, but he didn't want to embolden him either regarding Callie.

They pulled into the airfield and turned down the service road to the CHI helicopter hangars. The field itself was uncontrolled (no tower) and had very few commercial operations. It was primarily for recreational flying. CHI didn't even use the runways, so the only flight rules they needed to observe related to the field's landing patterns and altitudes. In general, the helicopters all flew in and out of the pattern area below the windward legs of the fixed-wing landing pattern. The pilots still needed to look for aircraft approaching that might be unfamiliar with the pattern rules, but there were few planes coming and going anyway unless it was a busy weekend, or the airport was sponsoring a fly-in event. The restaurant was so poor that sport pilots tended to avoid their field. Except for the rental fees from CHI and a couple other small businesses, the field probably wouldn't exist. The CHI office (air operations center) kept radio contact with all of its aircraft, but it was not controlling aircraft on the field per se.

It was dark and rainy before dawn when Jake entered the Ops Center. Stormy weather blocked the sun. "Howdy, BJ!"

"Hey, Jake. You look well-rested after some time off."

He poured a cup of coffee, "Rested indeed, my friend. How'd you hold this cripple together while I was gone?" There were never any managers or owners in the office this early. He and BJ were the only ones there usually, except for the other pilots that came and went after checking the flight schedule.

BJ said, "Well, you look good. Must be something about having Callie living with you."

"No doubt, you're right, BJ." Sipping his coffee, "She's made my life completely different – in a good way."

"I hate to admit it, but I envy you that. Did you say she was a relative?"

"No, not quite. She's the daughter of an Army buddy. You remember. I told you all about Bobby Lowe and how his girlfriend might be pregnant. He was killed in South America when we flew together. He never knew about her, for sure, and I didn't go see his girlfriend when I came back. I always used the Army as an excuse to myself, moving me around the country almost every year."

BJ smiled, "Yeah, you told me the stories about you and Bobby. The Army moved us pilots around continuously. So, you probably had a good excuse."

"No. It was a bad excuse, a shitty excuse. I shoulda' gone to see her right after I got back, but I was young and stupid, so never did. After I retired, I got old and was still stupid. It's only about five hours to drive to Abilene. I should've gone to see her. Now I can't because she's dead."

"Sorry to hear, pal. You're right."

Jake grinned. "Yeah, well at least I can do something good for once and give Bobby's girl a new start. She's had it kinda rough."

The dialogue tapered off and Jake looked at the board. "Good. I still got 407AK as my bird."

"Yeah, management wants to keep you in the new stuff to keep it safe."

"It's okay with me, that ship cruises at one-forty, and I never worry about weight. So, what's the weather? It looks crappy, and I didn't read the paper this morning."

BJ looked askance, "You're slipping. Normally, I have to ask you."

"Yeah. I'm sleeping too well now."

BJ smiled knowingly, "All right. We got a low pressure cell over the Gulf. Thunderstorms after about eleven o'clock. But even when it's clear, the wind is over 15 with gusts to 50. Not that you're going swimming, but the water's in gale state, so try to stay above the spray."

"So, where am I going this morning?"

"You gotta get out to 1GC. With the storm, they want to get all unnecessary folks off and have stopped drilling operations for a few days 'till this thing blows over."

"Oh great, almost a hundred miles out in muck."

"Well, that's the price of flying the biggest, fastest, fanciest bird we got."

"Yeah, well. I'll try to use autopilot going out, just to save my shoulders."

"Pussy. What did we ever do without autopilot?" BJ chuckled. He normally envied Jake's active status, but this wasn't one of those days.

"We would have been grounded in weather like this."

"Yeah, well, I'll put in a complaint for you."

"All right, buddy. I'll get to work."

Jake left the Ops Center with the log book and ignition keys. 407AK had gone into the shop for annual maintenance and inspection before Jake's time off. This would be her first flight it two weeks.

He followed his standard walk-around check even though the aircraft had not flown. Everything looked good, so he sat in the pilot's seat and began the elaborate start-up routine. This newer Bell 407 helicopter had all-solid-state gyro technology, so the normal instrument spin-up wasn't the same as the Long Rangers he occasionally still flew. He had the latest navigation and communications gear. This was really a fun ship with enormous power and speed. The company had really gone all out with 407AK.

He toggled the Comm 1 radio, "CHI Ops Center this is helo 407AK departing. Over."

"All clear 407AK, vector one six zero degrees on departure, watch your wind and maintain radio check-in every five minutes. Over."

"One six zero on departure. Out."

On the flight out, Jake stayed around 1500 feet over land. Buffeting and swirling air made the distance above ground a safety factor, even if it was difficult to see landmarks below. Once over the Gulf, all visible references disappeared. The dark grey ocean was covered in whitecaps, giving him some perspective on height. He reduced to five hundred feet altitude over the ocean. On a clear day, he would have risen to three thousand feet and used familiar derricks for visual waypoints, but there was less than a mile visibility today.

The flight controls felt good, and he set course about fifteen degrees east of the straight line to 1GC to compensate for wind drift. Further corrections would be made once his navigation computer had more time to sense the drift. It was a lousy day to fly, but he really liked the security in 407AK. No other aircraft would fly today from CHI due to the weather. Sometimes Jake wished he wasn't the most senior pilot and could stay at base with a warm coffee cup all day.

Platform 1GC was a newer floating design, specially designed for deep water nearer the center of the Gulf. In storms, the drilling operations were suspended because it was more unstable than platforms sitting on the seafloor. Huge anchor chains held it in place, but it struggled against the tethers whenever the weather became gale force or above. It was also a prudent safety measure to remove crew in a storm since there was always a chance, however minute, that the chains could break and the platform could tip or drift away. It had happened before.

Jake radioed in, as instructed, but, after half an hour, he lost line-of-sight radio connection because he was flying so low. He was about fifty miles out to sea and could only hear static when attempting to check in.

Back at CHI station, BJ understood why Jake could not be raised on radio. He worried about Jake all alone over the ocean with no radio contact. Pilots were lost in this kind of weather more than any other reason, and Jake was going farther out than the average ferry ride. His friend was the best pilot at CHI, probably the best on the Gulf Coast, but he still worried. If anyone would know when to turn back, it was Jake.

Ten minutes later, Jake had not seen a single derrick, even with hundreds along his flight path. The weather was just too restrictive. He could feel his arms and back tensing with frequent attitude and directional corrections, but the newer helicopter had great power assist. His GPS was working well, and he was about thirty miles from the platform. Then it happened.

The helicopter jerked wildly, and a loud metal-shearing sound and "bang" erupted. Instinctively, he dropped the nose and reduced power. Then a second loud bang happened, and the tail tried to oscillate. His rudder control was gone. He centered the controls and adjusted main rotor pitch to gain as much forward speed as possible. He was auto-rotating, trying to avoid spinning. The helicopter was now a rapidly sinking leaf in the wind. He toggled the radio, "Mayday, Mayday, this is helicopter 407AK on course to platform 1GC about eighty miles out, lost tail rotor, ditching in the sea...Mayday, Mayday." It was his only emergency call, as he returned his full attention to controlling the aircraft. He was going to crash. He knew it. He was in survival mode.

His radio call was not heard. There were no other aircraft in the area due to the weather, and he was blocked from transmissions to the mainland. He was going down. The descent seemed to take several minutes, but was only seconds at this altitude. Jake tightened his belts and prepared to inflate the skid floats once he hit the surface. Surface waves would be a big problem and he made sure all window vents were closed and the doors latched securely. It would only be luck if the helo landed without breaking apart. In calm conditions with more altitude and less damage to the helicopter, an autorotation was a well-practiced safety maneuver. Jake had done hundreds of auto-rotations practicing without power or tail rotor. The tail rotor provided directional control and kept the hull from spinning around the main rotor shaft due to engine torque. He knew the tail rotor was gone. In auto-rotation, the only safe landing was straight ahead with the nose down to gain speed and lift over the free-spinning rotor. He was too low to execute safely.

He kept both sticks pressed forward, pointing at the surface at over one hundred knots per hour. At about fifty feet, he pulled back, increasing the angle of attack, leveling and slowing the aircraft. It hit the water going about thirty knots. Initially, he skimmed through one wave top but was pointed directly into the next swell. The helicopter crashed violently with the nose pointed straight down. The entire cockpit was instantly engulfed before partially righting itself. He only saw the black abyss below through the windshield.

It took a few seconds for the helicopter to level on the surface, but it really wasn't level in the stormy sea. Almost as soon as it settled upright, the nose was buried under a huge wave.

Jake was momentarily stunned from the crash, unable to move. Within seconds, he recovered and instinctively pressed the inflatable float button on the cyclic. There was a loud "pop" as the CO2 canisters shot compressed gas into the inflatable tubes mounted along the landing rails. This would give the helo three pontoons along both sides of the fuselage. But something went wrong. The pontoons all burst like balloons stuck with a pin. They ruptured. Somehow, the membranes all failed. All were damaged!

He didn't panic but didn't have much time to get out of the chopper before it sank. There was a small inflatable life raft and survival kit behind the rear seat, so he released his harness and climbed to the back for it. It wasn't there! He hurried back forward as water filled the foot well of the cabin, accelerating the sinking process. Under the pilot's seat, there was a small container that holds an inflatable life vest. This time it was there, and he quickly thrust he head through the opening but couldn't move freely enough to fasten the straps behind. This would wait until he was out of the cockpit, if he didn't lose it in the turbulence outside. The water was halfway up the door, and he couldn't push against the pressure outside. Thinking quickly, he smashed the side window with his elbow several times until it cracked. Water rushed in. Then he tried again to hook the straps on the preserver but wasn't successful.

The cockpit filled quickly, and the water came up to his chest almost equal to the outside surface. The helicopter windows gave an eerie dark scene below the surface. It was over a thousand feet deep this far from shore. He waited several more seconds, as the copter sank. When it was completely full of water, everything was dark, and he felt increasing pressure on his ears. He was completely submerged with no air left inside. From muscle memory, he located the door release and pushed as hard as he could. Nothing seemed to be going right, but then the door opened enough, and he was able to squeeze out probably twenty feet down as the helicopter plummeted into the darkness.

One of the rotor blades struck him in the blackness, causing him to lose orientation. He covered his head and waited several seconds before moving. The wet flight suit, sneakers and helmet were a problem, so he dropped the helmet. It was too dark to see the surface. From military survival training, he remembered to exhale a small amount of air and follow the bubbles to the surface. Of course it had only been practiced in a swimming pool with bright clear water. As the bubbles rose, he could see the dim surface light and started pulling hard. As he got nearer, he could feel the swell surge and hear waves crashing above.

His lungs screamed for air, but his muscles remained strong, working in unison when he broke the surface. He gasped, trying to get a full breath, when a wave smashed down on him. He resurfaced moments later gulping air and kicking hard to stay on top. The life vest was still around his neck but floating in front. In order to secure the straps, he had to use his hands, and his feet couldn't tread well enough to keep him on the surface. Another survival measure required that he keep his sneakers on his feet in case there was debris or to kick at predators in the water.

He tried to relax, conserving oxygen as he sank again, working on the straps. One snapped in place, then the other. He was about ten feet down when he found the lanyard and jerked hard. The vest inflated and pulled him upward fast. Something finally went right. Breathing was easier with the preserver, keeping his head above frothing water in the wind and spray. At the crest of each wave, he rotated, but the scene was constant. There were no boats out in the storm, and the sky created a dark canopy, touching the ocean all around. There was no land or any platforms in sight. There were no sea birds or other signs of life. The sea around had small pieces of debris and smelled like jet fuel, but it was otherwise a barren scene.

He was alive, but that was about the only good news. The company would only know his approximate position. There were millions of square miles of ocean in the Gulf and chances of finding him from the air were nil, and even less likely by boat. If he was going to survive, he would need to save himself.

The water temperature was in the high sixties and he could feel the chill draining his energy. He began kicking against the current to produce heat and stay limber. Hypothermia would kill him long before lack of food and water. He didn't want to think about sharks. At least, there was no blood in the water.

Thieves

It was after dark when the phone rang and she answered, "Hello."

"Hey babe. Well, we' gonna be rich!"

"Are you sure?" Will had a problem with reality sometimes.

"Yep. I fixed his helicopter last night after ever'one was gone." I changed the NAS bolts in the tail rotor blades to mild steel and didn't torque 'em much. Thing couldn't fly for very long, and then it ain't controllable. He ain't comin' back."

"Are you sure? He's a good pilot."

"Look, sweetheart, no one could control it, especially in the weather out there today. Ever' one at the company was buzzin' about it. Management was pissed...oh, you shoulda seen um. Good old Will churned up a hornet's nest, that's for sure! 'Cept they didn't know it was me."

"All right, but we gotta sit on this a while just to make sure."

"Let's go out an' celebrate. I wanna get drunk and screw you."

"Will, settle down. You could get us caught. Another day won't kill us."

"Aw, come on. Can I at least come get you and come back to my place, where we can fuck?"

"Not now! What if he shows up by some miracle? We'd be screwed -- in a different way."

"He ain't comin' back. I tol' you."

"So what if the federal investigators figure out it was sabotage?"

"No way! He was goin' way out in bad weather. They lost contact mos' a' the way. They don' know where to look, an', even if they did, the weather and currents make it impossible. It's deep out there. They never found no helos down in the Gulf. Never."

"All right, but you just go beat off tonight. We gotta stay cool for a couple days then I'll screw your brains out after we get outa here."

He let out a breath, "Okay, I'll do it your way."

"And, Will, you gotta go to work tomorrow and make it look normal."

"Yeah, yeah."

Callie's emotions were conflicted. She'd never loved anyone or anything in her life. She'd never had the luxury. With Jake, she experienced something different; something undefinable. He was the first person in her life that was ever even decent to her, much less nice, and she'd certainly never experienced a loving relationship. She didn't know how to react. Will was scum, but so was she. Her emotions shifted wildly and she couldn't sleep.

Callie

Months earlier, in Abilene, Texas, an old Buick pulled to a stop on the narrow gravel pad between the single-wides. Corina Penworth could barely open her driver's door, parking so close to her trailer, but Callie's boyfriend or husband, whatever he was, would yell at her and throw trash against her car if she parked too close to the imaginary line, separating their lots.

She managed to squeeze her large frame between the half-opened door and her propane tank, but it wasn't easy for the seventy-something widow. She was about to open the trunk when she saw motion and heard someone behind her neighbor's place. She hesitated about leaving the bag of groceries in the hot trunk but wanted to see what was going on and walked to the back of her lot.

Callie Murray wore a faded light summer dress that was probably a white floral print before all the colors blended and faded together. She could look pretty when her long straw-colored hair wasn't matted around her head. The shovel she was holding had a handle that was longer than her five-foot-two frame.

Corina was known as the nosiest old woman in the trailer park, which was full of nosy old woman. Callie and "what's his name" stood out as trailer-trash in their twenties. When Corina got near enough to see behind her neighbor's trailer, she saw Callie, standing over a three-foot square mound of dirt.

Corina looked at the small patch of turned soil near Callie's feet saying, "Lord, girl. Wha'cha doin' out in this heat!" They were in the midst of a twenty-day-long drought in Abilene with temperatures over one hundred degrees.

Callie stopped patting with the shovel and stood balancing against the handle. "Well, Miss Penworth, I'm giving Licker his last reward."

"Oh dear! Did your momma's dog die? She loved that shaggy yellow flea bag. He was always so gentle and protective of her."

"Yeah, well. He's been declinin' over the past few days. I think he's just old."

"Oh, I don't think that's it, dear. Your momma only got him as a pup five years ago."

"Well, I don't know, Miss Penworth, he's just been poorly here lately and didn't get up this morning."

Corina wanted to say something about the way they had neglected the dog tied to the back of the trailer day and night in the heat, often without water. Something about her young neighbors scared her, and she didn't want to have any more trouble. "All right, dear, I'm sorry for your loss. I've got to get my groceries inside."

As she waddled away, Callie said, "You have a nice day now, Miss Penworth." She then threw the shovel under the back of the trailer and started to go inside, as the old lady struggled with her groceries.

It had taken that dog almost four days to die. He was an unwanted surprise when they got here from Tulsa. Callie had moved in with Will a month before when the Sheriff called from Texas telling her that her mother was dead. They never found out what killed her, but she probably had dozens of ailments as a rotund late-forty-something invalid, living on welfare. Callie hadn't seen her for fifteen years after she started working the streets at fourteen. By fifteen, she was in Tulsa, and they never communicated. It seemed like a miracle that the police had been able to get in touch with her. She had a lengthy arrest record, which made it easier.

Her mother was cremated or buried in some pauper's grave, somewhere. Callie didn't know, or care. She inherited the trailer and everything in it, which amounted to twenty years of trash. She had never had any decent place, so the trailer was a place to live rent-free until something better came along.

Will hated dogs, and this one was a mess to have around. He began mixing cleaning fluids and anything marked "poison" in its food without telling Callie. The poor beast lost all body control and was too messy to keep indoors, so Will tied him to the back of the trailer and let the sun finish the job. The dog was too sick to move or make any noise. She tried to help the poor beast, by putting water out in a small dish, which enraged Will. He kicked the dish under the trailer and slapped her hard when he went inside. "Don' you eva defy me, girl! That dog ain't gonna be around much longer and you's jus' prolongen it."

Through Will's demented logic, they could have all the freedom they needed without the dog-- except they still didn't have any money. She had her body and looked good if she dressed up and used enough makeup, particularly in the cowboy bars at night. Will didn't like her whoring, but he didn't stop her either. As the recession got worse, and the jobs disappeared around Abilene, there were often nights that she couldn't even make twenty dollars for a blow job. She needed to find some other way to get money. Will never made enough to live on.

Around five o'clock that evening after burying the dog, it was too hot for any human to be outside. Callie hadn't moved off the couch, watching TV for hours when Will's truck skidded onto the gravel space between her trailer and Corina's Buick. He threw the creaky screen door open hard enough to break one of the rusted hinges and nearly broke the doorframe, opening the door without turning the knob completely.

He stumbled in with a six-pack of Lonestar, with three bottles remaining. "Callie, dear (burp), we gotta celebrate!" His grey-faded white tee shirt had some holes and several yellow-brown sweat stains. His ragged blue jeans, big-buckled belt with "Will" inscribed and dirty sneakers completed his Texas free-loader ensemble. He was five-five, one hundred-thirty pounds of out-of-condition redneck with stringy brown hair and amateurish tattoos common amongst his Arian cellmates. At twenty-six, he'd spent four years unemployed between his dishonorable discharge from the Coast Guard and his time in jail. His crimes were petty by criminal standards, but he was still young enough to get into more serious trouble.

Immediately after moving into Will's trailer, he began threatening and beating her. He terrified her and was able to control her after that. He never left her alone except when he went out for something or waited for her to finish servicing a client. He never said so, but he hinted often enough that she believed he killed her mother.

Even though she feared him, she was able to put him in place occasionally. She yelled at him, "You're drunk again! Get out of my way so I can watch my soaps."

He walked up to the old Sony Trinitron, pushing the power switch off and then stood in front of the screen with a huge grin on his face. "Unh unh. I got some news that'll change ever' thing for us!"

She was annoyed. This episode had played before, and she knew he had no perception of reality or their circumstances. "Will. There ain't no 'us.' We only live together cuz we can't afford to live alone!"

He was weaving, but still smiling like a dog in a trash can, "No, Baby, I mean it. I got a job!"

"Yeah, right. Someone get run over at the car wash?"

"No, babe, I mean a real no-shit money-making job."

She was getting upset. "Who would hire a loser like you?"

"Hey, don't you go talkin' about your new sugar daddy that way. He swayed, but stayed upright walking over to the couch and sinking beside her before taking another long swig.

She stood up. "You smell bad. Did you shower lately? You should change your underwear at least every few days." She started to walk away when he grabbed her arm and jerked her back down. She struggled and wouldn't look at him.

"You listen to me, girl. You won't be needin' to fuck for money again after I get going." She didn't look at him as he continued. "You know I was a helicopter mechanic in the military."

"You wasn't in the military, you was in the Coast Guard."

"Yeah! Well, shows what you know. You know how dangerous it is to chase down drug runners on the ocean?"

"You didn't chase no one. You worked in a airplane hangar."

"Don't matter. I went to aircraft mechanics school, and that's a real profession. More'n bein' a whore!"

"Yeah, you hardly got any experience and was kicked out as a thief. Who'd hire a loser like you!"

"Now you listen here. I ain't beat you in a long time (three days), and you're not goin' to sass me, you hear!" His waggling finger wasn't quite pointed at her.

She shrugged and exhaled, but still refused to look at him. She'd never had a normal relationship in her life and had been beaten by almost every man that ever got near her. Many were her early pimps, when she had one, but after fifteen years on her back, she worked alone, and customers sometimes wanted it "rough". Will wasn't any worse than most of her customers, and she could normally control him with enough booze and sex. "So tell me about your big new job."

He put down the bottle and formed an imaginary frame between his hands. "Okay. Look at me." She gave him an oblique glance. "I ... got a job as a apprentice mechanic at a helicopter company in Louisiana. I'm gonna be a mechanic! That's what I went to school for in the military."

She was admittedly astonished, but skeptical. "You mean someone actually hired you, an ex-con with no references and a bad record from the Coast Guard?"

He looked deflated but wanted her to share his enthusiasm. "It's not impossible, you know. I got a tip a while ago, and now they give me a job." He looked at her for response.

"All right -- and?"

"So, I called!"

"A phone call don't mean a job. What experience did you tell 'em?"

He was getting defensive. "Look. I ain't stupid. You know I got good scores when I enlisted, or they wouldn't 'a sent me to mechanics school for sixteen weeks."

Callie knew Will was prone to exaggerate and seldom understood the reality of his situation. She had spent her life living the horrible realities of the world. "All right, Will, so what happened during the call?"

"Well, the senior maintenance guy, he asked me when I could start! It's minimum wage and no benefits, but he said I could run the whole shop someday if I worked out."

"You've heard that before."

"Yeah, but I believe it this time, and it's something I was professionally trained for. This guy, um, I forget his name, we hit it off real good. He's gonna hep me, and I'm gonna learn a lot from him."

"Okay, Will. Why don't you go to bed – shower first. I'll fix you something to eat when you wake up if it's not too late before I go to work. I got some o' that canned stew you like."

"Okay, but can I have a free one first."

"Not before you shower."

Search

BJ stayed at the Ops Center all night. Some of the management and owners came in also. The FAA was notified along with the Coast Guard, but there wasn't much information to help find Jake. He was more than fifty miles from the land when radio contact was lost. There was no distress call heard, and he could have flown all the way out past the platform. There was just no way to know for sure.

The mood in the morning was grim. BJ feared losing his friend, and management feared losing the revenue and fighting with the insurance companies. At least the weather was calming down, and normal operations could resume less one aircraft. Jake had been out of contact for almost a full day. It upset BJ to think that Jake was always the "go-to" guy when conditions were at their worst. Now, the odds caught up. Jake was down somewhere out in the Gulf. BJ wanted to wish he was alive, and would be rescued. The latter was more unlikely even than surviving a crash. Survival in yesterday's weather wasn't likely, but, if anyone could do it, Jake was the pilot. If he was injured, surviving the crash might be just a way to die slowly.

"Oh God, Jake, please be okay."

In the early morning, just before sunrise, the wind died, and the chop subsided. The tall swells continued to roll at frequent intervals. Jake had been in the cold water almost twenty hours, but he was able to float more comfortably without turning away from the spray to breathe. He was bone weary from lack of sleep and the cold water. At least, the sun might have a chance to warm the water without the cloud cover. He hoped the commercial fishing boats would be out in the calmer conditions. He still had enough body fat that he could survive a couple days without food before exposure got to him. He also knew the Gulf currents would move him several miles an hour, even though he would have no sensation of movement while immersed in it. If a boat passed by or a low-flying helicopter, he would need to be alert. There wouldn't be many chances to attract attention, maybe none. All the helicopter companies and fishermen would be alerted to look for him. The Coast Guard would be out also, but they wouldn't know where he went down, not even close. As the hours passed, he was drifting miles away, so the chance of anyone looking for him and finding him was almost impossible.

At the crest of one swell, Jake saw a red beacon light and a couple white working lights from a platform to his left. He wasn't sure if the current was carrying him in that direction, and it would be useless to try to swim against it.

After the sun rose, the derrick began disappearing without the brightly colored contrast against a dark sky. As he watched it, the distance seemed to be increasing. After the sun had risen to about twenty degrees above the horizon, a helicopter flew over, about a mile from his position. He waved his arms, but the pilot didn't see him. He wasn't surprised, having looked for downed pilots himself many times. It was impossible to see a dot on the surface unless the sea was glass smooth, which it was not.

Around midday, with the sun directly overhead, another derrick came into view at the horizon. This time it was in the direction of drift. From the top of the swell, he figured it was probably six to eight miles away. The current was carrying him in that general direction, but he would need to swim to intercept it. Adding to his troubles, an afternoon thunderstorm was forming overhead, which would eliminate visibility again. He could drift within a few hundred yards of the platform and never see it.

He checked his watch, which was a diving model. At three to four knots of current, he would be in the general proximity of the derrick in about ninety to one hundred-twenty minutes. If the storm hit, his watch would be his only navigation instrument. He was very cold and had difficulty moving from lost sensation in his legs and hands.

A gull landed about twenty feet away, as if to offer company to a dying man. Then the first clap of thunder sounded, and the black clouds rolled in. He could see the curtain of rain approaching. He rotated half way to get one last glimpse of the derrick before it disappeared in the storm, trying to gauge the angle across the swells.

His grandmother was the daughter of a bible-thumping Methodist preacher from Arkansas. Jake had never been religious, but he said a prayer today. It took extreme effort to stroke in a slightly southern direction, which he estimated would put him on course to drift under the platform. It was still miles away and a miscalculation would mean he could drift past without seeing it in the heavy rain or, worse, seeing it but not being able to swim across the current to reach it.

Then the rain hit him like a machine gun firing all around him. His eyes stung from salt water bouncing under the deluge, and he couldn't see the bird anymore. Please, God, help me!

He continued to swim obliquely through the on-coming swells, hoping that it was the right direction. As his blood started flowing again, his hands and feet regained some of their feeling. But soon his lungs began to hurt. He wasn't in shape to swim far or hard. He had to stop and let nature take its course.

His watch said two-fifteen in the afternoon, but he couldn't see more than fifty feet in the darkness of the storm. He closed his eyes to block the salt spray and drifted for several minutes until the first wave of rain passed. When he opened his eyes, the derrick was looming like a giant spider, the height of a sky scraper, only a quarter mile away. Looking at the gigantic steel pillars supporting it from the sea floor hundreds of feet below, he could tell that the current would carry him north of it by almost a hundred yards.

With renewed strength, he swam with every ounce of strength he had perpendicular to the current. He had to intercept the derrick or die trying. Then a second wave of rain smashed down as a lightning bolt hit the derrick with a deafening crash. Even with the noise of the rain on the water all around him, the thunder hurt his ears. He put his face down in the water and tried to swim freestyle, as he had when competing in high school. He wasn't dressed for it. After several minutes of exhaustive effort, he rolled onto his back, trying to capture some rainwater in his mouth. He could go no further and had no idea where the derrick was in the deluge. As he lay floating on his back, he had the sudden sensation of crustacean smells and a huge dark shape crossed over, and then the rain stopped. He was under the platform on a collision course with one of the four twelve-foot diameter legs.

He flipped over just as he collided with the steel, riding a cresting wave. The impact was like being hit by a train, and the subsequent scraping down the side over barnacles and muscle shells cut threw his suit and lacerated his face and hands. Worse, the subsiding swell created a rush of water around the pylon carrying him past it and possibly all the way under the platform to the open ocean beyond. He needed to find something to grab. The next pillar was a hundred feet away, and he was approaching it rapidly in the violent ocean. If he missed something to hold, he would be swept past without any chance of swimming against the current. He hadn't panicked yet, but was getting close now. On the side of the huge metal tube ahead was a maintenance ladder welded down the column that ended above the mean water level. He needed to be positioned to collide with it on a rising swell. Suddenly, his joy on locating the platform disintegrated as he realized all the odds stacked against him -- again.

About twenty feet from the ladder, he fell into a deep trough that would either smash him against the wall or lift him to safety. He braced as the swell lifted him high. As he surged forward on the crest, he lost sight of the column and braced for impact, extending both arms to grab the ladder, wherever it hit him.

He was thrown hard against the steel, knocking the wind out of him, but his right forearm struck the ladder, and he held on as the surge lowered around him. He was nearly unconscious and bleeding, unable to move. The water pulled him lower and away from the ladder, but his grip held, leaving him dangling by one hand as the next wave approached. He tried to grab the ladder with his second hand when a second swell slammed into him, crushing him against the rungs, then subsided again, trying to tear him off. He was injured, but struggled to pull himself up, one rung, then another. A third swell hit below the waist. And he continued pulling upward. Then he thought about the sharks. They were always around the platforms, big ones, hammerheads, black tip and tigers. The platforms were natural ecosystems, breeding fish up and down the food chain. Some pilots would fish from them, and Jake had caught eighty-pound lingcod between flight legs. Now, injured, bleeding and waist deep in the black water under the platform, he thought about giant jaws grabbing him before he could get high enough up the rig. He struggled upward and continued to fight for every inch of height above the ocean.

About twenty feet farther up, he looked up and still had over sixty feet to go. He wrapped both arms around the side rails and tried to rest. This was not a working platform. It was completely silent. About fifty percent of the platforms were dormant, and less than twenty percent had crews aboard. This platform sounded dormant, but it was hard to tell with the ocean noise and storm raging. He was too tired to crawl further up, so he opened his flight suit and removed his belt, wrapping it around his body and one of the ladder rungs. He needed to rest.

Will and Callie

It was after midnight when he coasted the old Chevy pickup without lights quietly down the driveway to the back of Jake's house. She was waiting by the back door, again with no lights on. He came up the stoop and embraced her, lifting her diminutive body up, feeling her muscles stiffen under the filmy cotton dress. "Hey babe, you really feel good."

"Um, you too, Will. Now put me down so's we can get outa here."

He held her up longer, "Well, when do we get to fuck?"

She pushed against him, "Once we've disappeared from Louisiana, dope. We got the rest of our lives. Now put me down."

He did as she instructed. He usually did when it came to sex, eventually. He repulsed her and was psychologically imbalanced. She feared him. But, when it came to sex, it amazed her how easily he could be manipulated with his one tract mind. Everything between them boiled down to sex with him. She had grown indifferent to it after so many years as a hooker.

William "Will" Ryan grew up in Northeastern Texas. He didn't really have a home, living with his father during his early years, occasionally helping him, harvesting crops along the picking circuits. Most of the time they lived in a camper shell on the back of his daddy's pickup.

He never knew his mother. Will's father told him she was trash and unfit. Sometimes he told him she died, but the story changed often and depended on how early in the evening they talked before booze overtook the old man.

Will was seven years old when he saw his first doctor at a mercy clinic in the poorest part of some Arkansas town where they were camping and looking for work. The old man hit him too hard in the head with a scrap board that had had a rusty nail in it. It was an accident as far as the nail was concern -- he hadn't planned to permanently damage the boy, just teach him to respect his old man, as he deserved. The nail punctured his skull on the side of his head behind his left eye, but miraculously missed everything vital. His old man was drunker than usual, and Will must have said something to irritate him. Will couldn't recall why he was hit that time, nor most of the other times. But it scared both of them enough to seek medical help. He got a tetanus shot, and it was one of the few times he saw a doctor until joining the Coast Guard. They moved around frequently following the work, so authorities who might have helped the boy never had the chance.

When he was about nine, his father kicked him out of the cab of his truck for something Will said. The truck wasn't moving too fast, and it shouldn't have hurt him too badly, according to the statement taken by police, but his left arm and shoulder were crushed under the rear wheel. Owing to his youth, the boy recovered most of the use of the arm but had a permanently weak left hand for the rest of his life. The injury was barely perceptible and not recorded as a disability, but he had very poor coordination on both sides and lacked small motor skills.

After that incident, Will was temporarily placed under the care of Child Services in a suburb of Tulsa until the cast was removed. His father disappeared to avoid prosecution, and Will spent several years in foster homes, frequently running away from harsh disciplinarians. Sometimes, he attended school. He learned to live on the streets. He was enrolled in school much later than other children and was treated as retarded, although his IQ approached a normal range. When he was about eleven, no one knew his exact age, he was taken in by a devout Christian family in Blessing, Texas, and he led a relatively normal childhood from that point forward under the ever watchful guidance of his pious foster parents. The overtly religious values drilled into him by the elderly couple, who had no other children, made him even more dysfunctional around more "normal" kids.

Excluded from normal friendships, Will fantasized frequently, especially about girls who would never get near him, and about harming the boys who picked on him. He was in trouble for vandalism and burglary a few times before he was sixteen, which caused his restrictive "parents" to enforce even tighter discipline. He was also charged with being a peeping-tom, but it was difficult to prove. They never hurt him physically as his natural father did, but they damaged him emotionally. At eighteen, they told him it was time to leave.

His only obvious option was to join the military, so he went to all of the recruiting offices in town. His attitude and physical disabilities were detected by most. Only the Coast Guard failed to recognize his defects, and his criminal record was sealed as a minor. After basic training, his test scores were low but still in an eligible range for certain technical ratings, so he chose aircraft mechanics. He completed the basic course module to be a shop helper and was assigned to Coast Guard Station Corpus Christi, working on HH60 Jayhawks.

His work ethic was not up to standard, and he tried moonlighting at a local airport. He was able to steal aircraft fasteners hardware (bolts, nuts, rivets) from the air station and give it to the shade-tree operation on the civilian field, which was the only reason for keeping him on the payroll even at minimum wage. He didn't realize how closely hardware, even basic nuts and bolts, were controlled for military aircraft, and his thievery was soon discovered. He was placed on report and could have received non-judicial punishment (minor discipline) under the military code, but with the comments from his supervisors, Will was discharged dishonorably from the service, a disgraceful exit eliminating any GI benefits and a problem with any employer that checked.

He hitched rides to towns all over Texas and Oklahoma, trying to re-create the migrant pattern his father had followed, working at odd jobs. He was always fired shortly after being given an opportunity. One night in Tulsa, he was drunk at a strip bar, when he met Callie Murray. Her income was falling off with the economy, and she agreed to give him a blow job in exchange for sleeping in his camping trailer. He fell in love that night and decided to stay around town. She stayed with him since she had no other options.

Callie discovered very quickly that she could sometimes get Will to do what she wanted, using her charms. She initially thought of him as her man-slave, dumb as a tack, but useful. She soon found out that he concealed a clever, but distorted and deviant mind. He beat her up occasionally when things went badly for him, but she could take it. He threatened to kill her if she ever tried to leave him, but the really harsh treatment eased up around the time her mother died in Abilene, and he got a real job in Louisiana.

When Will took the job at CHI, she thought he was finally out of her life. She could live on the edge of poverty in her mother's trailer, which was as much as she had ever expected in life, but then Will came back for her with a chance at a big score. Will had somehow learned about a drunken pilot with a stockpile of gold coins and guilt that had festered over thirty years. He outlined a plan to steal the coins that involved Callie as an imposter, playing into the pilots guilt. The thought of riches re-energized Will's controller instincts.

Callie had been raised by her single prostitute mother. From her earliest memories, "momma" would have men stopping by her trailer at all hours of the day or night for brief periods in the back bedroom. Callie was told to stay on the couch and watch TV, and she was severely beaten if she moved. Sometimes men just brought her momma little bags that cost more money than a full grocery bag. Occasionally, she would take them in the back, and the bags were free.

Her mother insisted that Callie attend school, although she hated being the only girl in old clothes at the beginning of each year. She was determined to grow up and live a better life, whatever it took.

By the time she was twelve, she understood why men paid for time with her mother, although the visits were becoming less frequent. When she was thirteen, her mother called her to the back of the trailer one night where a large older man was sitting on her mother's bed in his underwear. Momma told her that Mr. Smith was going to teach Callie the facts of life. She already knew the facts of life and had seen evidence of it over the years as men paraded to the back of the trailer. She wasn't going to let it happen to her. She was scared and screamed at the top of her lungs as Mr. Smith and her mother wrestled her onto the bed. Her mother held her hand over Callie's mouth as she fought to get free. Mr. Smith smelled like an old liquor bottle and he was having difficulty performing but finally used his hand to break in. Callie wailed silently with tears streaming. When it was over, and her mother released her, she ran screaming from the trailer into the streets, then into the woods. She spent the whole night huddled by a tree in the East Texas brush, nearly eaten alive by mosquitos.

In the morning, she was dirty, hungry and ravaged by insects when she came back to the trailer. When her mother tried to scold her, Callie grabbed a butcher knife and pressed it against her mother's throat, shoving her against the refrigerator, saying, "Don't you ever try that with me again! Next time one of your Mr. Smiths tries that, I swear I'll kill you. I'll castrate him and kill you. Do you understand me?"

"You don't sass me that way! I'm your momma, and I own you."

"You don't own me, bitch! And I swear, you better take me serious, cuz I ain't afraid o' you or anyone, and I will kill you."

"I want you out of my house!"

"Nope. I'll go when I'm ready. Just don't come near me again, or it's the last thing you'll ever do."

They lived together under the strain for several more months until Callie was fourteen and couldn't risk it any longer. She didn't know when one of her mother's customers would try to rape her again, so she left one morning while her mother slumped in a drug-induced coma. She emptied her mother's purse and packed her few clothes in a shopping bag. They didn't have a car, so she walked to the street and used her looks to get a ride to the bus station. She learned to live on the streets and never saw her mother again.

The chance of a fortune brought her with Will to Lafayette. It was the chance at a good life that she was never going to see otherwise, but now, after months living with Jake, she had regrets and was concerned for his life, but there was nothing she could do at this point. She had never anticipated that she would become attached to the pilot, but it had happened. She had no choice but to support Will's plan in the end without Jake's protection.

She turned on the lights inside the house and led Will to the back room where Jake kept his three safes. Will had been there before when they "went bowling" during Jake's time at Port Arthur.

She handed him a piece of paper, "Okay, here's the combinations. I don't know which one goes to which safe, but start turning the knobs."

He tried to kiss her, but she backed away. He complained, "Aw, come on. You don' give me none. I set up this whole thing you know."

She answered, "You opened the door, idiot, but I brought all the tickets."

"Yeah, yeah. You go pick through all his stuff, and I'll get these huge boxes open."

"Use all your mechanics skills."

"Don't you go makin' fun o' my profession. Wasn't for me, you'd still be havin' breakfast with him and waitin' for him to die o' old age."

"Just get them opened. I'll be back in a few minutes. I'll be up in the living room so call me if the numbers are too big or somethin'."

"Real funny."

Julie (Morgan) Larue

Julie lived in Mineral Wells all of her life. Growing up, her parents had warned her to stay away from the soldiers at Ft. Wolters. She didn't follow their advice and had fallen in love with Bobby Lowe one summer after high school when he was a student at the helicopter school. She lost her virginity to Bobby, before he transferred to Ft. Rucker in Alabama. He came back on leave to see her after graduation as a new pilot and he looked so handsome in his officer's uniform. He was a W1 Warrant Officer. If her parents had ever met him, she was sure they would be pleased that she had violated their rules.

After Bobby left for his first assignment in South America, they wrote almost every day. He would write about his adventures and new friends, especially Jake Ramsey, and she would write back about her days at Mineral Wells, where she was taking classes at Junior College. She missed her period shortly after he departed and introduced the idea to him that she might be pregnant. He responded that he wanted to marry her. It turned out to be a false alarm, but her last letter to him, explaining it, didn't arrive until after he was killed. The Army didn't know about their relationship, so she never got any more official information except the returned letters. She had difficulty confirming his circumstance and she worried for weeks, until someone she called at the Department of the Army confirmed he was KIA (Killed in Action). Jake finally wrote to her, but it was mostly about his kinship with Bobby and nothing about his last day.

She was heartbroken and pulled out of school for a semester but was able to return the following term and ultimately went on to finish her degree at the university and earned her teaching certificate. She met Paul LaRue at Texas Southern University, another teaching major. They fell in love and were married for over twenty-five years before he died suddenly of an aneurism. She was unable to get pregnant despite their desire to have a family. Although she was happy with Paul, she never stopped thinking about Bobby Lowe and wondered what life might have been with him. First love lingers for a lifetime.

She was overwhelmed when Callie Ramsey (Callie Murray) contacted her saying her father had flown with Bobby. She said she was Jake Ramsey's daughter and had looked for Julie after her father told her about his experiences in the Army and especially about the drug wars in South America. She said he called Bobby Lowe his best friend in the Drug War and told her about his regret that he had never contacted "Julie" after he got back from South America. Callie found Julie by searching alumni databases online with help at the library and calling people in Mineral Wells. It only took three calls to find her.

They agreed to meet, and Callie drove from Abilene to Mineral Wells, staying with Julie for two days. When the doorbell rang, Julie wasn't quite sure how to react. She opened the door to see this beautiful young woman with a radiant smile. She assumed it was Jake's image she was looking at. "Oh, Callie, it's so nice to see you in person. I feel like we're kin."

They hugged on the front stoop, then Julie invited her inside. "Oh, Mrs. LaRue, I cain't tell you how excited I am to be here. My daddy, he talked about Bobby Lowe all the time, and near his end, talked about how much he regretted not coming to see you."

"Here, sit, dear. I was afraid to ask, but your daddy is dead too, isn't he?"

"Yes, ma'am. He stayed in the Army, then was a pilot in Louisiana. He was killed during Hurricane Katrina tryin' to rescue people."

"Oh, dear. You must have been very proud of him."

Oh, yes, ma'am. He was my hero."

"So, tell me what made you look for me?"

Callie smiled, "Well, I think he thought about you all his life, even though he didn't know you personally. I think he and Bobby Lowe was like brothers, and Daddy always had some guilt about not comin' to see you. I think at first he was ashamed, then just lost track 'a time."

Julie sat reflectively, delicately holding Callie's hand. "You know, I had a wonderful marriage to a man I loved with all my heart, but I lost him last year -- just like you lost your daddy. What about your mother, dear?"

"Oh, my momma left us when I was a baby. Daddy raised me alone. I don't remember anything 'bout her."

"All right then. You and I should get to know each other."

Over the next two days, the women bonded. They drove around Mineral Wells, and Julie showed Callie where Ft. Wolters had been. It had closed over twenty years earlier. Jake and Bobby had both learned to fly helicopters there. On the second evening, just as Callie was preparing to leave, Julie opened an old metal box in the garage and showed Callie the letters Bobby had sent her. She read several parts aloud, particularly the parts about Jake. Callie was brought to tears at one point with the vicarious experience shared with these two young men. She also appreciated the depth of feeling Bobby had for Julie.

Julie commented, "You know, dear, I haven't read these letters in almost thirty years, and they'll go back in the box again until I'm gone. The memories are just not worth revisiting. I have my dreams, and that's enough."

"Well, Julie, I hope we can stay in touch. It's real special bein' here and feelin' touched by my daddy again, and Bobby."

"Dear, I'm so glad you came. I never expected to hear anything about this again, and I wish I had known your daddy. Now, that will never happen. I'm not sad now since you came here for him. I'll always cherish this time with you."

The following morning Callie had everything packed in the car at dawn. Julie made her a lunch for the road. "Where will you go now, dear?"

"I'm goin' to California, Julie. Jake has a brother he hadn't seen in a long time. I wanna go see him."

They hugged and Julie placed her hand on Callie's shoulder, "You travel safe now, sweetheart, and I wish you all the happiness in the world."

"Thank you, ma'am. I have so much more to be happy 'bout now that I met you."

She backed out of the driveway and drove slowly away down the tree-lined row of ranch homes, heading for the Interstate. Her destination wasn't California. She was heading for Louisiana, as fast as the old Buick would drive. The visit was more than expected. It was incredible. Not only did she know details about Bobby that would establish her background story, she had the letters! Julie would never know they were gone and would never look for Jake in Louisiana.

Survival

Jake had to get on top of the platform. He needed rest, and out of the water his body temperature had risen closer to normal, renewing his energy. He stood on the narrow maintenance ladder, suspended above the water. It took at least a quarter hour, but feeling returned to his hands and feet. He felt more limber and able to climb. Sixty feet above, there was a small hatch to the deck above. His muscles ached pulling himself straight up, one rung at a time.

It took several minutes, struggling to reach the top of the ladder. It was almost a hundred feet down to the churning water, if he fell. The hatch was about two feet in diameter with a hand wheel in the center. He tried turning the wheel with one hand. It didn't budge. By releasing both hands from the ladder and suspending awkwardly with both hands on the wheel he was able to turn it about fifteen degrees before it stopped. There was a metallic sound from the chain locking the wheel from above. He knew the platform had been fully secured before people left. It was normal for all hatchways to be locked closed to prevent trespassing. It was implausible that anyone would purposely try to climb up the stanchions and risk smashing a boat in the boiling water below, but it was still normal practice to lock all hatches. He cursed out loud.

He rested for a few moments with his arm hooked around the top rung. He would never be rescued while hidden from view under the platform deck. He had to get above. The current below was moving fast and his fear of sharks was justified. The water was dark in the shadows of the massive platform, but he knew the creatures were there, he'd seen them many times when landing.

His only chance of survival boiled down to clutching the I-beams above that supported the deck and hand-walking to the edge of the Platform. At the edge, there were strong horizontal stainless steel rope nets all around the platform to protect workers from falling into the ocean. When he was in his twenties, in good shape, he wouldn't hesitate to pull himself along the overhead beams, his arms supporting his weight. But he wasn't young anymore, and he weighed more. He hadn't worked out on overhead bars for three decades and didn't know if he could even hold his own weight, much less move twenty feet to the netting. And once he was at the net, what then? Even if his hands and arms held out, how would he get above the nets? Add to that the wet surfaces and seagull shit on the I-beam ledge under the deck. It was shaping up to be a hopeless option. Unfortunately, it was the only option.

God hates a coward.

He climbed up one more rung, wedging his head against the steel deck above. For one tense moment, his knees buckled from fear, and he almost fell from his perch. He yelled "Aw, shit," and fell forward away from the pillar, leaping to grab the bottom edge of the nearest beam. His shoulders screamed, nearly dislocating, as his full weight swung below. One hand slipped on the slick surface as he tightened his hold on the other side of the beam. He was dangling precariously a hundred feet above certain death and wasn't sure he could move. He had no other options.

One hand moved, then the other. He shuffled about three feet with the wind howling through the pillars, trying to toss him aside. "Damn this." He screamed.

His strength was adequate, but his stamina was questionable. The overhead bars in Army Ranger training were half this distance and the handholds more secure. Visions of Jaws below kept him moving forward as all feeling in his shoulders disappeared. He was exhausted and only a third of the way to the edge. "God, what am I doing here!"

With unknown strength and adrenalin, he kept sliding forward, but halfway there, his right hand slipped on gull droppings. His left hand almost slipped but a bolt of energy shot threw him as he regained his two-handed grip. The rest of the distance to the edge was aided by rust buildup on the beam, helping his grip. He lost all sensation of movement, but somehow reached the mesh at the edge.

Reaching forward with his left hand, he was able to grasp one of the half-inch diameter woven steel cables in the net, which extended about six feet further out. When accidents occurred on the platforms, these mesh nets frequently saved lives. In this case, it was another barrier for him to get above. The stainless rope bit into his fingers as he pulled forward, one rope at a time.

At the outer edge of the mesh, there was a four-inch round pipe frame. He hung on the cable at the edge and began swinging, trying to recall the muscle memory from high school gymnastics when he could do a kip mount on the high bar. It took precise timing with forward swinging momentum combined with a jackknife (pike) move, using stomach muscles that were totally incapable now. With a final heave, he jerked his legs upward, crashing them painfully into the bar. He missed the pullover and his legs felt like hell, but he was determined not to fail after coming this far.

