WALKABOUT 2 - The Back of Beyond (Part 4)

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18

Page County, Indiana

A few hours later and half a world away, County Coroner Perry Winters eyed the ominous roll cloud in the darkening sky as he turned from Airport Road onto the main highway back into town. As if he needed convincing, numerous flashes of lightning eliminated any lingering doubt: Bad weather would soon be upon them. He seriously doubted he could make it back to the crematory before it hit. Hopefully there wouldn’t be a power outage, and he could commence with cremation of the corpse he’d just taken from the hangar. Get rid of it before it was noticed.

His cell phone came to life, penetrating the silence with a Playtime ringtone. Winters answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“G’day, Winters,” Dexter Flynn said. Although thousands of miles away in Australia, Flynn sounded as if he was sitting next to Winters. “Everything in order at your end?”

“It is,” Winters replied. “We’ll take the shipment to the airport tonight. You should have it within twenty-four hours.”

“Good on ya,” Flynn said. “There’s been another matter come up, needs your attention.”

19

Perry Winters prayed for another solution to present itself. And soon. Dexter Flynn, despite being so far away, had considerable influence with local biker gangs in Indiana and Ohio. Saying no to Dexter Flynn shortened one’s life expectancy dramatically. If Flynn gave the order, Winters would be dead in a matter of hours.

Flynn, for whatever reason, wanted a girl picked up and held until further notice. Not just any girl. Shelby Myers. The niece of Sheriff Mike Bridges. Like Flynn, the sheriff was not one to be crossed.

20

Jared Mulligan

I am basically a loner. Always have been. I think that’s why even though I took great pride in flying the big jets, I always enjoyed small airplanes more. There’s something about being alone up there in the sky, especially when you are flying away from large cities and their congested airspace. Turn off the radios, dip down to about 500 feet above the ground, and just fly for the sake of flying. 

Now and then I do enjoy spending time with others, though. I particularly thought I might enjoy getting better acquainted with the bartender, Vanessa. She was friendly, attractive. Plus, she winked at me earlier. That could mean anything. Or nothing. I only knew I liked the way I felt when she did it. Until then, I hadn’t realized how lonely I was.

“Vanessa,” I said as I settled my tab. “I’d be honored if you would join me for dinner this evening.”

“Sorry, but no.” Vanessa said, shaking her head.

I sat there, waiting for her to give a reason. At the least, a flimsy excuse.

Nothing. Sound of crickets. Not unlike it used to be back home when I tried to initiate something intimate with my wife, Dianna.

I felt like an idiot. My jaw clenched, and my mouth twisted, like I was trying to kiss myself on the cheek. I sensed my face flushing, and my ears felt hot, like they always do when I embarrass myself. I stood to leave. For a brief moment I considered not leaving a tip, but that would make me a jerk, so I left a five on the bar. “Thank you for the good service,” I said.

“My pleasure,” Vanessa said brightly, as if nothing had happened. “Come back again soon.”

Head down, shoulders slumped, and tail tucked between my legs, I crossed the barroom floor. I heard the old man, Roger, laugh and say, “Shot you down in flames, did she, mate?” as I ascended the stairs and made my way out onto the street.

21

A few hours later, back in my hotel room, I was having trouble sleeping. Nothing good on television, so I powered up the laptop and out of curiosity, opened the file titled “Journal”.

4/13/2001 St. Louis, MO: Friday the 13th.

Bad luck for Reggie Lipton. Riverboat casino parking lot. Temperature in the low 60’s.

Five stabs. One to the abdomen, one to the liver, and a couple more in upper chest just to make it look like an amateur had done it.

I don’t normally like to make people suffer, but always make exceptions for pedophiles. After watching him writhe in agony for a minute or so, I administered the fifth and final thrust, entering just under the rib cage and proceeding upward into the heart.

Then I took his wallet to make it look like a robbery.

In the future, avoid using knives if possible. Too messy.

Plus, Lipton made a lot of noise. Screaming. Groaning. Pleading. Gun with a suppressor would have been much quieter. Tossed the knife in the Mississippi River, near the riverboat.

Well, there it was. The confession of a hired killer. There were more entries, but I felt that was enough to process for one night. I closed the file and went online again to make plans for my immediate future.

My dive was scheduled for Monday. Checking into options for the train, it looked like I could without much difficulty fly to Adelaide the day following the shark dive, spend the night there, and then hop on the Ghan from Adelaide up through Alice Springs and on to Darwin. I could enjoy the view, meet some folks, maybe do some writing. I even had a premise for the book. Baron Wilder, delivering a Gulfstream jet to its new owner in Australia, rescues a beautiful concubine from a cruel master with ties to the Russian mafia. I liked that. Writing was going to be easy.

I slept well, but not long, waking sometime around four o’clock the next morning. I thought it would be a great idea to begin the day with a good workout. Develop new, healthier habits. Re-invent myself. But first, I had a couple of ideas for my story I wanted to write down.

I opened the laptop, created a new file. First order of business would be to name the file. What was the title of my book going to be? I didn’t know.

I envisioned Baron Wilder as worthy of a series, not just a one and done, stand-alone book. So the title would need to indicate it was part of a series, wouldn’t it? Not necessarily. If—or rather, when—I hit it big with my first book, I would have a lot of fans anxiously waiting for my next offering, which meant I could title it just about anything and they’d buy it as fast as I could write it.

The Gulfstream. That would be the working title. I could always change it later.

So I typed

“The Gulfstream”

A novel

by

What would be my pen name?

After a few minutes, I decided on Wyatt Kingston. By cleverly using the name Kingston, my books would be strategically placed on bookshelves next to or very near those of Steven King. Not that I would take any sales away from him, but people buying his would notice mine. Some of them, maybe.