Escape

Callie and Will were heading east through Mississippi, driving both the Buick and Will's truck. At nightfall, they planned to steal another license plate at a truck stop somewhere along the way and dump his truck when it was safe in Georgia. She liked driving Miss Penworth's car because it had a big trunk and was comfortable to drive – and it had air-conditioning! But, they were taking a chance, driving with the Texas plates, and she didn't have a driver's license. The car had been covered for months at Will's rental house in Lafayette so no one could tell the make or license on the car. The police were probably not looking for it anymore, but they couldn't take that chance. It was just plain dumb to be driving a murdered woman's car without taking some precautions.

She shivered momentarily thinking about poor Corina Penworth. She got nosey according to Will after Callie buried the dog. She wanted to know more about how Callie's momma and the dog died. Will caught her prowling through their garbage, reading the labels of things they'd thrown out. After enduring the hardships of street life for so long, Callie had become hardened to things that would sicken a normal person. When Will left the trailer late one night, it hadn't shocked her the next morning when he said he killed Ms. Penworth. Will was capable of anything. He had quietly climbed back into bed some time before dawn, trying not to wake her. He was up at ten o'clock and explained what he'd done casually over a cup of coffee.

Callie needed a car anyway to drive to Mineral Wells and on to Lafayette under Will's plan. Callie would leave the next morning, driving the Buick, and Will would drive to Louisiana to start his new job. The only part she didn't like was transporting the body. "Will, you gotta get rid o' the body! I cain't do that. What if some cop pulls me over for somethin'."

He gave her an exaggerated smile. "Well you jus' offer him a free one."

"I'm serious Will, it's freaking me out drivin' with a body in the car."

"Well that's your problem darlin'. You're in this big time now and there ain't no way out."

She tried to argue more, but he left to get dressed and passed her without a word when he left the trailer on his way to Louisiana. Callie was scared and frustrated, but there wasn't anything she could do. She had to go along with Will's plan. She'd be dead otherwise.

On the way to visit Julie LaRue in Mineral Wells, the car began to smell. After one day in the hot Texas sun, Ms. Penworth was beginning to decompose in the trunk. Callie needed a remote spot to dispose of the body where she wouldn't be found. At a crest along U.S. Rt. 180 in the Palo Pinto mountain range, she stopped by the road above a massive ravine filled with Mesquite and other dense shrubs, impassible even for hunters. The view was spectacular, and there were no cars within miles that she could see.

Callie was stronger than her small frame would suggest. When she opened the trunk though, the odor was overpowering. She turned away momentarily and almost threw up. The old lady was rigid in a fetal position. The duct tape around her legs provided a handle for pulling her legs over the trunk ledge. Callie was sickened by touching the body. She struggled to get the rest of the large woman up and over, but fear of being caught gave her additional strength. She glanced briefly at the old lady's face inside the clear bag taped at the neck and was disgusted by her frozen silent scream and bulging eyes. Tears flowed freely and she was nearly petrified with fear. She dropped the body in the dirt. Will should have used a colored trash bag over her head and Callie closed her eyes dragging the body. Ms. Penworth's death mask would haunt her forever.

She rolled the stiff body over the ground, then it was relatively easy to push it with her feet to the edge of the cliff. She looked at the sky while pushing her over. Then plop, plop, plop, the body tumbled head over heels until gone lost in the brush below, probably never to be found. The old lady bounced down the deeply cut sides of the ravine, disappearing from sight from sight about half way down. Mother Nature would dispose of the body. She stared into the brush below after the body disappeared, trying to deal with her emotions. She couldn't move for several minutes without regard for other cars or cops cruising past. She drove on to Mineral Wells with the trunk closed but unlatched, hoping to fumigate it.

After living with Jake for all those months since the horrible trek began, she couldn't stop feeling deep remorse for stealing from him, and was remembering the turnout in the Texas mountains. She couldn't believe Will had actually killed Jake. That wasn't the plan -- how could he do that? Jake was a good man. She hated Will enough to kill him if was in her power.

She was having a flashback about the shocked expression on poor Corina Penworth's face when Will started flashing his lights, indicating he needed to stop along I-65 north of Mobile. She turned her right blinker on, showing that she got the message. At the exit, they turned right and pulled into a large truck stop, parking in darkness at the edge of the lot.

She stretched from hours behind the wheel when Will walked up. "I jus' gotta pee. Why don't you get us somethin' fried to eat, 'cuz I'm starving too."

"All right, Will, but let's get outta here quick. Just pee, gas and a new license plate."

"Oh yeah, 'most forgot the plate. I'll get it first, then do my duty at the urinal."

She sighed, "Whatever, dude, just don't get caught."

"Why do you think I parked in the dark? I ain't as stupid as you think."

She mocked him, "Aw, Will. I don't think you're stupid. I'm gonna go inside and get some food. You just do your thing and get the license changed."

He saluted, "Yes, ma'am!"

"Don't do that. We don't need to be attractin' attention." She huffed and walked away thinking, Yeah, you're not as stupid as I think. You defy anyone's definition of stupidity.

When she came back to the car, he had gone inside to use the restroom. When he returned he was grinning, "See, you all set with a clean plate. Now you don' have to worry your purdy head 'bout gettin' caught."

"Okay. Well, I need gas. So let's fill up and get going. I wanna get closer to Atlanta tonight."

"Why? What's in Atlanta?

"It's not what's in Atlanta, it's what's Atlanta's in. I want to be far away from Louisiana as fast as we can."

At the pump, she pulled forward so they could both fill up at the same time. She had Jake's credit card to pay for both tanks. As she finished with the Buick, she checked out the new plate just to be sure her ace mechanic attached it tightly. She was stunned and walked back to him while he still pumped gas into his huge tank. "You idiot!"

The smile disappeared from his face. "What?"

"Look at that plate!"

He looked for several seconds. "Yeah, what? You don' like Alabama?"

"It says 'truck,' you moron. In case you didn't notice, I ain't drivin' a truck. We could get stopped for this. Might as well say 'stolen car'. Weren't you thinkin'?"

"Oh. Yeah. Um, let's get goin', and I'll change it again at the next stop."

Search

BJ sat patiently while the Operations Manager talked on the phone with the Coast Guard search leader. He heard a lot of "Ahuh's" and "Yeah's" and "I understand" before the call ended.

"Well? What's he say, boss? They gonna keep looking?"

"Doesn't look like it, BJ. You know, these things never turn anything up, and besides, our helo was insured."

BJ couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You can't insure against losing Jake! This is more important than some damn helicopter. Jake's our best pilot and a friend. We gotta keep searching, even if the Coasties are backing off."

"Look, BJ, I know how you feel. Hell, we know how good a pilot Jake was, but he's gone. It's as simple as that."

"No, it can't be. He's worth some effort to find him."

"Who's going to pay for it? We can't afford to take a bird off line, not now that we lost one of our biggest."

BJ continued to plead, "Look, Chief, I want to keep looking."

"Fine, BJ, you keep looking. Just do it on your time and with your equipment."

"Come on, boss. It's important to the other pilots. The company can't just abandon one of its own."

"BJ, we're not abandoning anything. The Coast Guard is ending the search. Hell, they've got a half dozen aircraft and a hundred people to search and rescue. We don't have any. If they can't find him, then he isn't going to be found."

"How can you be sure?"

"BJ, I've been in this business down here for over thirty years and never seen a pilot found that went down, especially in bad weather and so far out at sea. You've been here a long time too, so don't tell me I'm wrong."

"There's always a first time. It's Jake. If anyone could survive, it's him."

"BJ, you got my message. We ain't going after him."

"How about me?"

"What about you?"

"I'm not on flight status for passengers, so you don't lose anything if I fly alone. Hell, I'll pay for the airtime."

"That's a hundred fifty an hour. You can't afford that."

"You don't know what I can afford. I'm only asking to try. Figure it's just to make me feel good."

"You're crazy, BJ. I'll talk to management, but you'll have to sign a liability waiver. If anything happens, we don't want your relatives coming after us for letting you fly without your commercial ticket."

"Hell, Ross, you know I don't have anyone. You couldn't ask for a sweeter bet."

Throwing his hands up in frustration, he answered, "Okay, BJ, I'll try to get permission for you to fly 0978E. It's so old it scares passengers."

"So am I! I'll take 0978E."

"Just sit on it until I get the okay."

"Thanks, Ross."

Live or Die

Out on the platform, Jake was beyond exhaustion and each attempt to pull over the net like a gymnast failed. He was nearly ready to give up, but tried another approach. This time, he pulled up as high as he could, about half a chin-up then reached over the rail, grabbing the net cable from the top side with his right hand. For a moment, most of his weight was held by his bent left arm, pulling upward, and by his right arm levered over the rail on top. Taking another big risk, he let go with his left hand and rotated half way around to get his left hand up over the rail, grabbing the cable from above. All of his weight was now focused on his forearms, acting as fulcrums across the frame rail. As he tried to pull upward, pain shot through his arms, and he screamed, fearing both arms would break under the strain. Even with the intense pain, he was able to pull up enough to grab the next cable in the netting with one hand, then the other. With two more efforts his armpits were resting on the rail with his body still dangling over the ocean. He could see the surface of the platform, which meant safety. He pulled harder.

He was over the rail, onto the steel net looking up at the blackened sky. He was alive! He couldn't believe it, couldn't do it again in a million years. He had beaten death. The exhilaration gave him renewed energy. He smiled and lay there, thanking God for allowing him to live. He didn't move for at least half an hour, closing his eyes from exhaustion. Then a distant clap of thunder brought back the reality that he was laying on a bed of steel cables anchored to the ocean, a perfect lightning rod! He struggled to crawl across the stiff net onto the metal platform deck. Not a great improvement in safety. He had had two helicopters struck by lightning on these platforms. He would be toast if he stayed outside. He rushed to the door that he knew led to the galley. Most of the derricks were laid out the same way. It was padlocked, and he looked for a breaking bar when a lightning bolt hit nearby, and the thunder was instantaneous.

By the dormant drilling head, inactive for many years, were long pry bars. Jake hefted one about three feet long and ran to the galley door, breaking the hasp. He threw the bar aside and entered the large eating hall. A dozen or more workers would use this room for meetings and dining when the platform was in operation. From appearances, it had been closed for more than a year. He didn't know which platform it was. It was safe from the storm inside the building, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. There was a ladder down one level to the sleeping quarters. There were no windows because the crews worked around the clock, and some were always sleeping. There were fifteen bunk beds. He went to the nearest bottom bunk and unrolled the thin mattress onto the suspension springs. There was a locker with pillows by the foot of the bed. Without a generator for electricity, the air was muggy and hot, but it felt good to be warm again. He stripped naked and was asleep in minutes.

Hours later he awoke in total darkness. The light reflecting down the passage from the galley level had disappeared in the night, and he wasn't going exploring in the steel enclave until he could see again. He was hungry but welcomed the safety and rest he was getting. Wants and needs take on a different perspective when circumstances require. He actually felt good.

He awoke hours later to the squeal of sea gulls somewhere outside. The sun was high enough to cast rays reflecting through the building. He was famished and went to the galley to see if anything edible was left behind by the drilling company. The abundance of stainless cookware hinted that the company might be planning to return. To his delight, there was a pantry cabinet filled with canned foods. He ate an entire can of pears. The fresh water was still running, and he avoided thinking about what might be growing in the reservoir tank somewhere above, as he drank heartily.

Refreshed and glad to be alive, he explored the other levels of the platform for anything that would help his rescue. The huge generator had a small amount of diesel fuel in the tank, but the batteries were dead. In one of the storage lockers, he found a small gasoline generator for charging the batteries, and there was a gas can with some fuel nearby. It took several minutes to start, but the charger indicated that it was working. He had no idea how long it would take to charge the batteries sufficiently for the big engine to start. There was a radio in the galley.

Also in the storage shed, he found some heavy fishing poles and tackle. The cooks often offered fresh snapper or cod for dinner on the rigs. Before trying to catch his next meal, he continued looking for anything that could be a signaling device, but only had the sheets from the bunk room to work with. The radio was his best hope.

He walked around the square platform which had a drilling tower in the center almost two hundred feet tall. He would be able to see almost fifteen miles from the top, but he didn't feel like climbing anything for a while. His arms and shoulders were inflamed, and his thighs bruised, not to mention the cuts and scrapes from barnacles. He hurt all over, but was glad to be alive.

Unbeknownst to him, twenty miles away, BJ was flying low and slow along the flight path Jake was presumably on when he went down. He adjusted for currents, but couldn't be sure where the bird went down. Come on Jake, where are you?

The weather was clear, but the sun went down too quickly in the fall season. He was only able to stay airborne for about two more hours before nightfall. He needed to be doing this, but felt heartsick nonetheless looking at the vastness of the ocean.

Jake walked around the outer perimeter of the platform straining to see if any boats were in view. After checking all four quadrants, he was clearly alone. He did see a large sign part way up the drill tower which read "Ocean Victory." At least he had food, water, and, eventually, he would have a radio. The sun was low in the western sky, ready to drop into the ocean. He decided to get oriented in the bunk room again before total darkness set in. He checked the battery and refueled the charger. The diesel battery bank would take at least eight more hours to charge before he could attempt starting the generator, which was probably close to a thousand horsepower. It was certainly more than needed to use the radio, but also the only source of AC power on the rig.

He went to sleep with the dull rhythm of the charger at work. After nightfall, another thunder storm passed over, cooling the air nicely. The sound of the rain on the corrugated steel topside was like white noise. He'd be rescued soon, so rest was easy, despite the rain. He hoped Callie was coping okay. When he radioed CHI in the morning, he would ask BJ to call her. She made survival more of an imperative. Now he owed his life to her for getting him in shape.

The gasoline engine ran out of fuel sometime before dawn. When Jake came up on deck around sunrise, it was time to try starting the monster generator. He disconnected the gas generator and rechecked all of the batteries rigged in parallel to supply the starting current needed by the huge diesel. The generator was encased in a small room, protecting it from the weather. He closed the access door and went to the NEMA box at the end. It contained several circuit breakers, one rated at a thousand amps, and dozens of smaller breakers for various machines, lights and support rooms on the rig. He only wanted the galley power and found the breaker marked "crew's quarters."

There was a laminated set of instructions for starting the generator. It required opening the main breakers and turning on the fuel valve before starting the engine. He depressed the glow plug switch for fifteen seconds, as instructed, before pressing the start switch. The beastly engine struggled to turn at first then pulsed more frequently as the flywheel gained momentum. Then it belched, coughed and started. He had electricity and threw the breakers, giving power to the galley.

Inside at the end of the breakfast counter was an older Rockwell radio. Jake turned on the power then tuned to the CHI channel and pressed the microphone. At CHI operations, BJ was leaning back in his chair, asleep, when the call came in. "CHI base this is Ramsey, over."

BJ struggled to sit upright, unsure if he was dreaming. "CHI base, this is Ramsey. Do you read me? Over."

The speaker on the platform blared, "Jake! Jake! Is that you?"

"Yeah, BJ, it's me. How 'bout a ride home? I'm out on Ocean Victory, over."

BJ was already moving, nearly pulling the microphone cable off the radio. "Standby, Jake, I'm coming!"

"Okay, pal. No rush, I'm not going anywhere."

BJ ran from the Ops Center without waiting for management to arrive. The radio was unmanned as he sped to the helo pad. In less than three minutes, he was airborne in 0978E, heading due south over the ocean. The air was clear and crisp, a great day to fly!

Jake went to the pantry and opened a can of chicken noodle soup that he drank cold. He felt invigorated, even if his whole body ached. He had about half an hour to wait, so he used some of the fresh water to wash up. He hadn't felt this energized in years. He was brushing his teeth with a toothbrush he found in the supply locker when he heard BJ approaching. The helo pad was on the opposite side of the platform, and he tried to run across, discovering how bruised his legs really were. BJ landed into the wind and kept power on while Jake opened the passenger door. BJ said, "You wanna drive?"

"No, man, I just want to enjoy the view. Home, James!"

"Ah, Jake, you look great! Actually, you look pretty shitty, but you're walkin' and talkin'. That's what counts."

"You look pretty good yourself. I didn't think I'd see you again."

"Tell me about it."

For the next several minutes, Jake explained his ordeal."

BJ responded, "Jake, no one's ever survived a crash in bad weather way out before. The Coast Guard gave up two days ago, and the NTSB guys just wrote you off as 'pilot error' due to the weather and no other evidence."

"Well, I'm your evidence. There was no pilot error."

"I never thought there was, but those assholes are quick to blame us."

"Yeah, well, there was no error this time."

"Gotcha." BJ radioed in, "CHI base this is helo 0978E inbound from Ocean Victory with one passenger, over."

It took a moment for someone in the office to respond. "Ah, BJ. You better explain yourself. You're grounded and left your post."

BJ chuckled. "Don't sweat it, Ross. I'm inbound with Jake Ramsey."

"Say again, BJ?"

"I said, with Jake Ramsey." Jake and BJ smiled to themselves, imagining the confusion back at the company.

"Ah, BJ, is Jake all right? How did you find him?"

"We'll give you the full story when we get there in ten minutes, Ross. Let's just say Jake took a long swim in a rough sea."

"Oh, wow. This is great to hear, guys. I'm calling the NTSB guy right now. He's gonna want to hear this. Ah, Is Jake up to it?"

Jake pressed his Microphone talk button. "Yeah, Ross. I'm good to go. Bring 'em on."

"Jake, this is terrific. I'm calling KPEL also for news coverage. This is huge! Ah, Jake. Are you really okay for this? Should I hold off?"

"No, Ross, I'm good to go. Slept like a baby and ate cold canned food. I'm in good shape. Just need a shave and some clean clothes."

"Roger that. Can't help you there, but look forward to seeing you. Out."

BJ said, "I tried calling your girl Callie, but didn't get an answer."

"Okay, I'll try again when we land."

After landing and shutting down the engine, Jake and BJ walked side by side toward the main hangar, and Ross McCrery ran out to meet them, shaking Jake's hand while walking toward the office. Ross said, "Jake, this is a miracle. The press is on the way, and the NTSB investigator is coming."

"That's great, Ross, now let me use the phone." He dialed his home number, but there was still no answer. He tried twice. "Guys, I've got to go. Something's wrong at home."

BJ looked concerned, and Ross complained, "But, Jake, people are coming to talk to you."

"Tell them I'll be back when I check things out at home. BJ can you give me a lift?"

"Sure, Jake, let's go."

Apprehension shot through Jake as they pulled into his driveway. His pickup was parked down the driveway in the carport. Where was Callie?

Nothing was said as they walked quickly to the back door. It was standing open. Jake pushed it further open and entered, even as BJ tried to restrain him. "Jake! You don't know what might be going on. Take it easy."

"It's okay, BJ. I'm just going to look around."

BJ followed him inside where everything looked normal in the kitchen and living room. Jake turned down the hall and stopped for a minute, fearful that Callie could be harmed. "Let's go, BJ," as they walked toward the bedrooms. Once again, everything looked normal, including Callie's unmade bed. In the back bedroom they saw it. "Holy shit!" was Jake's exclamation, seeing his safes wide open. He stooped by the center safe, reaching into one of the cubbies, pulling out his inventory list. "BJ, they cleaned me out, and they took Callie."

"I don't know, pal, but you need to call the police ASAP."

Jake's shoulders slumped, "Man, this is unbelievable. It's gone from my best day ever to my worst. This can't be happening."

BJ put a hand on his shoulder, "Call the police right now!"

Atlanta

She was still in bed at two o'clock in the afternoon. The maid had come by and knocked saying "housekeeping" a couple hours earlier, but Callie yelled, "Go Away!" She just wanted to sleep. She had indulged Will all night after he found a New York license plate for the car. She'd let him play out all of his fantasies in bed after he lugged the coin boxes into the dilapidated hotel room. There were no restrictions on smoking in any of the rooms, and this one reeked. Will really freaked her out, but she was his love goddess. The guy had a perverted, albeit somewhat controllable, mind.

They had gotten into LaGrange, Georgia, late at night, tired and hungry. The hotel rented rooms for twenty nine dollars a night and would probably negotiate by the hour, if asked. The yellow-painted room door had a 60's vintage knob lock that would hardly slow down an intruder. On the other hand, no one with money or drugs would stay in such a dump. She'd never had worse sex, but he seemed happy whenever he could be a little rough. She'd been hurt many times by sleazy customers, and he wasn't any worse. He didn't have any idea what he was doing, and she had to play along, as though she liked it. One thing for sure, she wouldn't sleep another night on those sheets. She needed to shower while Will went out for a pizza. The water ran alternately hot then cold as she competed with other guests for hot water, mostly long-haul drivers and self-employed salesmen.

She was still showering when Will returned from his second errand. The bathroom door didn't close completely so he tried to take a peak. "Hey baby, I'm back."

"Shut the door, asshole."

"Aw, you're such a love bird."

She yelled, "So how'd you do?"

"I did good! I wen' down to Atlanta like you said to that Gold and Jewelry Exchange we saw the sign for. He gave me $800 for one o' them Krugerrands."

"Only eight hundred? Will, they're worth twice that." Jake had given her a pretty good rundown of his inventory.

"Well, the guy asked me some questions, so he was probably suspicious. I didn't want to make him more suspicious by arguing."

You lunk-head. What do you think he thought when you took his offer? She said, "Next time I'll go. Start loading the car, we're leaving here."

He objected, calling through the partially closed door with the sound of water running. "But we already paid for two nights!"

"So sue me."

He yelled back, "I'd rather fuck you."

She shut off the water and stepped out of the rust-colored tub, quickly covering with a towel. "Get going, dickhead, or I'll cut you off for a month."

"Oh, yes, ma'am! Say, guess what I heard?"

She toweled her hair. "What?"

"Good ol' Jake Ramsey done pulled off a miracle."

She stopped and opened the door. "Like what?"

"He done got rescued. Swum like eighty miles or somthin'."

She was standing motionless, wrapped in old terrycloth. "Will, where did you hear that?"

"Oh, let's jes' say a bird tol' me." He was smiling at his own coyness, expecting her to challenge him.

Instead, she turned around in the bathroom, finishing her hair, with a very faint smile on her face, mixed with remorse.

Investigation

BJ used Jake's phone to call the Lafayette Police Department. About an hour later, two officers from the Criminal Investigation Division (CID) knocked on the door. After their introductions, Jake showed them to the back room. Officer Tibbs was in plain clothes, assisted by Sargent Rhinewall. After briefly seeing the scene, they sat in the living room.

Sergeant (Detective) Tibbs did most of the speaking.

"Okay now, Mr. Ramsey, you say you had a lot of gold in the safes?"

"I've been collecting coins since I was a kid and been buying investment gold coins since I joined the Army thirty years ago."

Tibbs asked, "How much would you say was in there that got stolen."

"Well, they cleaned me out, so it was the whole collection. I haven't appraised it recently, but it's somewhere between three quarters and a million dollars."

The two officers looked at each other, then Tibbs had a shocked look on his face when he asked, "You sure it was a million? That's more than the Governor's worth."

"Here's the inventory. I think if you do the math, it's probably worth more than a million." He handed them the list.

"Can we have this? It might be important cuz the state and probably the FBI was gonna wanna get in on this. It's a major crime." Jake had several copies.

Jake breathed out, "Yeah, it's major to me all right. Do you think professionals broke into my safes?"

The other investigator with Tibbs answered, "We sure don't get many professional safe crackers around here. Does anyone know your combinations?"

Jake was worried. "That's the other part. My girl, Callie, well, she's not my girl, but someone special. She knew where I wrote down the combinations. She's gone. They might have tortured her or something then kidnapped her."

Tibbs was trim with a grey crewcut, about forty years old. He moved to the front edge of the couch. "Well that's another matter. Kidnappin' we don't usually check for at least forty-eight hours in case it's really a runaway situation.

Jake was insistent. "Look, you can't be serious about a runaway. She's almost thirty. Don't you see what happened here?"

The young uniformed officer was clean-cut and well spoken. He answered, "Mr. Ramsey, we don't want to upset you. Let's just see where the evidence leads. I'm calling the crime scene unit to come right out here. Don't touch anything more until they've been through. It would be best if you just stayed outside for a few hours."

Jake looked down, shaking his head. "All right, I'll hang loose. Tell you what. I've got another investigation going on about a helicopter crash. How about I come back in a couple hours?"

Tibbs scrunched his lips then nodded his head up and down. "Yeah, that would work. Just take another look around and see if anything else is missing."

"I already did. The only thing I would worry about is my VISA card. I gave it to Callie in case I got delayed somewhere. It's gone along with her."

Tibbs finished, "All right then. You let our folks do their jobs an' we'll see what we got."

"Any chance I can change? I've been in this flight suit for days."

The uniformed officer answered, "Better not yet. Let's let the forensic guys go through here first. Sorry."

BJ asked the detectives to move their car so he and Jake could drive back to CHI for the NTSB and News gathering. Jake was beginning to wish he was back on the platform, alone. He now had two worries, his gold and Callie. BJ asked, "You gonna be all right? I mean, man, a million bucks, I don't believe it."

"I'm okay, BJ. I got my Army pension, and everything is paid for. I still have a small 401K and will get Social Security someday. In the meantime, I'll keep flying. I was probably never going to sell those coins anyway. They would all end up donated to some charity. Tell you the truth, I'm mostly concerned about Callie. She's tough, but I don't want her hurt."

They entered the airfield and could see the news vans parked by the big hangar. There were scores of people hanging around. Jake suddenly felt awkward. When they parked, and he got out of the truck, several people with microphones surrounded him, and he couldn't move. He started to answer questions when Ross walked between them. "Folks, Jake here has got to answer some questions for the Government before he makes any statements. So, if you'll please make way, we'll get that part over with and then you can have him." Ross pulled Jake through the mass of humanity, still bombarding him with questions.

Crash Investigation

Jake, BJ, Ross, Alex Davis (Chief Mechanic), an FAA inspector and some others were sitting in the conference room. An NTSB (National Transportation Safety Bureau) investigator was conducting a hearing into the crash. A Bell helicopter representative was invited but did not attend. The NTSB inspector had a stenographer with him and a voice recorder.

The meeting was an official process of the NTSB. "Mr. Ramsey, on the morning of the fifteenth of this month, were you flying a Bell 407, tail number N407AK, over the Gulf of Mexico?"

Jake had been through similar sessions twice before and learned not to elaborate. "Yes."

"What was your destination?"

"I was going to platform 1GC for passengers."

"What was the weather like?"

"Shitty. That's my professional description."

The investigator cringed, "Can you be more specific?"

"Stormy, ceiling closing below VFR minimums, sea state three, wind fifteen to twenty-five west-south-west, gusting to forty or fifty."

"What altitude were you flying?"

"Around five hundred feet to maintain visual contact with the ocean."

"Sounds like a great day to fly, heh."

"Oh, yeah, just peachy. You can quote me."

"Thanks." The man didn't appreciate sarcasm.

The investigator continued. "Now, Mr. Ramsey, as you know, the aircraft is lost, and we have no physical evidence. As the pilot, did you detect any mechanical problems?"

"Yes. There was a loud boom and cracking sound in flight, and the helicopter shook violently from the rear."

"Do you have opinion about the cause?"

"Lost the tail rotor, big time. Not just a drive problem, the blades or hub must have separated from the boom."

The investigator observed, "The helicopter would be un-flyable."

"You got that right."

"I mean it would have spun out of control and been obliterated on impact with the surface."

Jake avoided getting frustrated. "Normally, I would agree. Maybe I was lucky. I feathered everything, neutralizing torque steer and pushed the nose down, all within a few hundred milliseconds. It was actually a classic autorotation, except I was so close to the deck."

The inspector observed, "I don't think we've ever had a situation where a pilot was able to control the aircraft with the failure you described without more altitude." From the questioning, Jake figured the man was experienced as a commercial airline pilot, he was old enough, but didn't know much about helicopters, other than what he read.

Jake responded, "Actually, the altitude was probably what saved me because I doubt that I could have controlled forward flight very long in the wind and rain without control of the tail. I've got almost twenty thousand hours in helicopters and a lot of that was in shitty conditions, but I was lucky this time."

The investigator smiled. "Lucky if you consider losing a two million dollar aircraft, lucky."

"I value my life a lot more."

"All right, let's go on. You claim to have felt a structural failure that you believe was in the area of the tail rotor."

Jake interrupted. "Correction. I DID experience tail rotor destruction. It's not the first time. The bird was wounded and was going down. No way to stop that."

The investigator then turned to Alex Davis who was Jake's friend but who was also watching out for his own career. The bottom line was that 407AK (Alpha Kilo) was fresh from inspection, and all Maintenance Directives were current. This helicopter was mechanically like new.

The investigator returned to Jake. "Mr. Ramsey, you maintain that there was a structural failure, yet the Bell 407 has never experienced such failure if properly maintained. What is your explanation?"

Jake stared at the man briefly. "You want to hear the best part?"

"I'm listening."

"This bird was sabotaged."

Everyone in the room stared at him in disbelief. Ross put his hands on the table and looked into his lap, breathing deeply.

The inspector looked at him in disbelief, practically smiling. "Oh. Do tell."

Jake was deadly serious, so there were no smiles. "It's one thing to have a tail malfunction, and as I've already told you, the bird was in one piece when we hit the water. We got jostled around a bunch in the waves, but it should have survived."

Everyone was watching him intently. "N407AK had new floats installed, six inflatable floats. They worked perfectly when I triggered them. We should still be floating out there. Maybe upside down in the storm, but we should still be afloat.

"But, all the floats burst when the CO2 ignited. They were all punctured before the crash. Someone wanted this bird to sink somewhere beyond the horizon. Not only that, the emergency raft kit was taken out of the helicopter. I was supposed to drown!"

They were all silent until the investigator spoke. "Mr. Ramsey, are you seriously accusing someone of deliberately trying to crash this helicopter?"

"Take it to the bank. It happened, and I almost died. Someone tried to kill me, and I don't appreciate it. You can write that in your report."

The FAA and NTSB inspectors looked at each other in disbelief. Neither had ever had a pilot claim a deliberate act of sabotage. "I'm not sure what to write down about this. Are you sure you didn't hit your head."

Jake was hot. The asshole was arrogant and probably bluffed his way onto the NTSB finding countless "pilot errors" in his reports. "Look, you egotistic ass, I just spent two days fighting the elements and damn well know how to fly helicopters. I've never had a major accident in a bird that wasn't shot down – been there, too. You either write the facts as they occurred, or I'll hold a conference with CNN and anyone else that will listen and tell them how incompetent you are – you, personally."

The investigator got red in the face. "Mr. Ramsey! This is an official investigation, and you will cooperate!"

"I am cooperating, pal. I just gave you the truth. It's probably the biggest scoop you've ever had, and you're too chicken-shit to report it. Well, this is your chance to do the right thing. I'm tired, I'm hurt, and I damn well know what I'm talking about. So, unless you're willing to take some helicopter lessons and fly in the shittiest weather out here and get dumped in a gale fifty miles at sea with just an inflatable preserver, don't second-guess me. I know what happened!"

The investigator's pen started shaking in his hand. "Well, I don't have any more questions. Does anyone else want to say anything before I close this hearing?"

All of the CHI people, in turn, spoke on Jake's behalf. They knew his skill and his experience. If the helicopter had not been tampered with, Jake would have completed the pickup and returned safely. There was one hundred percent concurrence on this point.

The meeting ended, and Jake prepared to meet with the press outside. Minutes later, after several questions, his head was throbbing, and he wanted to shower and sleep. Most of all, he wanted to find Callie.

BJ grabbed Jake away from the reporters when the questions became inane and repetitive. Jake was starting to show fatigue from days of exposure, sleep deprivation and malnutrition. "Come on, partner, it's time to get home."

Jake didn't say anything as BJ led him by the arm past newscasters and videographers all wanting to know more about his miraculous survival. It was the kind of story that would only improve over time. BJ didn't want Jake saying or doing anything that would spoil his reputation.

"Thanks, BJ. I didn't realize how far gone I was. I think that investigator SOB took a lot out of me."

BJ smiled, "Yeah, well. You took a lot out of him, too. Tell you what, pal, how about we stop for that steak I owe you? You look like you could use some protein."

Jake patted his flat midsection. "You know BJ, she really got me into shape – probably saved my life."

"Callie?"

Jake looked out the window of BJ's truck as they passed by the last news van.

"Yeah, Callie. You know any other 'shes' in my life? God, I hope she's okay."

"Have the police found anything yet?"

"I doubt it. They just started doing whatever Lafayette's finest can do when we drove over here. I bet Gomer is still smearing all the fingerprints at my place before they send them off to whatever lab to find none are readable."

"When did you become a cynic?"

"When they stole my coins."

"Look, Jake. Don't give up hope that they'll find them. Can't be that easy to fence that much gold."

"Yeah. I don't know, BJ ... and yes, I'll take that steak now. You know any place where I won't stand out like a vagrant in this flight suit and unshaven?"

"I know just the place, mood lighting designed to make even you look good."

"Let's do it."

### Turn About

She was still getting dressed in the bathroom while Will loaded the car with the heavy coins.

He came in after the last box was carried down. "Ain't you ready yet, girl? Hell, we might'n never get outa here before morning you keep powderin' and smearing."

"Look, lover boy, you wasn't complainin' about my appearance last night. Perfection takes time."

"I wasn't lookin' at your face!" He smiled and sat in the side chair by the bed, looking through the local takeout menu's when she emerged.

"Ta da!"

"You look really fine, babe. How 'bout we mess up the sheets again?"

She pushed him away. "Not here. That bed will stink for months."

"Wow. You really know how to make it sound romantic."

"Let's go, slick. I want to get to Savannah for supper."

He just smiled and leaned forward mocking her while opening the door. She added, "And tonight, I want to get somewhere early enough to get a good hotel, not another flea bag."

They walked out the door directly into the parking lot. Will had moved his truck and her Buick by their door. She gave him instructions about how far they would travel before stopping again. She wanted to drive until nightfall then find a place to eat and gas up, and Will could find her another license plate. She had never owned a mobile phone, and Will didn't own one currently. She added, "Keep behind me. If we get separated, go to the next 'Rest Stop," I'll wait there until you catch up."

"How do you know I can find you?"

"I've got the gold, stupid, so don't get too far behind."

The old sign for the hotel was in the center of the parking lot near the street, flashed "Vacancy" as they turned left out of the lot to I-85 North, heading toward Atlanta. Callie was in the lead, using cruise control to stay right at seventy miles per hour, just slightly above the limit, closer to the flow of traffic, but slow enough to avoid speed traps. It would be dark and evening rush hour when they entered Atlanta, which could take up to two hours to pass. Her only instruction to Will was to stay on I-85 until they reached the center of downtown, then take I-75 toward Savannah. If he got confused, it was no great loss. She almost wished he'd get lost in the Atlanta traffic.

Two hours later, they were in it. She couldn't tell if he was still behind her. All she could see were headlights behind, so she turned the mirror away to avoid eye strain. It was up to him to follow her. At the I-75 intersection, she stayed in the right lane and signaled for over a mile. The traffic leaving central Atlanta was brutal, and everyone seemed to be going south with her. The telltale pattern of cars changing lanes behind her proved that Will was probably lost somewhere back there. In another hour, she'd travelled about thirty miles and traffic was starting to ease up. A blue "Rest Stop" sign gave her the opportunity for him to find her, so she exited and no one followed. Dumb guy probably forgot our plan. Oh well, so long Will. Nice knowing you. I might never have met Jake otherwise! She smiled to herself about how he found the wealth, and she got it all away from him. Men were so easy.

She waited an hour before deciding to move on. Will was finally gone, and now she had the collection herself. She decided to use the restroom before leaving. When she came back to the car, looking at it from a different perspective, she had a strange intuitive feeling. Things just never worked out for her this easily. Will was an idiot, but even he could have found her at the rest stop by now. On impulse, she went to the trunk and pressed the opener on the keychain. As the lid came up and the light illuminated inside, she nearly fainted. The gold was gone! The coins had been stolen!

Miles away, completing the beltway circle around Atlanta, Will was smiling and singing along to a local country music channel on his radio. The windows were down and the cold air felt good. Dumb bitch. You're probably half way to Savannah by now. Well, sweetheart, this is where our journey together ended. I'm headed back west. You shoulda been watching me load the gold in my truck instead of beautifyin' yourself. I could never have stayed for long. Nothing you could ever do would clean off completely. Hundreds of men been between those legs, not to mention your mouth. He started singing along, but substituted his own lyrics about "her cheatin' heart!"

Revelation

The dinner with BJ was great, but Jake was getting tired. He hurt everywhere and desperately needed a good night's sleep, although worrying about Callie would probably prevent it.

When BJ dropped him off, the Crime Lab truck was still there, and a uniformed officer was standing on the front lawn taking to T.W. Boudreaux. When Jake approached, T.W. ended his discussion and said, "Hey, Jake! I heard about you on the news tonight. That was some ordeal. How you feelin'? You look like shit."

Jake chuckled, but really didn't want to talk to his neighbor tonight. "Thanks, T.W., you look pretty awful yourself."

T.W. smiled, "It's good to know you all right, my friend, but, shucks, I didn't even know you was in trouble out there. I don't think they's anything on the news 'bout you bein' lost at sea and all."

Jake put a hand on his neighbor's shoulder, then dropped it as he walked over the officer standing nearby. "How are things going, officer?"

"Hello, sir. I think they're done inside and just collecting stuff. Some of your neighbors have come by, so I've been keeping them outside and asking them questions."

"Any clues about what happened?"

"Not really. It seems like everyone goes to bed at sundown around here -- not much of a neighborhood watch."

"Yeah, doesn't surprise me. Can I go inside?"

"Sure, but ask the lab folks if it's okay."

The officer had obviously heard the whole story about his survival and was nice to Jake, nicer than he would have expected.

About half an hour later, everyone was gone, and Jake stripped for bed, in his own bed for a change. To his amazement the next morning, he had slept soundly until dawn. The pain in his muscles and joints was even worse, so his breakfast cereal was augmented with four Advil capsules. He hadn't checked the flight schedule but assumed he was off the list for a few days to recuperate. BJ would call if he was needed.

After cleaning up, something Callie insisted on, he went out to get the paper. To his amazement, he was on the front page. The story was well written, making him look like superman. Fortunately, no picture was included to spoil the image. He chuckled to himself and would save the article.

Before reaching the front door, he heard the phone and rushed to get there by the fifth ring. "Hello."

"Mr. Ramsey?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Ramsey, this is Detective Tibbs of the Lafayette PD. Could you come down to the station for a meeting?"

"Yeah, no problem. When"

"Sometime this morning, if possible."

Jake called CHI Operations to check flight schedules, and he was listed as furloughed (with pay), giving him a few days to recover. He locked the house and drove downtown. Tibbs saw him park and met him near the entrance. He took Jake to a small windowless room and closed the door. "Mr. Ramsey, we have some lab results, and I want to keep you in the loop as we investigate your robbery." Tibbs had a thin folder on the table in front of him.

"I appreciate that Detective. Did the lab find anything?" Jake was looking at the folder, which remained closed.

Tibbs answered, "Well, maybe. The Scene Investigators took some fingerprints from around the safes, but they were mostly wiped cleaned. In fact, someone used a spray cleaner to really hide things. They got some smears and some partials, but nothing useful."

Jake pursed his lips. "Hum. I wish the thieves were more careless." It was frustrating.

Tibbs went on, "So, they also checked the kitchen and the bathroom. Crooks sometimes help themselves or use the facilities if you know what I mean."

"Did that give 'em anything?"

"We're not quite sure." Tibbs patted the folder. "We found evidence of a woman that's wanted for questioning in Texas." He had an inquisitive look on his face.

"Ah. I told you that my friend's daughter was staying with me and was missing."

Tibbs opened the folder and pulled out a police photo, handing it to Jake. "Do you recognize her?"

Jake stared at the grainy image for a moment. It could be Callie, but the girl was younger, with stringy hair and a defiant expression. The lighting was poor, not a professional picture, and not flattering at all. "That could be Callie. I'd say it's ninety percent her."

Tibbs signaled for Jake to place the picture back in the file, which he held open. "The female in the picture is Callie Murray according to the Tulsa PD. She's a prostitute with an assortment of arrests, including some minor drug possessions.

Jake stared at him in disbelief. "I don't know what or who you think she is. The girl staying with me was Callie Lowe from somewhere around Abilene, Texas. She lived with her mother until she died, then came to stay with me."

Tibbs glanced down momentarily, somewhat sympathetic. "Mr. Ramsey, the prints at your place were from Ms. Murray."

"Do you think she had something to do with Callie's disappearance?"

"Mr. Ramsey, I think you're missing the point. There were this female's prints all over your house, even on the TV remote. I think, sir, that you've been sheltering an imposter."

"It can't be. She's my friend's daughter. She had his letters to her mother."

"Well, sir, I don't know what to say. The prints were all from Callie Murray."

Jake put his elbows on the table and clenched his hands together, interweaving his fingers and closing his eyes. "Detective, I ... I still don't believe it entirely. Can I see that picture again?"

"Sure." Tibbs handed Jake the picture and watched him stare at it for several seconds before putting it down.

"You know. She was incredible to me. I guess I needed to believe her story. She was caring and considerate. She didn't have anything or want anything."

Tibbs was sympathetic, "Look. Sometimes we all want to believe in something. She just did a good job taking you in. We see girls like her occasionally. They grow up street smart or dead. From what I know, she was basically kicked out of her home as a young kid and lived on the streets half her life. She had to sell her body to stay alive. Situations like that, you lose touch with reality. She's not normal. She also knows how to manipulate people. It's part of her craft."

Jake stared at him for several seconds. "You know, Tibbs, she lived with me for months and never asked for anything. She got me sobered up and back in shape. She fixed my diet and gave me reason to want to live again. Hell, she saved my life when you think about it. If not for her, I would have drowned and not cared very much. Thinking of her and having better physical strength – I needed it all to survive. I owe her my life."

Tibbs shook his head slowly. "Well. Let's not forget that she likely stole from you."

Jake said, "Yeah, but she didn't do this alone, I know that. Someone set this all up and played her."

Tibbs took on a stern expression, "All right, there's some more you need to talk about."

"Like what?"

"Did she say anything about where she was before coming to visit you?"

"Only that she came from Abilene."

"How did she get here?"

"By bus. That's what she said."

"She didn't have a car?"

"No. She had a backpack and a metal box with some letters from my Army pal to his wife. That's all."

"Any idea where she got the letters?"

"I don't know. They were sent to Julie Morgan in Mineral Wells thirty years ago."

Tibbs was writing notes while Jake spoke. "Okay, Mr. Ramsey, that's what we know so far, and we'll keep in touch."

"Wait a minute, Tibbs. Tell me what's going on. Do you think I was deliberately hiding a criminal?"

Tibbs looked at him for a moment. "Okay. No, we don't think you did anything wrong. You don't have any motive. I believe you were duped." He paused for a moment then continued. "Ms. Murray is wanted for questioning in circumstances surrounding her mother's death, her real mother, and the disappearance of a neighbor."

Jake was dumbfounded. He couldn't imagine the girl living with him involved in a murder. He just shook his head and stood to leave the room without saying another word. His world was shattered once more. Nothing about Callie was real. She wasn't part of Bobby. He had wanted it to be true and never questioned her honesty. What a fool! He felt a tension headache coming on.

The mid-day autumn heat felt unusually hot, probably because his mood had turned gloomy. For three decades, he'd pushed the memory of Bobby further from his consciousness, but when Callie came into his life, it all changed. He felt strangely vindicated from his youthful foolishness by taking her in, but it was all a smoke screen. He walked slowly down the walk to the parking area. He should have felt bad about the missing coins, his life's investment and hobby, but losing the illusion of some sort of reconciliation with Bobby was worse. It was all a lie.

His pickup was parked in direct sunlight, and it felt like a furnace inside the cab. He sat for a moment then turned the key until the old V8 rumbled. He shifted into reverse and backed out of the stall without fastening his seatbelt, which is something he never did before. The windows remained up as perspiration bathed his body. The windows began steaming up as the truck gained speed on the streets. He was oblivious to it all.

When he got home, he called CHI and asked to speak to Ross.

"Hey, Jake, how ya doin'?"

"Hi, Ross. Look, I need to get back on flight status. I can't sit around doing nothing and thinking about my problems."

"How are you feeling – physically?"

"I'm still sore, but it's getting better, and I can fly."

Ross hesitated momentarily then said, "Okay, Jake. Come in tomorrow at 0700, and you'll be on the schedule."

"Thanks, Ross."

He hung up and thought about what to do next. His grass needed mowing, and the forensic guys had made a mess with dusting powder everywhere. He spent the rest of the day cleaning up inside and grooming his yard. In the afternoon, BJ called. "Hey, buddy, Ross told me to get you back into the rotation. That's great!"

"Hi, BJ. I'm depressed and bored. I need to get back flying and forget about things and let the police do their work."

"Yeah, well, that's no problem. You're on for tomorrow. How you feeling physically?"

"Getting better. I'm going to keep up my gym routine now that I'm in good shape. I feel good enough to work out today, so it'll give me something to do rather than sitting around here feeling sorry for myself -- did that for too many years."

"All right, buddy. I'll see you in the morning then."

The afternoon air was milder, and the humidity was down as another cold front moved through. He felt good mowing the grass and stayed outside to organize his carport and trim the yard. If there was one positive legacy from Callie's time with him it was this. His health was much better. He was in better shape than anyone he knew after eight years away from the Army. After all those years of self-pity, it was invigorating to be alive again. Somehow, even though it was a sham, Bobby's memory was a little less important.

He thought about Callie while he worked. What had her life been like? He couldn't comprehend being alone on the streets at fourteen. What horrors had she experienced before then? Kids run away often enough, but they don't stay away forever. How bad had it been for her? When he was that age, he couldn't have managed one night alone in a strange environment. Where would she sleep? How would she eat? What about clothes and hygiene. She must have been terrified. How long had she lived like that? Half her life! Good lord, how did she do it? Somewhere under that damaged psyche, would there ever be any joy in her life? His loss was tangible. He couldn't replace his lost collection, but so what? It was just going to remain hidden in the dark anyway. He could never sell it, and there wasn't anyone to inherit it. Maybe Callie could gain some measure of a normal happy life.

The Letters

When she arrived home in the afternoon after teaching school, there was a plain white sedan parked in her driveway. There were plenty of nosey neighbors watching, so she didn't feel threatened but pulled alongside the other car and decided not to press the garage opener. As she exited, two nicely dressed people, a man and a woman, got out to greet her. The woman said, "Mrs. LaRue? Mrs. Julie LaRue?"

"Yes. What can I do for you?"

"Mrs. LaRue, we're with the FBI. I'm Agent Carly Mott, and this is Albert Franklin. They both showed IDs, which would have the neighbor's phone lines buzzing. "We'd like to ask you some questions if you don't mind, about Callie Murray."

"I don't know Callie Murray."

"Okay, we have an old mugshot, maybe she used a false name." The first picture showed the girl she knew as Callie Ramsey, standing in a prison jumpsuit with front and side views.

She put her hand to her mouth, "Oh, my God."

Agent Mott suggested, "Can we talk inside?"

Julie didn't say anything. She walked ahead, fumbling for her keys. There's something unnerving about people with badges coming to your door wanting to talk inside. Julie was shaking. Once inside the front door, she led them into the living room and offered them sweet tea, which both declined.

Mott continued, "Mrs. LaRue, we're helping in an investigation of a felony that could involve Callie Murray who was the woman in the picture."

"I ... I knew her as Callie Ramsey." Agent Franklin was taking notes as the two agents looked at each other, then back at her.

Mott said, "That's very interesting. How do you know her?"

Julie had never been involved in any kind of criminal discussion and tried to keep her hands calm. "What's this about? Do you think I did something wrong?"

"Oh, no, Mrs. LaRue. We're just trying to piece together where this person has been and try to find out where she might be now."

"I don't know where she is."

Mott continued, "That's fine Mrs. LaRue, can you tell us how you know Ms. Murray."

"Well, I guess I don't know her at all." She paused then continued. "Several months ago in the early summer when I was just beginning our break from school, Callie, Miss Murray, showed up at my door. It's kind of a long story, and I don't know how to tell it otherwise."

Mott said, "You're doing fine ma'am, just tell it anyway you can."

Julie told them about the time spent with Callie, and the story she'd told about being Jake Ramsey's daughter. Then she told them about the letters from Bobby.

Mott asked, "Did you give the letters to this woman?"

"Why no, they're very special to me. I keep them in a box in the garage."

Mott said, "Mrs. LaRue, we believe some of the letters were shown to a man in Louisiana."

"Oh, dear! Oh no! They must be in the garage." Without further dialogue, she stood and walked from the living room with the Agents following. They walked through the kitchen to a door into the garage. "They're right over here." She walked to the far wall with shelves along the entire length filled with odd boxes and some of her husband's tools and fishing gear.

After searching, she looked at the Agents with tears welling, "I don't see the box. She took my box of Bobby's letters. Why? Why would she do that?"

Franklin stood close by, figuratively offering a shoulder if she wanted one. He said, "She had a motive, Mrs. LaRue, that's all we can say at this time."

"I can't believe it. She was such a sweet thing. I just can't believe it." She was shaking her head.

Mott said quietly, "We'll try to get them back, Mrs. LaRue, but there's no guarantee."

She just shook her head as the Agents departed, letting themselves out as they had entered.

Stranded

Callie had enough gas to get to Savannah and could probably use Jake's credit card to live for a day of two. But she didn't have anything after that. She wasn't a girl who would panic. She'd lived without means for all of her adult life. She drove into the night changing from I-75 to I-16, following the signs to Savannah. She'd never been there but had seen the pictures and read about the beautiful antebellum setting in one of Jake's magazines. That's what she wanted, even if she could only have it for a day. What else could she do? She had no place to go now. Her mother's trailer was gone. She was a thief. Will left her without anything. Jake would hate her. She was fourteen again, except she was realistic now. She couldn't live on the streets again. She'd had a better life with Jake, even though only for a few months. She'd never lived anywhere safe, comfortable, or caring before him. Why did she betray him? He was only good to her. Damn Will for forcing her into this.

She followed I-16 to its end in the old historic district along Savannah's waterfront. It was late evening when she cruised down Bay Street. The charm of the waterfront area was overwhelming. It was beautiful. She had never seen any place like it. This must be how the rich people see places. She smiled to herself that six months ago, she would not have appreciated it, or even wanted to see it.

In the middle of the historic district she saw it. She couldn't believe it. She had never seen a more beautiful hotel. The Westminster Hotel shined like a jewel along the Savannah River. Her plans formed immediately when she turned into the antique-gated entry, parking in front of the grand entrance. When she worked the streets, she'd had no idea that hotels could look this good. Her "clients" always took her to the seediest, ugliest, cheapest hotels. Tulsa didn't have anything to compare with the Westminster.

Before she could reach the handle, a valet opened her door. "Good evening, Miss, will you be staying with us?"

She'd never had anyone open her door before and took a moment to respond. "Ah, I'd like to. Are there any rooms available?"

"Miss, I'm sure the people at the front desk will help you. If you'll give me your keys, I'll pull your car up a bit, and then I'll park it once you're settled in a room. Can I help with your luggage?"

She felt awkward. "I don't really have luggage, just a bag in the trunk."

"I'll get it for you, while you check in."

She didn't quite know what to do next, but responded to his gesture by walking through the large brass and glass doors, held open by a uniformed man. She said, "Thank you."

She looked around in amazement at the lobby, tastefully done with expensive furnishings, and gilded detailing in the tall ceiling. A young woman behind the lobby desk asked, "Can I help you?"

Callie responded, "Hello. I'm on a short unplanned vacation and wondered if you have any rooms available?"

"We have only a few left. They're our most expensive, but they have river views and full suite accommodations."

"Ah. That should be all right."

"Do you want to know the rates?"

"No. Here's my credit card."

She was hopeful that Jake hadn't cancelled it yet or reported it stolen. He didn't use it much and might not even know it was missing. There was a moment of alarm when the woman challenged her name compared to the card, but seemed to accept her story that it was her father's card, under her maiden name. It was probably not the first time that someone spent the night without prior reservations after a spat with her husband. The desk clerk didn't question another thing.

"Will you need help with your luggage, Miss?"

"Ah, No. I don't have much."

The room was spectacular. In fact, it was two rooms and an incredible bath. The furnishings were expensive. She was surrounded by luxury. There were floor-to-ceiling French doors that opened to a magnificent view of the river from a narrow iron-railed balcony. She savored the moist air and opened all the windows to enjoy the full ambiance. This was glorious.

She ordered room service and a bottle of white wine. She didn't know anything about wine and just asked the steward to recommend something. She ate at the dining table sitting close to the open doors with white shear curtains, wafting silently around her. She felt like she was living in one of those perfume commercials she'd seen on television. Even if it was for only one night, she would savor this evening for the rest of her life. That night, she lay awake in the open air, listening to the sounds of the street and waterfront.

In the morning, she lavished in the spa tub for an hour, enjoying the bath soaps dissolved in the emulsion, flowing through jets of pulsating water. She'd never had such an experience before. Her eyes closed, and she tried to imagine living a lifestyle that would never be possible for her. She was a whore, a gutter-dwelling prostitute who would lose her looks soon and probably die. It didn't matter. At least, she'd had some months of life as an ordinary person with Jake and this brief taste of luxury. The best she would ever have for the rest of her life.

Stepping from the tub, her skin was wrinkled and red, but she felt a kind of refreshment like never before. The towels were huge and fluffy. They felt bulky but light against her skin, absorbing moisture without pressure. Every towel she had ever used before was a sopping rag in seconds. The hotel provided terrycloth robes and slippers.

She had an amazing breakfast of fresh fruit, crème fraiche and toast, served by the open window again. She wanted to enjoy being served, as time stood still. The morning air was quiet with a chill that would soon turn muggy. The sky was grey and smelled like rain would be falling soon.

After dressing in her best clothes, she put the "privacy please" sign on the door knob and took the elevator to the lobby. As the door opened, she walked straight to the large entry doors without looking around, self-conscious about her humble appearance compared to the other guests and even the hotel staff.

She turned right along East Bay Street, looking through windows at boutique women's clothing stores. At one, she liked a mannequin, and went inside. It was awkward. She'd never been in a clothing store and felt as though everyone was looking at her. An older woman in a beautifully tailored dress approached her when she entered. "Can I help you?"

Callie tried to speak slowly in complete sentences, hoping to hide her lack of education. "Aw, I was just admiring your display in the window."

"That's a beautiful ensemble, dear. It's all part of the new Rudy Getz collection. The white pants are charmeuse with wide legs, and the azure blue Scoopneck top is hand stitched ribbed-knit silk jersey, which is really comfortable. It would look lovely on your trim figure."

Do you have it in my size?"

"Oh, I imagine so, but would you like to look around at some of our other fashions. That one is almost a thousand dollars. Then you would also need shoes to match."

"No. I don't want to look around. Can I get it today?"

"Well, the pants will need to be hemmed. Are you staying nearby?"

"I'm at the Westminster Hotel."

"Oh, lovely. Many of our customers like to stay there. Very luxurious."

"I like it. I have my daddy's credit card, and he said to buy something nice, so I'd like to buy that top and pants."

"Okay. We can have it delivered to your room later today."

She spent the next hour being treated to fittings and different shoe combinations, and a glass of wine. She had no idea shopping could be like this. Everything she had ever worn had come from second-hand stores.

That afternoon, the garments were delivered to her room, and she dressed immediately. The pants seemed to glide across her skin as she walked around the room and out onto the balcony overlooking the river. The cool late fall breeze sent ruffled waves across her body, making the clothes feel weightless. She had never considered herself beautiful until now and would cherish this moment forever. She went into the bathroom and styled her hair more conservatively than usual. It was a feeling she wished could last, but knew otherwise.

Returning down to the lobby, she intentionally walked around, sensing the eyes of others watching and admiring her. She'd been stared at before, but for looking like a slut, not like this. It was humbling and gratifying, something new to her. She asked for the business center and was given a private cubicle with a computer and internet service. She'd never had a computer before living with Jake and he'd taught her to use the Internet. She did a quick search and memorized the simple directions. She thanked the doorman as she left, walking down East Bay Street again, past the boutique. She stopped and looked at her reflection in the window compared to the mannequin. Not bad. She continued several more blocks along the river front then turned away from the historic tranquility toward the city center. It wasn't far to her destination.

The Savannah Police Department station was in a small single-story building rimmed by massive oak trees with Spanish moss, hanging everywhere. The chilly evening air had a characteristic musty smell common in older areas of the Deep South. She went inside and walked up to the desk officer.

He looked at her pleasantly. "Can I help you, Miss?"

"Um. Yes, I want to surrender to the police."

He was startled. "What for, Miss?"

"I robbed a man of a huge amount of gold coins in Louisiana."

"Well, that's not in our jurisdiction."

"I also used his credit card illegally here in Savannah at the Westminster Hotel and the store where I bought these clothes."

"Why are you turning yourself in, if I can ask?" He stood up as he asked the question.

She looked down. "I don't really know. Maybe, just because it was wrong."

He looked at her with disbelief. "In that case, I need to tell you that whatever you say..."

"Yeah, I know the rest."

Late that night, Jake was back home after a routine day of ferrying workers back and forth to oil rigs off the Louisiana Coast. He was about to go to bed when the phone rang. It was Detective Tibbs. "Mr. Ramsey, there's been a development. Can you come down to the station in the morning?"

"What kind of development?"

"I'm still getting details, but I think we're getting closer to solving your case."

"Sure. I guess so. What time?"

"Let's say ten o'clock if that works for you." It had been a long day for Tibbs, and there was at least one other person he had to call that needed to be at the PD in the morning with him and Ramsey.

Jake went to bed and felt odd once again that the loss of the coin collection didn't bother him more. He just couldn't get over it. After more than thirty years of investing in the gold, it seemed intangible, like something he'd done out of compulsion. He wasn't even sure what he'd do if it was returned. One thing about losing it was the understanding that the coins really provided no quality of life for him and never would if they just sat in the safe. He'd been a fool to keep that much gold inside a cheap ranch home that was generally unsecure. He closed his eyes and imagined what he would do if the coins ever returned.

In the morning, he called Operations and explained that he would be in around noon. His flight schedule was not critical so they could work around his absence. He cleaned up the house after breakfast and even made his bed, something Callie had insisted on.

It took less than ten minutes to drive to the Lafayette PD station. The weather was clear and cool, with humidity below seventy percent. He used the truck heater on low heat for the first time this year. It was nearly Thanksgiving week, and he thought about being alone again, like all the other holidays. Whatever the new "development" was, it would never replace the sense of family that he had briefly enjoyed then lost again.

Entering the PD, Detective Tibbs signaled him to come back to the small meeting room familiar to Jake. When he entered, another man in a business suit was finishing a text message then stood as Tibbs introduced Special Agent Jeremy Wallace of the New Orleans FBI Division. Wallace was average height and weight and looked to be in top physical condition. He was tan and blond, about thirty-five with a gold wedding band. They shook hands but Jake didn't say anything as Tibbs closed the door, indicating they all should sit.

Tibbs began. "Mr. Ramsey, Callie Murray has been caught in Savannah, GA."

Jake looked at him with a neutral expression. "Did she still have my gold?"

At that point Wallace spoke. "Mr. Ramsey. We don't have all the details yet. They're still collecting evidence. She had some things at a nearby hotel and a car."

Jake responded. "Was she alone?"

Wallace answered. "We don't know that either, sir. The local P.D. called this office (indicating the Lafayette P.D.) based on statements from Ms. Murray."

"So why's the FBI involved?"

"There's a suspicion that felony crimes have been committed across state lines. In your case, Officer Tibbs informs that upwards of a million dollars was stolen from you."

Jake said, "Something like that. Does that make it a federal crime?" As he asked the questions, he realized that he shouldn't really care, let the whole U.S. Justice system come down on her. What difference does it make? More troops meant more chance of getting his gold back.

Wallace responded. "It's large enough to meet our Major Crimes standards, but there is a possibility that she was also involved in murder."

"Murder? Callie?"

"Yes, sir. I can't say anything more specific, but she could be in a world of hurt."

"Was she alone?"

"It appears so, sir. But as I said, they are still investigating in Savannah. We have our FBI office involved, so we'll know more, probably later today."

Jake wasn't sure what to say next. A hundred thoughts were spinning around in his mind. "Ah, how can I keep up on this?"

Wallace reached in his pocket for his ID case, pulling out a business card. "You can call me at any time. Use my mobile number 'cuz I'm out of the office quite a bit. Also, I'll be keeping Detective Tibbs informed. This is going to get really complex with different state jurisdictions, and a Federal case developing. It could take quite a while to sort this all out, but if you're patient, you might just see your coin collection again, or at least some of it."

Wallace stood, indicating the meeting was over. They shook hands, and Jake left the station. Driving toward CHI, he was relieved to think that his coins "might" be returned, but he needed to fight the urge to get his hopes up. There had been enough colossal upsets over the past several months. If she had the background that the police had described to him, she had to be a lot tougher than he sensed. She didn't seem tough at all while living with him, and what about murder? Was she really capable of murder? He just couldn't imagine it.

Jailed

She awoke that day in a holding cell in the same building where she had surrendered. The cell had two bunk beds and could presumably hold four women, but only one other bed was occupied. The young woman was still sleeping, but had a familiar appearance Callie had seen on the streets her whole adult life. The woman's tight skirt and undersized blouse were torn and dirty. She'd seen the results of street fights before and been in the same circumstance herself. It wasn't that long ago, but she felt oddly dissociated with her past.

A female officer appeared at the wire mesh door to their cage announcing, "Murray?"

"I'm Callie Murray."

The officer opened the door. "Come with me, we got to get you processed and dressed properly."

Callie knew the drill. She'd done this a dozen times before in Oklahoma and figured the process was pretty much the same. Sometimes, a night in jail meant the best night's sleep and food she could get. The first stop was at a processing desk officer who filled out a standard form questionnaire, asking her questions about where she lived, worked, date of birth, married status and others. Many answers were "no" or "none," which got a particularly stern look, given the way she was dressed. Then they took her picture and fingerprints, being careful not to mess her cloths. After processing, she was taken to a women's dressing area and told to strip with one of the female officers inventorying her clothing. Callie asked, "Please take special care of those. It's the only good clothing I will ever have."

Either out of pity or for her respectful behavior, the officer took extra care, folding the garments and sealing them in a bag with Callie's name and the date written in large letters on the outside. Then she was told to sign the bag, witnessing the contents placed inside. She said "thanks" and was taken back to another holding cell, awaiting arraignment. Overall, everyone had been as pleasant as possible under the circumstances.

An hour later, a Deputy Prosecutor (police officer with a law degree) came to her cell with a clipboard and more forms. His uniform name tag said "Arion" and he wore Lieutenant's bars on his epaulettes. He was let into her cell by a female officer who stayed with them. He looked to be about her age and had probably struggled for years to finish his education while raising a family. He was tall and thin, with thick glasses and thinning black hair cut short.

He read something then asked, "Miss Murray, do you have a driver's license or any form of legal identification with a picture?"

She answered calmly. "No, sir. I've never had a legal ID. I imagine you can contact the Tulsa Police Department with my information, and they will send you confirming pictures."

"You've been arrested before?"

"I worked the streets for a long time in Tulsa and was arrested a few times."

He looked at her, surprised by her composure. Most streetwalkers or women with police records were belligerent or outright caustic. Callie was responsive and polite. He looked at the female officer who was equally surprised.

He went on while filling out some information on the forms. "Okay. Now you say that you committed a crime in Louisiana. Is that right?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And you used a stolen credit card here in Savannah to buy some clothing articles and hotel room?

"Yes, and I was driving a stolen car from Texas."

He scratched his head. "Okay, Miss Murray. We'll notify the police in the other states about your claims. We just need to deal with your offenses in Georgia. We may need to defer the charges here if the other states have more serious claims. In the meantime, we'll arraign you here today and set a date for trial."

"Do I need a trial? I already admitted doing those things."

"Well, you are entitled to your day in court like any other accused person. If found guilty, the judge will need to impose a penalty or a fine."

"I am guilty, and I can't pay a fine. Just send me to jail until the other states want me."

He wasn't sure how to answer her. "Look, Miss Murray. Even with a confession, the judge needs to find a ruling of guilt and assess a penalty based on the merits of the case."

She looked at him sympathetically. He'd probably never had someone professing total guilt and eager to accept punishment. "Look. You're a nice man. I wish people would call me Callie. I'm not a formal person, and it makes me feel uncomfortable." He nodded, and so did the lockup officer. "I don't want to be a burden on anyone. If I go back onto the streets, I'll probably do something bad. I've always done bad things to stay alive. I don't fear punishment. I just don't want a lot of people going to a lot of trouble on my account. What's the fastest way to get this all over with?"

"Well, we can type up a confession and present it to the judge with a request by you to waive pre-trail arraignment and ask for a summary judgment from the bench. Is that what you're asking?"

"It sounds right to me. Bring me the confession, and I'll sign it."

He was looking at his notes, pretending to read, not quite sure what to say. "Look, Callie. If that's what you want, I'll have an officer take your statement and get this all down on paper. Then we can discuss your next move. Don't you even want a chance to go free? We've got some decent Public Defenders in Savannah."

"Officer Arion, I know this is not what you're used to, but I don't want to bother anyone. I came here by my own choice, and I'm one hundred percent guilty. It wouldn't be right for me to get off. Please have the paperwork ready so I can sign it. That's all I want."

He stood, shaking his head. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but just whispered "okay" in exasperation as he left. When he was gone and the door was locked closed, the lockup officer said, "Callie, you can change your mind any time before the judge rules. Prosecutor Arion was trying to give you a signal that you would probably get off with a hand slap."

Callie smiled at her. "Thank you. I deserve a lot more and just want to do something right for once in my life."

The jailer smiled in bewilderment and walked away.

Jake's Decision

Later that afternoon, Jake was returning from a drop-off at one of the close-in oil platforms when BJ called on the radio. "Jake, when you get in, someone from the Savannah Police Department wants you to call him. I got the number."

"Okay, BJ. Thanks." He dreaded talking to anyone in Savannah. Why did he need to be involved? It had to be about Callie, and he didn't want to have any more to do with her right now.

After landing and completing paperwork, he took the message from BJ and went out to the car to have some privacy, talking on his new mobile phone. He called the number and waited nervously for someone to answer. He didn't want to testify and just hoped they had his gold.

"Hello. Can I speak to Officer Arion, please."

The phone went on hold briefly. "Arion."

"Ah, Officer Arion, this is Jake Ramsey. You called my work earlier today."

"Yes, Mr. Ramsey. We tracked you down through your credit card."

"My credit card?"

"Yes, sir. It was used by a person here in Savannah who has confessed to stealing it from you."

He'd forgotten about the card he used for online purchases. "Oh, yeah. I suppose it's my card. Did you verify with the bank that it was my card?"

"Sir. That's how we found you."

Jake leaned back on the bench seat, running his fingers through his hair. "All right, so what's the deal?"

Arion opened a bit. "Do you know a young woman named Callie Murray?"

"That wasn't the last name I knew her as, but I think I know who you mean."

"Did she use an alias with you?"

Jake didn't want to complicate matters any worse than they already were. "What do you mean by an alias?"

"Did the woman you know intentionally use a false name to conceal her identity?"

"What if she did?"

"Sir, I'm prosecuting her case, and I need all the facts."

"What did she do in Savannah that needs prosecuting?"

"Well, it's a little odd I'll admit, but she came into the station and wanted to confess to using a credit card belonging to someone else, intentionally accruing over two thousand dollars for a hotel and for clothing. She said something about wanting to see what it was like to live in luxury for just one day. I guess she did it then wanted to give herself up."

"So, she charged this amount on my card then came to you confessing it? I guess I could refuse the charges and not have to pay anything since she admits stealing it."

"Yes, then she's only defrauding the hotel and the clothing store."

He thought about it, then asked. "Did you talk to her?"

"Yes, I completed the interview with her just before calling you and leaving the message."

"So, she came to you right away and confessed?"

"Yes, that's essentially right. She bought the clothes today and walked down here immediately from the hotel after purchasing them."

Jake thought before speaking. "What if I gave her permission to use the card?"

Arion answered. "Hum. It wouldn't be a crime at all, and she'd be free to go from here, except for the other things."

"What other things?"

Arion elaborated. "Well. She admitted to other crimes outside of our jurisdiction. We would need to inform those authorities before letting her go."

"Would one of those other crimes be stealing my gold coin collection?"

"Well, I believe it could be, if you're the victim."

"I am."

"In that case, you'll need to check with your local PD for instructions."

"Does she have the coins with her?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that, but if you check with your PD a bit later, they may give you the information."

Jake wanted to be sure things happened as fast as possible. "Do you know the Lafayette Police Department?"

"No."

"Okay, then. Let me give you the person handling the case from this end."

Jake gave Arion the contact information for Tibbs and asked him to contact him. Then he added, "Ah, look, Officer Arion, when do I need to let you know if I want to claim she stole the card?"

"Well. Technically, she's confessed to stealing it, so unless you refute that, she's going to court in the morning for sentencing."

"Okay, look. You please talk to Tibbs here, and after we've talked, I may want to call you back quickly. How can I reach you?"

"You just called my mobile phone. I always have it with me. Use this number."

"Okay, thanks. Call Tibbs, and we'll talk later."

"Ah, Mr. Ramsey." Jake paused and listened. "One last thought. For what it's worth, and this isn't really proper for me to say, but she's awfully contrite. She actually wants to be punished. I've never met anyone anxious to go to jail. She seems genuinely remorseful. So much so that she's waived the arraignment hearing and wants to go directly to sentencing. I don't know what to think. She even told me not to get sympathetic because she's been a liar all of her life. I just couldn't believe what I was hearing. She really seems repentant and wants to pay for the crimes."

Jake shook his head slowly, "Look, talk to Tibbs. I've got to sort this out in my own mind."

They disconnected.

Jake went back in to talk with BJ. He needed a sounding board, and BJ was his closest friend. Inside the Ops Center, BJ asked one of the managers that had been the previous dispatcher to listen to the radio, while they went outside to talk.

Jake started, "BJ, I just don't know what to do."

"About what, Jake?"

"Callie. Callie just walked into the Savannah PD and confessed to several crimes, including stealing my credit card and, I think, stealing my coins."

BJ bristled. "So, what's the problem?"

"I think she's messed up. I don't care much about the card, but you know the coins are worth a lot."

"Did she say where the coins were?"

"I don't know. The guy in Savannah will only talk to another PD, so I gave him the detective in Lafayette."

"So, what do you want me to say?"

"I might not press charges on the card if she's got the coins."

"What if she doesn't have 'em?"

"I guess it depends on what she's saying. If I can get my coins back, then I don't care about the credit card."

BJ was more forceful. "If you don't press charges, you'll accept the charges. How much?"

"Sounds like a couple grand."

"Jake, are you crazy? A couple grand! Let her rot in jail, I wouldn't let her off if I had to pay two grand for information. If she doesn't have the coins, do you really think she can help find them? Hell, if I was a crook and she was off on her own, I'd say 'Sayonara' and 'Adios Amigo' and be halfway to Cabo by now. Unless she's got the coins on her, in which case the cops have 'em, then let her rot."

"All right, thanks, BJ. Good advice, as always."

Jake patted him on the shoulder to calm him then went to his truck to drive home. You would think it was BJ's money. On the ride home he tried to think things through. He had options as the injured party. Deep down, he wanted to see Callie as a victim, not a criminal. The evidence all seemed against her. What was this confession all about?

At home, he called Tibbs and explained about the call from Savannah. During the call, Tibbs said he needed to break off because Savannah was on the line. Jake disconnected and went to the refrigerator for a Diet Coke.

A few minutes later, Tibbs called back. "I guess you know they've got the girl. She confessed to stealing your coins."

Jake asked, "Was she alone?"

"I can't really say. It's not the Savannah PD's job to interview her about the coins. We could get her back here when they're through with her. Then we might learn more."

"Look Tibbs, she's only being held there for using my credit card. If it would help with finding the coins, I can drop the charge, and she could be sent here."

"We'd have to go get her."

"Yeah, So? You have any bigger cases than this? A million dollar collection is taken. Do you really think it will be hard to get her back here?"

"You're right. It won't be a problem. We can send a paddy wagon (slang for police car driving prisoners) to get her."

"Okay, thanks. We'll talk later."

The sun was setting behind the buildings in downtown Savannah. Arion had gone home for the evening. Callie lay comfortably in her orange jumpsuit on the narrow bed in the holding cell. Everything about the cell was done in miniature. The floor space, lavatory, bed – they were all smaller than on the outside. No attempt was made to make it color-pleasing either. She smiled, thinking how apropos this was. It wasn't intended for her comfort. Oddly though, she felt a kind of peace. The cell bars didn't just keep her in, they kept predators out. She could handle this for a long time, maybe even the rest of her life. What could be worse than street life, or life running from the law? She didn't want any of it anymore. Jake had been special to her. He was the only decent man she had ever known. She hurt him and should be punished. She welcomed punishment. She just wished she could set the clock back a few months.

She heard the jingle of the keys hanging on the jailer's belt. The officer walked up to her door. "Callie, how are you doing? Do you want dinner?"

She hadn't thought about it, but she hadn't eaten since breakfast and was starving. "Ah. Sure. Does it come with the room?"

"Well. At least, you've still got some humor. Most of our 'guests' get pretty nasty in here. It's kind of a defense mechanism."

"I don't see any point in being mean. You've all been fair to me. I'm the criminal here. Tell you the truth, I expected everyone to be mean."

"Oh, we can get tough when needed. So, how about something warm and nutritious? I can't promise it meets the standards of the Worthington, but it will keep you alive."

"Thanks. I appreciate anything. I'm not in the Worthington class anyway. I was just faking it for a day."

"Well, honey, you have the looks and manners for it. I'll bring something down."

A few minutes later, the gate keeper returned with a metal tray, holding overcooked sliced beef, potatoes and gravy, and green beans. "Now Callie, we got to ask you to step to the back while I slip this through the door opening on the bottom."

She smiled and did as she was told. She stayed there only a moment until the guard signaled her to come get the tray. She said, "Thanks."

"Oh, don't thank me. Thank the good citizens of Savannah who pay for it all. If'n you was stayin' here, you'd probably get to make some of this in the kitchen as part of your duties."

"Maybe I will then."

"Oh, not likely. They's sending for you from Lafayette. You'll be outa here tomorrow afternoon."

She stopped eating and looked at the guard. "What? I didn't think I'd leave here."

"Well, sugar. The guy you took the card from said he gave it to you. Ain't no crime here in Georgia. So's they's comin' to take you back to Louisiana."

She thought of Jake and smiled. He was impossible to figure out. She had betrayed him every way imaginable, yet he was still the good guy. There was no way she could face him. While she was contemplating, the guard said, "Just call, honey, when you're through."

"Thanks, I'll yell in a bit."

She was alone, eating better than most of those years on the street. She didn't want to face Jake or anyone again. She'd confess to everything. She'd help find the coins, if possible. She just wanted to be locked safely in her cell and not have to answer any more questions or face someone that she knew she had hurt badly. There would always be a temptation to lie, and she didn't want to lie anymore.

She slept fitfully, but felt refreshed in the morning. There was nothing like the truth to set you free, and she was a truth-telling girl for the rest of her life -- even if that was behind bars. She had lived in a lot worse conditions. With Jake, she'd lived a lot better. She would never need to live like the Worthington people, but she would never forget it either. This was okay. Breakfast came at seven, which was normal for inmates, facing early court times. She ate fruit and part of one egg, passing on the bacon and toast. After finishing, a different female guard came to her cell. "We gotta get you cleaned up girl for you trip today." She opened the cell door and gestured for Callie to follow her to the open showers at the end of the cell block. "You can shower in there. I'll be standin' here but you ain't got nothin' I ain't seen before. They's a clean suit on the bench and a dry towel. We don't have any boutique shampoo, but the dispensers got stuff to get clean with."

Callie smiled. "Thank you, this will be fine."

About ten minutes later, she was dressed and towel dried her hair. She felt refreshed. "Okay, I'm ready to go back to my cell."

"Oh, no, girl. You are processing out of our little palace today. They's a Louisiana Police Van in the lot, and some nice officers to give you a ride back home."

Callie grinned, "Well, then. Let's go."

She was amazed at how nice everyone had been. She was as guilty as anyone they ever got for non-violent crimes, but they treated her more like a guest than a prisoner. She was never shackled, and no one even raised their voice at her. The guard just walked calmly beside her as they passed through the two check gates. As they cleared the cell block, there were two uniformed officers with different uniforms waiting at the end of the hall. They were holding leg irons and handcuffs, with a chain tying it all together.

As she approached, the female officer said, "Sit here," pointing to an old scarred wooden arm chair, which was the only furniture in the hall. She did as instructed. After clasping both ankles, the officer said, "Now extend your arms." She applied the handcuffs and closed them tightly around Callie's wrists.

Callie asked, "Can you loosen these one notch? It really hurts."

The officer gave her a stern look and wasn't interested in her comfort. "You'll get used to it. Now, stand and walk between us. All the paperwork is signed and we're good to go."

Once through the side door, into the parking lot, the female officer said, "If you try anything, you won't get anywhere with this rig. Others have tried and regretted it."

Callie looked at her feet while they shuffled her toward a white windowless van that said Lafayette Police on the side. "I won't try anything."

The officer responded, "Good."

The rear van door opened, and there were long benches along both sides but no windows. Both officers helped lift her up to the floor level. The female officer said, "You sit here on the driver's side so that I can watch you." We will only stop a couple times, so if you need a pee-break, hold it until we tell you. Do you understand?" Her voice was rigid and intolerant.

"Yes, I understand." They slammed the door closed.

The male officer was the driver. The female officer glanced back through the metal mesh barrier between the cab and the benches but never said a word. Her demeanor was not inviting any conversation. Once they were on the Interstate, she guessed that it was at least a twelve hour drive. She also guessed they would drive straight through.

The bench was hard, with little padding and there was no back, so she had to sit resting against the cold metal wall of the van. There was no restraint for acceleration or braking, so she was tossed fore and aft with each change. Finally, she tried lying down on the bench, which was only wide enough for about half her body. It was the only reasonable position for a long trip. She half expected the female officer to order her to sit up, but after some glances back, she let her rest. This was going to be a long trip.

The late fall weather was turning unseasonably cold, and the un-insulated sides of the van were frigid. Her teeth were chattering. She was nervous about saying anything to the officers, but finally had to request, "Can you please turn on some heat? I'm freezing back here."

The guards spoke to each other, but she couldn't hear anything with the road noise inside the van. "Please, can you give some heat? I'm freezing."

The guards seemed to debate between them, then the female finally reached up to the dashboard. Shortly, it got more tolerable but not warm. The female guard turned to Callie and spoke loudly enough to be heard. "That's all you get. We're heading into an icy storm area, and we need to stay alert."

Callie noticed for the first time that it had become pitch black through the front window, at least what she could see of it. Occasionally, there was a reflection of red tail lights ahead, but, after another hour, there were none. The noise level fell, as speed was reduced, and the officers both seemed to be leaning forward for better vision. They were talking in cryptic statements to each other, but she couldn't hear the words.

She tried to sleep, but the police radio was turned up loudly, and the female was using the microphone. Callie couldn't hear all the amplified dialogue but heard the term "closed," which she assumed meant a road. She began to worry that the police were going to stop somewhere for the storm to pass, and she would be left without a jacket in the freezing van, wearing only the orange jump suit and shackles. She closed her eyes and figured that there wasn't anything she could do and hoped that the police had matters under control.

In Lafayette, Jake was watching the weather channel through habit. Tibbs told him Callie was in transit and should arrive sometime after midnight. He didn't expect to see her, but he was mildly concerned about her safety. He still wanted to regard her as his little girl, even though she was an admitted criminal with a distasteful past. They wouldn't tell him about additional charges, but it sounded like she was involved in something even more serious than stealing from him. He didn't want to speculate on that.

BJ called. "Hey, Jake. You watchin' the weather?"

"Yeah. Not a night to be out on the road."

BJ pried. "So, what'd you decide? You gonna let her serve her time in Georgia?"

Jake shrugged to himself. "No, BJ. She's on her way back to Lafayette, although this weather could be more dangerous than leaving her there. I hope I made the right decision."

The police van had cleared Atlanta several hours earlier and had just crossed the Alabama border on Interstate twenty, heading west. The officers in front were still talking and using the radio. At one point, they argued with each other and Callie heard the driver yell, "Screw them, a little ice ain't gonna stop us."

From the windshield, there had not been any reflected lights for a long time. She was cold again and scared. More than once, the van shimmied, but kept going straight. They had slowed down considerably. It was cold, black, and they were alone on the road. Then it happened. The van fishtailed violently and spun halfway around, tipping on its side. It seemed to glide up on two wheels momentarily until the tires grabbed, and the van flipped.

Callie was thrown against the sides and floor as the van flipped several times. She curled as tightly as she could with the constraints, but she felt sharp pain with each impact. Then there was a rolling sensation as the van veered over the steep sides of the highway, tumbling several more times until impacting hard on its side.

All lights were out inside the van and neither officer in front was moving or speaking. The radio was still on, but no one was calling for help. They desperately needed help. She was lying on one of the crushed van sides, which was inclined about thirty degrees toward the front. They were stopped solid. After waiting several seconds, she cautiously moved one arm then the other, trying to determine if anything was broken. Then she moved both legs. Everything hurt, and she felt a warm drizzle of blood on her face, but she didn't seem to have any major injuries. She moved her hands, as much as possible, looking for lacerations. She couldn't find any. Then she slid up against the mesh front of the prisoner cage. "Hello, can either of you hear me?" There was no sound from the front and no movement.

It was hard to get any leverage with the shackles, but she pulled herself slowly uphill toward the doors in the back. At least one had flown open during the roll and they were partially askew when she reached them. They were heavy from this vantage and bent against their hinges, but she forced one open enough to crawl out. Once resting on top of the still-closed rear door, she was able to tumble off the back into the undergrowth shrubs and small trees compressed by the van. Her pain was excruciating, but she could still move. The roof of the van was facing downhill, as she worked along it toward the front.

When she reached the windshield opening, the glass was shattered and reflected headlights coming back off of the trees gave her enough visibility to see both officers suspended on their sides still strapped in their seatbelts. The male driver was uphill and the female was down. Both were unmoving and she feared the worst. She reached inside to check for pulses. The man felt warm and wet. He was bathed in blood, and she couldn't find a pulse.

She squirmed around the bent dash panel to feel the female's neck. She was also bathed in blood, but it could have been from the male above. She pressed harder into her neck to feel for a pulse and the woman moaned. She was alive!

Callie tried to talk to her, and she seemed to respond. Callie yelled, and the woman moved her head, still moaning. Callie yelled again. "Where is the first aid kit?" Nothing. She tried to reach in further to check for blood flow in the darkness, but the shackles made it impossible. "Ma'am, you've got to help me. Where's the first aid kit." Then the woman reacted with a lurch and tried to hit Callie, obviously recognizing her as the convict from the back. Callie fought her, grabbing her wrists, yelling that she wanted to help.

The woman weakened rapidly, and Callie released her wrists. "Ma'am, I'm trying to help. You're hurt and we need to stop some of your bleeding." The woman opened her eyes and seemed to comprehend.

Weakly, the officer said, "Under my seat. It's under my seat."

Callie tried again to reach inside, but couldn't move freely. "Ma'am, please, let me help. You've got to unlock me. I can't reach the kit."

The officer then made a gesture toward her gun on her right hip. Callie leaned in to the full extent of her restrains and grabbed the officer's right arm with both of her shackled hands. "Ma'am, you've got to stop. I only want to help. Stop with the gun. Please, please unchain me. You will die if you don't let me help." Callie was crying.

The officer changed her effort and pulled the keys from her duty belt with extreme effort. She said weakly, "Here."

It took several minutes to find the right handcuff key, and then the key for the ankle shackles. The chains dropped and Callie reached in below the seat for the aid kit. The officer leaned her head back, ready to submit to whatever Callie would do next. She was too weak to do anything else. With her freed hands, Callie was able to find a large bleeding wound on the officer's side. She reached into the kit and found a battle dressing, applying it to the wound with as much pressure as possible from her awkward angle. The officer screamed, but showed more life than before, crying "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to save your life, if you'll let me."

With a small gasp the woman said, "What can I do?"

"Here. Hold this as tight as you can. How can I use the radio?"

"It should be on unless it was wrecked in the crash." She grimaced, "Just find the microphone and press the button." She gasped and rolled her head back in obvious pain.

Callie searched in the dark with her hands under the mangled dashboard. The spiral cord wrapped around her wrist and she pulled upward, lifting the microphone dangling a few inches below. She quickly flipped it upward, catching it in the same hand. She held it to her face and pressed the button on top, "Help. Help. Can anyone hear me?"

The response came, "Who is this, please identify."

"Ah. My name is Callie Murray. I'm a prisoner in a police van from Louisiana, traveling on an Icy highway. We flipped over and off of the road. The police officers are badly hurt. Please send help."

The female officer clenched her teeth. "You need to let go of the mike button to hear them."

Callie looked at her then released the button after she comprehended what was said. A response came immediately. "Can you tell us where you are? We will send help. Over."

She keyed the mike again, "I, I'm not sure. Wait while I ask."

The officer heard the exchange. "Tell them we're westbound on I-20 just inside the Alabama state line. The Interstate is closed, and we're all alone."

She replied, "Okay, I understand." She keyed the mike, "Ah. The white police van is off the right side of Interstate 20, westbound just inside the Alabama state line. It's very cold. Please send help. The road is terrible, it's icy."

"We're contacting the Alabama State Highway Patrol. Hang in there. Help is on the way. Keep this channel open. Over."

"Okay, I understand." She left the microphone dangling outside the cab, and reached in again the help the officer.

The officer grimaced, "How is my partner?"

She didn't say anything in response. She'd already answered the question and the officer seemed to understand.

The woman tried to move, but her weight strain on the seatbelt made movement impossible. She cried in pain. "Girl, can you help me get out of this seat?"

"I'll try. What's your name?"

"It's officer Testa. Judy Testa."

"Okay, Judy. I'm going to try to lift you enough to take the strain off the belt. Do you think you can press the belt release?"

"I, I think so." The two women worked together to try to get Officer Testa free. She was slightly older than Callie, but much larger, about a hundred fifty pounds and five-seven. Callie's sneakers couldn't gain much traction on the icy ground. With one mighty heave, the belt released and Testa crashed down against the door, screaming again in pain.

Callie couldn't hold her. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I'm so sorry. I lost my balance and couldn't hold you."

"It's ... okay. It feels better just not having the belt cutting into me. I couldn't breathe. Do you think you can help me get up and out of here?"

"I'll try. I'll really try."

Testa put an arm up, and Callie put her head under, wrapping her arm around Testa. She stood with all her might and Testa was able to rise and lean over out the front of the cab. Through gasps, she said, "Try to pull me straight out. I need to get down flat on the ground."

Without saying anything, Callie helped pull Testa from the cab, falling backward as Testa fell on top then rolled downward, lying beside Callie. Testa took several deep breaths, creating a frost cloud around her face. "How's my bandage?"

Callie leaned over and pulled Testa's hand back onto the battle dressing. "There. Hold it tight. I'm going to try to get your partner out of the cab too."

She stood again, realizing that her feet were so numb that she had no feeling below her knees. Both police officers had fleece-lined winter jackets and heavy boots, while Callie only had a single-layer jumpsuit and sneakers. She would freeze to death without help soon. Despite the cold, she worked on freeing the belt from the other officer. The pressure from the belt was crushing his chest and there was no way he could have breathed. If he wasn't already dead, suspension from the shoulder belt would stop his breathing. "Judy. Do you have a knife?"

Even in this life-threatening situation, Testa hesitated before reaching in her duty belt for a folding knife. "Here." She handed the knife to Callie, who began sawing on the driver's belt material. His entire limp weight crashed down and rolled out on top of Testa, who screamed again in pain, as the body lay motionless on top of her.

Callie dropped the knife and rolled him off Testa then loosened his collar. She found a deep neck wound and went back to the aid kit for another battle dressing, which she tied over the wound.

Testa said, "I'm so cold. Are there any blankets?"

Callie searched as far as she could reach into the dark cab, but didn't find anything that could cover them.

She pushed Testa firmly against the other officer on the cold ground, then lay beside the wounded officer, sharing her body heat.

Sometime later, a rescue team located the van in a ravine beside the Interstate. All three bodies were either dead or unconscious. The female officer had the strongest vital signs and the responders on the scene couldn't tell if the other officer and prisoner were dead or alive. It was hard to tell in the cold and slippery conditions. An ambulance was called but it was more than fifteen minutes before it arrived in the bad weather. A rescue stretcher was used to lift each of the victims one by one up the hill. A waiting ambulance could only carry two patients and a decision was made to carry both officers first due to blood loss. Before they left, they covered Callie with blankets and coats, but her loss of body heat didn't generate much warmth. Another twenty minutes elapsed before the second ambulance arrived. One of the responding troopers rode in the ambulance with the prisoner. They kept her as warm as possible, but vital signs remained difficult to find.

Jake with Callie

In Lafayette, Jake called Tibbs' office to check on progress. Tibbs had gone home but the duty office said the police van was late reporting in and might have stopped somewhere to wait out the storm. They didn't have any word. Jake became worried and couldn't sleep well.

In the morning, Tibbs called. "Jake, there was an accident."

He heard the word and was immediately worried. "Where? How bad?"

"It was bad, Jake. The van carrying Ms. Murray spun out on I-20 in Alabama and rolled down a hill. It took a long time to find them in the bad weather."

Jake appealed. "How are they? How's Callie?"

"Jake, we don't know yet. The Alabama State Police say that three people were taken to a hospital. It looks like one dead and two critical in comas. It was really cold. Even if they live, there could be major frost damage."

"Look, Tibbs, I need to go there."

"You can't, Jake. This is still a police action."

"Look, Tibbs. I'm all she's got. Please don't pull protocol on me. I've got to be with her!"

Hours later, in the ICU at the Anniston Mercy Hospital, both women were covered from head to foot with warming blankets and had numerous IVs, breathing tubes and beeping monitors attached. Their color was gone, but Testa's face was beginning to look more normal. The doctors were attaching a brain scan apparatus to Callie, to check if there was any neural activity. There was no reason to be resuscitating someone who was already brain-dead.

After another hour, Judy Testa opened her eyes. She looked around, and the ICU nurse was beside her immediately. Judy asked where she was, and the nurse told her the location, and how long she'd been there. "What about my partner?"

"I'm afraid he didn't survive the crash, dear."

Tears formed in Testa's eyes, then she remembered. "How is my prisoner? How is the girl?"

The nurse moved slightly to allow Judy to see the bed beside her. "We don't know yet. She wasn't hurt badly from the accident, but she was cold for a long time."

A tear went down Judy's face. "She used her body to heat mine. I don't know why she did it. She might have tried to escape, but she saved me instead. She tried to save Ted, too."

The nurse patted Judy's arm. "Let me get you some ice chips dear, you must be thirsty."

Judy didn't move. She just lay staring at Callie who looked tiny and helpless beside her. No doubt, Callie had saved her life and maybe lost hers in the process. She looked so blue, even in the warm bed. Judy turned back, looking at the ceiling and said a silent prayer for Callie.

Late that day, Testa was moved to a regular patient bed, while Callie remained in a coma under police guard. After several hours, Testa was able to stand and walk, so she went back to the ICU to sit by Callie. "Come on girl, pull out of this. You shouldn't die like this."

She sat there for almost an hour when the attending doctor came by to check the brain scan.

"How's she doing, doctor?"

He looked at the small screen then checked the connections to Callie's scalp. "Well, we're starting to see some activity, which is a good thing."

"Does that mean she's getting better?"

"Not necessarily. The cold exposure could have damaged many organs. We don't know if we can save her feet, and if we take too long to decide, she might turn gangrenous on us. We'll give her a couple more hours then decide what to do. Does she have any relatives we should be contacting?"

"I don't know, but I'll try to find out."

Jake told Tibbs to call him on his cellphone for anything, at any time. When it rang, he was driving east on I-85 toward Alabama without any idea where she might be. "This is Jake."

"Jake, it's Tibbs. The hospital that has Callie wants to know if she had any kin?"

Jake swallowed hard before asking, "Why?"

"I don't know, Jake, they just said some decisions had to be made for her."

This meant that she wasn't able to make her own decisions. "Where is she, Tibbs?"

"Jake, you know I can't tell you. Now, does she have any family?"

"No. I'm about as close as you'll get."

"You don't qualify, Jake. I'm gonna tell them to make the decisions, using the best medical decisions they can make."

"Tibbs! You can't do that. The docs will only cover their own asses. She needs someone that cares for her."

"Is that you, Jake?"

"I'm the closest thing she has to kin."

"All right then. I'll ask them if you can be her surrogate daddy."

Jake transitioned from I-65 onto I-20 East, nearing the Alabama State line. He was listening to local news stations, hoping to hear something about the accident that would lead him to the hospital where Callie would be.

BJ called on his mobile phone. "Jake, where are you?"

"Hi, BJ. I'm driving on I-20 toward Atlanta."

"Do you know where you're going?"

"Not really. Tibbs won't tell me which hospital she's at. He's conflicted because I'm not a relative, and she's in police custody. I need to be there though."

"Jake, what can you do? Maybe you should let the police handle things."

"BJ, they don't care if she lives the way I do. I don't know if she's getting good medical help or not."

"Jake, she robbed you. She's not your daughter. Hell, she's not even who you thought she was."

"I don't care, BJ, and I can't explain it. Do me a favor will you?"

"What do you need, pal?"

"Call around to some of the hospitals close to the Interstate in Alabama near the Georgia Border. She's got to be in one of them. Her name is Callie Murray, but they might not have her under it. You can say that she is a prisoner of the Lafayette PD being transported back to Louisiana."

"Jake, I'll try."

"Okay, BJ. Call me back."

"Take care, buddy."

He knew it was foolish. At home, he felt he needed to be with her, but here, out on the highway, he realized how big the search area really was. He could drive for hours and never know where she was. He decided to call Tibbs again.

When the department answered, he said, "Let me talk to Detective Tibbs."

They transferred the call to Tibbs' mobile phone. "Tibbs."

"This is Ramsey, Tibbs. I'm driving on I-20 through Alabama. I need to know where she is."

"Jake, I told you before, she's in our custody, and I can't give you that information."

"Oh, come on, Tibbs. You're killing me. She's hurt, and no one around her cares about her. She needs me."

"She robbed you! You're our principal witness against her. That's a conflict."

"You know it's not true! I may be the guy she ripped off, but I don't believe she did it alone."

"You're not much of a good judge of character. Look, for what it's worth, the officer in the hospital with her, the one who lived, said Callie saved her life. She could have run, but she saved one of ours. She shielded our gal with her own body to keep her warm ... and, Jake, she might have lost her own life doing it."

"You see, Tibbs! She deserves something. I want to be near her."

Tibbs was silent for a minute. "Okay, Jake, but you heard it on the news, not from me." Tibbs told him where the hospital was.

"Thanks, Tibbs. Also, can you tell them I'm her guardian or something to get me past the gate guards?"

"I'll help, Jake."

"Thanks, Tibbs."

The next two hours of driving were painful, they seemed to last forever. Jake was growing more distressed with time, thinking that she could be dying alone, when he might somehow be able to help save her. Finally, the exit ramp for Anniston appeared. As he exited, there was a large blue sign with "H" and an arrow pointing north. The hospital was only a mile away.