I added my pen name, and now it said:

“The Gulfstream”

A novel

by

Wyatt Kingston

I would worry about the dedication later, like maybe in a couple of weeks when the story was done and ready to go to a publisher. For now, I was ready to write.

22

Page, Indiana

The van braked to a stop. Two men jumped out. Shelby Myers might have seen the danger, might have had a chance of getting away, had she not been looking down at the cell phone in her hand, reading text messages as she walked across the mall parking lot to the car. By the time she became aware anything was out of the ordinary, it was already too late.

One chloroformed her, grabbed her upper torso. The other grabbed her feet. Seconds later she was inside the van. In another minute, they were on Interstate 70, heading east toward the Ohio border. Shelby’s hands and feet were wrapped in duct tape, her head covered in a canvas bag.

23

So, this was what writer’s block was like.

I had a great idea, but when I tried to put it on the screen, nothing came out right. The original idea was to have Baron Wilder delivering an airplane, alone over the ocean, low on fuel in heavy weather. But the Gulfstream is a two-pilot airplane. So I’d either have to write in another character or figure out a way to have him alone. There was something to be said for having a sidekick. Most all TV and movie heroes have sidekicks, guys who cheerfully do all the grunt work, provide comic relief and backup muscle whenever the going gets tough. But, I kind of wanted Baron Wilder to be a loner. Like me.

I struggled with the decision, going back and forth with it for a good forty-five minutes. Then I got sidetracked and started surfing the web, looking at news from back home. Eventually I gave up and reopened Mulligan’s journal.

24

 July 20th, 2001 Charlotte, NC:

Sat in a stolen Chevy, listening to Christina Aguilera singing “Lady Marmalade” on the radio when the victim, Wendell Matthews, who in this case was also the client (Cancer diagnosis. Double-indemnity policy for accidental death) stepped out into the crosswalk, and I floored the accelerator. Clean kill. No suffering.

 Dumped the Chevy in a vacant lot a few blocks away. Went to see Jurassic Park III to kill time before going to the airport.

September 10, 2001 Boston:

Betty Adams cheating husband Ronald drowned (with some assistance) in Turtle Pond while jogging in the Stony Brook Reservation.

Went to the hotel near the airport. Booked an early flight for the west coast the following day.

September 11, 2001 Boston:

Overslept. Missed my flight.

Went for a walk. Despite good weather, there were no airplanes taking off or landing at Logan International. Eerily quiet. Some kind of air traffic control strike? Maybe their radar was down.

Back in my room, while deciding when I wanted to re-book, I flipped on the TV just as the first of the twin towers came crashing down.

Holy shit. The world would never be the same.

There were no more entries for several months, then:

August 13th, 2002. Messerton, Illinois:

Michael Welch looked a lot like me, and I needed a safe place to call home. Welch was single, and in the process of buying a house in Messerton, Illinois.

Eliminated him and assumed his identity before he moved into the house he’d purchased. As a precaution, I got rid of Sue Ellen Ingraham, the real estate agent, the only other person in town to have actually seen the real Michael Welch.

I couldn’t believe what I was reading. It was bad enough to kill people for hire, but to do it just so he could assume someone else’s identity? The irony was not lost on me. There was a big difference, though. Mulligan had come to kill me, and I acted in self-defense. The decision to assume his identity came later.

The most disturbing part of the journal entry was what happened when Mulligan killed Welch.

Welch was not your typical target. He was armed. He must have seen the glint of moonlight off the barrel of my gun, or maybe heard me. I don’t know. I must have gotten careless and done something wrong. He drew his gun. I was quicker, and my first shot was fatal, but Welch wasn’t quite yet finished.

I never saw the kid. He came around the corner just as Welch fired a shot. It hit the kid in the abdomen. I hesitated, shocked by what had happened. I never froze like that before. I paid for my moment of unprofessionalism when Welch squeezed off a second round, hitting me in the right shoulder and causing me to drop my gun. Welch staggered toward me, his hand shaking. He was about to die, but he was intent on taking me with him. He raised his revolver, began squeezing the trigger, and then dropped the gun and collapsed in a heap a foot away from me.

I threw the body in the bed of the truck, and put the kid in the cab with me. I held pressure on his wound with my hand, saying, “Stay with me buddy,” all the way. I grabbed Welch’s wallet, checked to make sure his ID was in it, then dumped his body in a dry creek bed and covered it up with rocks. I went back to the truck, so I could take the kid to the hospital, but then I thought better of it.

For the next couple of weeks, I tended to both the kid and myself. Fed us. Cleaned us. Dressed our wounds. Hell, I even prayed for him. Not sure, but that may have actually hurt his chances, me talking to God on his behalf. We got to Messerton, and I thought the kid was going to pull through, but one night, he passed on, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do to change it. I should have taken him to the emergency room and left him at the entrance when it first happened. But I didn’t. It would have been too big a risk.

I buried him a few miles outside of town. Every year, for as long as I can, I intend to leave a flower. I feel awful about the kid. But, in the end, it was him, or me.

I shook my head in disbelief. Somewhere, the body of an innocent child lay in a hidden grave. And somewhere, a family still grieved after years of not knowing, hoping against hope, praying for closure. All because Jared Mulligan placed a higher value on himself than an innocent child.

He’d killed Michael Welch, only because they resembled one another, so he could assume Welch’s identity. Was the same true with me? Was that why he tried to kill me? Was he just going to assume my identity?

How many others had he done for the same reason? Were there other false identities out there which I could access in an emergency, identities he’d set up in advance?

And not saving a child? I couldn’t wrap myself around that. More than ever, I was convinced Jared Mulligan was a flaming asshole, and I wished I could have the opportunity to kill him all over again.