He parked by the Emergency Room entrance, as BJ called. He answered while walking. "Hi, BJ."

"Jake, she's probably at the hospital in Anniston, Alabama. I did a web search of local news, and it sounds like the right kind of accident happened there."

Jake walked and talked. "Yeah, I'm there. Gotta go, and thanks."

He hung up, not listening for a response, as he hurried through the door. There were a few people, sitting quietly in the waiting area as he walked to the admitting nurse's station.

"Hello, I'm Jake Ramsey. I'm trying to locate Callie Murray. She came in with some police officers from Louisiana."

"Ah. Mr. Ramsey, I can't provide any information about that."

"Look. I just drove all the way from Lafayette and need to be with her."

"Okay. Have a chair, and I'll call you."

He was frustrated, but did as he was told. The nurse slid the glass partition closed in front of the desk and used the phone. He couldn't hear what was said. After a couple minutes of dialogue and multiple discussions, the nurse summoned him back to her station. As he approached, she said, "Mr. Ramsey, someone is coming down."

He just shook his head and stood back, looking in the direction of the doors, leading to the elevator. After a couple more minutes, an Alabama State Trooper came through the double doors. The man was tall, much larger than Jake, with a serious look on his face. His head was shaved under a tight-fitting brimmed cap. He didn't look like the kind of guy who would be a pleasant off-duty neighbor.

The trooper spoke first. "Are you Mr. Ramsey?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing here, Mr. Ramsey?"

"I'm here to be with Callie Murray. We're close friends."

"Ms. Murray is a prisoner under escort by Louisiana police, she's not an ordinary patient here. Are you related?"

"No. As I said, I'm a close friend."

Without more introductions, the trooper said, "Come with me," and turned back toward the elevators.

Jake walked briskly to keep up. He imagined the trooper regarded him as some kind of low-life criminal, who was going to see his low-life friend. Nothing more was said as the trooper pushed the button for third floor. The ride up was in silence. As they exited, they passed by a corridor marked "Intensive Care" and past a nurse's station, leading to several patient rooms.

When they were half-way down the short hallway, the trooper said, "Wait here," pointing to an imaginary spot on the floor. Jake stood on the spot, and the trooper walked into the next open door, closing it. Jake stood unmoving on his assigned spot. The PA system made some periodic summons for doctors, but it was otherwise a very quiet hospital. It seemed like several minutes before the door opened, and a woman in a long hospital robe came out with the trooper.

"Mr. Ramsey, I'm Officer Testa. What's your business with my prisoner, Ms. Murray?"

"Look, Officer. Callie is someone I am very close to. She doesn't have any family, so I'm as close as you get. I want to see her and be with her if she's injured."

"Mr. Ramsey, Miss Murray is badly injured. She's in ICU, and they don't know if she'll recover. She might also lose her legs."

Jake stared at her, unable to speak. Tears formed as he said, "Then she needs someone, someone like me who cares to be with her."

Testa's hard appearance softened. "She won't even know if you're there."

"She'll know. At least I'll know. If there's any chance that she might know, then I want to help her."

Testa didn't speak for several seconds, while Jake tried to maintain some composure. She looked at the trooper and said, "Let him in."

The trooper objected. "That's not our protocol here."

Testa rebutted. "I don't care. She's under my custody. Just stay nearby."

The trooper persisted. "They only allow one person in ICU, and he can't be with her alone."

Testa was showing some weariness and stiffness, turning to face the trooper. "Look, she's my responsibility. Let him in!"

He turned to Jake saying, "Come with me."

Jake held in place. "Thank you. Are you the officer she was with in the accident?"

Testa looked back compassionately. "I'm one of them. My partner died."

"I'm sorry."

"That makes two of us. For what it's worth, she's a good girl. I owe my life to her."

A small tear ran down his cheek. "Thanks" was all that he could say before turning with the Trooper and walking toward intensive care.

They had to stop at the ICU glass double doors. Jake could see a woman with tubes hanging in several directions, but couldn't tell if it was her under all of the paraphernalia. The attending nurse needed his information and repeated their restrictions on guests who were not family. This time the trooper authorized the deviation based on Testa's authority. Jake was told not to touch her and to turn off his cellphone.

Callie was the only patient in the ICU. As he approached, there were several small motor sounds, beeps and IV drips. These were the only sounds in the large semi-darkened room. Her skin was grey, and her hands seemed to be swollen. She was lying on her back absolutely frozen in position. Her eyes were closed, but relaxed.

Jake couldn't imagine how uncomfortable it must be with all the needles, hoses and probes attached. But she wasn't moving and probably didn't feel anything. The ICU was tightly congested with beds, monitors and apparatus hanging from the ceiling. In between the beds was one small plastic chair, where he sat staring at her. He somehow felt responsible for her injuries. Even though he had given her the best living conditions of her life, it hadn't been enough.

He sat resting his head in his hands when footsteps alerted him to a doctor and nurse approaching. Jake stood as Dr. Lewis greeted him and looked at her chart. After some moments, Lewis said, "Mr. Ramsey, I'm told you are a close friend but not a family member or guardian, is that right?"

"Yes." The questioning was mildly disturbing.

"All right then, we are going to need to speak to the police about what to do next."

Jake stepped sideways, partially blocking the Doctor's path. "What do you mean?"

"I really can't discuss this with you."

"Look, Doc. I'm kind of like her father. Please tell me what's going on?"

"I can't ... " At that point, Judy Testa came into the ICU, having been summoned by the trooper.

She asked, "What's the issue, doctor?"

"Are you the custodial officer?"

"Yes. Patrolman Judy Testa, Lafayette Police Department. Ms. Murray is in my custody."

"Well, Officer Testa. Ms. Murray is not responding, and each hour that goes by leads us to believe her systems are not going to recover from the cold exposure. I would like to try a stimulant procedure, something injected into her IV, to try to shock her nervous system. It's a bit of a long shot, but if her body doesn't start healing itself, the cold damage, particularly to her arms and legs, will overcome any chance of survival."

Testa looked at Jake. "What do you think, Jake?"

The doctor insisted, "This needs to be decided by you, Officer."

Testa snapped back. "It WILL be decided by me!" Looking back at him, "Jake, I know she means a lot to you. What do you want to do?"

He felt like he was being asked to unplug her from life support, but he was also glad that it was his decision. At least someone who cared for her most would do it. "Tell me again doctor. What are you planning to do?"

The doctor gave an explanation of a pharmaceutical cocktail that would be injected into her IV. Lewis had discussed it with their Chief Neurologist and some others, and there was one hundred percent agreement. She would not live if they did nothing. There was no guarantee that this would result in a different outcome, but they were out of options.

Jake nodded his head up and down slowly feeling helpless, but knowing he had to make the decision. "Let's try."

It took about twenty minutes to complete the paperwork and have the concoction delivered to ICU. The nurse came in with a new clear IV bag and swapped it with the existing one. She reset the drip machine and left to call Dr. Lewis, who reappeared with a woman physician, Dr. Palid, who was from Neurology. Testa stayed with them as all stood waiting. For ten minutes, nothing changed then one of the monitors started beeping more frequently. Dr. Palid reset the controls. Jake watched Callie's face, but the doctors seemed to be checking other indicators.

Callie's eye muscles twitched, then she opened her eyes briefly. They closed again, and she was motionless when Dr. Palid adjusted the drip machine. This time, Callie's eyes opened and blinked, but remained open. Palid pulled a small light from her white coat and checked Callie's alertness saying, "Callie. Callie, can you hear me?"

Callie's lips quivered and her nose twitched. Jake said, "Callie, it's Jake. Can you hear me?" She turned her head slightly toward his voice. The rest of her body was motionless. "Callie, honey. It's Jake."

She tried to talk, then cleared her throat. Jake and Testa were energized. She was showing signs of life. The doctors were fiddling with different monitors, paying less attention to her directly.

Callie tried to speak, pursing her lips. Then she said, "Jake, I can't see you."

He moved past the doctors, beside her bed and leaned slightly forward into her line of vision. "How's that? Can you see me now?"

She smiled weakly. "Yes."

He wanted to talk more to her, not sure what to say. "Callie, you were in an accident. Do you remember."

"Sort of. Kind of." Her voice was weak.

"All right, honey. Just rest and let the doctors work."

"No. Please take my hand." He gently pulled the cover back and held her hand. "Are you holding my hand?"

He was startled, realizing she had no feeling. "Yes, hon. I've got you. Can't you feel it?"

"No. I can't feel anything, Jake. I'm so scared."

"I know, sweetheart, but you've got to hang in there and let the docs and meds work."

"Jake, I want to tell you..." She closed her eyes, and he was going to back away. "Jake, I didn't want to hurt you..." She faded again. "Jake, he wouldn't let me stop. I just wanted to lead us both to capture."

"It's okay, Honey. I know you wanted to do the right thing."

She showed more strength. "Jake, I was scared. He killed my neighbor and, I think, my mother. He was going to kill me if I didn't do what he said. I think he tried to kill you." Her eyes were watering, pleading for his understanding. Officer Testa listened from behind, outside of the lights over the bed.

Jake said gently, "Callie, don't overdo it now. There will be time for explanations."

She wanted to say something again. "Jake, the letters. Give Bobby's letters back."

"Back to who, Callie?"

She tried to turn toward him but couldn't speak.

She closed her eyes, while the doctors both moved away from the monitors and talked across the room. Callie's facial muscles were completely relaxed, like she was sleeping peacefully.

Dr. Lewis approached, while Jake released Callie's hand. "Mr. Ramsey, Officer Testa, can we speak outside please."

Jake sensed something wrong and reluctantly followed the others into the hallway outside the ICU. Lewis turned and spoke, looking at neither of them. "Ms. Murray did not respond adequately. Her neurologic signals did not reach the levels we had hoped for, and she's now regressing."

Jake was alarmed. "Can't we give her more? Can't we try again?"

Lewis looked at him sympathetically, "Mr. Ramsey, it doesn't work that way. This was like an electric shock to her nervous system. We get one shot. Any more would kill her."

Jake responded, "So, what's next?"

Lewis looked back at him, then away. "I wish it was easier."

Judy Testa interjected, "Doctor, what are you telling us? Be direct."

He looked at her. "We can try to keep her comfortable until..."

Jake lost it. "Until! Until what? I don't understand. What are you saying?"

Lewis took a deep breath. "We've done all we can. It's just a matter of time now."

"Time for what?" Jake knew the answer, but didn't want to know it.

Testa put her hand on Jake's shoulder. "How long, doctor?"

"It could be any time now. You can stay with her."

Jake was looking at him, but couldn't speak. He turned to Testa with pleading eyes. She looked at him, then down saying, "Mr. Ramsey, Jake, I think you should go sit with her."

He nodded up and down weakly then turned back through the ICU doors.

Many of the noises had subsided from before, and the nurse had removed some wires. Her breathing tubes were still attached. She looked asleep and completely relaxed. The only sign of life was the video screen on one of the monitors which showed a series of spikes, her pulse. The beeping sound had been turned off. He sat in the chair and put his hand on the covers over her arm. He said quietly, "Callie, I hope you can hear me. I have grown to love you like my own daughter. I don't want to lose you, but I want you to know that I don't blame you for anything. You've given me a new life. I want to share it with you. Please don't leave me now."

He sat with his head against her bed for a long time, never looking up or checking the time. It was completely quiet until he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps. He looked up as the nurse stood by the end of Callie's bed, writing something on her chart and checking her watch. She walked to the opposite side of the bed and turned off the monitor and reached under the covers, removing the electrodes. She then gently removed the breathing tube from Callie's nose and straightened her hair. She looked amazingly peaceful and asleep. The nurse then came around the bed to Jake's side as he looked up with pleading eyes. She said softly, "You can stay here for a while if you like."

He cried uncontrollably.

Before leaving the hospital for the drive back to Lafayette, Jake made arrangements for her body to be shipped to the only funeral home he knew in town. He also met with Officer Testa, who would always feel a lingering guilt about the accident.

The drive home was like a shallow dream. He had no recollection of time or stopping for gas or food, or anything. He only thought about Callie and the hard life she'd had. She was a good girl but would never have a chance to live a good life.

He called BJ while on some lonely stretch of highway. BJ answered, "Hey, Jake. What's going on?"

"She died, BJ."

"Jake, I'm sorry, man."

"She never had a chance in life, BJ. She wasn't a bad girl. She just was born into a bad situation and never got out of it."

"Jake. You gave her a break, and she stole your collection."

"She was scared, BJ"

"Scared of what?"

"I don't know."

"Well. What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to let the police do their job."

"How do you know she didn't just hide your coins somewhere?"

"BJ, why would she? She turned herself in. She confessed to everything. She was dying in the hospital and had nothing to lose by hiding them. She's not the one behind all this. She was just a tool."

"I still find it hard to believe"

"BJ, what difference does it make?"

"Well. I just don't want you and the police chasing a figment of someone's imagination."

"All right, man. I gotta go."

They disconnected and Jake felt more depressed than before the call. Was he being foolish believing in Callie's innocence? Wasn't it just something he wanted to believe? Nothing added up, and he was getting a headache on top of his grief.

It was early morning when he arrived back in Lafayette, and he needed sleep desperately. He took off his shoes and lay on top of his bed, hoping to sleep, but not expecting to. His head pounded, and he rolled over and over trying to find a position where the ache stopped. Around ten o'clock he was even more awake, and the bed seemed repulsive in the daylight. He climbed out, took some clean underwear and went to the bathroom to shower.

While the water was running to get hot, the phone rang. He closed the faucet and answered on the fifth ring. It was the funeral home, confirming his instructions from Alabama. The city of Lafayette would pay for transport of the body to them and a local mortuary in Alabama was preparing the body for transport. The person on the phone was being as gentle as possible, but it depressed Jake to think of her remains treated like some package to be delivered in the morning. He would need to stop by later today to make "arrangements," whatever that meant. She'd been special to him. She was the only girl that had ever been special other than his mother, who'd been gone for almost five years.

He went back to the shower, and the phone rang again. This time it was Detective Tibbs. "Hey, Jake. I'm sorry. From what I hear, she was special. Our patrolman, Testa, said she was the bravest and most caring person she ever met and will be eternally grateful to Callie."

"Thanks, Tibbs. She never expected much in life, so I only hope she's in a better place now." It occurred to him that he was being hypocritical, given his lack of religious beliefs, but it seemed appropriate.

"Look. The FBI is on the case and will be contacting you. There's some angles they're interested in, so just be aware they're the lead agency now."

"Okay, and, Tibbs. Thanks for helping me get to her before ... you know." He couldn't complete the sentence.

"It's all right, Jake, take care. Call me if we can do anything, and I'll let you know if we find anything."

Backtrack

Will Ryan wasn't really a qualified airplane mechanic, or any type of mechanic. He barely qualified as a shop helper. His so-called mechanics school in the Coast Guard never got past the first phase, which addressed procedures, documentation and tools, with minimal overview of their helicopters. It also covered the different classification of hardware. He was never allowed to touch anything on an aircraft. He learned about military specifications for hardware and why aircraft use components different from commercial parts. He was trained to never use standard hardware that would fail under stress aboard aircraft.

He was lazy and possessed less aptitude than test scores indicated and had no motivation. The Coast Guard sent him on to his first duty station, after cutting training short, with no more qualifications than a raw seaman. The flaw in his personnel record was his MOS (Military Occupational Specialty), which could be interpreted as a competency statement.

He barely got into Alabama before his truck overheated and started making a huge tapping racket. He managed to limp into a service station that had a mechanic late at night. The noise was caused by hydraulic valve tappets in the engine running dry when the oil pressure fell. He hadn't checked the oil level in a long time, maybe never. The engine overheated due to excessive friction, causing the radiator to boil over, further increasing the heat and wear on the engine. It was hard to tell how long it had run without oil, but it was at least twenty miles.

Inside the service bay, a mechanic in dirty overalls leaned across the front fender under the open hood, listened then yelled. "Shut her down."

Will stepped out of the truck cab as the man pulled the dipstick out. The garage was filthy, and the mechanic was a toothless man, probably younger than Will, about five-five and one hundred-twenty pounds. His fingers were black, and Will guessed he hardly bathed, like Will's truck. He asked, "So, what's the deal? Do I need to add water?"

The mechanic said, "Hell, boy. This old rig is burnt. Look at the oil. It's black and thick as tar. Been way too hot."

Will asked, "So can we fill it up and get it back on the road? I don' wanna be spendin' no money on this rig."

"Shit man. Why'd you even stop then? Should jes' kep' on rollin' down the ways here and started a forest fire. This engine is all burnt. Rings, valves, bearings, the works, she's done in."

"So, can you fix it tonight? You know, like fill it with thick oil or STP? I can pay you know."

"Man, I couldn't fix it in a month, and it ain't worth it. Get yo'self sumpin new's cheaper'n fixin' this rig."

Will had a problem with his cargo hidden under a tarp in the bed. "So, where can I get a new truck this time 'o night?"

"Cain't, man. There's Honest Roy's Car Emporium down aways." Toothless signaled with his hand, farther from the Interstate, down the country road.

"Well, I can't leave this here tonight. I gotta stay with it."

"Like I said, friend, it's shot. I don' wan' it here any mor'n you wanna leave it. Tell you what. I'll fill it up with gear oil. It's sho' hot enough to start with that stuff. It'll stay in there a few miles. Jes' head on down to Roy's, and he'll he'p you in the mornin'. You can even sleep in it 'till then. Don't spect it to start in the mornin' cold. That stuff's like glue. Like I say'd, it'll run tonight while it's real hot, but not in the mornin'"

"Okay. How much for the oil?"

"Well, I figure its twenty bucks for the oil and twenty bucks for m' time."

"Forty bucks? That's stealin'"

"Then go some where's else!"

Will looked at him in bewilderment. "Okay. I got a gold coin the man gave me eight hundert for in Atlanta. I want some change."

Toothless smiled across blackened gums. "Ain't no gold dealer's here, pal. If'n that's all you got, then I'll keep it for security, and you can pay me cash tomorrow."

In frustration, Will paid with one of the coins in his pocket, which was the best deal Toothless ever made. Will wasn't coming back here. He needed to get farther west, fast. He paid the extortion, and drove a mile to Roy's, which was dark, except for some yard lights. He backed into a parking slot in front of the office and killed the engine, never expecting to start it again. Hell. If I knew it was this close I woulda just kept burning the engine with the old oil – it woulda gone another mile! Oh well, ain't like it's my money. He lay across the bench seat and tried to stay warm until morning.

At dawn, the weather was frigid when he woke, sleeping in Honest Roy's lot. He could see the grey sky through the windshield and swirling clouds, showing an uneasy weather pattern. His watch showed seven o'clock, which meant Roy's would be closed for a couple more hours. He tried to rest more when someone tapped on his window. "Hey, buddy. What you doin' here?"

Will sat up and looked at a pudgy man dressed in jeans and a cowboy shirt that was stretched too tight across his bulging belly. His wide brimmed hat showed adequate hair on the sides, but probably covered a bald head on top. Will yelled through the side window, "I'm waitin' for Roy. I need a new truck."

"Well, then. Come on outta there'n, let's talk!" The man was smiling broadly before a long spit of tobacco stained the front of his shirt.

Will climbed out of his old truck, checking to be sure the tarp was secure. The man said, "Howdy. Lookin' at this wreck, you been needin' a new ride for a while."

"Yeah, I bought it in Oklahoma a year or so ago. Didn't pay nothin', so can't complain, other'n she burnt up on me last night."

Roy stepped back and looked from front to back. "I'd say it's a miracle that it got you this far. Where you headin', boy?"

Will thought, "Oh, headin' east. Lookin' for work."

"Well, if you're a mechanic, I could use one."

"Nope. Don't know nothing about it." He didn't want to be sitting still with a million dollars in gold.

"All right then. Let me show what we got. I got a 1999 Ford that's only got forty thousand on the odometer, been well maintained."

Without any more discussion or even a road test, Will said, "I'll take it."

"Okay, son, but I cain't take any credit cards." He'd dealt with shady buyers before, one of the hazards of his business.

"I'm payin' with cash – better'n cash, I'm payin' with gold."

"Well, that's a first. Maybe we should go inside and close the door." Roy gestured toward the swinging glass doors and looked around to see if anyone else was nearby.

Will first went to his truck and took a box of coins from under the tarp, careful to look around the car lot. It was early and there were no other people in sight.

Inside the dealership showroom, he followed Roy to his office. They sat across the desk from each other while Roy pulled a file with the car title from a small safe behind him. "Now, son. You said 'gold.' Is that right?"

"Yes, sir. I got my coins right here." He patted the box.

"Well, let's see."

Will opened the small corrugated box and pulled out a smaller blue box with an American Eagle seal stamped in gold. He opened it and showed four 2003 gold bullion proof coins with a small mint certificate indicating 99% pure gold. The sets are sold through the U.S. Mint each year. Will smiled, "I got a bunch o' these.

Roy did a quick on-line searche and found several dealers selling the identical gold sets, all around $3600. "Well, son, I'll tell you what. That truck is priced at nine thousand. I'll give it to you for six o' them coin sets."

Will stood and put out his hand. "You gotta deal, Roy."

Roy smiled slightly, having confirmed the honesty of his customer. At least the coins weren't traceable. The only thing left was some paperwork that showed a phony low price and a forged driver's license number. The whole transaction was completed fast, before any other salesmen arrived. Will figured he paid twice what the Ford was worth under the circumstances, but it was better than spending too much time in one place haggling. He moved his new truck beside the derelict and transferred the collection. He then asked if he could use the phone for a quick call to someone out of state.

Roy said, "Well, all right, but why don't you make it fast so's we don't get any interested characters around here, if'n you know what I mean."

Will was shown to a sales desk by the large display window. There was no privacy, but Roy was in an office several feet away. He dialed the number then turned, facing the window and cupping the mouthpiece. When someone answered, Roy could only hear part of the discussion.

"Yeah, I got it." Pause. "Yep, I know." Pause. "She did what?" Pause. "Okay, I got a different ride." Pause. "Yeah, I'll make sure. Okay, I'll call you when I get close."

Will finished the call and left with his new Ford truck. Actually, it wasn't new, but it was the newest vehicle he'd ever driven. It was less than two miles to I-20 West. When he was out of the building, Roy called one of his lot boys to tow the old truck to the back of the lot and remove all identification. He knew a scrap dealer that would dismember it in less than a day.

The weather near Birmingham became stormy and cold. The Ford had good defrosters and intermittent wipers, everything worked in the truck, which was thrilling to Will. On the western side of Birmingham, he followed billboard signs to Carmine's Gold Dealer, which promised the highest prices for gold in any form, pure or not.

Carmine's was not what Will expected. The signs were larger than the store. It was a bright orange shack with heavy iron bars on the windows. There weren't many windows and there was only one car out front, a newer model Mercedes. He parked around the side of the building on the gravel lot and untied a corner of the tarp, enough to reach into one of the boxes for a small Plexiglas coin display case.

There were cameras at every outside corner of Carmine's and one head-high by the door. Obviously, Carmine was security minded. Inside there was a desk and large vault. Chimes on the door alerted an old man behind a curtain that a customer had arrived.

"Well. Hello, young man. Welcome to Carmine's."

Will walked up to the desk where the man positioned himself. He could smell coffee, brewing behind the curtain. "I got some gold to sell." Absently, he added, "It was from my uncle who wanted me ta have it, but I need the money mo' than a souvenir."

"Okay. Let me see what you got. We don't ask a lotta questions here."

Will pulled the small case from his pocket and laid it on the desk. The old man reached inside the desk for an eye loop and peered down at the coin, showing his shiny globe head rimmed in white, with large brown spots.

"Well, sonny. I can't really appraise this in the plastic. It looks like a mint proof coin that's worth more just because it's never been circulated or even touched."

Will was irritated. "So, you won't buy it?"

"I didn't say that. I said it would need to come out of the case. I buy gold to melt down. This is a collector's item and is worth more than its weight. I'm just tryin' to give you some good advice here."

"So, take it out of the case."

"Can only do that if we break the case. And like I said, I only buy by weight, not collector value."

"I don't care about that. I just want money for the gold."

The old man dealt with thieves almost daily and ran the risk of problems with the law each time. Will was not an unfamiliar type of customer. "Look, young fellow. I'll make you a deal. I reckon the weight of this package, with the coin is about half coin and half plastic. I won't break the plastic if you'll sell the gold based on half the weight here." He tapped the plastic case. Carmine knew the exact value of the bullion proof dollar.

Will was quick to answer. "So, how much is that?"

"Well, let's weigh it." Carmine pushed the curtain back and let Will observe the digital scale, which read 2.8 ounces.

Will was excited that the gold was so heavy, but Carmine just shook his head slowly saying, "Okay, then. The coin is about one point four ounces by my estimation."

Will answered, "So it's worth over a thousand, right?"

"Well, no. You see, son, the mint doesn't use pure gold. It alloys the metal with nickel to give it strength. Pure gold is too soft for coins. So this is only about half gold, about point seven ounces." If Will had read the certificate left in the truck, it would said ninety-nine percent pure gold.

"What's it worth then?"

"Well, gold is retailing about sixteen hundred dollars per ounce right now, but I pay wholesale. Got to make a profit, you know. Then there's the waiting period. In Alabama, I gotta wait thirty days before I can sell it, casin' it's stolen or something." Carmine looked askance at Will. "You won't have any problem showing me some ID will you?"

Will fidgeted. He even considered bashing the old man and stealing whatever cash he had in the vault. "No. I got no problem."

Carmine continued, "Also, there's a little risk if'n I'm off on the gold weight, so I'll give you eighty percent of the wholesale worth of the gold. How about that?"

In a deflated voice, Will asked, "How much?"

"Well. Let's see. I figure four hundred fifty."

"What! I got eight hundred in Atlanta!"

"Well, son, this ain't Atlanta, and I know my goods. Consider yourself lucky that I'm even offering anything."

Will was becoming nervous that this was some kind of a setup. "Okay, give me the money."

Carmine smiled. "I thought you'd say that."

Minutes later, Will was back on the Interstate with enough cash to live on for a few days. Carmine was busy calling the State police. He had a video of the man and had recorded the temporary license number of the truck when Will drove away. He ran an honest business, which often put him face-to-face with criminals. He was a master of avoiding harm, and avoiding suspicion by the law. He had no doubt the coin was stolen and expected that the rightful owner would reimburse him if it meant catching the thief. Maybe there would even be a reward. He'd been rewarded before.

On the road, Will felt relaxed. He had a great ride, more wealth in the back than he needed for a lifetime and started dreaming of the good life ahead. He would disappear forever, maybe in Mexico or someplace else warm. He turned on the radio and found a clear country and western station, and reached in his shirt pocket for a Winston. Life was good.

Alone Again

The toughest days were still ahead for Jake. He'd found Callie and reconnected with his past, then lost it all again. In two days, he would have a quiet funeral and bury her. He dreaded it. She'd looked so perfect in the hospital. Why did she have to die? He couldn't go back on the work schedule before the funeral. He just had to be tough for a couple days. The phone rang. "Hello."

"Mr. Ramsey? Jake Ramsey?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Ramsey, this is Jeremy Wallace of the FBI. Can we talk for a few minutes?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"First, sir, I talked to Patrolman Testa and want to express my sympathy for you. I don't want to upset you if this is a bad time to talk about the case we're building."

"Look. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I'm okay. What do you want to talk about?"

"Can you come down to our New Orleans office, or can I come up to your place to talk?"

Jake didn't want to be away from the phone in case more arrangements needed to be made for Callie. "Can you come here? I don't feel like driving anywhere for a couple days."

"That's fine, sir. Is this afternoon all right, say around two?"

"Sure."

Later that day Wallace arrived with another Agent, Isabel Link. Jake offered them a soft drink, then all sat in the living room.

Wallace began. "Sir. As I recall, you like to be called Jake. Please feel free to call us by our first names also. We're on the same side in this."

Wallace continued, "Okay, first I'd like to go over the police report from Savannah. Ms. Murray had some things with her and made some statements that could help us find her accomplice."

Jake looked at them. "So, you're sure there was someone else? Only one?" He knew there was one, but wanted to hear more details.

Wallace continued. "From all that we know so far, there were only two involved. Obviously, we can't question Ms. Murray any further, so we can only go by what she told the police in Georgia, which was actually quite a lot. None of it has been verified, which maybe you can help with."

"You know, I'll try any way I can. I'd like to get my collection back."

Wallace placed a legal notepad on the coffee table and looked at some notes. "Did you know what kind of car Ms. Murray was driving?"

"She didn't have a car when she was with me."

"Okay. Was she especially friendly with anyone, any relatives?"

"She said her mother was dead and no other relatives. I don't know of any friends." He thought for a minute. "She had one or two dates with one of our mechanics at work. His name is Will something."

Wallace continued. "Good. We'll get to him in a minute. Did she steal anything besides the coin collection and your credit card?"

"Yeah. I told all this to the Lafayette police before. First, I still don't know if she actually stole anything." He found himself awkwardly trying to defend a dead girl. "My gold coins were taken, and I gave an inventory to the Lafayette detectives. I discovered my credit card is gone too. In one of my safes, I had some guns. Two handguns are gone."

"What kind of guns?"

"A Colt 1911 forty-five and a Beretta nine mil."

"Was there anything else that she might have taken?"

"Like what?" Jake could sense that there was more that Wallace wasn't disclosing.

"There was a metal box in the car she was driving that contained some letters."

Jake stared at them for a moment. "I think those might be letters from Bobby Lowe to his girlfriend Julie. Would be about thirty years old, same age as Callie."

Wallace acknowledged with a head shake. "Do these belong to you?"

"I guess they do. They were written by my buddy, my copilot, in the Army to his girlfriend."

"Why would Ms. Murray take them from you?"

"She didn't, I guess. She brought them with her to show me, to prove she was Callie Lowe, which I guess isn't true."

"So, who would they belong to now?"

"She said her mother was dead, so I guess they're as much mine as anyone's now. She mentioned them in the hospital, but I didn't know what she meant."

Agent Link said, "I've been doing the background research on Ms. Murray, and her mother is actually dead. She died in Abilene last year, but her name wasn't Julie or anything close."

Wallace added. "We're investigating her death as well, as this case expands."

Jake asked, "Expands? Expands to what?"

Wallace explained. "We're not sure where this crime spree began, or how broad it is. You appear to be the main target, but there are some other factors. For example, the car Ms. Murray was driving in Georgia belonged to a single woman who lived next to Murray's mother in Texas. The lady has been missing for months, and her car turned up in Savannah with Ms. Murray. There's a good possibility that the woman was murdered."

Jake said, "You know, I'm not the best judge of character, but Callie was no killer."

"Maybe not, but she may have been involved someway."

Jake was trying to process it all when Wallace returned to his notes. "So, Jake. When the investigation is over, do you get the letters?"

"I guess so."

Wallace shifted subjects. "Let's talk about Will Ryan, the mechanic at your helicopter company." Jake nodded. "When did you notice he wasn't at work?"

Jake thought, "I don't know exactly. I've been through a lot recently, haven't been to work much. I used to drive him to work in the morning, but it's been a couple weeks since the last time."

Wallace acknowledged. "According to people there, he just didn't show up one morning. Did he have a car?"

Jake answered, "He had an old pickup that didn't run well, and some kind of sedan that was always covered with a tarp. He said it didn't run."

Wallace continued. "We investigated the house he rented, and there weren't any cars. Is it possible that the covered car was a 1986 dark blue Buick?"

"I don't know. It could have been, but I don't remember anything specific. It was completely covered."

"Does Ryan have any friends that you know of?"

"No, he was pretty much a loner. He asked Callie out once or twice, but I didn't approve. They kept apart, I think."

"Jake, we have some evidence that Ryan was in your house, and maybe in your safes. Prints were found in a couple rooms. The safes were wiped, so we didn't get anything positive, but there are some partial prints that could be his. Is there some reason his prints would be on your safes?"

"No. I never let him in my house."

"Would Ms. Murray have let him in?"

Jake thought then answered. "She could have. They went on at date at least once that I know about. I was away. I kinda let her know that I didn't approve."

Wallace persisted. "Did Ms. Murray know your combinations?"

Jake nodded his head slowly. "It's possible. I opened them around her a couple times and didn't try to hide the combinations. I told her the combinations were with my will."

"So, would you say she could have opened them for Ryan, either by choice or by force?"

"I guess so."

Wallace concluded. "Okay, well I guess that's about it for now unless you have some questions for us?"

"No, not really. What about the letters? Can I have them?"

"Maybe once the investigation is finished."

Then Agent Link spoke for the second time. "Mr. Ramsey, when Ms. Murray turned herself in, she asked that the clothing she was wearing be protected carefully. It's about all she had with her. They were new and extremely expensive. Since you agreed to pay for her charges, do you want the clothes?"

Jake was stunned. Callie bought clothes? "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

They left without drinking anything, leaving Jake more confused. People were possibly murdered. Will Ryan was gone.

Traffic Stop

Will was on his second pack of smokes when the late afternoon sky filled with one of the violent thunderstorms common in the South. It was cold and dark. He'd had the wipers on high speed, and the defroster blasting hot air for the past hour. The forecasters on the radio said conditions were right for ice to form, and the Interstate might be closed. He slowed to fifty and couldn't see much beyond the front of his truck. All drivers had their lights on, and he had come very close to a couple vehicles before seeing them through the dark watery curtain. Fortunately, most of the traffic left the road, and all he had to do was stay in the lane, which was getting more difficult with the lines disappearing under standing water. He needed to keep going. He was told that Callie had given up and talked to police in Georgia. They could be looking for him now.

As the rain pelted the cab in black rivulets, Will slowed to twenty but kept going. He turned the volume up high to hear music over the storm. It was nerve-wracking, but he had to get farther away. The radio continued to warn against driving, and there was no more traffic on the road. Then it happened. Red, white and blue strobe lights filled his mirrors. He was the only car on the highway that he could see, so the cop was signaling him to pull over. There was no way to run. Oh, shit.

He pulled off on the wide shoulder and waited. The cruiser parked behind and turned on a white spotlight further blinding any view from the truck. He waited a full minute, and nothing happened, except his pulse rate increased wildly. He slowly reached down below the seat and felt the grip of one of the handguns hidden there and pulled the forty-five onto the seat next to him. He slowly chambered a round.

He jumped when the flashlight tapped on his window, which he lowered. "What's the problem, officer?"

She said, "Sir. Your tail-lights are out."

"Oh, again? Shit, I told that lame mechanic o' mine to get that fixed once and for all. You know these Fords. They jes' always have problems with them rear lights."

She was huddled under her plastic-covered Trooper's hat. "Look. You can't be on the road like this. It's too dangerous. Someone will hit you from behind."

"Officer. I really appreciate you good advice. I'll get 'em fixed immediately."

"Okay. Look there's a turn off onto Rt. 12 up about four miles. You drive slowly, and I'll follow with my lights going, that will get you off safely. There's a Sears, and some other car repair companies right off the Interstate. You pick one and I'll follow you in till you stop."

"Okay. Look I really appreciate it!"

She was yelling above the rain noise coming from all around. "No problem. Oh, I noticed your temp plates. Let me have your driver's license and insurance card." Will had never had a driver's license.

"What? It's just some light problem. Why do I need to show my license? You gonna give me a ticket?"

"No. It's just procedure. I have to call it in."

Will let out a long breath, "Okay."

He pretended to reach into his right rear pocket, while gripping the pistol handle firmly with his finger on the trigger. He swung it up fast, seeing terror on the Trooper's face. He fired, but missed. He was sitting only three feet from her, and he missed!

She screamed and ducked, rushing toward the back of the truck, dropping her flashlight and reaching for her own weapon. Will threw the door open and jumped down into two inches of water. She slipped by the rear tire and reached for the bumper to pull to protective cover behind the truck, as he stepped closer. Her cruiser lights provided a clear silhouette of her struggling to regain footing. He pointed the gun with one hand and fired twice more, but she kept moving. He swore to himself ... how many shots is it gonna take! A forty-five slug would knock anyone down, but she was still moving. She got around the rear of the truck, crouching low. Again she reached for her weapon as he rounded the back a couple feet beyond her, closer to her cruiser.

Will was off balance and didn't want to waste another shot. He stood, with her in his shadow from the trooper car lights. The rain was pelting his face, causing him to blink and wipe his eyes with his gun hand. He was shaking badly and could hardly control the nerves in his hand. He'd never killed anyone with a gun before. He pointed without aiming and fired into her body, only four feet away. This time she groaned and crumpled at his bumper, gripping her midsection. A forty-five slug will knock the wind out of an elephant. He stepped closer and tried to aim, but the barrel was shaking wildly in his hand. He fired twice more, and then the gun stopped firing, out of ammunition! He didn't know where she was actually hit. Shit! She was still alive, moaning flat on the ground, but alive.

He looked around, and there were no more lights anywhere on the road. She was dead, but hadn't stopped living yet. He left her in the rain and ran back to the cab, throwing the gun onto the seat on the passenger's side.

The truck fishtailed as he sped away, but he regained control, cursing himself. The exit was only four miles away. He'd find a place to stay for the night. It was a risk so close, but he couldn't take the chance of being spotted without tail-lights again. He would also look for forty-five ammo in the morning.

Limbo

BJ was finishing filling the coffee pot with water when Jake entered the Ops Center.

"Hey, Jake. How's it going?" BJ walked and gave him a strong hug.

"Oh, I don't know, BJ. I'm just waiting for Callie to reach the funeral home. After that, I don't know ... probably bury myself in work and booze again."

"Naw. Not you. You've changed. You might not know it, but everyone else does. You're a different man. You can thank Callie for that."

Jake smiled and walked closer to the coffee pot. "So, am I on the schedule yet."

"No, the heads want you through with the funeral. It's only a day or so, Jake."

"Yeah, but I can't just sit around home, BJ -- too many memories."

"Then sit around here and watch all the action."

Jake helped himself to a cup of black coffee then sat in a chair across from BJ.

BJ asked. "So, how's the investigation going? You gonna get your coins back?"

"Don't know. It looks like that new kid, Ryan, the mechanic, could be involved."

"Yeah. There were some Feds poking around here, asking about him. He hasn't shown up lately, although that's not unusual with this younger generation -- especially the minimum wagers."

"Yeah. Well. It looks like he bailed. I drove by his place on the way here. The cars are gone."

"Well, son of a gun! You think the guy was smart enough to pull this off? Or did the girl plan it all?"

Jake looked at him crossly. "I'll never believe it was her, BJ, not ever. That guy might be dumb as a tack, or sly as a fox, I don't know, but she didn't do this!"

"Hey, chill, man. I didn't mean to get you all upset, just exploring possibilities."

"Yeah, well, the Feds are checking everything out. There might even be some more serious stuff, like murder in Texas linked to him -- or her."

BJ looked surprised. "Wow. Murder huh? How they makin' that connection?"

"I don't know. Seems like the girl's mother died mysteriously, and some neighbor lady disappeared."

"Geez. Sounds like a real Bonnie and Clyde thing. So, any news on finding the kid?"

"Don't know. Callie, Callie, gave some information, but the cops aren't telling me everything."

Jake's mobile phone rang. "Hello."

"Mr. Ramsey?"

"Yes."

"Sir this is Isabel Link from the FBI."

"Hi, Isabel."

"Mr. Ramsey, I want to know where to send the cloths Ms. Murray purchased."

"Oh. Please send them to the funeral home, I'll tell them to expect them." He gave her the phone number of the mortuary.

After hanging up, Jake squeezed the bridge of his nose and looked up.

BJ said. "Not a good call, huh?"

"Naw, it's okay. They're just sending me the clothes she bought. They were special to her. I want her to wear them at her service."

"Jake. Are you planning a full funeral?"

"Yeah. I guess I am. I want her buried right. I'll have a headstone made also."

"Jake, you hardly knew her. When did you become so sentimental?"

"I don't know, BJ. I don't expect anyone else to understand. She changed me. She never had a break in life, so maybe she deserves a little special treatment now."

BJ didn't pursue it further.

Connection

Julie LaRue had an early class schedule on Tuesdays, so was able to be home early, stopping at the supermarket on the way. Tuesdays were actually a full day for her. She had a four o'clock Pilates class in the afternoon, followed by swimming at her gym. By seven, she would be enjoying a glass of red wine and something light for dinner

Arriving home at two-thirty, she parked in the garage and carried her groceries to the kitchen, when the phone rang. She put the bag on the counter answering, "Hello."

"Mrs. LaRue?"

"Yes."

"Ma'am, this is Agent Franklin of the FBI. We have some new information about the case we discussed involving Callie Murray. Would you have time to talk if we came by?"

"Ah, yes, sure, what time?"

"How about four o'clock?"

"Ah, okay." She could skip Pilates.

When they arrived it was Carly Mott and Al Franklin again. She met them at the door and invited them in. In their first meeting Agent Mott did most of the talking. This time, Franklin was leading. "Mrs. LaRue, the FBI has located the letters allegedly stolen from your garage by Ms. Murray."

"Oh, thank God! Did they catch that thieving girl?"

"Yes, ma'am. She turned herself in to the police in Savannah, Georgia, and told them about the letters."

"Good! So the little thief will get punished?"

The Agents look at each other briefly, then Mott spoke, "Mrs. LaRue, she's dead. She died in an accident while being transported back to Louisiana."

"Oh, dear. She shouldn't have died. Poor girl, she was so sweet. I only wanted my letters back."

Franklin continued. "Yes, ma'am. She was implicated in some serious crimes and was being escorted to Louisiana under a felony theft warrant. Apparently, the letters were part of a plot to defraud valuables from another individual."

"My letters?"

He went on. "Yes, ma'am. They were going to be evidence in the case. As it is, there won't be a trial, and we need to know if you want the letters returned to you?"

"Well, of course I do! They're my letters."

"Okay, ma'am. This is probably just a procedural thing, but the office in New Orleans has identified another claimant."

"There can't be. Those letters were written to me and have always been my property."

"Yes, ma'am. Do you know a man named Jake Ramsey?"

"No ... actually, I'm not sure."

"Okay, ma'am. We'll get the letters back to you."

They left after the short meeting. Julie was upset that some stranger would want her letters. He was probably just a ghoulish souvenir collector, wanting to take something a dead girl used in a crime. After thirty years, she'd momentarily forgotten Jake's name.

Late that evening, Jake had returned home after spending all day around CHI mingling with people on his day off. He turned on the television to watch the evening news when the phone rang. It was the FBI.

"Jake?"

"Yes."

"Jake, it's Jeremy Wallace down here in New Orleans."

"Hi, Jeremy. Anything new?"

"Yeah, kinda, Jake. Someone else has claimed the letters."

He sat down. "I don't understand. Callie didn't have any relatives or friends that I know of."

"It's not that. Our division that handles North Central Texas says they were stolen from a lady in Mineral Wells."

Jake was cautious answering. "Mineral Wells, are you sure?"

"Jake, that's what it says."

He hesitated before responding. "Jeremy, is this person named Julie?"

"That's right, Jake."

"Okay, Jeremy. They're hers, not mine."

"So, Jake. It's okay to release them to her?"

"Yes, Jeremy. It's okay."

He hung up feeling the guilt of thirty year's neglect returning. Julie was alive in Mineral Wells, and he had never even talked to her after Bobby's death.

The next morning, BJ picked him up to drive to the funeral. The service was held in the smallest room in the funeral home, which seemed immense with less than a dozen people attending, mostly from CHI and a couple neighbors. Except for BJ, none had known much about Callie. They arrived fifteen minutes early and Jake went immediately up to the casket.

She was beautiful. He touched the fabric on her arm and noticed how it glided. At least she had the experience of something beautiful before she died. He tried not to cry, but it was hard, holding back his tears. She looked so restful and at peace. He said softly, "Rest in heaven, sweetheart." He turned to greet the others as they arrived. One of the last in was Judy Testa.

She came immediately to Jake and hugged him, whispering, "She will always be alive in our hearts, Jake. She was an angel sent to protect me."

He wiped a small tear away, "She saved me, too, Judy."

The service was non-denominational, conducted by the funeral director. Following the final viewing, some of the CHI men were pallbearers to the hearse, then again at graveside. Jake didn't believe in an afterlife, but today he appreciated the view of the park-like setting from her plot. Following a brief ceremony all departed. There was no reception or other morbid event to prolong the sorrow only he, and maybe Judy, felt.

At his house at mid-day, Jake sat alone, feeling lonelier than he had ever imagined in his hermitage. Callie had brought it liveliness for a brief time, something he wanted back again, but it was now lost. He thought about the bourbon bottle again, but she wouldn't have approved. He'd started to whimper when the phone rang. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes before answering. "Hello."

He did not recognize her voice when she said, "Hello. Is this Jake Ramsey?"

This was not a good time for him to talk. He said abruptly, "Yes?"

"Mr. Ramsey, you don't know me, but I was wondering if you flew helicopters in the Army?"

He sat motionless for a few moments, not even breathing before answering. "Yes."

"The reason I'm calling, Mr. Ramsey, is that the FBI said you wanted some letters that belong to me, letters written from my boyfriend in the Army almost thirty years ago."

He hesitated answering. "You mean Bobby, Bobby Lowe?"

"Yes, he was killed, but before that he wrote me almost every day about flying with his friend Jake. I ... I never met this man, but often thought it would be nice. Maybe to learn more about Bobby's experiences and just to know his friend."

Jake was bewildered. "You're Julie, right?"

"Yes, Julie Larue, although Bobby knew me as Julie Morgan."

"Ah, Julie. I don't know what to say." Callie said Julie had died, but, of course, that was all part of the story line to win his confidence.

"Jake, I don't want to pry, but I'd like to know about you, about your life since the Army. About your wife, your kids, your career, your home, all of it. I guess I'd also like to know about Bobby. I only knew him for a few months before he shipped out, but he was my first love."

They talked for more than an hour. He'd lost an angel, but another one seemed to be calling on the phone. He learned that her circumstances were much like his, a single lady, although she had been married, no kids, physically active. Oddly, they didn't discuss Bobby in any detail. That would happen sometime later. They ended the call with a promise to talk again -- soon.

Running

Will stole a license plate from anther truck at the cheap hotel where he spent the night. He went out before dawn, finding everything coated with ice. It was difficult removing the plate from the other bumper, and his fingers still ached from the cold, pressing against the steering wheel on the Interstate. A cigarette helped, and he changed hands frequently. He wouldn't get the tail lights fixed until late in the day, avoiding any local auto shops that might be alerted. When he passed into Mississippi, he stopped at a Waffle House for breakfast and filled the truck with gas. He needed to get to Lafayette to complete some business before driving on to Texas. He wanted to reach El Paso in two days, which would allow him to pass into Mexico at Juarez, if necessary.

The first sign inside Mississippi said there was a Cabelas Outfitters store at the next exit. He needed ammo for the forty-five and for the Beretta. He only had the magazines that were in the guns, no extra mags or ammunition. It seemed stupid now to just take the guns and no ammo, but that hadn't been the reason for opening the safes. He remembered how Callie had argued against taking the guns. She didn't understand what could happen if they got cornered. She just said it was stupid to have a gun on them. She always called him stupid, but who was smart in the end?

He laughed to himself about the way he controlled her. When he found her on the streets in Tulsa, she needed food and a roof, and she was willing to do anything with her body to get it. It didn't take long to have total control of her. She didn't make much money as a whore, times were hard and men wouldn't pay. She was also competing with younger girls. He took everything she made in trade for living with him and kept her as an economic captive in his trailer. She could break away anytime, but where would she go? At least he gave her a bed and food.

When he learned that her mother was another prostitute in Texas who owned a trailer and had no other kin, it was a simple matter to pay her a visit one night as a customer and get her going with Rohypnol then quadruple the dose, stopping her heart. The old bag died a happy whore. He smiled to himself, remembering her last gasp and his last lunge.

After they moved down to Texas, the dog took too much care and Callie was always after him to "take it out" or "feed him." He didn't like dogs, and it complicated things, so he killed it, too. He wasn't sure if she figured out that he did those things. She never said anything, but her attitude toward him changed. She became more nervous and obedient. He laughed to himself. What a scream!

That old bag next door, too. Corina Penworth was nosey. When he learned about Ramsey's collection and came up with a plan to get it, the old lady might interfere and fool with Callie's head when he went on to Louisiana. The bitch had to go. Besides, she had a nice car, and it would keep Callie in line when she saw what he could do. He slammed the wheel with delight yelling, "Hot damn, man, you're good!" He had gone from petty street punk to pimp, to murderer, to mega-thief, all in less than one year. He thought to himself, I am the king of criminals!

He was feeling frisky when he exited for the ammunition. He had to remind himself to pay for it with cash and not try to rob them with his new guns. It was tempting, but he had to keep up appearances. Callie thought he was dumb enough to get caught. Well, look who got caught missy – and without the goods!

Two boxes of fifty rounds for both guns came to over seventy-five dollars. It seemed like a lot of money, but he'd never had a gun before and didn't have any idea how expensive it could be. It never occurred to him that in a firefight, he would not be able to reload the magazines easily, so excessive ammunition was pointless. It made him feel invincible. He also looked at gun racks for the back of his cab, but it took tools to install, so he conserved his money. He was down to under two hundred dollars and didn't want to sell any more coins before melting them down to pure ingots.

Back on the Interstate, he changed to I-59 South, just past Meridian. He'd be in Lafayette shortly after nightfall, and would stay only long enough to conclude some business. He was free, he was rich, and he was single. It don't get any better.

Julie

That night, the night before Callie's funeral, Jake didn't sleep. Throughout the next day, until Julie called, he felt the crush of remorse and sleeplessness. After her call, the house seemed a little brighter again. It wasn't the same as when Callie had been there, but it was okay. It gave him time to think about Will Ryan. They'd commuted together for a few months. What had he learned? What tidbit of information had slipped through that would help find him? He knew Ryan wasn't very well educated, but he had a kind of street smarts about him. He never talked about his family. About the only thing Jake knew was that Ryan wasn't married and had never had a steady girl.

The guy was fascinated with cars and trucks yet had two derelicts in the driveway. At least that's what he said they were before both disappeared. And what was his deal with Callie? Were they lovers? She was so much better than him in all ways. He was ugly as sin, while she was beautiful. He was a weasel, and she was caring. How could they have been matched? It didn't make sense. Later, in the darkened house after sunset, he fell asleep. He dreamed about a woman he'd never met yet.

While he was sleeping, Will Ryan drove through the outskirts of Lafayette to a rendezvous that took only a few minutes. He unloaded half the gold, then left without saying another word. It was all behind him now. He was one hundred percent clear to go wherever he wanted to go. He'd learned that Callie was dead. That sealed it, if she didn't blab, no one would ever know about his involvement. She would be blamed. Damn, this is gettin' better all the time.

Jake reported to work at CHI the next morning. He had a routine flight schedule and the weather was clear. He wasn't happy, but the peace and solitude above the water, with everything under his control, felt good. The cook on platform L7G had prepared beef stew that smelled too good to resist. Jake ate with the crew, who all knew him. After eight years of ferrying them back and forth, all respected Jake. He'd protected most of them from dangerous storms over the years. They all knew he was the best and made him feel appreciated. It felt good to be back on the job.

When he returned, BJ met him on the pad while he was fastening the tie-down chains. "Jake, the FBI called from New Orleans. Wants to talk to you."

He took the note and nodded as BJ continued. "Listen, when you're done tonight, let's get a beer after work."

"Yeah. Sounds good."

He went into the Operations Center to the pilot's lounge which was just two couches arranged near the coffee pot with tables covered with "Aviation Week" and "Trade-a-Plane" magazines. He lounged in his flight suit, using his cellphone to call the programmed number for Jeremy Wallace. "Hi, Jake."

"Hey, Jeremy. So, what's new?"

"Look, we got some interesting possibilities coming together about this guy Ryan."

"Okay. What's up?"

"We've kinda been watching events along routes from where your girl Callie dumped Ryan, according to her story. If she told the truth, he has a shit-load of your coins, but not much cash."

"Okay. What next?"

"One step at a time. Do you have a fax machine?"

"We've got one here at the office."

"Good. I want to send you some pictures taken at a gold broker's store yesterday. Take a look and tell me if this is the guy you know."

"Okay. I'm standing by." Jake gave him the fax number and went to stand by the machine. It started receiving a couple minutes later. BJ joined him. "What's up?"

"They might have a trail on Ryan."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Looks like he cashed some of my coins."

The picture started to emerge. It was a full page profile of Will Ryan, the CHI mechanic. A second view was starting to print when Jake went back to the lounge to call Wallace. "Jeremy. That's him. That's Ryan."

"Okay Jake, that's good news."

"So, what does it mean?"

"Can't say yet. We're still piecing together. It looks like he's backtracking after driving to Atlanta."

"Do you think he had an accomplice to meet in Atlanta?"

"Unlikely. According to Callie's statement, they were together, heading east past Atlanta when he dumped her. If timing is about right, Ryan turned right around and headed west."

"Where's he going?"

"Jake, if I knew, I couldn't tell you, but I don't know. We're getting closer."

"Okay, Jeremy. Thanks for keeping me in the loop."

"Will do, Jake."

The call ended and Jake told BJ, "Let's go have that beer!"

They walked out the door and BJ said, "You sound enthused."

"Yeah. They're tracking the guy. I might actually get my gold back."

Later that night, Will was whistling in between puffs on his cigarette, singing "I'm goin' to Houston." He stopped on the outskirts at a Motel6 with a Vacancy sign lit. He was going to be smart and swap license plates again in the early morning.

Unknown to him, the State Police in Alabama had released a plate number stolen that morning from a pickup truck at a motel. The driver of the pickup had gone out to scrape ice from his windows and when he rounded the rear of the truck, he saw that his plate was missing. He reported it to the police immediately. Since an officer was murdered nearby on the Interstate, the missing license number was broadcast across all law enforcement networks. When a cop is killed, the search intensity multiplies. Without knowing it, Will was the subject of a nationwide manhunt.

In the morning, before dawn again, he went to the parking lot and removed the rear plate, the only plate, from his truck and slid behind the truck next to him. He'd picked the spot carefully with both trucks backed against a shrub row. He swapped plates with the other pickup. He smiled at his stealthiness. No one would know he was there. When he was done, he tossed the tools into the glove box and drove away, this time singing "Oh happy days."

Inside the breakfast room at the motel, CNN was showing the license number he'd stolen in Alabama. It was displayed every fifteen minutes. It was on all the news channels. When Will tried to locate a country station, he stopped on the news, just to reassure himself that he was flying below the radar. He was shocked when "breaking news" interrupted, describing a stolen license plate, taken in Alabama. He wasn't sure, hadn't memorized the plate number, but it sounded familiar. Lucky for him, some poor sap was probably spread-eagled on the nose of his truck right now.

He was almost right. The pickup at Motel6 was stopped on a main highway in the center of Houston. Several police cars responded and surrounded the truck. When the driver got frustrated and tried to step out, he was ordered to "stay in the car!" The command was reinforced with several police, aiming guns at him from behind their cars.

It took about an hour to secure the scene, but the man was finally able to convince officers that his plate had been changed. He had driven East from Dallas the night before and arrived late. His wife and boss both confirmed that he had come from the west, not from the east. This led to a new APB (All Points Bulletin) issued for the Dallas truck license: the license clearly displayed on the back of Will's truck.

He was just past the outskirts of Houston on I-10, heading for San Antonio, enjoying the sunrise in his rear-view mirror and feeling a sense of freedom that only money could bring. He'd never had more than a hundred dollars at one time. Sometimes that was all he had for a month. His camping trailer had been a gift from a local rancher in Tulsa, who let Will keep it on his property for occasional labor. He could use the bath facilities at a local truck stop.

But now, now he was on the other side of poverty. He had money to burn. He figured that he could live well in Mexico for a couple grand a month. He would die an old man, drunk on Tequila and with some Senorita bumping up and down on top of him. Ah, Will my boy, you're the man!

Then for the second time in three days, flashing colored lights filled his mirrors. This time there was a siren. He looked around to see if someone else was being pulled over, but there weren't many other cars out this early. When he looked closely in his big side mirror, there were no cars behind. The police had blocked the road behind him. He panicked and pushed his foot to the floor. The State Trooper behind closed the gap between them. He had a faster car. Will tried to think about what to do when he saw a barricade of State Patrol cars ahead. Shit! He jammed on the brakes and spun sideways, unable to control the skidding truck. A fog of blue smoke from his tires momentarily hid the police in pursuit. He wanted to drive across the median, but there was a deep drainage canal separating the lanes. Shit!

The truck stopped sideways on the Interstate, partially blocking three lanes, but it didn't matter with all the traffic stopped miles behind. The patrol car stopped a hundred feet away, and no one approached. Thinking fast, Will opened the box of forty-five bullets and tried to load the magazine of the gun. It takes a precise dexterity to compress the spring mechanism and insert each bullet. It takes minutes for most people, but he was trembling so bad that nothing was synchronized. The cars from the barricade began closing from the other direction. Two sped past his rear bumper to reinforce the pursuit car. He looked around and saw at least a dozen cars, surrounding him. He continued to struggle with the magazine, finally throwing it on the ground and reaching for the Beretta, which had a full magazine under his seat. He was ready for a fight!

"Open your window and show your hands!" The command was loud, even with his windows closed. He didn't know what to do. From the corners of his eyes he saw movement behind some of the cars and officers with long guns. For one split second, he reached for the door handle to charge, but then dropped the gun on the seat. "Open your windows and show your hands!"

He was fiery mad. He'd done everything right to evade capture. How did they find him? Maybe he was speeding and just got caught in a trap. No, it seemed like a lot of firepower for a speed trap. He slowly rolled down the driver's window. "Show your hands!"

He wasn't wearing a seat belt, so was able to twist far out of the opening holding his hands high. "Don't shoot me!"

"With your left hand, open the door from the outside and step out slowly. Keep your hands in the air!"

In a few seconds, Will was face down on the pavement, being handcuffed. Someone unseen behind him was going through the truck. "Guns!"

Julie Calls

Jake was flying back across the Gulf from a drop off when Will was apprehended. This time when he landed, it was Ross who gave him the message to call the FBI.

He got ahold of Jeremy Wallace. "Jake. They got him! The Texas State Troopers got him west of Houston. Looks like he's got the coin collection with him, but you'll need to verify it."

Jake couldn't believe that it had all happened so fast. "Jeremy. This is unbelievable. When will I get my collection back?"

"Well, right now, Jake, it's in the chain of evidence in the case we're developing. It will be in custody with the Texas authorities until we extradite back here. It could take a while 'cuz there's some investigations in Texas open also. Your perp might have been involved in some murders or disappearance in Abilene. That takes precedence. He'll go there, then the Lafayette Department can request extradition, but I don't know how soon that will happen."

"Who'll protect my coins? I'm not in a hurry to get them back. Their value goes up or down no matter where they are. I just want to be sure they won't disappear before then."

"We've got some pull there, Jake. I'll request that the coins be placed under federal jurisdiction. They don't have relevance to anything in Texas anyway. But, you'll need to go to Houston to verify them, unless Ryan confesses, which I don't expect."

"Great. How soon can I go to Houston?"

Reflection

In Mineral Wells, Julie LaRue was also waiting for her treasured letters to be returned. They were somewhere in transit between Georgia and Texas. She hadn't thought about them for years until that young woman visited and stole them. She'd had a good life with Paul LaRue. He'd died too young from an aneurism. They'd been active hikers and campers. They played golf and did most things together since there were never any kids in the mix. It wasn't that they didn't want kids, but something in their chemistry didn't work out. He didn't want to go through fertility testing, and she never pushed it. Neither felt strongly enough to go the artificial or surrogate route, so they enjoyed themselves for twenty-five years.

They had both gone to Texas Southern University, graduating at the same time with teaching credentials. His major was biology, whereas she'd majored in primary education. They'd taught at the same elementary school for twenty-five years. They had married immediately after graduation and settled back in Mineral Wells, where her parents had enough room for them to live for a few months before getting settled. They never left Mineral Wells. They bought the house she still lived in less than a year after moving in with her parents. Sadly, Paul was mowing the back yard a year ago when he felt ill, sat on the lawn and collapsed in seconds. It hadn't been a bad or painful death, but it was unexpected for a man not quite fifty years old. Her parents had both died within months of each other three years earlier, so she was very lonely. She had her friends and a few close neighbors, but it was hard living without any family of her own.

She'd stopped thinking about Bobby years before Paul died. There had been a few melancholy moments when she'd pass some place where they had been together when he was stationed at Ft. Wolters, but it was increasingly rare since the Army moved out of Mineral Wells. Then the girl came with her story about being Jake's daughter and her thoughts of Bobby rekindled. She didn't read any of the old letters when Callie visited and regretted it now. Somehow, the girl knew that Julie would recognize Jake's name, which would remain a mystery since the girl had died.

The whole experience reopened the past. She now felt conflicted between the husband she'd loved for all those years and the memory of a dead boy she'd met briefly before going to college. She felt a kind of disloyalty to Paul, yet she had never been unfaithful or even thought seriously about Bobby or any man while Paul was alive. Now, she thought about Bobby every day. He was her first love, which would always be true. They'd been virgins together. She wondered how life would be different if he had lived, and they'd married as planned.

The girl said she was Jake's daughter. Callie knew about Jake and Bobby and knew Julie would connect if she pretended to be Jake's daughter. After all these years, she couldn't remember Jake's last name, if Bobby ever wrote it, and she didn't remember if the girl used it. He was just "Jake" from Bobby's letters. It bothered her that she was thinking about a third person she'd never met except on the phone after all these years, and who had never tried to meet her before now. There were so many questions, and she just couldn't stop thinking about that time in her life. When she received the letters, she would re-read them for any clues about who Jake really was. Maybe the girl had known him and learned about Bobby and Julie that way. It was all a mystery.

Houston

Jake took more time off and drove to Houston. The FBI arranged for him to look at the coins recovered from Ryan's truck. He left before dawn and expected to be back in Lafayette late that same night. It was a long trip, but doable.

The Texas Department of Public Safety was at 4545 Dacoma St. in Houston. The coins were in safe keeping in the Evidence Room. Jake located the building without difficulty and was invited into a small room with a table and three utility chairs. The boxes of coins were delivered on a cart by two Troopers. They were wrapped together with clear plastic wrap and a yellow "evidence" sheet laminated inside several layers of the wrapping.

The Troopers cut the wrapping away and let Jake look at the six boxes, one at a time. Inside each box were small coin shipping cartons that he'd used for storage in his safes. It was all jumbled, but it certainly looked like his collection. After an hour, he had checked each coin against his master list. Every coin matched using value, date, mint mark, and any special notes from his inventory. They were unquestionably all his, but the checklist showed that about half were still missing. The FBI had confirmed that Ryan sold at least one of the coins, which he was able to purchase back from the dealer for a slight fee. Ryan could not have sold many.

Jake was asked to observe the re-wrapping and tagging as evidence before the collection was wheeled out by one of the Troopers, back to the evidence storage room, wherever that was. The second Trooper, Gothinger, sat down across the table with a notepad. "Mr. Ramsey, you can read my name on my shirt, but folks here call me Goth."

Jake smiled. "All right, Goth, call me Jake."

"Fair enough. First, I'd like to keep a copy of that list you checked off."

"Okay with me."

"Jake, I gather there were more coins stolen from you?"

"Yes. As you can see from my list, there's only about half the collection here, and it was all stolen at the same time."

"Do you think Ryan had help and someone kept half?"

"As far as I know, he only worked with a girl, but she was caught soon after the theft and didn't have any coins. According to her statement in Georgia, Ryan had all the coins."

"Do you think she's telling the truth?"

Jake reflected before answering, trying not to think too much about Callie right now. "Yeah. She confessed everything, she didn't have any reason to lie. She told the truth."

Goth continued. "Do you think he cashed in the missing coins?"

"I doubt it. It's too much to unload that quickly. Someone would have a record, and the FBI was been checking. He cashed one that we know about, but that's all."

"How much are the missing coins worth?"

"I don't know exactly. Half are gone, but that might be more or less half of the total value. I'd have to figure it out, but it's probably around half a million dollars."

Goth whistled. "You had that much in your house?"

"Yeah. I never thought about it much. It took thirty years to collect it all."

Goth shook his head. "Man. That sure beats my Indian head nickel collection."

Jake smiled. "When do you think I'll get these back?"

"I can't answer that. It's not so important for our charges here and probably not in Alabama either, where Ryan is suspected of killing a Trooper, but the FBI will probably make the final decision. It could be a year of two if there are long trials and appeals. It might be shorter, it all depends."

"Will it be safe here?"

"Yes, sir. The other Trooper and I witnessed your inventory, so there's a good record even if they were lost or stolen, and insurance would cover it. But we never lost anything here, never."

The trip back to Lafayette was boring and his back was hurting from sitting in one position most of the day. He looked forward to a night's sleep with the knowledge that at least half his coins would be returned. The other half was still a mystery which Ryan would hopefully unravel.

It was only six o'clock but dark when he got back home. He decided to make an omelet for dinner when the phone range. The display said "unknown number." He answered, "Hello."

"Ah, Mr. Ramsey?" Her voice was mellow and relaxing after his day on the road.

"Yes."

"Mr. Ramsey, this is Julie LaRue."

He walked into the darkened living room, but didn't sit down. "Ah, Hi. This is a surprise. Did you get the letters back yet?"

"I should get them in a couple of days, but I got to thinking about them, about Bobby. It's been such a long time, and I've had a nice life with my husband."

"It's good to hear that, Julie."

"Can I call you Jake?"

"I would like that."

She began speaking less tenuously and more relaxed. "Then I'll call you Jake, since that's the connection I know."

He paused but didn't say anything, didn't know what to say.

She continued. "Jake, my husband died last year. We had a wonderful life, but it ended too soon."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Julie." She'd been struck with tragedy twice with the men in her life. Talking to her was also raising emotions in him about Bobby that had been overshadowed for several months.

"It's okay, but thanks. Paul and I shared a great life, and I have no regrets. But, that's not why I called. In fact, I don't know why I called. It was an impulse. I was talking to the Georgia police about my address and started thinking about the letters. I haven't looked at them in thirty years. I don't even remember what most of them say except some of the good times he had flying over the jungles with you. He was always so vivid and able to describe things -- like painting a picture. In some of them, he sent me pictures of both of you together."

Jake sat down. "I remember some of the shots he was sending. He sometimes showed them to me when he put them in the envelope to you. We were both kids back then."

"We were all kids back then."

"Yeah."

She was quiet for a few moments. "Jake. Tell me what you remember about Bobby."

"There's so many things, Julie -- what kind of things do you want to know?"

"I don't know. Was he happy? Did he like it down there? Did he like the Army? Did he ... what did he say about me?"

They talked for twenty minutes. Jake recalled everything he could, but they had lived so close together for all those months that he couldn't really describe their kinship.

"Julie, he talked about you all the time. He wanted to marry you."

She smiled. "Do you think it was lonely isolation? Was he just fantasizing?"

"No. Bobby had his head on right. He was more mature than most of the guys. He knew what he wanted."

"Jake, were you there when ... were you with him when ... you know."

He put his head back with his eyes closed, hoping to answer the right way, to say the right words. "Yes, Julie. We were together in the cockpit."

"How did it happen? Is it something that I should hear?" There was a perceptible quivering in her voice.

Before he could answer, she said, "I don't know why I'm asking this. It's just part of the past that I want to close out? Do you think I'm being morbid?"

"No, Julie. It's a little painful for me, but I think you should know that Bobby died a hero. That's the way he lived, and he died saving my life, giving his."

"Was he, was he in pain long?"

"No. He died instantly. His parents received his metals for bravery that day. We were both going to die. Hell, the whole helicopter would have gone down if he hadn't saved us. I'll never forget that day."

"Oh, Jake, I don't want to upset you."

"No, it's okay. I probably should talk about it."

"Okay. Maybe we can talk again sometime. I'm going to look at the letters when I get them. Can I call you again?"

"Julie. I would like that." Somehow, it felt good talking to her.

Back on the Job

Before dawn the next day, Jake was in his flight suit and ready to work. Out of curiosity, he drove past Will's rental, which was dark with no cars outside, just like the last time. When he got to the Operations Center, he made a fresh pot of coffee and looked at the flight board that had been posted the night before. He was scheduled to fly a publicity company along the seacoast for aerial video. The first leg began at six thirty, to capture the sunrise along the coast. They would fly several legs throughout the day as activities changed at different sun angles. The last leg was at sunset, flying toward Corpus Christi. They would be flying below one thousand feet most of the day, and skimming the wave tops for some shots. The weather was forecast to be clear. Overall, it would be a fun day as long as the video crew followed instructions and no one fell out.

Ross came in and talked briefly before disappearing into his office. The other pilots came in for morning coffee and to check their schedules. BJ came in around six. Jake had no peace in the office after his ordeal at sea. The pilots would always talk about how Jake Ramsey survived. It gave them all more confidence. It also caused them to check things more closely during pre-flight inspections.

BJ made some final adjustments to the flight schedule then joined Jake at the coffee pot when all the other pilots had gone. "Well. How'd the trip to Houston go?"

"I got half of it back, BJ."

"Only half?"

"Looks that way. It's better than nothing, and the FBI seems pretty confident that we'll get it all. They've notified every gold dealer and coin store in the universe. Anyone tries to unload my coins they'll catch 'em."

"You deserve it, pal."

BJ took a sip and asked, "What about Ryan? Anything new on him?"

"They didn't say. I think they're trying to sort out who gets first crack at him?"

BJ smiled and shook his head, then they split as Jake went to pre-flight his helicopter before the film crew arrived.

Silence

In Houston, Will Ryan finished breakfast in his cell when a guard summoned him to the cell door. "Come on, Ryan. You got a date with the Harris County DA and some FBI folks." He finished slowly up to the cell door, holding his hands in front for handcuffs. When the door was opened, he walked easily through the opening as the guard urged him to move faster. They passed through a series of security doors before entering a large interrogation room without windows. It had numerous steel chairs bolted to the floor around an immovable table. The concrete walls were grey and the floor was black linoleum. There were two men in suits and a stenographer. He was told to sit across the table from the two investigators.

The lead investigator asked, "Mr. Ryan, please confirm your name for the record."

"I wan' a lawyer."

"Mr. Ryan, this is just a preliminary interview and you're not accused of a crime yet."

"Then why am I locked up?"

"Well, Mr. Ryan, you were caught in a high speed pursuit with a large amount of stolen property, unregistered guns that appear to be stolen and suspicion of other crimes in Texas and another state."

Ryan sat back defiantly. "So, I ain't saying a thing 'til I get a lawyer. I know my rights."

The investigators looked at each other in frustration. They initially thought that Ryan would open up somewhat. He had a long record of petty crimes in Oklahoma, but no experience with major felony investigations. He was identified by finger prints, without any other form of identification. His arrest record in Oklahoma had started in his early teens. He had never had any form of legal identification.

"Mr. Ryan, can't you at least verify your name for the record."

"I ain't verifyin' nothin' without a attorney."

They reluctantly let him go back to his cell without accomplishing anything. Neither investigator was eager to request a public defender, which would guarantee that Ryan wouldn't say more. The County ADA (Assistant District Attorney) had only forty-eight hours from the arrest to file charges.

That afternoon, Jeremy Wallace called Detective Tibbs in Lafayette. He brought Tibbs up to speed on the events in Houston and advised him to get an extradition request into the FBI immediately so that Ryan could be transferred to Louisiana. Wallace also called the Alabama Department of Public Safety to get them moving. The FBI could bring Federal charges for Interstate transport of stolen property, but a murder charge in Alabama or grand theft in Louisiana would be stronger charges.

New Start

The trials for Will Ryan had taken several months of courtroom posturing and countering, not to mention the appeals and threats of more appeals. The coins recovered from Jake's collection were of uncertain evidentiary value to any of the outcomes, but every jurisdiction felt they were vital to winning their case. When it was over, Jake had half of his collection back, and the thief was behind bars in Louisiana. Texas had finally dropped all charges to let Alabama try the case against Ryan for the murdered Trooper. It ended in a hung jury because the only evidence consisted of a bogus license plate recorded on video from an old pickup at a gold broker and forty-five shell casings from the scene that had all been trampled or run over, or corroded by salt on the road. No bullets were recovered from the body, which had been hit once in the stomach, passing through, and another glancing wound that severed an artery in her neck. The video from her cruiser was inconclusive in the dark with ice covering some of the windshield and strobe lights, masking the people. Will never took the stand.

In Louisiana, the outcome was different. Jake avoided most of the trial, not wanting to hear Callie's memory trashed in public. Ryan was convicted of felony grand theft, but the majority of the blame fell on a dead girl, unable to defend herself. The defense claimed that Ryan was duped by a very clever female prostitute who used sex to cripple his moral character. Poor Will had a good job as a helicopter mechanic and succumbed to the temptations of the flesh with Callie Murray, according to his attorney. The helicopter crash that nearly killed Jake and the missing neighbor woman in Texas were not admissible, and would probably remain unsolved. Callie's confession in Georgia was ruled to be inadmissible without the ability to cross exam. For his crimes, Ryan received three years in Louisiana state prison. Based on the outcomes in three states, the Federal Government did not lodge separate charges. Ryan would be a free man in two years with good behavior, minus the time spent jailed during the trials. In total, he had less than a year left to serve in the State Penitentiary. The remainder of the coin collection was probably hidden by the girl after they split up, according to defense closing arguments. No proof was offered that Ryan ever went to Georgia and the video from the Alabama gold dealer was too grainy to support the proposition that Ryan went east with Callie.

Of course, Jake believed Callie's confession, every word of it. He knew that Ryan had taken the whole collection. He didn't need conclusive proof to believe Ryan was in Alabama and used Jake's forty-five to kill the officer. That was a legal decision, not fact. He'd ridden with Ryan to work for months and knew he had a stronger personality than Callie and was capable of terrorizing her. The whole robbery was his concept from start to finish. Ryan just used Callie's feminine assets and Jake's old guilt feeling to deceive him into believing she was really Bobby's little girl.

The missing piece for him was how Ryan ever knew of the collection, and knowledge of the special meaning Bobby had in his past, or that Bobby might be the father. Tibbs and Wallace didn't believe Ryan's defense either and said they would privately keep the case open, even though officially closed. Jake was patient and could wait to seek his own justice with Ryan.

New Beginnings

Jake accepted Callie's death like most adults who had experienced the passing of parents, siblings and friends. Age gives people more tolerance for horrible losses. He was sure, after the fact, that he loved Callie like his own, but she was gone, and he couldn't change it. Nor could he feel sorry for himself. She had awakened emotions and a joy of living he'd entombed decades earlier. Not only that, she had connected him with Julie, not purposely, but the investigation did that.

He was nervous about meeting Julie in person for the first time. As the trial progressed, they had talked on the phone frequently. She had re-read many of Bobby's letters and looked at the old pictures. Jake tried to recall Julie's picture Bobby showed him in the jungle all those years earlier. She was what – eighteen? He estimated that she would be almost fifty now.

When the trial ended and he phoned her with the results, it was more of an excuse to talk again rather than any interest she had. If she cared at all about Ryan's fate, it was only because of some feeling she might now have for the guy Bobby knew in the Army. She actually suggested that he come to Mineral Wells where both he and Bobby started their flying careers. Her long summer break from school was beginning and she had an extra bedroom. Neither he nor Julie really needed to see remnants of a defunct Army base, but it provided a convenient excuse to finally meet.

He'd been driving for over seven hours, mostly on I-20 and wasn't tired. He'd started before dawn in excited anticipation, and time soared past. The image from all those years earlier was of a beautiful young girl, slim with long curly brown hair and a smile that would bring joy at a wake. Bobby said she was an outdoors girl, and from his frequent talks with Julie, she was still active, hiking and mountain biking. She liked golf, which he'd never played. She liked to fish, although she'd never seen the ocean. She'd never been in a helicopter either. They could have fun doing new things together, but that was thinking too far ahead.

Jake was a bachelor and had never shared his life with anyone. She had been married to another man who would always be with her in spirit. His time with Callie was not an adequate test of compatibility to confirm any chance of sharing his life in the future. But why was he even thinking about it? He was just going to meet someone who had befriended him over the phone. There was no prospect of a larger commitment – not now, and maybe not in the future. He also had a lingering sense of disloyalty to a dead friend.

What if she found him ugly or disagreeable? She was educated and had been surrounded by teachers all of her life. He led a completely visceral life. He liked flying because it was still fun and exciting. It wasn't the kind of enjoyment most people received from a profession. She would probably want to talk about deeply intellectual subjects, and he was still basically a jock. He didn't get nervous around people. His skills were unique and could not be bested in his narrow niche in the world, but he was leaving it behind on this trip. Even the old connection with Ft. Wolters was gone. It didn't exist anymore. Most of his memories of Mineral Wells were flying above it. He'd never been part of the community when training there. He didn't know a soul and doubted that any Army helicopter pilots lived there anymore. Oh, well. He could survive one overnight stay, even if they repelled each other. He could get a night's sleep and head home in the morning.

Her directions were perfect. He found her house without one missed turn. It was a neat nineteen-eighties single story ranch on a manicured half-acre residential lot. All the houses nearby were well maintained, like people took pride in their neighborhood. He guessed it was one of the most desirable areas in Mineral Wells. He parked his truck at the curb and walked up the driveway carrying a bottle of red wine, which he knew she favored and flowers from the Safeway nearby.

The door opened before he could ring the bell, and she greeted him with a hug. "Come on in, Jake."

He was taken aback by her youthful appearance in a cowgirl shirt and blue jeans, nicely tailored to her slim frame. He hoped her first impression of him was as pleasing, but doubted it after hours on the road. "Wow, you have a nice place here, Julie."

She closed the door and Jake handed her the flowers. "You know, Jake, I'm a sucker for cut flowers. I can't raise them worth a darn, but sure do like them in vases." As he looked around, she had at least one other display of fresh flowers. She called from the kitchen, "Come on in and get comfortable."

The large family room was directly in front of the entry with a wall of French doors, leading to a patio and grassy back yard framed by a split-rail fence. Beyond were brush and a view of the distant mountains. When she returned with the flowers, he was looking out the back. "You know, I remember flying in those mountains near the end of basic. Lots of lousy wind currents, but man, what a view! It's still beautiful here." He had turned to face her.

She responded, "I guess it's a lot different than flying over the water all the time."

"Yeah. The peaks and valleys I see now only exist between oil rigs where I fly."

She motioned him to sit on the couch. "Well, I'm just delighted to meet you finally. It seems like I know you from all of our phone calls, but it's so nice to meet you in person."

He couldn't help looking at her pretty face. "You know, this is really a treat for me. I don't get out of Lafayette much."

"Well let's just hope you'll have more of an excuse now."

His visit could not have gone better. He was on break for five days and had planned to spend only one night in Mineral Wells. He stayed two nights instead. She showed him all around the area, knowing he would like to visit Ft. Wolters where his passion for flying helicopters began over thirty years earlier. It was a sad experience, except that he was having it with a lovely woman who had once been the girl his buddy fell in love with. The primary flight training center for the Army had been de-activated many years earlier and now housed several businesses and a prison. The old military housing was burned for practice by a local fire department. He sat quietly as she drove around. So much looked different, hardly anything he could remember, but mostly it just looked dead. When he had gone through basic flight training, the base was alive with vigorous young men running in formation everywhere in green uniforms, all eager to be combat pilots. It's not the kind of thing he would do today, but mortality wasn't a factor as a kid. They had all been kids. There were countless memories of minor accidents and flight incidences that would fail a student pilot today. The Army had forgiven them then. He remembered first trying to hover, moving all over a football-field-size practice area. He thought for sure that he'd be washed out. Then he remembered flying solo for the first time to one of the practice LZs (Landing Zones) to wait for orders to return. He fell asleep under a tree and nearly washed out again. After all these years, he reflected on how close he'd come to never being a pilot, never knowing Bobby, never meeting Julie.

He was looking out the window saying, "That's Heliport Bronco. I recognize the old water tower." It had long ago run dry and now stood as a rusty monument to his bygone youth.

She smiled. "I bet you have a lot of memories here."

"Yeah. I was one of the few pilots in training that was licensed before the Army. My folks gave me flying lessons as a kid. I was ahead of most of the other WOCs (Warrant Officer Candidates), which was my first experience leading anything. My IP (instructor pilot) gave me the lead for most of the formation flights. I don't think I would have liked the Army so much if I'd been at the back."

She glanced over at him, "You stayed in the Army, right?"

"Yeah. The Army was good for me. I got to fly a lot with some good people. Never had any other real obligations and flew most days. The Army was a home for me."

"I thought you became a Ranger?"

"Yeah. After my tour in South America – with Bobby – I thought about leaving flying. Since I was technically coming out of a war zone, the Army gave me preference for my next assignment. Most guys would pick some vacation spot and fly just enough to keep their flight pay, but I wanted a complete change. I requested Ranger training because I liked the guys I'd worked with in the Jungle. The Army sent me to OCS to get my 'hard bar' commission (second Lieutenant) before sending me to Ft. Benning. Once I got my Ranger Tab, they put me in an air mobile brigade, and I ended up flying again. I kept flying after that."

She said softly, "Well, we've left the base, but there's nothing to indicate it. Feel like some lunch and maybe riding a horse afterward into the hills?"

"Sure. I haven't ridden in a long time."

"I know a stable with some gentle old nags that you can handle." She smiled at his amusement.

His first trip to see Julie was transformational, like when Callie first came to him, but different. On the drive back to Lafayette, he had time alone to reflect on how life might be different if he had come to meet her after Bobby died. He'd enjoyed her company, not like anybody he'd ever met before. Sometimes neighbors or work friends in Lafayette would have him over for dinner or celebrations, and he'd seen the interaction between couples, but this was different. Maybe it was because two older people with more of life's experience related differently than courting youngsters or couples after long marriages. He and Julie had not shared the bonding experiences with children or careers. They met after most parental trials would have been over in a traditional marriage. Would they ever get married? Did it matter? He didn't know the answers, but knew they would see each other again, maybe often. He smiled and the trip back to Lafayette went by quickly. Oddly, Bobby never came up directly during his stay with Julie. He was always in the shadows somewhere, but neither felt any urge to dwell on him. They had vastly different memories. Her memories were of a young lover. His was of a dead co-pilot, which had brought them together decades later.

They talked on the phone each evening after his visit and agreed that it would be fun to be together again soon. They were separated by too much distance to make impromptu plans. His flight schedules gave him long periods off, and she had the summer free. He actually felt happy. His issue with Ryan, the recovery of his collection, was on hold anyway while he was in prison. He had no idea what he'd do after Ryan was released, if anything, to get his coins back.

Returning to work, Jake followed his usual morning routine, including having coffee with BJ. "Okay, Jake, how'd it go?"

"BJ, it was great! I guess it was the right time for both of us."

"Did you talk about Callie much?"

"No, not really. Julie's a good person, BJ. Even though she was ripped off by Callie, she understood why I feel the way I do. She's got the right kind of values and sense about her. I feel good about her."

"So, you gonna go see her again?"

"Oh, yeah."

Throughout the summer, Jake made two more trips to Mineral Wells then got the nerve to ask her to come to Lafayette. "My place isn't as plush. I've lived as a bachelor forever, but I'd like to show you around my part of the world."

She drove down the last day of his flight schedule to stay all five days.

Once again, they had a wonderful time. He took her to New Orleans and to Avery Island with the Mcllhenny Plantation (Tabasco). On her last full day, he called BJ early in the morning before she woke. "Hey, BJ."

"Jake! I thought you'd be enjoying your lady friend."

"I am, man. I want to take her on a helicopter ride, got anything on the schedule? It's a pretty summer day for sightseeing."

"Well. You're on the schedule to carry some parts to Corpus tomorrow, dead-heading back. Won't be anyone in the helo but you, so I can pull that up to today. 067N is fueled and the only bird available."

"Sounds good. I might not get there until ten or so."

"No problem, pal. I'll get the parts loaded and update the flight schedule. Do you want to take tomorrow off since you're coming in today?"

"She's leaving in the AM, BJ. I'll work. Today's on me, but I might be a little late checking in tomorrow."

"No problem, you'll be on standby if someone gets sick."

"Thanks, man."

She was accustomed to early schedules from school and was up shortly after he talked to BJ.

He said, "Good Morning." To his surprise, she walked to him while he was sitting at the kitchen table and sat on his lap, kissing him without saying anything. He was stunned. They had pecked when he visited, but never amorously. She was beautiful in a silky robe, with no makeup. Her breath was fresh, as though she wanted to send him a message.

She stood up and started pouring tea water, ready on the stove.

He said, "How about a helicopter ride today?"

"Really! I've never been in a helicopter. Are you serious?"

"Yeah. We've got some good weather and I'd like to take you down to Corpus Christi."

"Exciting! When do we leave?"

"Whenever you're ready."

She had a quick yogurt breakfast and hurried to get dressed, ready in twenty minutes. She talked excitedly all the way to the airport. Her anticipation grew when they drove onto the field and further on to CHI Operations, parking by the helipad. They walked into the Operations Center for the helicopter keys and flight log, and to introduce Julie. Jake introduced her to Ross, BJ and one of the pilots, sitting in the lounge area on standby.

BJ shook her hand. "I'm so glad to meet you! You're all Jake talks about any more."

She smiled, shaking his hand firmly. "Well, around me he talks about flying and you."

They chuckled as Jake led her out, walking to the helicopter. She commented, "They all look up to you in there."

He just smiled.

When they reached the helicopter on the pad, he helped her up from the skid into the right seat. "I'm going to walk around now and check a few things. It's called pre-flighting."

She was excited, answering, "Okay."

When he was done with the walk around and checking the log book, he opened a panel and checked the fuel to be sure there was no water condensation in the tank. Everything checked okay, and he jumped into the pilot's left seat after closing all panels. "All right, fasten your seatbelt."

He put on a headset for takeoff and went through the engine start sequence and checklist. The inside of the helicopter was small and felt almost fragile to her, much more delicate than her car. The entire area in front and to the sides offered an incredible view. The turbine engine began to whine, and the rotor above them started moving. When the engine settled at the right temperature, Jake made a clearance call to the Operations Center announcing their departure. He glanced at her momentarily saying, "Here we go."

He pulled up on the collective and cyclic controls, and the helicopter jumped forward and up. She squealed with excitement. In about one second, they were at hangar-top level, and he maneuvered into a sharp left turn as she watched the top of the Operations Center pass underneath. They were travelling straight and level, as gently as he could fly, climbing at a slow rate. She enjoyed the ever-widening panorama below.

Jake removed the headset so that they could talk. They continued to climb to three thousand feet, where he leveled off and flew toward the Texas Coastline. "We're going to fly along the coast today. The weather's great, and I get lost otherwise." He was smiling as she glanced over at him with a "yeah-sure" look.

She sat comfortably. "This is fabulous. I can see why you like it."

At the coast, he lowered to five hundred feet and flew just outside the surf line. She said, "I get it. You just wanted to look at the girls today!"

"Nothing compares to you, sweetheart."

She smiled, "So, how long will we be up here today? It's like being suspended on top of the world's largest Ferris wheel!"

"It's about three hours each way, and we'll need to get gas and stop for lunch."

"You just fly into a restaurant?"

"Sometimes I eat at the airports when I get gas, but we'll land on the beach today. I know a nice place."

"I can see why you like this, Jake. You get so much freedom to go anywhere."

He smiled and scanned the horizon. "Yeah, it's pretty special. If we weren't going so far today, I'd take you to one of my favorite oil rigs. It's got a great chef, but I'm thinking seafood on the beach today."

She put her hand on top of his.

They'd flown for about two hours when he started descending. "Ready for lunch?"

"Sure."

Jake landed on an isolated beach, where they could walk to a local seafood place near the water. They sat outside under an umbrella. Even though it was summer, there was a breeze off of the water, making it pleasant. She ordered grilled shrimp and he had grilled snapper. The setting could not have been more perfect. They took their time and relaxed, without feeling the necessity to talk continuously. After finishing, they walked hand in hand back to the helicopter with many people watching the "lucky couple" with their own helicopter.

Once airborne again, they stopped for fuel at an airport near the coast, not far from Corpus Christi. The whole trip was like a tour ride for her. When they returned to the CHI heliport in the early evening, the sun was painting an orange-red tapestry, sinking into the sea. It had been a magical day for Julie, who thanked him with a huge kiss, as BJ and some of the office staff watched. You're a lucky guy, Jake.

That night, her last night with him in Lafayette, was special for both of them. He grilled steaks, and they enjoyed a bottle of wine. She thanked him for a special time together, their most special time yet. That night after he went to bed late, there was a knock on his door. She entered without giving him time to answer, wearing a silky nightgown she'd been saving. It was a new level in their relationship. He didn't know how to react and remained speechless. It was her turn to be in control.

The next day, she left as the sun began to rise. He felt a deep sense of loss, waving as she drove away. He thought, How can we carry this to the next level? They both had lives apart.

Later, sitting in the pilot's lounge, BJ sat down after all the helicopters left on scheduled routes. "Man, you are one lucky SOB. That is a fine lady you've got there, Jake."

"I'm not sure I've got her, BJ. She's got her life in Mineral Wells, and I'm here. I don't think either of us can leave. I don't know if I can have a long-distance relationship."

BJ responded, "You need to think about this. Women like her don't come often. You've never met anyone like her. Do you want to be a hermit for the rest your life?"

"I'm not a hermit."

"Oh. Yeah. What's the definition of a hermit? You come pretty close. You're a better man, Jake, when there's a woman around. Think about how life was before Callie came to you. Everyone here saw it. You saw it. Admit it."

"I know, BJ. Maybe I'm just depressed since she left this morning."

"Yeah. Why do you think that is?"

"Maybe you're right."

Angola

Ryan hated morning call at "The Farm," Louisiana's State Penitentiary, Angola. Another pre-dawn breakfast and work in the laundry or outside tending the vegetables they would eat. He didn't deserve to be at the state's maximum security prison. Over eighty percent of the prisoners were violent offenders, more than half with life sentences. Over eighty men and one woman resided on Death Row. He didn't belong there. He was only convicted of being a thief. They didn't get him on the murder charges. The judge didn't like his attitude for refusal to say anything about the unrecovered part of Ramsey's coins. Fuck 'em. His story was that Callie had the coins, and no one proved otherwise. No matter how tough they tried to make it for him, he'd be out in less than a year. His only goal now was to get the gold back. He was earning it for the time in here. This time, he'd get it all back.

After work detail, he'd be required to sit through some "offender educational programming" session again. The prison did everything the good people of Louisiana wanted, trying to rehabilitate the "lifers" who would never see freedom again. What a waste! He was going to be out soon enough, so it was all a waste of time and taxpayer money. The educational program was more torture than any prison labor detail. They liked to pretend that they could turn these mongrels inside into acceptable humans. Fat chance. Then there was the faith-based stuff for "moral rehabilitation" -- what a joke. None of the inmates at The Farm had any morals. Ryan had morals, just none that society accepted. Fuck 'em.

After eating breakfast, he lined up with the other prisoners from his cell block, waiting for the guard to call his name. "Ryan, cattle stalls."

He yelled back, "What! Get someone else to handle the Shit Detail. You idiots can't keep givin' me the Shit Detail. I got rights!"

The big guard walked down the line, stopping inches from Ryan's face, looking down at the shorter man. "You got something to say, Fly Shit?"

Ryan could smell a foul odor on the guard's breath. He was tempted to swing at the man in uniform, pretty sure he could take the out-of-shape lard, even if he was a head taller and a hundred pounds heavier with bad breath. The guards constantly goaded him, hoping to get him extra time. He wasn't going to play their game. "No sir. It's just that I always get the stalls. Can't someone else do that?"

"You have a special talent for shoveling shit, Ryan, and you should feel glad to be appreciated for something."

The word amongst the guards was that he'd killed a Trooper and gotten away with it. He wasn't convicted, but the guards all figured he was guilty anyway. He was being punished by them for a crime he beat in court. It wasn't fair. Anyway, he could last ten months, even if they thought they were getting to him. He didn't mind the stalls that much, but he had to complain to avoid getting worse assignments.

He avoided the other prisoners and stayed in his cell before lights out in the evening. He read westerns, but mostly just thought about getting the gold back.

### Happy

Her drive back to Mineral Wells was full of memories of the last five days in Lafayette. Jake was really special to her. Was she just compensating for her grief as a rebounding widow? Maybe he was just another guy with superficial intentions. There'd been a few after Paul died. Jake wasn't like the other men she knew, mostly men married to her friends. He was the kind of man with deep passions, nothing superficial about him. They liked doing the same things. It was more about "doing" than reading constantly or watching TV. He wasn't good at passive activities. He was a doer who enjoyed life and lived closer to the edge than most people. Flying over the Gulf was something he enjoyed, and she had experienced some of that joy, but it was also dangerous. Pilots died in his profession. Jake had a career doing life-threatening things balanced by extreme personal satisfaction. It was this intensity about him that she loved. Her phone rang, and she glanced at the display. Gail was her best friend. "Hey, gal. How are you?"

Gail answered, "Okay, tell me all about it. Was he still the guy you liked so much when he's back on his native soil?"

"Hum. How to say it? Yes, he's wonderful. He took me up in his helicopter. I think he wanted me to understand why he does it for a living."

"I'm jealous. You went for a ride in a helicopter?"

"Yeah. It was great, hours along the Texas Coast. We stopped on the beach for lunch -- God's view of everything. It was wonderful, but mostly, it was being with him. He makes me feel good anywhere."

"Oh--oh. You sound like you're falling for him."

"Maybe I am."

"So, when do you see him again?"

"Soon, I hope."

They talked about local gossip then agreed to have dinner during the week. A short time later, Wendy called and most of the story was retold. That routine continued most of the way home. Julie never felt alone in the car. She never really had time to think about a future with Jake, driving back to Mineral Wells.

For weeks after Julie's visit, they talked almost every day on the phone. He thought frequently about asking her to marry him, or live with him. What do people in their circumstances do?

When he wasn't pondering their future, he was trying to untangle the mysteries surrounding Callie's entry into his life, and Julie's. How had she known about all of them: him, Julie and Bobby? More importantly, how had she put together the emotional connection they shared? It was one of the things that Jake and Julie started discussing after getting to know each other better. It allowed him to divert away from the marriage question whenever they exhausted all other topics. In their latest discussion, Julie said, "Jake, there's one way you might get the answers."

"What's that?"

She answered, "Think about it. The one person who knows, or should know, is Ryan. You could try to talk to him. Maybe he'd tell you something."

Jake dreaded the thought, but after his next flight rotation, he admitted to himself that it was worth a shot. He did some on-line research then called the prison about possibly visiting Ryan at Angola. They didn't schedule appointments in advance, but he could come during visiting hours and ask to talk to the prisoner. There was no guarantee that the prisoner would want to meet. It was a crapshoot. He had to try.

Ryan was resting lazily on his cell bunk at ten o'clock in the morning on Sunday, a day that he only needed to eat with the block, but otherwise had no work assignments. It was boring, but at least he wasn't shoveling shit. His cell door was open when the guard appeared, "Ryan, get dressed. You got a visitor."

"What? Who is it? I don't want to talk to no cops or DAs"

"I don't know who it is, just get dressed and come with me. You know how it works."

Ryan scowled, but decided not to argue with the guard. He was a short-timer and didn't want any trouble. Ten minutes later, he was let into the "visit" room, which was a series of chairs with partitions between and Plexiglas, separating the visitor from the prisoner. He was told to go to stall 3.

Jake was startled when he saw Ryan with shoulder-length hair and new tattoos on his forearms. His unshaven face gave him a menacing look overall.

Ryan reluctantly sat down. "What do you want?"

"Hi, Will. I just wanted to ask you some questions about Callie."

Ryan moved back from the voice box on the window then leaned forward saying, "I got nothing to say, man. Same's I tol' the police and the prosecutors. I ain't sayin' nothin' about that bitch."

"Will, I'm not here to get more crap on you. She, she was good around me, and I just want to close it all out."

"She give you a blow job every night for bedtime?" Ryan had a smirk on his face that infuriated Jake.

"Look Ryan, that's not what I mean, and you know it."

Ryan smiled at his reaction. "Yeah, I guess she was just daddy's little girl around you, huh. Too bad, you missed out on some prime girl flesh."

Jake gritted his teeth. "You know, she was a decent person deep down. It was being around shit like you all her life that disguised it. You really helped destroy her."

"Oh yeah. You didn't know her at all. I picked her off the streets and give her a home."

Jake clenched the desktop. "You don't know what a home is. She was a good person. Not in your low-life league. She was smart and could have turned around if given a chance."

"Well, that ain't gonna happen is it? She weren't so smart you know."

Jake relaxed slightly. "She could run circles around you."

"Oh yeah! How'd she fool you? How'd she fool that lady up in Texas? You think she was smart. I did all that. She was my tool, and I used her to perfection."

Jake finally got Ryan in a defensive mood. "You're not smart enough, or know enough, to pull any of this off. It had to be her plan, and you were just a tool."

Ryan pushed the chair back and leaned with both hands on the desk, spitting his words into the voicebox on the glass, "How'd you think she knew about your guilt trip, and how'd she find those letters? I tol' her! I figured it all out, and she did what I tol' her, or she woulda been whupped!"

"You didn't know about any of that. You couldn't!"

Ryan smiled. "Oh no, then how about I fill you in on your new romance with your new lady friend. Julie, isn't it?"

Jake flushed. "What do you know?"

"Well, Jake. I know everything. I got x-ray intelligence working here, boy."

Jake lost his train of thought and didn't know what more to say. Somehow, Ryan knew more than he should.

Ryan continued. "Tell you what, pard, we'll have more discussion when I get out. Maybe I'll go have a nice chat in Mineral Wells too."

Jake was flushed. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, the way I figure it, you owe me some gold afta' my debt to so-ciety is paid."

"I don't owe you shit, and you're going to stay away from me or anyone special to me. Do you hear me you shit bird!"

Ryan smiled. "Oh my, Jake. Swearing doesn't become the Great One at CHI. I'm surprised at you."

"Don't think you can fool with me, jailbird. I'm capable of taking you out any day and would enjoy every minute of it."

"Oh, Jake! Are you threatening me? I been survivin' all my puny life against real criminals. I ain't scart, and if I was you, I'd think about protecting my lady. And you just think about how you're gonna re-ward me with you gold when I get outta here in a few weeks. Think of it like a life insurance policy on you lady." Ryan smiled and walked away. "Guard!"

Jake sat stunned for a few moments then pushed the chair back.

On the way back to Lafayette, he processed what Ryan was saying – not the threats, those were clear, but the things about Jake's past. He knew too much, and it wasn't "x-ray intelligence."

There were no major roads between Angola and Lafayette. Jake steered down two-lane back roads trying to follow the reverse route he used coming up. The statements made by Ryan kept rattling around in his head. The conclusions caused him to be sick. He pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and hit speed dial #2. The voice answered, "CHI, how can I direct your call?"

"Let me talk to BJ."

He heard someone yell in the background then he answered, "This is BJ."

"BJ, it's Jake."

"Hey, Jake, what's shaken?"

"I've had an interesting morning."

BJ responded in a softer voice, "Tell me about it."

"I just visited Ryan at Angola."

There was a perceptible pause. "Why'd you do that?"

"I wanted some answers."

"Did you get them?"

"Maybe. I'm coming in, BJ. I want to talk to you when I get there in an hour."

"I'll be here, Jake."

The tone of the discussion was different than any other they'd had since first knowing each other. Jake felt sick. BJ was his best friend, the one person on earth he could talk to about anything. They both shared their thoughts and emotions. They were as close as two older men could be. It would never be the kind of bond he'd had with Bobby, or any other Army buddy. Age changed the way men relate. But BJ was his best friend in the world.

Best Friends

The drive to CHI took exactly an hour, just as he predicted. He parked by the Operations hangar and walked to the service door, dreading what would happen next. When he entered, the staff was all standing by the dispatcher's radio. Ross was standing directly behind one of the pilots speaking into the microphone. All Jake heard was, "Over."

Ross saw Jake enter and walked briskly to meet him. "Jake, you've got to help us."

"What's going on, Ross?"

"We don't know. BJ just walked out of here and started 0978E and flew off. He didn't have clearance, Jake."

"How much fuel did he have?

"It's been sitting fully fueled for days."

"Get me a bird!" Jake sprinted to his locker without listening to anything else. He grabbed his new helmet and headed for the door.

Ross met him as they both left the hangar. "What are you doing, Jake?"

"I'm going after him, Ross."

Ross tried to keep up but thirty years sitting behind a desk and losing sight of his belt buckle at least twenty years ago made it difficult. "Jake, he's got to return at some point. He'll need fuel in a few hours."

Jake stopped and stared at the shorter man. "Ross, he's not coming back! So, is 067N fueled?"

Ross just stared at him. "Yeah."

"Right. I'm out of here."

Jake sprinted to the helipad ignoring the preflight and startup checklist. He plugged in his helmet cable to the communications port and jumped into the pilot's seat, starting the engine sequence. The passenger door swung open and Ross tried to climb in. "Where do you think you're going?"

"He stole one of our helicopters, Jake. I'm going with you."

"Get out!"

"I'm the Acting Operations Manager, you can't tell me to get out!"

Jake repeated, "Get out! Get out, or I'm going to my truck and go home, and you can forget about getting your precious helo back!"

"Jake, I ah, I..." Ross didn't complete his sentence after looking at Jake's glare. He would not win this argument.

The turbine went to full power, and Jake brought full torque onto the drivetrain before the engine was fully to temperature, possibly damaging it. He radioed. "067N outbound, radio check."

The pilot dispatcher replied, "Good to go, Jake. Good Luck."

He didn't reply. He headed southbound at one seven zero degrees, the shortest distance to water. Come on BJ, where are you? Once over water, he rose to fifteen hundred feet and scanned the surface, continuing straight out to sea. At ten miles, he lowered to five hundred feet to lose line-of-sight transmission back to CHI. "Helicopter 0978E outbound, please report."

"Hi, Jake."

"Hi, BJ. Where do you think you're going?"

"It's a nice day for flying, Jake. I just thought I'd take a ride."

"This isn't the way, brother."

"Jake?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Have you had a good life?"

"I don't know, BJ, it's still a work in progress. It's looking up though."

"That's good."

"Come on, BJ, where are you? Where're you headed?"

"I'm just flying south, Jake. Heading for South America."

They both knew that the fuel in the helo wouldn't carry him mid-way into the Gulf. Jake called, "Common, BJ. This isn't the way."

"Jake, do you want to hear a story?"

"Sure, brother, tell me."

"Meet me on Old Glory, 2LF."

Old Glory was a decommissioned oil rig about thirty miles off the Louisiana Coast. It was a floating rig, scheduled to sink as an artificial reef in another year.

Jake altered course slightly and flew over the water for twenty minutes, passing over the top of the drilling tower. 0978E was on the edge of the helipad. The rotor was not moving, and there was adequate room to land on the opposite edge of the pad. He circled, then set down beside the old helicopter.

He stepped out of his bird while the rotor was slowing after cutting fuel to the engine. He left his helmet on the seat and looked around the platform. BJ was sitting on a safety rail on the opposite side. Jake walked around the tower and approached. BJ was sitting with a gun in his hand. Jake stopped twenty feet away. "What are you planning to do with that?"

BJ lifted the gun, not pointing it at Jake. "I don't know, just felt like I should have it." He waved it up and down before settling it in his lap.

Jake walked two paces forward, facing BJ about fifteen feet away. "Can we just talk about it?"

"He's my son, Jake."

Jake stared at him. "What do you mean, BJ?"

"Ryan. He's my son. My whole name is William Ryan Jones. Get it? Billy Jones – BJ."

Jake looked stunned. "I don't get it."

He stepped closer to BJ, who lifted the gun, still not aiming directly at Jake. "What are you gonna do, BJ, shoot me?"

"I wouldn't do that, Jake. Just stay back, okay? I want to tell you the story, but don't rush it."

"Okay, pal. I'm just going to sit here on the deck and listen." He sat down cross-legged, representing no threat to BJ.

"He got a rotten deal in life, Jake. It was my fault. I don't want to make excuses for what he's done, or what I've done, but you should understand why he's the way he is."

Jake looked down, then back up. "BJ, he killed some people."

BJ looked away momentarily and took a deep breath. "Yeah, he did. But I want to tell you everything. You've been my only friend, and I betrayed you. I won't live with that, but I want you to know the whole story."

"I'm listening." Jake didn't know how to react. They both had baggage and shared a lot of secrets. Now his best friend had ended it.

"After 'Nam, I was pretty messed up, lots of us were. You know my story. I'm not trying to make excuses, but it probably sounds like it.

"Anyway, I came back from Vietnam and paid for this Vietnamese girl, Anh, to come to the states. She was young and scared of the NVA (North Vietnamese Army), so she came to live with me, and I treated her like the bar girls we had over there. Only, she wasn't like that.

"After several years, she got pregnant, and I beat her up a lot, so when the boy was born, she left. I never saw her again. That's why he's small and looks different than me.

"I had the baby and no wife. The hospital gave him my name because I didn't bother to think of anything else. I didn't even bother to pick up the birth certificate.

"For a long time, I just wanted to hide from everyone, hide from society in general. I didn't even think about flying. I barely scraped by and I had the kid around my neck. That's the way I looked at it. I hit a low point when he was barely a school kid and nearly killed him. I was a drunk and useless.

"That shook me up pretty good, so I left him and never planned to be around him again. I guess he started using only his first two names and dropped the third, which I can't blame him for.

"I ended up on the Gulf Coast, and CHI was hiring pilots. Believe me, it changed my life, but it didn't help him at all. I basically forgot about him, just like Anh. I guess I thought it was better for him, but I really didn't care. It took me a long time to get back to being someone who might be considered normal. You had a lot to do with it when you came along. I was just turning a new leaf when you came to us."

Jake didn't look at him directly. "So, where's this going, BJ?"

"Like I said, it's kinda a long story. Okay, so, a couple years or so ago, I got this call from police in Oklahoma. Will Ryan was in some serious trouble, and the state was tired of paying his rent. Some officer tracked me down and asked me to pay his bail so that they could keep him out of jail. They weren't doing him a favor. They were just tired of paying for his upkeep.

"At first, I didn't know what to say. I'd abandoned the kid almost fifteen years before, and didn't ever expect to hear from him. Then, there he was. I had to do something, and I decided to help him. You were part of the reason I'd become a more decent person."

Jake looked at him chagrinned, "Oh, great. You're blaming this on me?"

"No, Jake. You know I wouldn't do that. So, I bailed him out. I actually drove to Tulsa and got him outta jail. I didn't know what to expect, and there wasn't any kind of huggy reunion or anything. He just looked at me and left. I followed him, and we talked. He blamed me for everything.

"Believe me, Jake, I wanted us to have a new beginning, but it wasn't ever going to be possible.

BJ played with the gun for a moment, trying to regain his thoughts.

Jake asked, "BJ, why don't you put the gun down, and let's just talk."

He looked at Jake and pursed his lips. "I can't do it, Jake."

Jake started to say something more when BJ continued. "Out of the blue, he called me more than a year ago and needed some money. He didn't say why, but I was so desperate to repair our relationship that I sent him five hundred. Then he called a couple weeks later, sounded a little stoned and just wanted to talk. So we talked about his mother and my abandonment – heavy topics for a new beginning. I just wanted to fix him, Jake. Can you understand?"

Jake looked suspicious. "So far, I'm with you, BJ. But how does this get to betraying me?"

He answered, "That's the hard part. I guess it started innocently enough talking about our lives. I started talking about my friend, Jake Ramsey. I probably told him more than I should about you, and how we had some similar experiences and regrets. Both single ... you get it?

"Anyway, he said he had an aircraft mechanic certificate from the Coast Guard, and I talked to Alex Davis and got him an interview. Will stayed with me for a few days while I got him prepped to talk to Alex. I guess I wanted too hard to have him as a son, and he asked a lot about you. I can't remember when it all got out, but I think I gave him all the background that he used to steal your gold. Honestly, Jake, I didn't know how the kid's mind worked.

"Alex didn't have any jobs at the time, but Will kept on him and finally he got hired."

"What about Callie?" Jake used a dry tone, figuring that BJ had been part of her deception before she even arrived.

BJ looked away. "Jake, I swear I didn't know about her or that he was planning to take your gold. He only brought me into it all when I asked about your accident. I swear I was ready to kill him all over again. That's when he told me the whole story. Jake, I would never have allowed him or anyone to hurt you or steal from you, never."

Jake continued looking down, "Go on, BJ. I want to know about the girl. How did she get involved?"

"He was living with her, Jake. He took her off the streets in Oklahoma and cared for her. She was a prostitute. When she inherited her mother's trailer in Abilene, Will went with her. I learned later that he might have killed her mother to get the trailer. Anyway, he had built up some kind of control over the girl, maybe he terrorized her. I really don't know. All I know is that she did whatever he asked."

Jake said, "So, he was behind it all, not Callie."

BJ knew Jake's feelings for Callie and wasn't going to lie. "Jake, she was completely innocent. Oh, she's technically guilty of stealing your collection too, but he was controlling her." He paused for a moment then continued. "Jake, I think her feelings for you were genuine. I think she meant to get caught with Will in Georgia and have your coins returned. It's the only way she could maneuver Will back into jail. I bet she was going to tell what she knew about the murders in Texas. Will was cooked with her, and she was willing to do it to keep you safe."

Jake felt uneasy again. "BJ, you don't have to sugar coat it. She was guilty in this, too."

"Yeah, I know, Jake, but she had the right heart. She wanted to get this murderer and thief away from you for good and was willing to give up her freedom to do it. Instead, she gave up her life."

Jake had heard about all he could stomach and stood, pacing slowly at a distance from BJ. "Okay, BJ. If I'm gonna believe all this, where's the other half of my coins?"

BJ had an ironic smile. "That's the cool part, Jake. I've got it."

"What! You pretend to be my friend!"

"Jake, I am your friend. I didn't want it. Will said I deserved it for helping him. I didn't want it! He just wanted to be sure I was an accessory and couldn't talk."

"Then why take it?"

"I don't know. Call it the final temptation. When he gave it to me, I had second thoughts. But what could I do? I couldn't say anything to you or the police. Will had implicated me, just like he got Callie into it."

Jake looked at him and the gun, taking a deep breath, "So, where's it now."

"You're gonna laugh."

"Try me."

"It's back out on Ocean Victory. I put it all behind the big generator."

"Why out there?"

"Well. I thought it was one place no one would search, especially Will. Even if someone went on the old rig, no one would look behind the generator. I guess I had this thought about someday trapping Will out there where he couldn't escape."

BJ rested the gun again in his lap.

Jake asked, "So what now, BJ? What should I do?"

"Nothing, Jake. There's no more to this story." He smiled and placed the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

"No! No!" Jake raced for his friend as his body teetered on the rail. Before he could reach him, BJ's limp mass collapsed on the deck, instead of falling over the side as he probably wished.

Jake cupped his head, crying. "BJ! You damn fool. BJ, don't go!" But the bullet did its work. BJ died instantly with a small smile on his face, and his eyes open. He had cleared his conscience.

Proposal

Jake radioed CHI about what had occurred on the platform. A New Orleans police helicopter was dispatched, and Jake flew off the platform as they approached to make room for landing. It took a couple days of investigation and reporting before BJ's body was released for burial.

All of CHI turned out for his funeral, but there were no other friends or neighbors. His life had revolved around the company, and he would be missed by all. Jake felt a special loss. Julie drove down to be with him. He was deeply depressed about BJ's death, but even more so about being betrayed. He'd never dealt with losing his co-pilot decades earlier until meeting Julie. Now she would help him get over losing his best friend.

She stayed with him for the next week. He tried not to be glum, but she encouraged him to open up with her. He cried more than once. His tears weren't only about BJ. He'd ratified his feelings about Callie. Julie joined him in vindicating her memory.

Will wasn't a villain according to BJ, but there are no villains if circumstances of chance are allowed to enter the assessment. Will had been abused and neglected, ultimately abandoned, but so had Callie. She didn't become an evil monster. Jake would not forgive Will. Maybe that was BJ's intent – maybe not. Will was as purely evil as any man could be, plain and simple.

After a few days moping around the area, Jake and Julie drove to Biloxi for some recreation at the floating casinos. They laughed and gambled. They went to the beach two mornings at dawn, walking in the shallow warm water. Fish swam between their legs and Jake dove in a few feet of water to chase a ray gliding in front of them. Tragedy had once again evolved into joy and happiness between them. It further solidified his intentions. Oddly, he was scared to take the next logical action.

Their last night in Biloxi, they ate alfresco on the beach. He wore white slacks and a loose Hawaiian shirt. She wore a light summer dress and a wide hat to protect against the late afternoon sun. Both wore sandals. Afterwards dinner and some wine, they walked barefoot in the wet sand, hand in hand.

They were both mellow and didn't want to rush the evening. At one point, he dropped her hand and put his arm around her waist, walking beside her in synchronized harmony. She was the first to speak. "Jake, it's so nice down here on the Gulf Coast. I can't believe I never came here before meeting you. You've been spoiled."

He smiled. "You know, you can live in paradise and never realize it. It took you to show it to me."

They walked a bit farther, watching the sky turn crimson in the west, then Jake said, "What would you think about spending all your time down here?"

She smiled lightly, but didn't answer immediately. "What do you mean?"

"Look Julie, I hope that I'm clear about this. I've never done it before."

"Done what?" She was torturing him and loving it.

"Don't you know?"

"Jake, if you're asking me to go steady, we're a little old."

He said, "Can I ask you a very personal question?"

"Maybe."

"How did your husband propose?"

"Nope. That's off limits. You've got to find your own way, pal." She smiled again, looking away so he wouldn't see.

They kept walking and he said, "We're not kids anymore, but I feel pretty awkward. How ... what if I wanted to propose?" His face almost froze with tension saying it.

She stopped and looked at him, "Well, here's a secret -- you just do it."

He looked at her with fearful eyes. "Do I need to get down on one knee?"

"Um. It might help."

He knelt down just as the tidal surge swept past them, but he didn't notice. "Julie, will you marry me?"

She looked down at him. "Hum. This could be complicated."

"Does that mean 'no'?"

"It means YES, but with qualifications." She bent over, holding his head, and they kissed passionately.

When they surfaced, Jake asked, "What qualifications?"

"Well, we have two houses, two jobs, two investment portfolios, and we live four hundred miles apart."

He smiled. "How about I cash in and come live with you? I could be a Greeter at Wal-Mart, just for something to do."

They started walking again. She said, "Yeah. That would be a good job for you. We could put a rocking chair out on the patio when you're not working. Or, I've got an idea."

He squeezed her hand as they continued walking into the sunset. "Okay, what?"

She smiled watching their feet piercing the water surging around their ankles. "I can retire from teaching with my full pension and benefits. I could sell my house and come live down here. We'd have a lot of cash and could even buy a place on the water, if you wanted. Between your Army retirement, my pension, and our home equities, we could really live comfortably."

Both were smiling at the prospects shaping up. He said, "You'd give up teaching?"

"Oh, I wouldn't have to. Each year, the kids are the same, just different names. I can teach anywhere. It's a great gig, summers off, Christmas vacation, all that. You could even keep flying if you wanted. Or we could just enjoy retirement at a very early age."

"Wow. Some conditions you have, lady. When can I start?" She smiled and beckoned him to keep walking.

They walked back to the hotel slowly and had a drink on the lanai before midnight. Both savored the sea air and the special memory they would have of this day forever.

As they got ready for bed she said, "By the way, in my first marriage – I proposed."

Released

Jake had never been happier. Julie had experienced the joys of love twice before, but never with more intensity than with him. They planned a fall wedding. There was no rush. It would take time to reconcile their two properties and make retirement plans for her. She might complete one more year of teaching, then move in the summer to Louisiana.

She went back to Mineral Springs happy to be with her friends, some of whom she'd known since childhood. She had one fleeting moment, thinking about leaving a community she'd lived in all of her life, except for two years away at college. But Louisiana was still close enough to visit. Her friends could visit, and so could she. Paul would be missed for the rest of her life, but she knew he would have approved of Jake. She had no regrets. They'd had a wonderful life together. Now it was important that she continue the rest of hers. She was still young by modern standards. If sixty was really the new forty, she was only in her thirties.

Jake wanted to move out of his house immediately. Once Julie agreed to marry him, he couldn't wait to start their life together. Some of his male friends never married and would never marry. He wasn't like them. He had gone through a dark period that had lasted much too long, but it was behind him. Now he just wanted to be out of the man-cave he'd developed and start a real life. His house was for sale, and he was spending his free time fixing and painting parts that he'd neglected over eight years. It seemed like he'd just moved in, but he'd lived there since retiring from the Army. Julie was right. They could live on his retirement and hers if they wanted. Jake was a Lieutenant Colonel when he retired and got a decent check every month, over four thousand dollars. He never thought about it, because it all went automatically into investments. Some went into gold coins and some into mutual funds. He hadn't paid much attention, but his stock portfolio was worth over a quarter million most of the time, depending on the market. The house wasn't worth much, and probably wasn't the kind of place a senior military officer should be expected to be living in. It was time to live properly, especially with a new bride. When he wasn't fixing things to sell the house, during his free time he was scouting areas along the Gulf Coast for them to buy. Dwellings had only been a place to sleep and stay dry over his entire life. Now it meant something quite different, something special. He was excited.

This time, he was looking for a place for Julie, not just for himself. For married couples, the house really belonged to the wives. Husbands just lived there. That was okay with him. He wasn't in a big hurry. It would be months before she moved down. He knew it would be hard on her and he didn't want to push, but he was also anxious to get their lives together started.

That night, sitting alone in his living room, she called, and they talked for an hour. Two couples had looked at her house. She confirmed that it was a desirable community, and they both agreed that she shouldn't be rushed to sell it. Julie and Paul had invested their free time improving the house since purchasing it twenty-five years earlier. Someone would get more value than expected, even if they paid top dollar. They were talking about wedding venues when Jake's phone beeped, indicating another call. He looked at the display. "Honey, I gotta take this. I'll call back soon."

He pressed the answer key, "Hello, this is Jake."

"Hi, Jake. You sound cheerful. This is Tibbs at the police department."

Jake sat upright, "Detective, Tibbs! It's been a while. How's it going?"

"Jake, I guess you know I wouldn't be making a social call."

"Yeah, so, what's up?"

"Will Ryan was released on parole today."

Jake remembered his threats. "So, what does that mean for me?" He hadn't even thought about Ryan in weeks.

Tibbs explained. "Jake, this is just a courtesy call. Since you and Ryan have a history, I wanted to give you a heads-up that he would be back in Lafayette."

"What?"

"Part of the parole process is to release the criminals gradually back into society. Ryan is assigned to a halfway house. He's under a case worker who will keep a close eye on him. They're supposed to look for work and stay in view of the case worker all the time. They really don't get freedom as you and I know it."

"How long does it last?"

"Technically, it lasts till the end of his regular sentence, so about a year from now."

"Should I be worried about him?"

"I don't think so, but you should be cautious anyway."

"I went to see him at Angola."

"Why'd you do that, Jake?"

"I wanted some answers, maybe get my other coins back."

"Did he lead you back to Jones?"

"Yeah, kinda, indirectly. But he also made some threats."

"What do you mean?"

"He's fixated on my gold coins. He thinks he can scare me out of them."

Tibbs sounded concerned. "Sometimes these perps get on a one-lane track and can't get off. Even if there are thousands of other targets to choose from, they go back to the one they know best. They feel entitled in some way after being caught and punished."

"Yeah, that's basically what he said. He said he'd earned it."

"Yeah, well. I wouldn't get too concerned. We, on the force, get threats all the time. I don't know of any that ever got carried out, but it would be best to be on guard for a while. Time usually reduces the threat, so be careful right now. I'll talk to his case officer and let him know about the threat."

Jake thought about it. "No, I'd rather you didn't. This guy's pretty strung out, and he might act on his impulses if someone challenges him on this. Just let him chill. I'll be careful."

"All right, Jake. Whatever you want."

"Thanks for the warning, Tibbs, I'll be watching for him."

Halfway House

Processing out was easy, although the prison "counselor" advised him to get his hair cut and to shave clean. He told her he had recreated himself in the image of Our Lord Jesus Christ. She didn't like the joke, but they couldn't force him to clean up his appearance. He didn't have any serious plans about job hunting anyway. She tried not to show her fear of him, or disgust, he couldn't tell which it was. She did this with every exiting inmate, maintaining an iceberg chilled demeanor.

"Mr. Ryan, you're semi-free at this point. You will be required to live in a place in a civilian community under strict supervision. You will have $200 per week allowance for up to five weeks to buy clothes and use public transportation or other necessities until you find work. The place where you live will have computers and other resources to help you locate work. It will also provide meals, unless you eat outside. You will be monitored closely, checking in and out and counseled three times each week to assess your progress, melding back into free society.

"I want to be clear that you are not a free man. You are on parole of your sentence for another year and can be returned to prison if you break any on the parole rules that will be conveyed by your case officer. Any questions?"

"Yeah. When do I get outta here?"

An unmarked van with three passenger seats behind the driver was outside the Release Gate of the prison. Ryan walked outside, passing through the two chain-link gates, topped with razor wire, without restraints for the first time in over two years. The air smelled a little fresher today. At the second gate, a guard signaled for him to enter the van, which he did defiantly. He was the only inmate released, and he flipped the bird at the officer, at the whole prison, as the van pulled away.

He said, "Hey, driver, where we goin'."

The old fat man was wearing some kind of driver uniform, but there weren't any markings Ryan could see. "I'm taking you to a nice place in beautiful Lafayette, where you can start a new life as a good Christian."

"Fuck you."

He stared out the window in silence for the rest of the trip, savoring the next stage in his plans. It wasn't complicated, and he'd rehearsed it a thousand times in his mind. The only thing that had changed recently was that BJ died. Good riddance. Ramsey probably had all the coins now.

New Beginning

In Mineral Wells, Julie was busy in her classroom, preparing for the new school year to begin in a little over a week. Sue Sanchez stopped in from her third-grade room across the hall. They had been friends for ten years since Sue graduated from college and joined their staff. She had done her student teaching classes with Julie. "Hey, Julie. So, you're leaving us this year, sister?"

Julie had a special relationship with Sue. She felt like her mentor and would miss her most of anyone on the staff. "Yeah, Sue. Looking around, I don't think the impact of leaving this behind has really struck yet. I'm so happy, but I will miss it here. I'll miss you."

Sue walked up to her, and they hugged. "So, when's your final day here?"

Julie was melancholy answering. "I've filed for retirement, so it could be any time. Jake and I agreed that we'd get married here at my house as soon as it's sold. So, it could be in a month or two, or longer. It just depends."

"Well, you just let me know if I can help with anything at school or home. I know the rest of the staff feels the same way. You're a fixture here, and we all love you. At least you're not moving thousands of miles away. We're all so excited for you."

That afternoon, her friend Gail stopped by her house to help sort through things to take with her to Louisiana. Gail's expressions were similar to Sue's. Julie was loved by dozens of people in Mineral Wells. They were all excited for her and would always be good friends, and she would be missed.

Lafayette

The prison van arrived at its destination in a rundown part of town, a couple blocks from the Police Department in South East Lafayette. The driver grabbed a manila envelope before exiting, instructing Ryan to "Stay put."

"Whatever you say, Roscoe."

A short time later, a heavy man in his early fifties came out to the side door. "Ryan, come inside with me." He didn't pretend to be polite and went inside the old building before Ryan stepped onto the broken sidewalk. He stopped momentarily to look up and down the street. The building was a two-floor clapboard-sided structure with faded grey paint and white trim. All of the paint was peeling, and the window frames all showed bleached bare wood. The front stoop had four steps up with rust spikes where the side rails had rotted away.

Inside, the old wood floors were buckled with wide gaps. Ground-in dirt had long since replaced any natural stain on the floors. It smelled peculiar, but Ryan had never lived anywhere that smelled particularly fresh. The driver passed him on the way out without looking at him or commenting. Down the dark center hallway the man summoned him to a rear bedroom, used as an office.

"Sit down, Ryan."

Ryan smiled through his overgrown facial hair. "Oh, yesser!"

"What's with the hair? You look like Charles Manson on his worst day."

"It's part of my new religion. Took me the whole time at Angola to grow it."

The man sat behind a severely scarred old wooden desk with numerous ink stains covering the top. "We got some simple rules here, Ryan. Rule one. If you break any of the rules, you go back to Angola and finish your sentence."

Ryan smirked, "Yeah. So what's the other rules?"

The man pulled a printed form from the top drawer, shoving it towards Ryan. Read those and sign at the bottom."

"I don't read fast."

"Sign anyway. The most important rule is, don't piss me off. You see, Ryan, I'm your babysitter for the next year. You'll do everything I say, or the nice man in the prison van will come take you away again. From what I understand, some were disappointed to see you go anyway."

Ryan sneered.

The man continued talking, looking at the open file in front of him. "My name is Keats. Remember it. I see here that you're a cop killer."

Ryan got mad, "I got freed on that charge!"

"Says here it was a hung jury. You wasn't found innocent boy, and that means you're guilty in my book -- in any lawman's book."

"Yeah, well they ain't got nothin' on me that'll stick."

"Like I said, you piss me off, you're going back up north to The Farm. You got it?"

Ryan looked at him and said, "Sure." He wasn't going back. If Keats tried to interfere with his plan, he'd be a dead man, too. The guy was about five inches taller, just under six feet, but he was over two hundred pounds with fat in all the wrong places. His complexion said he was an alcoholic. His greying hair had receded from the front to the crown of his skull, making him look like a medieval monk, only this was no holy man. Ryan figured he was as dishonest as anyone at the prison.

Ryan was getting impatient. "So, where's my money, my $200 for this week?"

Keats looked perturbed, upset that someone had told him about his allowance. "You'll get it when I'm ready to give it to you. Not before you get cleaned up and go out looking for a job."

"Well, Keats. I'm headin' out this afternoon to look, so get it ready."

Baton Rouge

Jake spent the day flying back and forth to CHI station at Port Arthur to swap two helicopters requiring service. It was still daylight when he drove into his carport then walked back toward his mailbox on the street. T.W. Boudreaux was sitting on his porch across the street. He yelled, "Hey, Jake. Come on over for a beer." T.W. was sitting on his customary folding lawn chair next to a Coleman cooler filled with ice and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Jake never saw him fill it, but figured T.W. went out early each morning for a fresh case.

Jake smiled and waved and kept walking past the mailbox. "How you doin', T.W.? I don't want a beer, but I'd enjoy sitting with you for a bit."

T.W. answered, "Far enough, neighbor. Sit a spell and tell me what's goin' on now'a days."

Jake sat for about half an hour, talking about flying, something T.W. always wanted to hear. Jake also told him about getting married to his girl from Texas.

T.W. responded, "I married a girl from Texas once. She was number two." Jake had lived across from T.W. for eight years and had never seen any women around. "She was a fine lady. Kinda high rollin' with her bible though, if'n you understand me. It's a problem with them Texas women. I'm not against religion you understand, just not in my bedroom, heh, heh. She was a Democrat too."

"Gee, T.W. I can certainly understand why you'd divorce her."

"Oh, I didn't divorce her." He took a deep pull on his beer, and Jake stared at him. "Well, I didn't kill her either. She divorced me." He took another gulp. Jake figured he finished twelve cans per day.

T.W. went on. "Yep. She divorced me. Left before you got here and cleaned me out. I been single ever sense."

"It takes two to divorce, T.W., just like it takes two to marry. Did you sign anything?"

"Not that I can remember. Oh, no! You don't think I'm still married, do you?"

Jake chuckled, and T.W. moaned, "Give me another'n there Jake. I gotta get drunk. Oh, this is a bad day."

"Okay, T.W. Forget I said anything."

T.W. finished half the can with one swig. "Okay, now you tell me about your lady. I bet she's real nice."

Well, T.W., I'm marrying a reformed Christian. She's been baptized, but doesn't preach or quote scripture. She's really a fine moral person. Goes to church sometimes, but doesn't own a bible that I know of. Anyway, I could probably use a little religion in my life. As far as politics are concerned, I think we're compatible."

"Suit yourself, Jake." T.W. took a dirty handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face and neck. It often amazed Jake that someone so overweight who sat in the summer heat all day long didn't boil off some of the fat. He must perspire gallons each day but he keeps in on with beer.

Jake said, "T.W., why is it that you don't use air conditioning in your house? Everyone uses it down here. It keeps the mold down as much as anything, but it would sure make things more comfortable, too."

"Jake, I'm a southerner, born and raised here in Louisiana. We never had no air conditioner. It ain't natural. Probably ruin my health." Jake just chuckled. T.W. was another Louisiana cardiac casualty waiting to happen. He'd seen it for eight years. Too much shrimp and crayfish dipped in melted butter and no exercise. It's too hot and humid to work vigorously outside ten months of the year. People can't even swim in the lakes and rivers unless they plan to feed the gators. Someone once told him that Louisiana had the best cardiac surgeons in the world because they got the most practice. If that was true, T.W. lived in the right state.

T.W. was getting pretty mellow, but he wouldn't need to move from his chair unless he got hungry or until he went to bed. Jake put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward looking at his own house. "Tell me T.W., what does T.W. stand for?" He'd never thought to ask before.

"Well, Jake. It stands for my name, I thought that was obvious."

"They're initials T.W., they mean something longer."

"Why?"

"Just because they do."

"Well, as long as anyone can remember all the men folk in the Boudreaux line had two names in front, always one letter each. My first and second name is T. and then W. I was named after my granddaddy. He was named after his granddad who served with dis'stinkshun with President Davis in the Great War of Northern Aggression. They's probley a record of T.W. Boudreaux in the Confederate history books. You could look it up."

Jake smiled. "I'll do that, T.W." He slapped his neighbor on the knee, as he stood up. "Well I gotta go, friend. You be good, and don't overdo it tonight. It's supposed to be hot, and I don't want to see you slumped in that chair in the morning.

T.W. saluted with his beer can, "Adios, Amigo."

Jake walked to his mailbox, then down the driveway to the back door. Callie's ghost no longer haunted him since Julie had come into his life. Both had shown him the path to a better future. He'd been on a collision path for dual plots with T.W. in some forgotten cemetery. Now the thought scared him. How had he sunk so low? Doesn't matter. It's all over now. He was alive, healthy and in the best shape of his life. After changing clothes, he grabbed a cold high protein fruit drink and left for the gym.

That same evening, Ryan used some of the rehab money for a camo shirt and floppy hat. He walked to the bus station and purchased a ticket to Baton Rouge. He'd done some on-line job searching that actually led him to an area of pawn shops in the capital city. He didn't want to be implicated in Lafayette. He got off the bus at the central station downtown and walked four blocks to Florida Avenue. According to his Google search, there were numerous pawn shops located along the street. He didn't have a specific plan. The advantage of pawn shops is that they frequently attract questionable-looking people, and he looked about as questionable as he could be. With the shaggy hair of a Neanderthal and a long sleeved camo shirt to cover his body markings and a floppy hunter's cap, he looked out of place in any normal setting. Pawn shops always had cash and weapons that people exchanged for cash when desperate.

He'd walked several blocks in the searing heat, dripping sweat like someone who walked through a carwash. He passed one old homeless man, and a pair of dangerous looking men, who glanced at him and let him pass. There were no streetlights once he was a few blocks away from Main Street. He was in an area of town with heavy iron bars on all windows. A large yellow sign was illuminated reading "Pawn Shop" a couple doors down with only one small front window and a thick glass door.

Ryan stopped outside and observed a man alone inside. He looked to be about forty, fat, in a stained white undershirt. There were no other patrons, and there was only one car in the darkened lot beside the store, under a large water oak with Spanish moss draping down around it.

The door chimed when he went in. From observation, he knew there were at least a dozen security cameras aimed at him. The man lowered his hands behind the counter as Ryan approached. "Howdy, partner, what can I do for you?"

Ryan stood opposite with his beltline lower than the counter top. "Howdy, yourself, frien'. I'd like to see what you got in the way 'o guns and huntin' knives."

"Okay, I got a lot of both." He motioned farther down the counter to a glass case.

Ryan stared wide-eyed. It had been years since he'd seen so many weapons in one place. "Ah. Let me see that black-handled Buck in the back. What's that got? Is that a four-inch blade?"

The man paused for a moment. "Ah. First I need to know if you have cash. I only take cash."

"Sure." Will reached in his pocket and put several twenties on the counter. "See, I got plenty o' cash."

The store keeper smiled and unlocked the back of the display, removing the knife. "This one's brand new. Fella brought it in right after Christmas. Said he needed cash and would come back for it. I held it sixty days as my agreement, then it's up for sale. It's razor sharp, so be careful handling it."

Ryan picked up the knife and fondled it, then opened the blade and tested the edge against his fingers. "That's a fine knife. I can understand why the fella wanted it back."

The man responded, "I can let you have it for eighty dollars."

Ryan continued examining the knife, then looked at the man. "I'll give you sixty, how 'bout that?"

The man felt uneasy now that Ryan was holding the knife. "How about we split and call it seventy?"

Ryan opened and closed the blade several times, leaving it open before answering. He looked sternly at the man then broke into a big grin. "Deal."

He folded the knife and put it into his pocket and shoved four twenties across. The man said, "All right, if you'll come up front with me again, I'll write out a receipt and take your information." Ryan gave him a sideways glance. "It's required by the city, you know."

Ryan smiled again, walking toward the front of the counter. "No problem."

When they got to the front, the man waited for Ryan to volunteer his license but he stood motionless. Nervously, the man pulled out a pre-printed form saying, "Well, all right. Let's write up the receipt." He didn't see Ryan pull the knife from his pocket.

As the man balanced on the counter with pen in hand ready to write, Ryan drove the knife through the clerk's left wrist, pinning him to the counter with blood spurting over them both. "Where's the cash?" The man was gasping trying to free his arm with his other hand. He was screaming. Pain prevented him from responding, so Ryan jerked the knife out and jumped over the counter, as the man slumped, grasping the wound and sobbing uncontrollably. Ryan pushed the tip of the blade against the man's eye socket repeating, "Where's the money!"

"It's in the safe in the back. Please don't stab me again. I don't want to die!"

"Shut up!" Ryan grabbed his shirt and forced the man up, as he still clamped his wrist, trying to stop the bleeding. Ryan pushed him to the back. In the small back room, the shop keeper continued pleading. "There ... there's the safe!" It was a small two foot cubed box on the floor, in the corner. "It's not locked, just turn the handle, and it'll open. Please take what you need. Leave me something, I got a family. Please don't kill me."

Ryan pushed the man down onto the floor by the safe. "Open it yourself and show me!"

The man did as he was told, and Ryan kicked him aside. The paper money was stacked neatly in bundles by denomination. Ryan was thrilled at the thick stack of hundreds, fifties and twenties. He grabbed a bag on the floor and scooped all of the bills into it. The man pleaded. "Aw. Leave me some it's all I got ... my family."

"Shut up. Is that your car outside?"

"Yes. Oh, please, don't take it. I can't afford another one."

"Give me the keys!"

The injured man struggled to stand and quickly reached into his right pants pockets, letting his wrist spurt for a moment. He pulled them out covered in blood, which Ryan wiped on the man's shirt. He had been careful not to touch anything in the store.

The man sobbed, "Look, you got everything, now just go. Let me alone." He moved into a corner of the storeroom and looked helpless, grasping his nearly-severed wrist.

Ryan stepped up to him. "Sir, you genuinely been helpful, but I gotta do one mo' thing." He patted the man's shoulder with his right hand then thrust the knife deep under his ribcage, twisting the blade left and right. "Now you jus' gotta die."

The man fell, gasping, to the floor, wrapping his arms around his midsection. Ryan didn't pay any more attention to him. He just wiped the blade again on the man and watched him momentarily while he folded the blade and put it in his pocket. He left him to bleed out on the floor.

He calmly walked back behind the counter and pulled a gun, a .357 revolver from the case. He looked back at the man slumped on the floor who seemed to be staring at him through glazed eyes. Ryan saluted with the gun but decided it was too incriminating if he took it. He calmly walked out the front door of the store, turning the corner toward the big tree. It was dark under the canopy as he fumbled for the right key. In half a minute, he was backing up, heading back to Main Street where he parked across from the police station, three blocks from the bus station. He chuckled at the irony of it when the police would find the car. Before abandoning it, he removed his camo shirt with a few blood spatters, and wiped the wheel and gearshift with his hat. The keys, hat and the shirt were rolled together under his arm for the bus ride back to Lafayette. He sat alone at a window seat, smiling at himself in reflection.

He left Baton Rouge on a Greyhound bus after eight o'clock. The fare was only about twenty dollars and it arrived only two blocks from the halfway house at nine-fifteen, giving him forty-five minutes to spare. He threw the rolled clothing and keys in a dumpster behind a store and then walked back toward the house. At an unlit segment along the street there was an derelict house with boarded windows. He found a breach in the siding and stuffed his booty from the pawn shop inside for the night before continuing to the halfway house only a few doors further down the street. He smiled at how well the day had gone per plan. He only needed to be inside the house before curfew at ten o'clock. He was so excited he could hardly wait to count the money, but he couldn't take a chance in public.

Wedding Plans

The phone rang shortly after Jake got into the house from visiting with T.W. He anticipated her call. "Hello, babe."

"Jake! I sold the house!"

He smiled. "Sweetheart, that's unbelievable. How do you feel?"

"Jake, I feel wonderful. I got full price, two hundred and forty-nine thousand dollars! Paul and I paid about one tenth that much when we bought it."

He sat down and started doing some mental calculations about how long closing would take. "So, when do you close? When can we move you down here?"

"They want to close right away. That's why they bid high, so that I would agree to move out soon, before school. The date on the contract is thirty days from now. Aren't you excited?"

He couldn't believe it. "I'm thrilled. Julie, we're going to live and love each other forever. When do you want to set the wedding date?"

"It will need to be after I move out of here, Jake. I might need to rent something."

"That's okay, my love. I'll do whatever you need, and we can work out the details later. This is great, the biggest hurdle is past."

She could hardly control her excitement. "Jake, I want to be with you so much. Even thirty days seems like an eternity."

"I know, babe, but it'll go by fast. You need to think about moving everything. You should call a moving company in the morning and have them out to do an estimate. If you need to, have them store things up there or down here until we get everything sorted out. Get the ball rolling."

"I will, Jake. I've never moved before. Not since moving in here."

"Not a problem. I moved a lot in the Army. We'll get through this. Tonight we celebrate. Tomorrow we panic. Don't you love it?"

"I love you."

"Me, too, Julie. Me, too."

"So, when can we get married?"

"How fast can you set it up? I can be there tomorrow!"

She sounded serious. "I'll need to work on the schedule. Like I said, it might be after the move. I still want it here with all my friends, but it might be after I'm out of the house."

"You just tell me when and where, sweetheart. I'm yours no matter what some piece of paper says."

"I know, Jake."

They talked a little longer. Both were so excited that neither was tired. After the call was over, Jake reflected on the few things he still wanted to do in his house before she moved down. Now there was a timeline, and he couldn't stall any longer. He was thrilled.

Monster Loose

That night, across town, Ryan walked through the front door of the house and was surprised to see Keats sitting there. "I been waitin' for you, Ryan. Truth is, I didn't expect you to be here by curfew, and I was fixin' to lock the door in a few minutes."

Ryan glanced at him. It was hard to tell if he'd been drinking. Keats had looked drunk earlier in the day, and he looked the same now. "I'm headin' up to sleep, Keats. You wanna tuck me in?"

"How much money you got left? Spect you been out drinkin' and whorin' first day outa lockup."

Ryan smiled. "Sorry to disappoint you old man. I ain't had a drop and my pecker's still dry. I got almost all left, just missin' the cost of a burger and fries, something lacking in my diet for a while."

"Well, you go on up now and I want to see you fresh in the mornin' for breakfast at eight o'clock. Then I expect you to be job huntin'."

Ryan started up the stairs. "Whatever, boss \-- whatever."

He was conditioned for early breakfast. In fact, he was up at six and waiting downstairs before seven. There was one other "guest" at the house, a huge man with arms larger than the holes in the white tee he was wearing. Ryan looked at him, but didn't say anything. The fellow looked like a murderer with the intelligence of a screwdriver. Ryan didn't get even a minor glance from the stranger. He was just glad there were two bunk rooms and man-mountain slept in the other one. Ryan would have preferred the security of a locked cell if he had to be near this guy.

Keats, Ryan and the other man ate breakfast together. Keats mentioned their names at the table, but neither parolee paid any attention. It was over quickly, and Ryan was told to clean up the kitchen. He remembered Keats's warning -- "Don't piss me off." Yesterday he'd felt defiant, but today he was savoring the second day out of Angola, and the words had more meaning. He just said "Yeah, boss," and cleaned the table off. He didn't want to be on the streets before the shops opened anyway. He wasn't sure how much circulation his pictures from the pawn shop would get in the neighboring cities, and he wanted to be cautious.

There was a unisex salon only a block from the house, according to Google, and it opened at nine thirty. He wore a new pair of jeans and a new long-sleeve shirt to cover his tattoos. He stood out even more in public with new clothes and the scruffiest appearance in the city. He attracted attention from everyone who saw him. He was only out in the light of day a few minutes and didn't pause outside the salon. The door chimed when he entered.

The overhead florescent lights were being switched on at Salon Margot by a young lady alone in the back who had her back to him, "I'll be there in a minute, just take a seat in the front."

"Okay, ma'am."

She spent another minute rummaging out of sight in a large closet then walked to the front of the shop. She hadn't looked at him until standing only a few feet away. "Oh, my. Let me guess, you want a haircut."

He smiled imperceptibly behind massive whiskers. "An' a beard trim too."

"Well, you just come right on back to my station. I'm called 'Bonny.' That's my name." There was a paper sign with her name taped to the mirror in front of her chair.

She wasn't trying to engage him in conversation. She didn't even know what he looked like. If she described him, it would be as a floor mop with two eyes. She giggled to herself about calling him "Cousin It." "Now, you just sit right down here, and Bonny will make you beautiful again. So, what will it be?"

She was jovial and he reflected her mood. "Tell you what, Bonny. I been away studyin' in the jungles o' South America for more'n a year. Can you believe it?" She nodded, her head looking at his reflection in the mirrored wall -- definitely. "So's I wanna look purdy again. Can you do that?"

"Oh, you bet, sir. What can I call you?"

"Well, you can call me Bucky, that's a nickname, but that's what folks I like always call me."

She was probably eighteen or nineteen, short and curvy with spiked black hair, full of pink highlights. "Well, I can sure make you look good. I been workin' here near a year and almost fulfilled all apprentice requirements. Now, would you like a number four cut or a number five?"

"Well, darlin', I don't know. What do you think? I just want it short again. Short's better'n long. It's been long too long, if you know what I mean." He grinned to himself about the unplanned double entendre. He wanted to say "D'ya get it?" But, clearly, she did not.

"All righty then, here we go. I got to charge you a little extra for all the scissor cuttin' before I can use the clippers. Is that all right?"

"Whatever it takes darlin'. I want my beard nice and neat too, so's you can see my pearly teeth." The prison dental station had done a final cleaning before he was released.

It took almost an hour, but Ryan emerged from the salon looking clean cut and respectable if his glaring eyes could be avoided. No one would connect him to the pawn shop killing, based on appearances. He'd had used the perfect disguise.

He would spend the day looking for part-time work to keep Keats happy. It just couldn't interfere with the time he needed to get the gold back. He didn't need any more money, and the state took care of his basic needs. He had plenty hidden away now. It wasn't possible to count it, but he did a mental estimate of big bills, then did some difficult math on a napkin at the doughnut shop near city center. He figured there must be at least five thousand dollars. It astounded him. You sure done good Will, done good!

The House

Jake was flying back from a shallow rig, arriving at base before noon. Another pilot invited him to share a ride in his truck to a nearby sandwich shop. They always attracted attention, sitting in their flight suits, and they enjoyed it, even after all the years. The afternoon was spent lounging around waiting, but no more assignments were posted. He drove home around four.

As he came down the street, he thought the house had never looked better. After eight years of minimal care, the last few months of attention had corrected most of the deficiencies. This evening, he would start painting the outside trim in the late afternoon summer sunlight. It was the only thing left before it looked new again, or almost new. When finished three hours later, he was amazed that he'd completed the entire front of the house, including the front door. T.W. hollered encouragement a couple times, but Jake elected not to start another dialogue that would have ended all progress. If the weather cooperated, he would have the entire house trim repainted by the end of the week. He adjusted his flight schedule so that his off-time would begin on Saturday when he would drive to see Julie and help her prepare for the move. Some grooms-to-be that he'd known had second thoughts close to their wedding dates, but he was fifty years old and was experiencing the opposite. He was thrilled by the prospect. He could not have dreamed of a more perfect mate, and he'd make whatever adjustments in his lifestyle needed to make her happy.

Under Suspicion

That night, Ryan had walked all around central Lafayette and had a couple prospects for kitchen work and a cleaning company, but he would never pass their security check. Besides, it meant working every night, which wasn't what he wanted. The small downtown gym had a membership special running for ten dollars per month. It was near the Greyhound station and with some quick thinking he'd signed a contract for a year the night before. All the information on the application was false, but the gym owner was desperate for customers. After getting groomed at the salon in the morning, he'd purchased a combination lock and used a locker in the gym to store his knife and cash. The lockers were only supposed to be locked while he was exercising, but the manager, Mark, told him that they had three times more lockers than patrons, and he could keep his "gym" gear at the club. Since it was still earlier than the night before when he needed to rush back to the house, he decided to visit his stash and count the money if no one was in the locker room.

He was lucky because the only activity at the gym was a "women's night" aerobics class, and there were no men in the club, except some fat guy, sweating his balls off with the women. Ryan pulled the bag from the locker and fanned some of the money, then did a more accurate count. He smiled, concluding that his calculations were accurate within a couple hundred, plus or minus, then locked it away and returned to the house.

There was a police car parked outside. He hesitated for a few moments but didn't want to risk missing curfew – not with five thou locked away nearby. He skipped up the stoop and hurried through the front door, hoping to pass Keats and the two officers sitting in the living room. "Ryan! Get your ass in here."

He halted and turned to face them. "Yeah?"

Keats smiled. "Nice haircut. You've changed, boy."

Ryan stood still. "I took your advice, Keats. This is the fresh new me, ready to rejoin my rightful place in the community."

Keats disregarded his sarcasm. "Your rightful place is in prison for life, or on death row which would save us tax-payin' citizens a lot o' wasted money, keeping your worthless soul alive."

Ryan snickered nervously. "Why Keats, what kind words. Perhaps I misjudged you. You really are a first class citizen, which explains why you run this fine establishment."

One of the men sitting, the one in civilian clothes, stood, ending the bantering. "Where were you yesterday, Ryan?"

Ryan responded, "And who are you?"

"I'm detective Tibbs, and this is officer (Ryan missed his name)."

"I was out scoutin' around looking for work?"

"You got any proof?"

"No. I was just scoutin' and lookin' for a barber shop. I cleaned up today and got some applications."

Tibbs wasn't interested in the details. "Did you take a Greyhound to Baton Rouge yesterday?"

Ryan was less cocky. "Why no, Mr. Tibbs. I just hung around downtown yesterday."

Tibbs took a picture from a folder sitting on the chair beside him. "Take a look at this. Is that you?"

It was a clear picture of Ryan taken from inside the pawn shop."

"Why, no. I don't know who that is."

Tibbs continued. "Mr. Keats here identified you."

Ryan looked at Keats. "Why, Mr. Keats, I don't see the resemblance at all."

Keats burst out, "It's you Ryan. It looks just like you looked yesterday."

Ryan returned to the officers. "Look, you make your own mind." Ryan held out his painted arms and rotated in front of them. "Do you think I look like that man? Did anything get stolen? If it did, feel free to search me or my bunk, it's all I got."

Tibbs answered, "We already checked upstairs. And we're asking the prison for your picture, so we'll be back in touch, Ryan. I don't need to tell you to stay put, you don't want to break parole." He then looked at Keats, "Keep a close eye on Mr. Ryan. If he farts, I want to know. We'll be back."

Ryan just shook his hands in mock fright and walked up the stairs. The city cops didn't have any jurisdiction over him unless they could implicate him in a crime. They had nothing. The prison only had his entrance pictures. No exit pictures were taken.

Ready

Jake and Julie had talked long into the night. She was getting moving quotes, which raised questions about what to move and what to give up – and how to give it up. At the end, he said, "I'll see you in the morning on Saturday, darling. Save the heavy work for me."

By Friday night, he had completed painting and cleaned everything up and filled the trash cans. She could move in at any time. He felt good in all respects. His house was suitable for a new bride, at least for a while, and he was in the best physical shape of his life. He didn't smoke anymore, nor had he had any hard booze in half a year. The transformation amazed him. He owed it all to two women, but his more somber thoughts led back to BJ whose betrayal had been the catalyst for it all. Damn you BJ. I forgive you, but why did you kill yourself?

He actually finished painting Thursday night early enough to go to the gym. He went again on Friday then went to bed for a very early start. The thought of being with Julie controlled all of his emotions, except he dreaded coming back alone in five days. Maybe they would get so much accomplished that she could come back with him! It seemed unlikely, but wasn't impossible. That thought led him to deep sleep in minutes.

A Job

Ryan began working at a small family-owned Cajun restaurant. One of the house rules permitted him to extend curfew, if he was working at night. Most nights, he returned at midnight after cleaning up and walking eight blocks "home." The owner never asked anything except his willingness to work for minimum wage. The restaurant only grossed about three hundred in cash sales each night which were deposited daily, so there wasn't a huge temptation to steal. Ryan's money in the locker was secure, and he was surviving. Technically, he would be living with Keats for almost a year, but he didn't plan to be there that long. He got Sundays and Monday nights off from work. This was a problem since the "working girls," the good ones, were mostly off the streets on his days off. He needed servicing!

His prospects were good if he used some of the pawn money. He could afford most of the cheap girls, and he didn't need a beauty queen, just someone who would do it his way. He found "Sophia" on a downtown corner on Monday night, when there was almost no traffic. She was young. She was still skinny and didn't know how to look as sexy as the older girls, but she was the only girl out that he could find before nine o'clock. It was also raining lightly when he approached her.

They agreed on prices for different services, and he showed a role of bills that excited her. She asked about his car and a hotel, but he had neither. The central park was one block away, and she said it would be okay as long as they stayed someplace private. He agreed. Once in a grassy area near an old fountain with a couple benches, she went to work on him while he sat looking at the stars and envisioning Callie. Sophia didn't have enough experience, and he slapped her. When she failed his expectations a second time, he hit her harder and threw her across the back of the bench, trying to take her from behind. She got scared and told him to stop. She tried to scream, but he held his hand over her mouth. She struggled and cursed, but there wasn't anyone out to hear her muffled calls. The rain had become more intense, keeping people indoors.

A short time later, Ryan walked out of the park alone with a nervous expression on his face. It'd been a year or more since he'd expended himself, and he felt totally recharged. He wouldn't be able to go back near the park again, but it didn't matter: a few weeks between episodes were fine after a year without feminine attention.

There was no one on the street in either direction. The buildings were all closed, and the rain assured his security. He crossed the street and headed down a side street for the house. He wouldn't take any crap from Keats tonight.

Terror in Lafayette

An hour before dawn, Jake packed a travel bag and set out for Mineral Wells. He'd stop at one of the Interstate rest stops for food and fuel, but he might actually be able to be with Julie for lunch. It would be record time.

She was up early also, hoping that Jake wouldn't be disappointed if she tied her hair back and didn't fuss with makeup. She had posted small colored dots on everything to be moved to the garage. She'd advertised all week, and she had a lot to sell. Whatever didn't sell, she would donate to the Women's Rescue League. The only difficult thing was deciding on Paul's things. Everything of his in the garage would be sold, and most of his clothes would go, but she had some things that she stored in a large plastic tote box. She also put Bobby's letters in the tote. She would not allow it to be shipped. It would travel in the car with her to Lafayette.

She had some friends coming in the afternoon to run the sale as she and Jake moved things to the garage and front lawn. It actually seemed possible that she might be able to go back to Lafayette with him. They'd have to return when the movers arrived and to spiff up the house for closing. And then there was the ceremony, which would be done in her backyard.

He reached Mineral Wells around noon. When he arrived at her house, there wasn't any time for romance. He commented on how cute she looked with a bandana around her forehead. Together, they had over half of the big items moved outside in a couple of hours before most of the Saturday afternoon bargain hunters started arriving. Gail and two other girls handled all the transactions, occasionally talking to Julie about a price for something, but it was amazing how much was gone by dusk.

That night, Jake, Julie and her friend Sue ate pizza, sitting on the patio furniture. Gail had to be home with her family. Sue was still single.

Sunday was another busy day and most of the remaining "salable" things were gone. That night, Julie was amazed that they had made almost twelve thousand dollars. It was more than twice what she had expected, but she'd had no idea how to value Paul's tools, guns and fishing gear. He'd also had an old Chevy "409" engine in a crate at the back of the garage that two men argued over, driving the price to nine hundred. Paul always said it was a legendary engine – whatever that meant.

By Wednesday, everything that wasn't going to be moved was gone, and the house was cleaned. They had worked together for the whole time, too tired to cuddle each night, but she could now go with him. They would return over his next break and pack things into boxes from the moving company, but their life together was actually beginning. Sometime during the week, they came to realize that they were already over the threshold and would live together from this point further. On Wednesday morning, Julie notified the school that she wasn't going to start the year as planned, and they wished her happiness. There were many young teachers waiting for their first jobs. She also called the Justice of the Peace to set the date for their ceremony. It would be done in an empty house, but no one would really care. Her friends were all happy for her and would manage everything. On Wednesday afternoon, they drove in separate cars back to Lafayette, arriving around midnight.

He drove into the driveway ahead of her and she followed. He figured this would be the last time he would park under the carport. In the future, she would get the cover, and he would park in the open.

They got out of their cars in unison. She looked all around. "Wow, you've been busy."

He smiled and kissed her. "Wait until you see the inside. Come on around front, so we can get the full effect coming through the front door." He glanced across the street into the shadows of T.W.'s front porch, but the chair was empty.

She walked up the three brick steps to the stoop, standing beside him, as he unlocked the door. "It really looks nice out here, Jake. It makes me feel special that you did all this work."

"You are special." He put one arm around her shoulders and picked her up in his arms. "Time to carry you across."

"We're supposed to be married!"

"We'll pretend tonight."

It was a romantic evening for both of them after they showered together and had a glass of wine in the early morning hours. At one point during the night, she protested that he needed to rest before flying again in a few hours, but felt energized. At six o'clock, he felt remarkably refreshed, leaving at dawn. He wore a new flight suit that she would only see at night when he returned.

When Julie awoke hours later, she had a light breakfast, and rearranged some furniture, trying to visualize where her remaining pieces would go. They needed to sell some of his, maybe most of it. This was the one area where their tastes differed greatly. She liked country French and he liked cheap. He would accept hers, and she knew he'd love it. She got dressed and started drawing floor diagrams where things would go and listing his items that would be for sale next weekend. By two o'clock she was happy with the plan and sat in the living room to enjoy a cup of tea when the doorbell rang.

She opened it to see a young man, well groomed, with a bouquet of flowers. "Oh, hello ma'am. These are for you." He handed the flowers to her.

"Well, thank you. That's sweet. Are they from you or did someone send them?"

"Oh no, ma'am, these is from me. My name is Will, Will Ryan. I was a mechanic at CHI and know Jake real well. This here's jus' my way of welcoming you to the neighborhood and wishing you a good future with Jake. I know he thinks a lot o' you and if you don't mind my sayin' it, I do see what he's so excited about."

"Ah. Well, thanks, Will. It's Will Ryan, is that right?" She was trying to recall if Jake had ever mentioned his name.

"That's right, ma'am. Will is short for William, my daddy's name." Something clicked. She still wasn't sure what it was, but she was alarmed.

"Okay. Look, Will, I'm in the middle of something and have got to go. Thank you for the flowers, and I'll tell Jake you came by when he gets back in a few minutes."

"Why you're welcome, ma'am, and you jus' say hi to ol' Jake for me now."

T.W. saw the whole exchange from across the street, but couldn't hear the dialogue. Julie locked the front door and went immediately to the kitchen, dropping the flowers in the sink, making sure the back was locked. It was unexplainable, but she felt creepy the rest of the afternoon, sitting in the living room, watching to see if the man returned.

Jake pulled in around five o'clock and she hurried to unlock the back door as he approached. She went back into the living room and sat waiting. He laughed to himself coming through the door on the first day of living with her. "Honey, I'm home." She walked up to him quickly. "I've always wanted to say that!" Then he saw the look on her face. "What's wrong?"

She just hugged him for a moment, and he put his arms around her. "I don't know, Jake. I'm just glad you're home."

He held her for a moment then gently pushed her back to look at her face. She wasn't crying, but there was a worried expression that he'd never seen before. "Okay, tell me what's going on?"

She stepped back slowly and pointed to the vase on the kitchen counter. "You see those flowers?"

"Yeah."

"A man brought them to me today. His name was Will Ryan."

"Will Ryan! Are you sure? What did he look like?"

She described him then said, "He just sort of freaked me out. I don't know why, he just scared me."

Jake didn't say anything, but went immediately to the phone and pressed a speed-dial number. "Let me talk to Detective Tibbs. (Pause) I'll wait." He wasn't looking at her.

"Tibbs?"

She couldn't hear the other side of the conversation.

"Will Ryan came by the house today. He scared my fiancé."

Pause. "I know, Tibbs, but this is too much. I don't want him around here."

Pause. "I don't think Restraining Orders work."

Pause. "Yeah, I will. And, Tibbs, please keep a close eye on this guy. He's dangerous."

Pause. "I know you know. What? Say that again? Okay, I'll do that. Bye"

She was staring at him. "What was that?"

"That was the Lafayette Police."

"Jake, what's going on?"

He led her to the couch and sat holding her hands. "Sweetheart, Ryan is the guy that stole my coins and killed some people. I told you his name before, but you probably forgot with everything that's been happening."

She started to tear up then sat upright, controlling her emotions. He loved her strength and said, "Look darling. He came here to send me a message. He's threatening you to get to me. He's got some sick idea that I'll give up my collection to him."

"Well, you won't will you?"

"I would for you."

"No, Jake, you can't let him intimidate us. I can protect the collection. Give me one of your guns. Us Texas girls know how to shoot!"

"Hold on, partner. I don't want you anywhere near that guy. He only came to scare us. He probably won't do anything during daylight. He's a coward and not as dumb as he should be." He turned her slightly, looking out the front picture window. "You see that fellow across the street?"

She squinted against the evening glare. "Ah huh."

"That's our neighborhood watch dog, T.W. Boudreaux. He sits right there all day long drinking beer."

She stared at him. "Okay, now you're freaking me out. We have a peeper across from us?"

"He's not like that. He doesn't leave that chair all day long, until sunset when the mosquitoes come out."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Look at it this way, T.W. can see three sides of this house and into the carport. Ryan couldn't do anything foolish in the daylight without T.W. seeing him. He's not going to be that stupid. Until I do something about Ryan, you just keep the doors locked and make sure T.W.'s in place before leaving."

"What are you going to do, Jake? Maybe I should go back to Mineral Wells."

"No. I can't help you there. Ryan knows where you live. He sent Callie there. I'm gonna be sure not to be deployed until this is over. Ryan's under tight security at nights and I'll be home before dark."

"I'm scared, Jake."

"Julie, I don't know what to say. This creep got into our lives and caused the death of my best friend. I would never want you mixed up in anything like this. It's not the way I wanted to live."

She asked, "Is there anything we can do?"

"Tibbs said we could get a TRO (Temporary Restraining Order) with no problem. I don't think he's gonna come back here. He made his point. We just need to be careful. A TRO isn't going to stop him."

She held on to him. Not crying or shaking, just for strength. He said, "Look, I'm going over to talk to T.W. for a moment to see what he saw and to tell him about Ryan. Come along and I'll introduce you."

She nodded in agreement.

They went through the front door, and Jake looked both ways down the street for Ryan before crossing onto T.W.'s grass.

T.W. spoke first. "Howdy, Jake. I see you got you new lady with ya."

"Yeah, T.W. She's here for good now. I'd like you to meet my soon-to-be wife, Julie."

T.W. stood awkwardly and reached down from his porch to shake her hand. "Well, It's a certain pleasure to meet you ma'am. Me an Jake here been the only bachelors on the street for too long."

She smiled. "Well, T.W., Jake has talked about you, and it's surely a pleasure to meet you."

T.W. started to lift the lid of his cooler, "Ma'am, can I offer you a cold beer?"

"Oh, thank you T.W., but I think I'll pass. I need to get back to the house and finish moving in."

They said goodbye and she smiled at Jake before walking back across the street.

T.W. watched her walk, then said, "That's good, Jake. This is a family neighborhood, and it should have families. You and me, we been exceptions to the rule."

"You're right old man. Now it's just down to you to carry the bachelor colors for all free men!"

"Right on, brother. How about a beer?"

"Aw, thanks T.W. but I got a question, and then I want to get back to Julie."

"Okay, shoot." T.W. took a long swig while Jake watched his Adam's Apple wiggle up and down.

"Did you see a man with flowers come to my door today?"

T.W. rocked forward. "Yup. He brung a purdy bunch to your front door for the missus. She seemed happy to get 'em for a while, then turned kinda sour, suspicious like."

Jake looked down then up. "Yeah. That's the guy. Would you kindly keep an eye out, and if you see him again, give me a call right away."

"Sho', Jake. Do I have your number?" Jake had given it to him at least once a year since moving in.

"Well T.W., I gave it to you before, but let me write it down for you again. This is real important, my friend."

T.W. inquired. "This man, he a bad man?"

"Yes he is, T.W.. He's killed people. He tried to kill me once."

"Well, sir, then I better get my gun out here with me if'n I'm gonna be protectin' yo woman."

Jake cringed at the thought of T.W. shooting anywhere, especially shooting toward his house. "No T.W., I don't want you risking yourself for anything. If you just call me on the phone, that's the best defense I could ever want."

"Well, sho 'nuff, Jake. I'll be vigilant. That rascal won' get near. You can count on ol' T.W., yesser."

Jake patted his friend's knee. "I know I can, neighbor. Now, I really got to get back home to my fiancé."

"Okay, Jake. You sure she don't carry no bible! Best weapon I know of to get rid of a man."

Jake would have chuckled, but he had more serious things to think about. He hadn't told Julie everything Tibbs said. Ryan was "of interest" in the murder of a young girl the night before.

Jake opened one of the gun safes that actually had guns in it and showed it to Julie. He had a hunting rifle that someone had given him that he'd never shot and a twelve gauge shotgun that he'd used for trap shooting at one of the Army bases where it was popular. Then there were the two pistols.

He asked, "So, do you want me to show you how to use any of them?"

She seemed uneasy. "Which one?"

"I think the Beretta 92 would be the easiest for you to handle. It's got a fifteen-round magazine and doesn't kick too badly. There's also a spare magazine that I'll load. It's easy to shoot and will fit your hand easier than the Colt."

"I don't know, Jake. I don't like to think about shooting anyone."

He smiled at her. "Just wanted to let you know the options sweetheart." He closed the door but didn't lock it. "So, what about the Texas girl stuff? Have you ever shot before?"

"Yes. I can shoot. I just don't like guns."

He smiled. "Me either, that's why they're locked in here."

"Then why do you keep them?"

He shrugged. "Maybe, it's a guy thing. I don't know. I haven't shot one since I lived here. All of these are souvenirs." He told her about the two long guns. "The two pistols were my military side arms. First, we got the 1911, which was my favorite if I had to use it, then the Army switched to the Beretta for some reason, probably because it's lighter and carries more rounds. The forty-five is more accurate and will knock a man down no matter where he's hit. The nine mil will bounce off some windshields, so's not even popular with police these days."

She was curious. "So, did you ever shoot anyone?"

"Nope. But it was always my security blanket when in a firefight. My best defense was always being higher and faster than the enemy."

She said, "Let's just keep them in the safe. I'll know where to find it if I need one."

For the next few days, Julie was cautious, when leaving the house. She always checked to see that T.W. was there, and looked in the back seat before getting into her car. The doors were always locked. She drove with one eye in the mirror, always looking for someone following her. Jake said that Ryan would not be allowed to drive anything with an engine, but she didn't expect him to follow the rules.

The following Saturday, they drove to Mineral Wells again for a few days to check the house and do the yard maintenance. Each night they had dinner with her friends and generally forgot about Ryan. She sold off a few more pieces of furniture after reviewing Jake's things and re-assessing the size of the rooms. The moving company left a stack of boxes and packing materials in the garage, so they could pack her kitchen things and all other loose items going to Lafayette. By Wednesday, everything was ready to go into the moving truck for shipment directly to Jake's house. She hadn't told him yet, but they were going to hold a major garage sale at his house the following week. They were having fun, exhausting themselves with the move, but enjoying every minute together. At one point, he wrapped his arms around her from behind saying, "Let's get married now. Why wait any longer."

She turned and faced him, "I'm already married in spirit. Like you said, what difference does a piece of paper make?" They drove back to Lafayette that night.

Closing In

The police went back to the halfway house asking Keats about Ryan. They were investigating the dead girl in the park. She was only sixteen when someone sexually assaulted her and strangled her. Her mother was a single parent who had tried to raise her daughter to be a good Christian girl. Her mother had made her work for everything to teach her the values important to her, while the girl's friends in school were simply being provided everything. The girl (name withheld) rebelled and started sneaking out at night. According to the police, she must have tried selling herself to make money and lost her life in the process. Her mother swore she'd been a virgin, but the examiner didn't confirm it.

Ryan was out of the house until curfew that night, but Keats didn't remember anything unusual about him. He wished he had.

Ryan kept going to work at the restaurant, and the owner didn't have any complaints. He wasn't happy about the police questioning him, but let it pass when Ryan continued to show up and did his job.

The next Sunday night, Ryan told Keats he was going to see a movie. There was an old-time theater in town that showed second and third-round movies. Ryan hadn't seen any of them, but had seen trailers so many times over the years that he could answer questions about them. It was another warm night with all the shops closed downtown. He walked up and down Main Street, passing by all the bars. If the inside looked promising, he went inside and ordered a coke, waiting to be approached. If nothing happened, he moved to the next one. If there were any police nearby, he walked the other way. Around nine o'clock he saw her. She was sitting on a stoop in front of an ugly looking nightclub, so he approached with a grin on his face.

She was older than Ryan, nearly forty and flabby in a sexy sort of way. The combination of mini shirt and halter top, with big loose hair was appealing from a distance. He didn't have any alternatives that night, so he kept grinning.

She exhaled from a cigarette. "Hi honey, you lonely tonight?"

Ryan put one foot on the step, bringing his crotch close to her face. "Maybe I am, and maybe I'll just go in for a drink alone. I wonder what turns a nice girl like you on, suga'."

"Well, twenty will get you off, or fifty will get you on, big boy. What do you say?"

"What will a hundred get me?"

"Sho' me the gold, suga'."

He pulled a wad with fifties from his pocket, and she said, "Oh, my, and I just thought you was glad to see me. You sho' is big in the right places."

Ryan looked around, and the street was empty. "Come on you beautiful hunk o' woman. Let's take a walk down behind this here building, and you can earn it."

She got up carefully, adjusting her skirt so as not to be judged totally indecent if the police stopped her. Within three minutes, she had already earned twenty dollars in service behind the bar.

Ryan was back at the house before ten, having stopped briefly to deposit his roll of bills, still intact. Keats didn't stop him, but just let him pass upstairs.

The next morning, the police arrived again to question Ryan, who came downstairs in his underwear, just to annoy anyone walking past. "Why Inspector, Tibbs. What brings the big dog out to these parts?"

Tibbs wasted no time as the uniformed police officer with him and Keats looked on. "Where were you last night, Ryan?"

Ryan smiled. "Why I was here, General. Right here in my bed asleepin' like a baby. You know what sleepin' with babies is like don' you, Inspector Gadget?"

Tibbs wasn't affected. "Before that, moron. Where were you between eight and ten?"

"I went to the movies. Ask momma Keats there, he saw me."

Keats started to say something when Tibbs interrupted. "Look asshole, we know when you left the house. You got any proof that you went to the movies? What movies?"

Ryan was starting to enjoy this. Years of questioning had taught him to be fearless around bureaucratic thugs. They were all the same as him. They just got paid for being criminals. They were all crooks. "Well, sir. I wen' to the movie on Main Street. You know, that old building with all the neon."

"What did you see?"

"Nothin'."

"Did you or did you not go to the movie?"

"Are you deaf, Dick Tracy. I went. How many times I gotta tell ya?"

"Was there a movie playing?"

"Yep."

"What was it?

"Godzilla something."

"What was it about?"

"I don' know."

"Did you or did you not see this movie?"

"I did not."

Tibbs in frustration turned to Keats and the officer. "We're taking this trash downtown. He doesn't have an excuse for last night."

Ryan asked. "You mind tellin' me what this is regardin'?"

"Not now, Ryan. We just want to treat you to a little of our hospitality."

Ryan didn't like the idea of sitting in a hot interrogation room. "I slept through the whole movie."

Tibbs cocked his head looking at him, "You said you didn't see a movie."

"Tha's right. I didn't see it 'cuz I was asleep."

"Where were you between eight and ten last night?"

"I was asleep in the theater except for walkin' there and back to here."

Tibbs got to within an inch of Ryan's face, looking down on the little man. "Ryan, you're going down. I'm patient, but you're so much of a screw-up that I'm going to be able to come down hard on you, boy. It's just a matter of time. You're gonna help me do it!"

Ryan said nothing more to Tibbs, who signaled the officer, "Come on, let's go. It stinks around here."

As they left, Ryan turned toward Keats as he started climbing the stairs again, "Nice man, Detective Tibbs. Don' you think, Keats?"

Jake and Julie arrived back at his house after dark and started unloading some things from the car when T.W. yelled from across the street.

Jake answered. "I'll be over in a bit, T.W., just want to get Julie settled." They carried their bags through the back door, and Jake did a quick reconnaissance of the house, turning on all the lights and locking the doors. "Okay, honey, lock the door behind me. I'm going to see what T.W.'s got to say."

She nodded and Jake hurried across. "T.W. it's late for you." He really meant that the beer was probably all gone and T.W. should be passed out in bed.

"Yeah, Jake. It's late all righty, but I gotta tell ya somp'n." He didn't' have a beer in his hand, confirming Jake's suspicion that he'd drained the well dry.

Jake started to say something during the pause, but T.W. interrupted. "That skinny feller you was alertin' me about? Well, he come back around Saturday or Sunday. I don't remember which. I used to know when it was a church day, but I don't go no mo' as you might 'o guessed."

Jake said. "It's okay, T.W. Did he do anything? Did he go on my property?"

"Naw, Jake. That's why's you got me here. I yelled at him and told him I had my gun. He done turn't and run away. Ain't seen him sense then."

"Look, T.W., I don't want you getting involved in this. You should just call me if you see him. I'll call the police, but you shouldn't get involved."

"Aw, Jake. What's a neighbor for? I ain' scare'd 'o him. That scawny little varmint. I could break his neck and piss on him."

"Okay, look, T.W. I'm going back to be with Julie. I don't want you yelling at that guy again, just call me. I mean it." Jake emphasized it with a finger wagging in T.W.'s face. The man was too inebriated all the time to know what he was doing or even his own physical limitations. Julie could out-fight T.W. in the shape he was in and never break a sweat.

He hurried back across the street, using his key to enter.

She was sitting on the couch, watching Jake talking with T.W. "So, what's our neighborhood watch have to say?"

"He thinks Ryan came by over the weekend."

"Why"

"I don't know. But T.W. scared him off."

"Good"

"Julie, it's not good. Now Ryan knows T.W. is watching for him. That puts T.W. in danger and causes Ryan to be more cautious. I'm going to call the police again."

He called and asked for Tibbs who had gone home for the evening, so Jake called Tibbs' cellphone.

Jake heard something indiscernible, and said, "Hello, is this Detective Tibbs?"

This time, Julie was close enough to hear most of Tibbs side. "Hey, Jake. What's up?"

"He was back, Tibbs, over the weekend. My neighbor scared him away. We were gone."

"Are you sure it was him?"

"Who else would it be, Tibbs?"

"Okay, Jake. I think it's time for a TRO if you're willing to go to court with your neighbor. It won't keep a determined criminal from coming after you, but it would give a way to send him back to Angola if he comes near you."

Julie was shaking her head in agreement. Jake responded. "Won't work, Tibbs. My neighbor won't function in court. He's a drunk sitting on a porch to tell the truth."

"Look, Jake, it's worth a try if he can positively identify Ryan. You and I know what he's capable of, but a judge needs to know that the guy has actually been menacing you."

Julie looked disturbed as Jake continued. "It won't work, Tibbs. My neighbor can't even tell you what day it is."

"Okay, Jake. Look, there's been another murder. I think we'll have him soon. Can you protect yourself until then? I mean until the police can respond to your nine-one-one calls?"

Jake looked at Julie and saw terror on her face. "I think so, Tibbs."

The call ended with her staring at him. "What does he mean, Jake, another murder?"

"I didn't want to scare you, darling. Since Ryan moved back into a prison halfway house downtown, there have been two women killed. The guy's a known sexual predator. He's been in prison and has a lust for women. He likes to be rough and is a psychopath. He's killed several people."

She was stunned. He thought she would bolt away from him, and he'd lose her. If that happened, he'd go downtown and shoot Ryan on a street corner in front of the world. She stood silently for several moments then said, calmly, "Then we need a plan. I know you'll protect me when you're around, but is there anything we should do to protect other women?"

"Julie, that's not our responsibility. We just need to be safe until they get him."

"Why's he after you, Jake?"

"Because he's got this crazy notion that the gold he once stole, my coins, are somehow his now. He can't get it out of his mind."

He told her about his trip to visit Ryan in prison, to reason with him. "I saw it in his eyes, Julie. He's completely nuts about it. He's so screwed up that he thinks I robbed him. I think he planned to come back here to get the half BJ stole, but now that I have it all back, he's after me, which means he's after you. He threatened you when I saw him. Damn BJ, he told Ryan about you and got you involved when Callie took your letters. I'm sorry, babe. I didn't want you in this for the world."

She saw his distress. "Jake, I don't blame you for anything. We're in love. We're getting married. So, now we just need to get tough and deal with this maniac until he's arrested again."

It amazed him that she could be so tough under that delicate exterior. He had often faced death, feeling it was his manly rite of passage, but that wasn't her. She was just mentally tough, regardless of her femininity. He hugged her. "All right then, we're in this together."

Another week went by, and nothing happened. Julie kept waving to T.W. when she saw him, and remained vigilant in the house and in her car. On Saturday, they left for Mineral Wells again, for the last time. They would be married on Sunday. She had a new dress, and he brought along a suit, his only suit, which fit amazingly well after getting back into shape. She would surprise him with a new tie on Sunday. He hadn't shown her the ring yet. They'd agreed to a single ring ceremony because he was cautious about anything that could get caught on the controls when flying, particularly in bad weather.

Her friends wanted to provide flowers, but Julie told them that they would just be wasted. They should all have a big party instead. All of her friends would stand with the bride and many of the husbands would stand with Jake. There wasn't much for them to do on Saturday afternoon after the drive, so they visited one of her favorite restaurants, looking at the hills. It was a special leisurely dinner, and Jake was quick to tell the waitress that they were getting married the following day, so the attention was extraordinary. That night, sitting in her great room surrounded by boxes, they enjoyed one last bottle of wine before going to bed as two single people. It wasn't a night of passion. Both wanted to have a classic first married night together.

In the morning, Jake woke especially early and went to the kitchen for coffee, only to realize that there wasn't any way to make it. He didn't want to leave her alone. However remote the possibility that Ryan would break parole and follow them to Texas, it was still not something he would risk. He actually felt a little nervous about getting married. The finality of it was settling in. He was old-fashioned in that regard. No one in his family ever divorced, no matter the hardships. Marriage was a lifelong commitment, over and out.

The day was a blur. Friends invited them for breakfast, then final preparations were made. People started arriving around noon and light refreshments were brought by some of Julie's friends. Around three, the Justice of the Peace arrived and a simple ceremony was conducted a half hour later with about fifty people in attendance, Julie's friends and colleagues. The outdoor setting was magnificent with a brilliant blue sky, gentle breeze and tepid weather. Jake surprised Julie with an elegant ring that had cost almost two-month's salary. He'd finally put some of his collection to use. The celebration continued into the evening at the nearby country club and neither Jake nor Julie wanted it to end, but midnight came quickly. It had been a remarkable day that both would cherish for the rest of their lives.

When they returned home to Julie's house, they were thrilled to find that her girlfriends had stayed behind long enough to clean everything, leaving a chilled bottle of Champagne, beautiful flowers and a giant card with their messages of affection. She cried with a mixture of joy and sorrow, leaving it all behind, and about starting a new life with Jake. He was touched more deeply than he'd thought possible. He put his arms around her, "You know, I never thought I'd be calling anyone Mrs. Kohl." They kissed passionately, like it was the first time. There was some unexplainable quality about being married that had been missing from his life. Julie had experienced it before, but was equally happy the second time around.

She said, "We better get going. I want this to be a special night that we'll both remember forever."

Jake took the bottle with them as they locked the front door. If Julie felt anything about leaving her house for the last time, it didn't show. Their luggage had been in the car for hours.

It was only a short drive to the Silk Stocking Row Bed-and-Breakfast, near Lake Mineral Wells. Julie had driven by the historic Victorian mansion all her life without ever going inside. She wanted to spend her last night in town there.

When they opened the door to the entry, there was a small table nearby with an envelope, welcoming them to the Inn. The owners had gone to bed leaving the room key on the table. They held hands walking up the wide spiraling staircase to room number one at the end of the hall. He opened the door and let her enter the antique-furnished interior with a large post bed. On a side table, there was another bottle of wine and flowers. It was perfect. They spent the night like young lovers should.

The following morning, Monday, some last minute arrangements were concluded with the moving company and Mr. and Mrs. Jake Ramsey set out for their home in Lafayette. Along the way, they talked about finding a cottage near the ocean, probably along the Texas Coast that they could enjoy together except when Jake was flying. They would probably sell his house too and buy or rent a small apartment to use when he was on flight status. Another possibility was permanently operating from the Port Arthur facility. She fondled the ring throughout the trip. They didn't talk about Ryan, but he was on their minds. With his presence in Lafayette, the plans to move away had more urgency.

They arrived in the afternoon, parking her car behind his truck. Several trips were required to unload the presents and suitcases. Jake chuckled that he hoped the suit would fit again if he ever needed to wear it. They both waved to T.W., who saluted with his beer can. Inside, after everything was in from the car, they embraced and Jake called her Mrs. Ramsey for the rest of the evening. After a quick snack before the sun went down, he reluctantly said, "I'm going to walk over and talk to T.W. briefly."

"All right." They didn't mention why it was important, not wanting to spoil the evening.

Jake went out the front door, leaving it unlocked as long as he was in view.

He waved. "Hey, T.W., everything under control?"

"Well, welcome back, neighbor! Ever' thing go according to plan? You married now?"

"Yep, we tied the knot, T.W., and it feels great!"

"Well, I wish you well, ma' boy. Marriage is a blessed thing with the right woman – at least I've been told such."

"T.W., you're a piece of work, but, at least, you're happy."

"I spoze, Jake, I spoze."

"Tell me, T.W., you seen any more of that skinny little fellow around while we were gone?"

T.W. took a long swig. Well, no, Jake, course I had me a bout 'o indigestion that put me down for morn'a day. I couldn't get outta bed."

"You go to the doctor?"

"Nah. The docs down at the clinic tol' me last time that I had a ticker problem and some kinda lung damage from all those years I smoked. They jus' wanna put me in a hospital and stick a bounch 'o tubes in me. I'd never come out alive! I can deal with it."

Jake smiled at his dismissiveness. "Well, T.W., you take care of yourself, now. I'll be seeing you. I have to go be with my new bride. See, you later." Jake turned, waving his hand to signal that he was disengaging the conversation that could last for an hour if he didn't break off. He'd learned what he could.

Investigation

Detective Tibbs had been a police officer for almost twenty years. He'd joined the force after serving four years in the Marines. He'd completed his college degree at night, majoring in Police Science, and been promoted to Detective (Sergeant) four years ago. He was a native of Lafayette, and disliked the stereotype of the lazy southerner that unfairly characterized his profession in Louisiana. He loved the state and loved his job. He was good at it. He got immense satisfaction from protecting the public. Right now, that meant getting Will Ryan back in prison where he belonged for the rest of his life.

He wasn't prejudiced and accepted the idea that some criminals could be rehabilitated, especially if they had a non-violent past. Ryan had only been convicted of being a thief. Normally, that would not worry Tibbs. In Ryan's case, though, he was a murderer. Tibbs trusted his judgment of people. He'd been right throughout his career, and he knew that Ryan was bad deep into his soul. He'd killed people in cold blood. It was never proven, but he was guilty nonetheless. Now he had killed two women in Lafayette. The city had its share of petty crime and domestic disputes, but impassionate cold-blooded murder was rare. They had just had two since Ryan arrived. They would end when he went back to prison, which was Tibbs' mission.

Tibbs had no sympathy for childhood experiences of psychos like Ryan. So what? Having it tough doesn't automatically excuse sociopathic behavior. Lots of people have it tough, but they don't all become criminals. Moving up the criminal food chain to murder is a conscious decision, and Tibbs had a special hatred of killers, especially predators that targeted women. He would work day and night to get him locked up again.

Using information from Keats, Tibbs visited the restaurant where Ryan worked. He talked to the owner who never left the building from the time it was unlocked, until it closed each night. He talked to the man about keeping track of Ryan's time on the job. He stopped short of accusing Ryan of murder with the restaurant owner, but he didn't much care if Ryan got fired either. He might be saving the owner from a thief, and maybe saving his life.

Tibbs also asked Keats to keep a log of Ryan's time in and out of the house. This con had a plan: Tibbs could sense it. Ryan wasn't going to finish his sentence on parole. He would break it sooner rather than later, and Ramsey was the logical target of his plan.

Tibbs called Jake, asking to come over and talk to him and his new wife before Ryan went back to work.

When he parked at the curb, Jake opened the door, inviting him in. "Hi, Tibbs."

"Hi yourself, Jake ... ma'am." Julie was standing nearby.

"Ah, Detective Tibbs, meet Julie, my wife." She extended her hand and gave him a slight smile.

"My pleasure, ma'am." Then Jake suggested they all sit. Tibbs continued addressing Julie first. "Ma'am, Jake probably told you how we worked on his case and later investigated the death of his friend, Mr. Jones."

She shook her head in understanding, but didn't talk. Tibbs continued. "Jake, I don't want to alarm you or Mrs. Ramsey, but you need to take precautions, especially when you're at work."

Jake interjected. "We've discussed it, Tibbs."

"Good. What I want to tell you is off the record and probably not right for me to be saying. This fellow Ryan is a dangerous man. He has been accused in the past of murdering people without remorse in cold blood. He may be charged again in the future, but I can't say anything about that now."

Julie asked, "Are you talking about the women on the news?"

"I can't really say, ma'am." His lingering expression confirmed her suspicions. He looked back at Jake. "Jake, you have something he really wants, your coins. Somehow, someway, I think he'll try to get them from you. It's crazy, I know, but people like him get fixed on things in their mind, and all logic goes out the door."

Jake looked at him intently. "What should we do, Tibbs?"

"I think you're already doing it, Jake. The obvious things are to keep you doors looked and to keep your cell phones with you. Use nine-one-one if anything alerts you. Also, program my cellphone into yours. Then, I guess the only other thing is to be careful about your surroundings. Ryan's a little hobbled without wheels, but there's a possibility that he has a large stash of money somewhere and could be motoring, at some point. He can't do it where he's at now, but could break away at any time. That's when he would be real dangerous – once we're after him with a warrant."

Jake looked at Julie, then back at Tibbs. "Tibbs, this is frightening, but I understand that you're trying to have us take precautions. Is there anything else?"

"No, that's it for now, Jake, but call me any time if you see him anywhere near here. I can have a cruiser here fast to scare him away, if nothing else."

Tibbs left, and Jake held Julie. He was going back to work in the morning.

That afternoon, Ryan was dressed for work in jeans and a tee shirt, when he bounded down the stoop of the house, walking to work. Half a block away, he passed a parked car with the window open. As he passed, he saw him. "Detective Tibbs, what are you doing?" Ryan stopped opposite the passenger window, then realized that Tibbs was taking a video of him, using his Blackberry. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Taking a home movie, scumbag."

"This is harassment. I ain't done nothin'. Leave me alone."

Tibbs put the phone back in its holster. "You've done plenty, and I'm just gonna have to do detective work until we can get you back in a cage with the rest of the animals."

Ryan stood upright again to leave. "I did my time. You ain't gonna catch me for anything serious again."

Tibbs watched him walk away. "We'll see."

Ryan flipped the bird without looking back.

Tibbs was ninety-nine percent sure that Ryan had killed the two women in town and had also killed the pawn dealer in Baton Rouge. There was no legal distinction regarding the class of people killed, but there were often moral distinctions. Tibbs wanted to be sure that the girls got justice. He had a daughter who lived with his ex-wife. He loved the girl, and still loved his ex-wife, but the girl had socialization problems. Her rebellion led to behaviors that Tibbs imagined the sixteen year old dead girl might have followed, leading to her death in the park. The prostitute was different only through age. Hopelessness and depression caused poor women to work the streets. What options did they really have? It shouldn't be a death sentence. Both women deserved their sympathy and protection by the law. Instead, they died senselessly because this monster had been unleashed.

At roll call for the evening shift at the Police Station, Tibbs asked to brief the officers. He showed the video taken earlier and distributed a full face shot.

"Gentlemen, this is public enemy number one in our city. He's a predator who kills defenseless women, alone on our streets at night. He's also suspected of killing a state trooper in Alabama, and maybe some more folks in Texas. Take a good look. If you see him on the streets, smile and wave. Let him know you're watching. Also, when you see women alone at night, working girls or not, tell them to get off the streets or at least be extremely careful. If this guy, his name is Ryan, so much as spits on the street, bring him in. He's a parolee, living at the Stratum House. If he screws up, he goes back up state. I don't want that. I want to nail this guy here, but we need to be protecting our citizens."

He gave the same speech the next day to the morning and afternoon shifts. Every uniformed officer in Lafayette would be watching out for Ryan. They were given instructions not to harass him, but also to let him know they were watching. Ryan would screw up soon. Tibbs knew he would be impatient to get away, which probably meant Jake and Julie Ramsey were in some danger.

Ryan worked for the next two nights, always on time, always polite and hard working. The owner didn't say anything, but Ryan detected more guardedness toward him by the staff who were mostly related to the owner. Keats always seemed to be around when Ryan left the house and returned.

On Sunday, he left the house at ten o'clock in the morning and walked down town to get more familiar with the layout. That night, he'd go trolling again for fresh meat. On several occasions, police drove by. He wasn't sure at first, but they all seemed to slow down and look directly at him for a long time. What's going on? After it happened the first time, the number of patrol cars driving past him increased. He started getting nervous and reversed course, heading for the gym. Once he was safely inside, he sat in the locker room, thinking about grabbing his money and leaving town, but it started making less sense after his nerves subsided. He had to stick to his plan. His money stash was big, but not enough to live on in hiding for very long. Even if the police were watching him, they couldn't do anything, unless he screwed up. He wouldn't.

He started piecing things together. The police had probably talked to his employer and his "jailer," Keats. Everyone was watching him. Oh, God! What if they saw him go into the gym? They might find his stash. There wasn't much more time to act. They were closing in.

Detective Work

Tibbs met with the Parish District Attorney about arresting Ryan. Forensic information was inconclusive. Both victims had had sex near the time of death, but there was no DNA evidence. One had been more forceful than the other, but there wasn't enough evidence to prove rape in either case. There were also fingerprints on the victim's throats, but weather and humidity made them useless.

Ryan fit the profile of the person they would assume in such cases: age, working hours, unverified alibi -- but this was all circumstantial. A known felon with a life of criminal behavior was not likely to be intimidated by veiled threats. They needed more proof. Tibbs just hoped it didn't mean more killings.

One of the patrol cars reported that Ryan was seen leaving Mark's Gym on Main Street. It wasn't unusual for cons to workout. It's something they do for recreation behind prison walls, and many enjoy the solitude after release. Tibbs decided to check it out anyway. Detective work boiled down to checking minute details.

The gym had been in town for a few years and some of the police officers used it. Tibbs had been a member more than once, and knew the owner would recognize him. Mark was a licensed personal trainer and was working with a client when Tibbs entered. The receptionist started to ask him a question when Mark walked up. "Detective Tibbs, how are you?" They shook hands. "Are you joining us again?"

"Mark, I really should, but not today. Can we talk somewhere?"

"Sure, Detective, let's go to my office."

Inside, with the door closed, Tibbs pulled out the picture of Ryan. "Do you recognize this man."

Mark gave it a quick glance. "Yes. He's a new member. Funny, I'm not surprised you're here."

"Why do you say that?"

"This guy's creepy, probably an ex-con."

"What's creepy about him?"

"Well, for starters, he came in late one night a few weeks ago, like around nine o'clock and wanted to sign up. He had long hair all over, and you couldn't hardly see his face. He had tattoos all over too, bad ones, not professional. Anyway, he signed up on the spot. Gave me a hundred and twenty for a year, cash, then filled out a form. Didn't even want to look us over. Everyone looks us over before giving us money. He didn't."

"Anything else?"

"This guy's a criminal, right?"

"I can't comment on that."

"I understand."

"Anything else?"

"Well, yeah. He came in the next day all cleaned up, with a gym bag and wanted to know if he could have a locker. I told him any locker he wanted while he was working out, but he said he really wanted to leave his gear here, so I told him it was all right since we have so many lockers and not enough people using the place -- you wanna join again?"

"Maybe, Mark. So tell me about the locker?"

"Well, Detective. This guy, he comes in almost every day. He goes to the locker room, but never works out."

Tibbs was taking notes and nodded his head, "Show me the locker, will you, Mark?"

Mark led him to the men's room which had several banks of lockers and fixed wooden benches. There were only a few with locks. "It's this one, I'm pretty sure. He could move around. We don't assign permanent numbers. It's first come, first served, as you know."

"So, he could be in any locker here?

"Yeah, except he keeps it locked with a combination lock."

Tibbs looked around, and there were only half a dozen with combination locks. "So, how do you know this is his?"

"I don't for sure. Look around, this isn't the best place to be if you're trying to undress and dress. It's dark and kinda hidden."

Tibbs commented, "Maybe he's shy."

Mark responded. "Maybe, but I come in here each night to check for people before I lock up. This here locker is always locked. I mean since he joined. None are supposed to be locked, but I got some regulars, and I cut 'em some slack. This one though, is not a regular, I know where they are. It's gotta be his."

Tibbs asked, "Do you have any video?"

"Naw. This is a locker room, and there's privacy problems with that. But that's his locker. You want I should cut the lock? It's policy, right in the contract, that lockers locked when no one's here are subject to being cut open."

Tibbs thought about it. "No, Mark. Be ready though. I'm coming back with a warrant as soon as I can find a judge to sign."

"Okay, Detective. You want me to keep him outta here until you come back?"

"Mark, I'll be as fast as I can. If he comes in, don't act suspicious. Just let him do his thing. You just be perfectly natural." Tibbs didn't want to say he could be dangerous and risk prejudicing the case or getting Mark injured. "You still have my number?"

"Yep. I'm sure it's in the computer."

"Good. Call me if you see him, but not when he's around anyone – Got that?"

"You bet, Chief."

Desperation

He came down the stairs and walked quickly to the front door. "Where you goin', Ryan?" Keats was standing in his office doorway down the hall.

"Goin' to work, if'n it's any 'o your business."

"Don't you sass me, jail bird. You don't start work till five. Why you leavin' now?"

"I got some errands, so's I'm gettin' a early start." Ryan closed the door and walked down the stoop. If Keats had anything more to say, he didn't want to listen.

A few minutes later, he walked into the gym. Mark saw him and approached. "Hi, partner, come to work out?"

It struck Ryan as odd that he was inquisitive. Mark had not said anything to him since he joined the gym. "I'm just here to clean out ma' locker."

"You leavin us?"

"Ah, no. I paid for a year. I just want to take things home for cleanin'."

"Well, okay then. Have a good one."

Ryan walked into the men's room. Another sign. Everyone was treating him differently. Had he screwed up some way? No, the police would be on him like syrup on pancakes if they could. Something was different, though. Everyone: Keats, boss, Mark, the police – everyone was acting spooky. Something wasn't right.

He walked from front to back in the locker room to be sure no one was there. Mark was in his office with the door closed, calling Tibbs. While he was asking again about delaying or holding Ryan, Tibbs told him to stay away. Ryan walked out of the front door with his gym bag.

Tibbs and a uniformed officer showed up ten minutes later at the gym with a search warrant. Mark told him Ryan was gone and the locker was empty. Tibbs became worried now that Ryan was spooked. If they were going to catch him doing something illegal, this might be the time Ryan would do it.

Outside, Tibbs called Jake Ramsey, but went to voicemail. Jake was flying outside of cell range. He didn't have Julie's number and decided not to call her and scare her before verifying Ryan's whereabouts. Minutes later, parked down the street from the restaurant, the officer was able to look through the window and verify that Ryan was in the back kitchen area, apparently starting to work.

Ryan had carried the bag into the kitchen through the back door, which the owner unlocked two hours before opening the front for dinner customers. Ryan had to be there about one hour before the doors opened, but could come in early and help with the setup. He threw the bag onto a stainless steel shelf under the sinks, where he normally worked once food preparation and table cleanup began. If the owner saw the bag, he didn't say anything to Ryan. Most of the staff brought small gym bags with everything from special food, assuming they wouldn't eat the restaurant leftovers, to a change of clothes. This was the first time Ryan brought one, but no one seemed to notice.

The work evening went normally, and Ryan checked in with Keats at the correct time. The bag was neatly hidden in the freezer at work, under frozen fish. He had about half the money inside his underwear and would find some place to hide it in the large, mostly unoccupied house. He'd bring the rest tomorrow.

That evening, Jake recovered the voice message from Tibbs. It said that there was no immediate reason for alarm, just that Ryan might be feeling pressured.

T.W. waved when he parked behind Julie's car. Jake waved back and went to the mailbox, but before he could open it, T.W. yelled, "Your lady done got it, Jake."

Jake smiled and waved back. He'd have to get used to having someone else in the house. Once inside, she greeted him with a kiss. He said, "What smells so good?"

"I made an old family recipe, stuffed cabbage rolls!"

"You've got to be kidding! Beauty and a cook – how lucky can one guy be? I love you."

The nights were wonderful, as she settled into running the household. Neither one talked about her returning to work, which was entirely up to her, according to Jake. They didn't need the money and had large investments to fund a comfortable lifestyle that had not been defined yet. Partly, she knew that Jake wouldn't be happy if he couldn't fly. They were still relatively young and felt even younger. They started working out at the health club that Callie and Jake had joined months earlier, and a friendly competition developed, particularly in swimming. She even got Jake to try ballroom dancing once a week. They were having fun together.

Downtown, life for Ryan wasn't nearly as pleasant. Dogged by Tibbs and some of the patrolmen that took a particular interest in him, he never felt the freedom of movement that he should have had. It was not a good way to live. Didn't the cops have better things to do than harass him? The reality was that Ryan was the principal target for three murders and known to everyone in the police department. He hadn't hurt anyone since being identified by Tibbs. He couldn't, he felt like they were watching him all the time. Of course, that wasn't possible, but he felt it just the same. He also knew Keats was tracking him closely. He never missed Ryan coming or going.

Ryan couldn't sleep well anymore. The thought of going back to prison, especially for murder, dominated his subconscious. It tortured him. He needed to get out of it somehow. He needed a woman! He'd been reacquainted with the joy of flesh, particularly unwilling flesh. He needed more, and the police were making it impossible. Tomorrow was Saturday and he'd have two days to find a playmate if the police would just leave him alone. He tossed and turned in frustration.

Romance

The evening Gulf breeze tantalized them as Jake poured another glass of Pinot Grigio. Their trip to Cameron Station was a first step in searching for some place to live away from Lafayette. They hadn't found any houses or even communities along this part of the Louisiana Coast, but it was important to visit all of the candidate areas before deciding on their next step. Cameron was an auxiliary base for CHI, so it was a logical place to start. In eight years, Jake had flown on and off the helipad and stayed in their hangar apartment, but he'd never really seen the area at ground level. After they looked it over, it wasn't a place they wanted to live, but it had needed to be eliminated.

She was just enjoying being with him and avoiding housework for a few days while he was between schedules. He said, "Maybe we should head west tomorrow toward Port Arthur. We could spend a couple days there looking it over. If we don't like it, we can move on to Galveston next break."

She smiled. "Hum. You know, we don't have to rush this. I'm enjoying the process and don't need to make any quick decisions."

"Yeah, me, too. I love being with you." In a way, it was their honeymoon. They'd never planned on one, but were starting to realize that every break in his schedule could be a mini-vacation if they did things together.

That night, they loved passionately and slept with the windows open in a quaint seacoast Inn, listening to the gentle Gulf waves wash ashore. The following morning, they packed and checked out early, with just enough time to drive to Port Arthur, Texas, for a night there and a day to explore the area before returning to Lafayette.

They didn't find anything interesting around Port Arthur either, and Jake was beginning to fear that she would start questioning his choices. The fact is that he didn't know much about the gulf coast at ground level. He took her the only places he'd been, not realizing that they were mostly commercial and industrial locations. They looked around briefly, but were on the interstate heading back to Lafayette before noon. For their next excursion, Julie would do some on-line research and pick their spots to check.

Kidnapped

That night, Ryan was on the prowl for a different kind of thrill. He had to stay away from women on the street. Some might be decoys. Instead, he went down to the Greyhound station and walked around the large unlit extended-stay parking lot. He'd bought a screwdriver set at Walmart. Once again, he swapped license plates with two cars, leaving one without a plate. The plate he kept wouldn't be missed by the owner unless, by some misfortune, they discovered the wrong plate on their car. The car without a plate would probably get pulled over once the owner returned to Lafayette, but that could be days, and then there would be even more confusion if the cops found the stolen plate on another car. He chuckled at the thought.

Jake was gone at sunrise. Julie appreciated that he kissed her in the mornings but didn't waken her, although she was actually awake with her eyes closed. She was imagining the her enjoyment treating him to her full cooking repertoire. She had developed into a good chef over the years. Paul had loved to cook also, and it was a main activity together, enjoying new things created in their kitchen. Now, with Jake, he genuinely appreciated her skill, but he wasn't a cook himself. Today would be another surprise, and she couldn't wait to get to the store.

While she prepared for the day, Jake was flying low over the water with the sun barely above the horizon in the east. He could smell the sea air and slowed momentarily to watch a pod of dolphins, ravaging a school of baitfish. He could only hover for a minute, as he was on a tight schedule. His passengers, all oil rig workers were anxious to be on the clock, but they too enjoyed the diversion. He would have breakfast on the platform in fifteen minutes.

Julie left for the store around ten o'clock. It would take several hours for the vegetables and broth to cook down into the brown wine sauce they would have with the tenderloin. Jake will be blown away! She was excited at the prospect. Her biggest disappointment with shopping in their area versus near her home in Texas was that the nearby grocery store was inferior, and she couldn't get the quality of food, particularly produce, that she wanted. The trip took over an hour and she hurried the bags into the house to keep things from spoiling in the extreme heat and humidity. It was in the mid-90's and equally humid. It was one of the things she disliked about moving from Texas to Louisiana. It was hot in Mineral Wells also, but not such oppressively humid.

She put everything in the refrigerator and would take things out when ready to use them. She really missed her cookware that would arrive with the furniture in two days. She wanted to time everything perfectly, and the sauce took about five hours to cook properly. Once things were tidy in the kitchen, she began chopping the carrots, onions, and other vegetables and herbs. After twenty minutes of chopping, she took the largest deep pot Jake possessed, melted a cube of butter and began browning the vegetables, adding a little flour and seasoning. It was about two o'clock when she added two quarts of beef stock to the pot, bringing it to a boil. By three, she reduced the heat to a slow simmer, to begin cooking down the mixture, allowing the vegetables to slowly dissolve. She covered the pot and was going to take a break when she saw him! Ryan was standing on the rear stoop, staring at her through the upper-half door window. He had an evil grin on his face and was hidden from T.W.'s view behind Jake's house.

He just stood there, smiling as terror overtook her. This was the part of being with women he enjoyed the most, watching them panic, frozen in place before they screamed. She was momentarily petrified, unable to move as her heart raced, but then she thought of the guns in the back room. She ran and Ryan smashed the door open, only feet behind. She screamed down the hall as he stumbled over one of the dinette chairs, cursing and throwing it aside. Her panicky squeals delighted him. He bounded after her, as she slammed the bedroom door, locking it.

She leapt to the gun safe, turning the handle. Ryan yelled from outside, "Oh, Julie. Sweet, Julie. Let me in, pretty lady."

She tried to push the handle down further, more than necessary, not realizing the lock was already disengaged. Jake had always opened it before, and she didn't know how extraordinarily heavy the door was. The door weighed almost a hundred pounds. Tears were streaming as she lay on the floor one leg braced against the side of the safe, pulling the handle with both hands. "Go away!"

"Oh, I can't do that. I came all the way here just to be with you. Open this damn door!"

The safe door opened slowly as she strained with hidden strength. "Go away! I've got a gun!"

"Gee, this will be more fun than I expected. All I got's a big ol' knife."

The safe opened just enough for her to reach in when Ryan shattered the doorframe. Julie turned with the Beretta as he stepped toward her. The gun fired, but the bullet hit the floor, barely missing her own foot. Ryan jumped onto her. Pinned against the safe, she fired again and Ryan screamed in pain. The gun blast seared his midsection, but the bullet had missed again with the gun deflected between their bodies. He momentarily grabbed his stomach, screaming in rage before striking her with a hard boney fist.

He stood over her collapsed body, breathing hard. He had had intentions of raping her as part of his original plan, but now the burn on his skin needed attention. He ran back to the kitchen carrying the gun and opened the freezer, taking a bag of frozen vegetables and holding it against the powder burn. In a few moments, the sensation subsided, but he was still breathing hard.

"What you doin' there, boy!" T.W. was looking through the broken back door. Ryan looked at him with rage then lifted the gun.

Two hours later, Jake pulled into the driveway, but Julie's car was gone. He backed into the street so that Julie could pull in ahead when she got home. He stopped momentarily to check the mail box then looked over to wave at T.W., but he wasn't there. Even a big old man has to go inside for nature calls now and then.

He smiled, walking down the driveway to the back. Something smells good! Then everything changed when he saw the back door smashed in. "Julie!" He jumped through the door, looking frantically for her, hoping not to find her body. There was debris in the hall by the gun room and he ran back. The guns safe was open. He ran from room to room, yelling her name. She wasn't there, and her car was gone!

His first thought was to call her cellphone. Maybe she ran out to get something from the store and someone broke in while she was gone. He pushed her speed-dial number and listened. He could hear it ringing in the house. It was in the living room in her purse. She had not gone out!

Jake started to call nine-one-one when he looked outside in the back. Two legs were sticking out of the shrubs at the back of his yard. He pushed the door debris out of the way and ran back into the yard. T.W.!

He wasn't moving, lying face down on the ground between two bushes. Jake knelt beside him, grabbing his shoulder to turn him over. T.W. groaned. "T.W., are you hurt badly?"

"Oh, Jake. Hep me up will ya?"

Jake turned the big man over and helped him sit. Blood flowing down his face had coagulated and turned to red mud in the dirt. Jake brushed some of it away. "What happened, T.W.?"

T.W. was groggy and probably had a concussion. At his age and poor health, the blow to his head could be fatal. "Oh, Jake." He licked his lips. "That skinny feller, you know who I mean? Anyway, he broke in and hurt you woman."

"Where is she, T.W?"

"Ah don' know, Jake. I had ma ol' rifle, but I guess it weren't loaded 'cuz it didn't shoot. Anyway, that skinny feller took it and hit me with it. I tried to run, but he kep' after me, and I guess got a good whack on my head. Maybe a couple good 'uns."

"You damn old fool. You could have been killed. This guy's a killer. You should have called me!"

"Jake, I'm sorry. I tried to hep."

Jake patted him on the shoulder. "Don't you move! I've got to call for help."

Within ten minutes several police cruisers were in front of the house, and EMTs had T.W. stretched out on a gurney. Tibbs arrived with the cruisers.

Jake ran to him. "Tibbs, he got her. He got Julie!"

Tibbs didn't have to ask who "he" was.

"How'd it happen, Jake?"

"I don't know, Tibbs. I wasn't here. My neighbor, T.W. there, must have seen some of it. He tried to stop him and's lucky to be alive."

"Looking at the back door, I'm guessing he broke in while she was inside?"

Jake was shaking his head in agreement. "Yeah. Looks like it to me. He bashed in the door to my back room also. Looks like she was cooking and ran back to lock herself in the room with my guns. He broke that door in, too."

"Any guns missing?"

"I don't know -- let's go look."

Jake pulled the broken back door and frame off, throwing it into the backyard. Tibbs said, "Better not to touch too much, Jake. We'll want prints."

"Yeah, sorry."

They went to the back room and stepped over the debris. At least there wasn't any blood. Jake looked inside the safe. "Both my pistols are gone and my spare mags and ammo."

Tibbs took his notepad out. So, what firepower does he have?"

Jake explained the weapons. No one noticed the two nine millimeter shells with all the wreckage from the door. Tibbs said, "All right, Jake. This is now a crime scene. I want you out of here. Grab anything you need, then let's go so the lab guys can go to work. Anything obvious missing?"

"Yeah, Julie's car."

"Okay, so we'll assume Ryan has wheels and guns, and Julie as a hostage."

Jake felt total despair, and Tibbs continued, putting a hand on Jake's shoulder, "Jake, we'll get this guy."

"Yeah. But what about Julie?"

Tibbs was silent, leading the way back outside.

Ransom

The gurney slid into the ambulance with T.W. An IV bottle hung above him and he was awake when Jake came to the back. "Hey, big fella are you gonna be all right?"

The EMT in the back with him gave Jake a slight nod. T.W. responded, "That puny runt cain't hurt me bad, Jake. I'll be back home tomarra, jes' wait an' see, if'n the docs don' kill me." The EMT mouthed "no."

"All right then neighbor, I'll try to keep an eye on your place while you're gone if I can." He was thinking about how to find Julie.

"Now, Jake. Don't you worry 'bout my place less'n you see a large woman with a bible in the front. Go have a beer. They's a couple left."

"Take care, friend."

The driver closed the door and sped off with the siren blaring. The problem with severe head blows is that everything can seem normal, then it's "lights out" in a split second. Jake had seen it in the Army enough to know. He worried for his friend, but he had a much bigger personal concern he had to address.

Tibbs came up to him. "What now, Tibbs?"

"Jake, I need to know, what kind of car and what license number?"

"It's a maroon Honda Accord with a Texas plate. T-CHR."

"Okay, that should be easy to spot. I'll radio in right now and will get a five-state APB going. It should be easy to spot."

"I don't know, Tibbs. I don't think he's stupid enough to drive her car."

"Jake, we have to try everything, and see what happens next. We both know where he's headed with this. He's after your coins."

"Let him come. He can have them, but don't let him hurt Julie. Heaven has seen no fury like what I'll bring down on him if he does." Jake had a more sinister look than Tibbs had ever imagined.

"Look, Jake. Whatever happens, please keep us in the loop. I'm bringing the FBI in, which we need to do with all hostage situations."

"Tibbs, you do whatever you need to do."

Jake stood in the front yard when the crime lab people staked out the scene. The police would leave two patrol officers on the property to keep curiosity seekers away. The sky was black and the stars disappeared as storm clouds rolled in. Jake waited.

Tibbs went immediately to the halfway house to check with Keats. He didn't expect Ryan to be there tonight, but it was one of the details he had to cover.

When Tibbs came through the front door, he called, "Mr. Keats?"

There was no answer, so he signaled for the patrolman in the car to come in with him. He drew his weapon, followed immediately by the patrolman doing the same thing. He instructed, "You take the upstairs."

Tibbs walked down the hall, looking in each opening until he reached the office at the rear. Keats was sprawled in his chair with his arms hanging limp down his side. His eyes were open and a red river of blood had dried down the front of his shirt and pants, onto the floor. A large red hole below his chin looked like it tunneled all the way to his spine, carving out his larynx. He was probably paralyzed when the knife severed the nerves at the back of his throat, but didn't die until all the blood drained onto the floor. The cavern in his neck was open and dry.

Upstairs the patrolman called and Tibbs came running with his gun ready. Inside the dorm room on the left side of the hall the patrolman was feeling the arm of a very large man, lying on the bed with blood pools on both sides of his head. He'd been sliced from ear to ear with such ferocity that he looked like a guillotine was used.

Ryan was now operating at a whole new level. Tibbs didn't need to check either victim. There was no possibility that either was alive. He told the patrolman to follow him back to the street and called for a second crime scene team. Lafayette would need to call in every police asset tonight.

Jake stood outside his house watching the crime scene team work. His cellphone rang. He didn't need to look at the caller ID. "What's up, Ryan?"

"Hey, Jake. You figured it out quick."

"I wasn't expecting anyone else to call tonight."

"You was expecting me?"

"Stop playing games, Ryan."

"All right, Mr. big shot pilot. Here's the deal. I got your lady. She's mighty fine, I might add."

"That much we all know, Ryan."

"What you mean "we", kimosabe?"

"I mean the Lafayette PD, the Louisiana State Police and the FBI. You just hit the top of the charts."

"You know, Jake. If you wanna go big, go all the way."

"You did that, Ryan. You're dead in twenty-four hours."

"Naw, I don' see it that way, man. I got your lady."

"What difference is that, Ryan? The law doesn't care about leverage. They just want you. Dead or alive, they want you."

"You tryin' to scare me, Ramsey? It ain't gonna work. I been scart all my live. Ain't worried no mo'."

"Cry me a river, Ryan. What do you want?"

"Why, Jake. I want you to get you lady back and me on my way to redemption."

"There's no redemption for you, scumbag, there's only hell, and I hope you get there really soon."

"So what ever happened to the great Jake Ramsey, the hero of ever' thing. The guy that could swim across the Gulf o' Mexico, if needed."

"Stop playing games, Ryan. You don't have much time to live, and I need my wife back."

"Oh, yeah, your wife. She be right purdy, Jake. I think I might have my pleasure with her shortly."

"So, she's alive, asshole?"

"Yes, she is, and I'll be requestin' that you speak a little more civil to those in charge, namely me."

"All right, Ryan. Let's play your game. I want her back, and you want my coins, is that right?"

"Well, Jake. You see, I figure I earned those coins. I spent time in prison, I lost my daddy and I lost my girl."

"Look at it any way you want, you sick bastard. What's it going to be?"

"You takin' all the fun outta it, Jake. I'll tell you what. You jes' sleep on it overnight, and I'll let you lady ripen a bit, then we can talk again."

"Talk now you son of a bitch!"

"Naw. You jes' think about beautiful Julie with poor ol' Will takin' his pleasure. Maybe I'll call tomorrow – maybe not." The phone line went dead.

Jake called Tibbs and filled him in. He hadn't talked to Julie and had no tangible proof that she was alive. Ryan was gambling with the most precious thing in Jake's life. If she died, so would Ryan. Julie was Jake's life now, yet he had to play hardball.

Jake felt helpless. He was up against a psychopath who had Julie. For the next ten hours, he was awake most of the night thinking about her. He dreamed occasionally about having his hands around Ryan's throat, but mostly he dreamed about saving Julie, if she could be saved. Ryan had no idea what Jake was capable of.

Hours passed and he never really slept. Her image, sometimes a ghost, was with him. Sometimes he saw his thumbs, pressing through Ryan's throat, ripping out his esophagus. Ryan would pay. It was just a question of living or dying in the end.

The hours passed slowly. At dawn, Jake was inside lying on the couch with his cellphone next to him. He hadn't slept since the last call with Ryan. When it rang, he answered, "Ryan, is that you?"

"Well, good mornin', Jake. Did ya sleep well? Me an Julie, we slep' real good. Oh, let me poke her. Sorry, I didn't mean to say poke again, we did that all las' night."

"What do you want, Ryan?"

"Why, I want my gold, Jake."

"That's easy, Ryan. You can have it all, just give her back to me."

"Well, sir, tha's possible. Where and how?"

"You're the scum bag here Ryan. I'll follow your instructions."

Ryan thought for a minute. "All right then. You come in your truck to Gatorbait park parking lot an we can transact."

"You gonna bring her to Gatorbait?"

"Why no, Jake. I gonna pick up the gold and tell you where to find her, assumin' I ain't ambushed or nothing."

"Listen to me, Ryan. I don't have the coins anymore. It's been too risky. You taught me that."

"Where's they?"

"Well, that's the funny part. Your daddy taught me the best place to hide it. It's offshore in a derelict oil platform."

"Naw. You wouldn't jes leave it out at a unsecure place."

"What's more secure that an isolated island it the middle of an ocean? Kinda like buried pirate's treasure."

"How you gonna get it?"

"Well, that's the interesting part. I don't really know. I can show it to you, but you gotta figure out how to move it."

"This is weird, Ramsey. How do I know I can trust you?"

"You got my wife, idiot. She's the most important thing in the world to me. You think I care about some coin collection? It's just a bunch of glittering keepsakes. My wife is my life. If you give her back to me, you can have the coins."

"I wanna see 'em." Ryan had taken the bait. Jake finally had something going right.

"All right Ryan, meet me at CHI in thirty minutes."

"I ain't got a car."

This was the first solid clue. "So, I'll pick you up."

"No. I'll walk there, and Ramsey, if'n you call the cops or try anythin' your wife is dead. Do you understand?" Jake agreed. "Do you understand!" Ryan was trying the old military reinforcement trick.

Five minutes later, Ryan crossed Jake's lawn and walked around back. Jake's first inclination was to throw Ryan on the ground and press his thumbs into his throat and feel the life leave the man.

Ryan spoke first seeing Jake standing by his truck. "Now, don' you go tryin' nothin'. I got me you forty-five and I ain't afraid to use it. Done it before,"

"Get in the truck, Ryan, I'm not gonna try to outdo you. You've got me scared."

"You better be scart, Jake. I got me the gun, and I got your girl. She's real fine by the way."

"Stop the macho bullshit, Ryan. This is business. You don't have to prove to me how tough you are. I know exactly how you work. But, that's not important. We have only one agenda, and that's to get you together with my gold coins. Right?"

Ryan didn't like being usurped. "I guess so, Ramsey. Le's go."

Both got into Jake's truck, and he drove to CHI Operations. Jake instructed Ryan, "You stay here and try to stay invisible. I'm going to negotiate a helicopter.

Inside, Jake talked to Ross about what he was trying to do. Ross was initially reluctant, but agreed when Jake said his wife's life depended on it.

Ross just said, "Just bring it back in one piece."

Jake grabbed the keys to 067N and sprinted to the helipad, signaling Ryan to join him. Ryan jumped out of the truck, trying to hide the gun under his shirt as he ran to the Bell Long Ranger Jake was prepped to fly.

Ryan opened the door and sat in the right seat while Jake finished inspecting it, then opened the left front door, sitting uncomfortably close. Ryan laid the forty-five in his lap, pointed in Jake's direction. "Put that thing away."

Ryan answered. "You ain't in charge here. I like it just fine."

"Look, Ryan. I gotta fly this thing. It takes two hands. What do you think I'm gonna do? Just keep it pointed in another direction so that I'm not nervous about being shot accidentally."

Ryan slowly put the gun on his right thigh pointing forward. "All right, Mr. ace pilot, I don't want you nervous. Never figured you for a coward."

"It's not cowardice, fool. It's plain old-fashioned gun safety. You're holding that thing with your finger on the trigger, which is wrong and extremely dangerous. If you knew anything about guns, you'd know what I'm telling you.

"I know plenty 'bout guns." He was waggling the gun up and down while speaking. "Where we goin' anyways?"

The engine had come up to full power during this conversation. Jake pulled up hard on the sticks. "Up!"

Ryan nearly vomited with the rapid climb and turn toward the south. "Ah, easy, man, easy. I ain't use't this shit. I ain't never flew before, and I'm gonna be sick." He already looked pale.

At a hundred feet, Jake pushed forward on the cyclic and the helicopter accelerated. The combination of pointing downward and compression in the seat caused Ryan to vomit onto his door and back onto himself. "I don't like this!"

"Get used to it, shit bird. We gotta long way to go."

Ryan pointed the gun toward Jake again, trying to speak and Jake swatted it away. "I told you to keep that thing away. Your day's gonna get a lot worse if I get shot."

Ryan leaned to the right, trying to recover as the helicopter leveled off at one thousand feet. The g-loads on his body neutralized, and he started feeling more normal.

"I hate flyin'! I ain't never flyin' again."

Let's hope!

Jake looked at him. "Where's my wife!"

"You get her when I get my gold."

"It's not your gold."

"You jes' don' get it do you, Ramsey? You don't got any choice in the matter now. Where'r we goin' anyhows?"

"That way." Jake pointed straight ahead out to sea."

Ryan sat more upright. "I don' like it, not one bit. I never learn't to swim. I don't want to go over no ocean."

"You want the coins, right? Then we're going way out. Pretty soon, all you'll see is water."

"I wanna go back!"

Jake snapped at him, "I want my wife!" He remained on course while Ryan was silent for a while.

Then Ryan said, "I ain't sker't o' you, ya' know. I kilt people you know. You ever kilt, Ramsey?"

"What's that got to do with anything, Ryan?"

"Oh, jus' curious. I like to know how much of a advantage I got over you."

"Killing isn't an advantage, Ryan. It's a weakness in your case."

Ryan pointed the gun again. "I ain't got no weakness!"

Jake pushed forward, nearly causing Ryan to fall out of his seat. They were aimed straight at the water. "Stop this, stop this!" Ryan sounded like he would cry when Jake pulled back hard, leveling a few feet above the deck, causing Ryan to puke again. "Shit, man, you tryin' ta kill us!"

"I'll tell you once again, Ryan. You point that gun at me up here again, and it'll be the last of the stupid things you'll do."

"Okay. Okay, I'm putting it in my pocket, is that all right with you?"

"Why don't you shoot yourself in the process?"

Ryan snickered. "Okay, Jake. You ever kilt anyone?"

Jake was exasperated with him. "Look, Ryan. I was in the Army for twenty years. I was a Ranger and a pilot. I've been in firefights. People get killed. I never shot anyone in cold blood, if that's what you mean? Not like you, murdering innocent people."

Ryan shot back, "I ain't kilt no innocents. They all had it coming. Take those girls. They was whores, they wasn't real people. They's breakin' the law, and I was just doin' my civic duty. It's part'a my parole you know, community service." He giggled to himself.

"You're sick, Ryan. Someone should have held your head under water when you were a kid."

"Well, some did nearly that bad. It didn't work as you can plainly see. I'm a survivor, Jake. Not like some people I know."

Ryan finally shut up and looked away. Within a few minutes the platform was in sight. Jake adjusted altitude a few feet higher than the drilling tower. Ryan saw the big structure filling the windscreen as Jake did a tight circle around "Old Glory" before pointing into the wind and descending slowly onto the helipad.

Ryan had fastened his seatbelt and was gripping the sides. "That sho' looks small, don't you miss it!"

Jake ignored him and settled into the middle of the painted circle, flipping switches off. The noise of the turbine reduced immediately, and the rotor began slowing overhead. Jake didn't say anything, as he exited the helicopter. Ryan opened his seatbelt and followed, catching up with Jake as he walked toward the stairway down to the main platform.

Ryan was waving the gun and trying to shed the mess on his shirt. "Hey, hol' up there, hol' up." He pointed the gun at Jake again.

"What are you gonna do, Ryan? You going to shoot me – out here?" Jake held up his arms, gesturing at the expansive ocean in all directions, the only thing in sight.

Ryan said. "I don' like the ocean, an' this is scary. What we doin' here anyway?"

"You want my coins?"

"Yeah, 'a course."

"Where's my wife, asshole?"

Ryan pointed the gun with a shaky hand. Jake was mostly concerned about an accidental discharge. "You get the gold, then we can talk. You hurry up now, she ain't got much time."

Jake approached Ryan as he continued waving the gun in his direction. He slapped Ryan's gun hand and grabbed his shirt tightly around his neck. "Where is she, asshole? You're not getting off this platform until I know where she is!"

Ryan struck Jake on the head with the gun, sending him to the deck. "You don' get nothin' till I see's the gold. You got that, Jake? If'n I gotta kill you, I will. I got nothin' to lose without it."

Jake felt his head and pulled his hand away, showing faint traces of blood. "Okay, jerkoff, you want the gold first, it's here. Let's get it."

"You kep' it here?"

"You know a safer place?"

"I don' even know's what this place is?"

"It's a retired oil derrick. No one comes here. This is where BJ hid his share. It's also where he blew his brains out, so feel free to follow the family tradition."

Ryan waved the gun toward the platform. "You show me if'n you want your lady alive. You don't have much time, Ramsey."

Jake stepped down the ladder to the main platform and walked away as Ryan struggled to come down holding the gun while gripping the rungs of the ladder. "Where you goin'?"

Jake didn't answer but kept walking toward the generator shed. Ryan finally stepped down and ran after Jake. "Slow down so's I can keep you in sight."

Jake shouted over his shoulder. "Where am I gonna go, Ryan? You've got my wife, remember?"

They got to the generator shed about the same time and Jake stopped at the door. Ryan asked, "Is it in there?"

"Yeah. It's in there."

"Well, open it, le's see!" Ryan was visibly excited, but he was still waving the gun like a toy.

Jake opened the hasp lock with his key and threw back the door. "There it is."

"Where? I don' see nothin' but that big-ass engine an a buncha batteries."

"I stacked the boxes behind the engine, go see for yourself."

Ryan showed a wry smile. "Naw, I ain't goin' in there. You must think I'm a fool. You'd jes' close this here door and lock me in tryin' to get to me. Well, it ain't gonna happen thata ways. You go get 'em and bring 'em to me."

Jake looked at Ryan momentarily then stepped into the shed. The interior was dark and he paused to let his eyes adjust. Ryan grew impatient. "Hurry up now!"

Jake took a deep breath. He hoped Ryan knew his only way off the platform was to fly and didn't shoot him in the back. "All right, Ryan. Be calm, I just need to see where I'm going."

The shed was only about ten feet square and there was a two foot clearance at the end of the generator engine and the side wall. The space behind the engine was nearly pitch black. Jake moved partially behind the engine reaching into the darkness. His preparation had been perfect.

Ryan was not watching Jake closely. From almost ten feet away and blocked by the engine, Jake had nowhere to go. Ryan was excited about the gold as Jake stepped back into view. But instead of a box of coins, his hand gripped a twelve gauge shotgun that he swung with practiced speed to aim middle-mass on Ryan. Jake started to command Ryan to lay down his weapon, but Ryan panicked and fired. Jake had no choice. The shotgun blast was deafening inside the small metal room. Ryan's shot had gone wild, but Jake was a steady hand with weapons and fired a focused blast of lead shot instinctively at the other gun, disintegrating Ryan's right arm.

Ryan fell screaming in agony. His right arm was shredded and his hand was mostly gone with only his index finger and thumb remaining in the sinewy pulp. Bits of flesh and fingers covered the deck behind him. The handgun was in several pieces. Jake quickly pumped another shell and stepped out of the shed. Ryan was crying in pain, gripping his right shoulder, trying to stop the pain radiating through the remnants of his arm. Most of the nerves were severed and blood ran from every vessel. He was in a fetal position, looking at his hand when Jake kicked his left shoulder. Ryan screamed again as tears ran down his face. He grimaced, "Ah ... Ah! You shot me! My hand, my arm, it's all gone! Oh, Jake, it hurts bad. How could you do this to me! It hurts so Bad! Help me! Help me!"

At least Ryan was alive and starting to respond. Jake cycled the slide on the shotgun one more time to get Ryan's attention. He wasn't planning on killing him yet.

Ryan pleaded. "How could you do this? Why ... why shoot me!"

Jake knelt down resting the shotgun on its butt, pointed into the air, "Simple, asshole. You threatened me and my family. For all I know, my wife is dead. I think I'll dismember you, blast by blast, starting with your feet."

"No. No. She's alive! Ryan's face grimaced as he whimpered into the oily non-skid deck. You need me! Oh God ... this hurts! Jake, you gotta help me!"

He pointed the big gun at Ryan's left foot. "Where's my wife!"

Ryan clenched his teeth in pain. "I got her locked up! Don' shoot!"

"Where!"

"I. I can' tell you. Youd jes shoot me." He rolled over onto his side again.

"Get up, shitbird."

Ryan, screamed, "Jake I can', my arms's gone!"

"Get up or I'll shoot you right here. You asked if I killed before. Yeah. I've killed lots of people trying to kill me. Today, that's you, Ryan. I'll kill you and eat your brains for dinner. Now get up! Jake showed a calm determination that Ryan, nor anyone else in thirty years, had seen.

Ryan struggled to his feet, gripping the remains of his right arm and bending at the waste. He tried to stop the spurting blood which pulsated freely.

"Tighten that grip, Ryan, or you'll die from blood loss."

Jake kicked Ryan to the edge of the platform near the stairway down to the water. The ladder was pulled halfway up the side to keep curiosity seekers from coming aboard. At the edge, Ryan started panicking. "What yo doin!"

"Where's my wife, Ryan?"

When Ryan didn't answer, Jake kicked his legs out, smashing Ryan screaming to the deck. He kicked both knees to straighten his legs. When Ryan resisted, he clubbed him with the shotgun. While laying semi-conscious, Jake bound Ryan's legs with multiple layers of duct tape he had previously put in the generator shed with the gun. He bound off his severed stub to slow the bleeding.

He put the gun down and went to the winch controls used to bring supplies aboard from the boats using a boom near the ladder. He swung the boom over Ryan and lowered the hook attached to the winch cable. Ryan was starting to regain his senses when Jake hoisted him upside down into the air.

Ryan screamed in pain and terror. "Watta you doin? You cain't do this! I surrender, take me to the police!"

Jake stared directly into Ryan's eyes as he dangled in front of him. "You don't get it, do you, Ryan? This isn't about justice. This is personal between us. You're about to die the most awful death I could plan." Ryan panicked, wetting his pants.

Jake swung the boom outboard, suspending Ryan a hundred feet above the water. To emphasize his next point, he lowered Ryan down twenty feet so that he could see the change in water color from azure blue to black under the shadow of the platform. Jake walked down the loading ladder, just opposite the swinging body. "Listen to me, Ryan. Listen carefully." Ryan was having difficulty focusing through his terror of the water below and the blood surging to his head. "Listen to me, asshole!"

Ryan bawled uncontrollably, "You cain't do this! I got rights! Help me, Jake, I don' wanna die!" He was crying like a baby.

"Listen, Ryan. It's important and might save your life."

"What? What! Anything!

"You see that black water down there? It's over a thousand feet deep." Ryan shook his head, transfixed on the surge below. "This platform is a natural reef. Fish live under it. Around the Gulf, all the big sharks live under these platforms, eating the fish, and the scraps from the cooks. All that blood from your arm is causing them to go mad right now. Think about the movie Jaws. You're going to be shark bait in one minute! I'm gonna lower you down there and watch them rip you apart, starting at your bloody arm. Doesn't that sound like fun – your kind of fun!"

"No! No! Jake, I'm beggin' please ... please I'll do anything!"

"Where's my wife?"

"Okay. Okay. Pull me up. I'll tell you."

"I'm sorry Will, but I can't do that. You can tell me right now. After you tell me, I'm calling the police on my copter radio. When they have Julie safely again, I'll bring you up. Otherwise, the cable will continue falling with its old brake, while – well you know the rest."

Ryan's face was bright red and smeared with tears as he screamed through clenched teeth. "All right. She's in the trunk o' her car."

"You maniac! Do you know how hot it gets in Louisiana!"

"Yeah. I do. You gotta hurry!"

"Where!"

"Across from the police station."

"Try again, asshole, they've been looking for her car."

"No! I changed the license plate. I thought it was purdy clever, don' you?" It was the wrong thing to say to a humorless man on the fringe of madness.

Jake ran up the stairs and up the ladder to the helicopter. Ryan was screaming in the background. He reached through the open door for the microphone after turning the radio on. "CHI Operations, come in."

They were waiting for his call. "Go ahead, Jake."

"Ross, you gotta call the Lafayette PD now! Julie's locked in the trunk of an oh-five maroon Honda by the station. Not her license. She's dying Ross. Tell them to hurry. Call me back when they get her."

"The call's underway, Jake." It was one of the pilots. "Where are you now?"

"I'm with Ryan. I'll give the location once I know about Julie."

"Roger that, Pal."

Jake went back to the cable, and Ryan was still swinging in the air. "Ryan, can you hear me?" He wasn't responding, and his body was slack, appearing dead. Jake pulled him back up on the deck. Blood loss and shattered nerves had shut down his systems, but there was a weak pulse. Jake left him lying unconscious on the deck, still bound with duct tape.

Jake ran back to the helicopter to wait. Minutes later they called, "Jake, come in."

"I'm here, Ross."

"They've got her, Jake. She's in bad shape. Not responding with weak vitals. She's being taken to the hospital, and they may want to airlift to Houston."

"Will she live, Ross?"

"They don't know, Jake. She's been in that hot box for a long time. Just don't know."

"I'm coming in Ross, ETA in twenty."

Jake jumped into the cockpit and started the engine. He was airborne in half a minute, flying at top speed near the ocean. He keyed the radio. "CHI Operations."

"Go ahead, Jake."

"Tell the PD that Ryan is on Old Glory. He's been shot and is in bad shape. Suggest police helo and medevac ASAP."

"Will do, Jake. See you in a few."

He crossed the first marshes doing almost one hundred forty MPH one hundred feet off the deck. "CHI Control, 067N inbound ETA one minute."

The reply came. "067N inbound, Roger."

Before he could land, Ross called on the radio, "Jake, they took her to University Medical Center, suggest you stay in the air.

"Roger that Ross, thanks."

The University Medical Center at Lafayette was a small facility with only eighty beds. He made a slight course adjustment, straight over downtown to the hospital. On top, he banked into a wide circle to find a parking spot. The hospital had a helipad for emergencies, but he chose the top deck of the two-story parking garage, which nobody uses in the Louisiana heat. He circled once so that anyone watching would know his intentions and testing the wind, then made a straight-in approach flaring at the last second. He switched everything off and was on the ground floor level of the hospital before the rotor stopped moving.

There was a police officer in the emergency room lobby waiting for him. They'd all seen the helicopter arrive. "Follow me, Mr. Ramsey?"

He led Jake up to the ICU, where he had to check in with the nurse's station. They already had his wristband waiting. As he looked through the glass doors, his knees almost buckled. It was like looking at Callie all over again. A nurse came out to meet him and led him to her bedside. Her face was relaxed with a tube in her mouth and a breathing tube in her nose. There was an IV ticking, and a monitor showing her vital signs. It all looked too familiar. He hesitated before asking the nurse, "How -- how is she?"

"She's holding her own for the moment, Mr. Ramsey. The doctor will be here shortly to talk to you."

He stood beside her and held her hand, but got no response. Her hand was dry and warm. He spoke softly to her, but there was no way to know if she could hear him. A woman doctor joined him shortly after he entered the unit. She explained that they didn't know much at the moment. They were trying to stabilize her and then determine if any permanent damage was done. Julie was badly dehydrated and had suffered extreme heat exposure, which could damage her kidneys and other organs. Almost all such cases were "forgotten children" in cars that were generally fatal. They didn't have a lot of experience with adults in this condition.

Jake was given a chair. There was nothing more he could do. About an hour later, the nurse told him there were some police officers outside who wanted to speak with him. He stood and saw Tibbs with two uniformed officers. He was reluctant to leave Julie. Exiting, he said, "Hello, Tibbs."

"Hi, Jake. How's she doing?"

"We'll know more tomorrow. Thanks for getting her here quickly."

Tibbs looked at the other officers. "These guys found her right away, Jake. They deserve the credit."

Jake shook their hands and thanked them.

Tibbs continued. "Jake, we got Ryan."

Jake didn't say anything but looked at Tibbs as he went on. "He's in bad shape, might not live."

Jake spoke. "What a shame."

"Jake, I need to ask you some questions."

"Okay, go ahead."

"Okay. It looks like Ryan was shot, is that right?"

"Yes, he held me at gunpoint all the way to the platform. When we got there, I was able to get to a shotgun stored in a shed, and we had an exchange of gunfire. There's my 1911 on the platform that I shot out of his hand. His finger prints will be on it. His fingers are somewhere there too if they look."

Tibbs was taking notes. "Okay, that's what I assumed."

Tibbs went on. "The response team said he was bound pretty good with duct tape. Did you do that?"

"Yes. He admitted killing the women in town here, and I knew he was dangerous, even when wounded."

"Did you try to administer first aid?"

Jake thought he saw Tibbs smile. "Yes. I didn't have much time because of Julie, so I bound off his bleeding as best as I could without a first aid kit."

"Good. Ah, how did you get him to disclose her location?"

Jake thought for a minute. "Hum. I think he told me out of gratitude for bandaging his arm."

Tibbs shook his head in agreement. "That makes perfect sense.

"Okay, Jake. Based on the police reporting from out on the platform, they thought you might have tortured Ryan. Did you torture Ryan?"

"No. We had a discussion about my civic duty and his remorsefulness for killing people. I think he was genuinely wanting to repent. I even tried inverting him to help blood flow to his upper body. I don't know much about emergency medicine, so I did my best all alone out there."

"Good. That's what I would have expected." Tibbs was writing in his small notebook.

Jake asked, "So, what does this mean? Am I gonna be investigated for something?"

"No. This concludes it as far as we're concerned. If Ryan recovers, which is questionable, and gets out of prison in a hundred years or so, he might bring civil charges, but I think the police report will prevent any worries for you. Just go take care of your wife, and, hopefully, live a long wonderful life together. Actually, the people of Lafayette owe you a debt of gratitude for capturing this monster."

Life with Jake and Julie

Julie slowly recovered over several days in the hospital. Jake spent the first night with her, sleeping in a chair beside her bed. The ICU had no room except a small narrow chair between beds, and the only clock was outside at the nurse's station. Julie was alone in the ICU most of the time, with other patients coming in for short periods. Mostly, she was alone. Jake could look at his watch to gauge night and day, but he needed rest. He was sleeping when she began to awaken. She became more alert and aware of her surroundings over several minutes. She moved her head back and forth slightly and say Jake asleep with his head against her bed rail. She was able to move her hand and touch his hair, waking him instantly. It was a supreme effort on her part, and she quickly closed her eyes after he reacted. He wasn't sure if he'd imagined it, whispering, "Julie?"

She moved her head slightly but didn't open her eyes. "I'm so tired, Jake." She went back to sleep with him resting on a chair beside her. Over the next twenty-four hours, she improved. At some point the doctors determined that her kidneys were working, and she was transferred to a private room at the request of the police. The doctor talked to Jake outside her room and gave her a good prognosis. Ryan had not abused her in any serious way, and there did not appear to be any permanent organ damage. Another hour in the trunk of the car would have had a different outcome.

Jake stayed by her side. He left for a couple hours once to change clothes and shower at home, but he stayed with her most of the time. On the third day, Detective Tibbs and a female patrolman came to her room for a statement, and Jake spent an hour in the cafeteria.

When he returned, the police were gone, and she was sitting up talking on the phone to Sue. He thought she looked fabulous. Her voice was strong, and her color looked good. The nurses had helped her look refreshed. The only remaining hospital equipment was a saline IV drip, just in case she had a relapse. When she saw him, she finished the call. "Hey, husband. You look great after a shower."

He bent and kissed her, "You look terrific, yourself."

"Well, it will be nice to get out of here and start leading a normal life with you. I feel like we've been living a reality adventure so far."

He chuckled, "More like a reality nightmare, if you ask me."

She looked at him. "Jake, it's over. They got him and it's over."

"Yeah. I don't think he's coming back."

Her face turned more serious. "The police said you saved my life."

"They saved your life, I just told them where to look."

"They said you caught Ryan and got him to talk."

"Actually, he caught me."

"You're being modest. How did you get him out on an oil platform?"

"Actually BJ gave me the idea. It seemed like the perfect place to hide some gold coins where almost no one could find them."

She grinned. "Yeah, but you put them in storage at the bank weeks ago."

He wasn't looking directly at her. "Huh, well he needed to believe he could get his hands on it."

"So, tell me how you got away from him and convinced him to talk?"

"Like I said, hon, I figured I could rely on his greed to overcome caution if he thought he was close to his fortune. I just used that." She wanted a more direct answer. "All right, so I went out this week and put some supplies on the old platform, figuring I could maneuver him there. I did it on one of my routine flights to other rigs."

"So, how did you convince him to fly out there with you all alone."

"He felt overly secure with the gun, and I didn't give him an option."

"They said you shot him!"

"I didn't have a choice, babe."

"Was that how you got him to tell where I was?"

"Yeah. It wasn't part of the plan. But it turned out that way. My only objective was getting to you. I thought I could scare him, but he shot at me first. I had to shoot back. Luckily, I only hit his gun hand."

"Did you have to threaten him to tell where I was?"

"Not really, he was pretty forthcoming after he was hurt."

"Too bad, you should have drowned the bastard!"

Epilog

Ryan recovered, but lost his arm at the shoulder. Several shotgun beads could not be removed and remained lodged in his body. He would need to take medication for the rest of his life to fight the effects of lead poisoning and would need constant surveillance for lead ball migration into his heart or other organs. He was convicted of first degree murder of the pawn shop owner and both men at the halfway house based on blood evidence on the knife that he foolishly kept in his cargo pants. He was convicted of second degree murder for the two women in town based on Jake's testimony. He was sentenced to death and would never again be a threat to society. Corina Penworth's body was not found, and the trooper shooting in Alabama was never solved.

Jake continued to work at CHI, but was based primarily from the Texas Gulf locations. He and Julie moved to a house near the ocean in Corpus Christi. They kept the house in Lafayette as rental property when the market declined. T.W. recovered well, which he attributed to a substantial amount of alcohol preservative in his body. It is not known if a lady with a bible ever appeared again.

Bobbie's letters were stored somewhere in the attic of the Lafayette house, and were never looked at again.

...THE END...

