“Shit!” said Jack.
“There’s the plane,” said Theo. He was pointing to a pair of headlights at the far end of a so-called airstrip that was nothing more than a field of grass and packed dirt.
“You said it was a prop-jet.”
“I lied.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a twin engine Cessna.”
“A puddle jumper? I told you, I don’t do puddle jumpers.”
Theo looked up into the driving rain. “Then you can spend the night here sleeping in the puddles.” He turned and ran toward the plane.
Jack thought for a second, then started after him. As they reached the end of the airstrip, a man jumped out of the aircraft. He was easily as big as Theo, dressed completely in black. Jack and Theo froze. He was pointing a gun at them.
“Easy, dude,” said Theo. “We’re friends of Hans and Edgar.”
“The Belgerians,” said Jack.
“What be your names?” He spoke with an accent that Jack couldn’t quite place.
“He’s Jack, I’m Theo.”
He smiled and put the gun in his belt. “I’m Lutu. Get in.”
Theo stepped forward, but Jack didn’t move. Theo said, “Come on, Jack.”
The rain was falling, the engines were howling, and this friend of the mad Belgerians was packing a pistol. Jack said, “I don’t think so.”
Just then, another set of headlights appeared at the other end of the airstrip. It was an open Jeep filled with men. Two of them had rifles strapped to their shoulders.
“Oh, boy,” said Lutu.
“Oh, boy, what?” said Jack.
“I knew I should never have been waitin’ on you gents so long. Looks like we won’t be takin’ dis here plane without a fight.”
“What do you mean ‘taking’?” asked Theo.
“What do you mean ‘a fight’?” asked Jack.
“The owner of dis here plantation don’t pay his bills, we take dis here plane back. Dat the way it is. But maybe dat don’t make the owner so happy, you know what I saying?”
Jack glared at Theo and said, “We’re on a repo mission?”
“How was I to know?”
Jack whacked him about the head and shoulders with his soaking wet hat.
“Hey, hey, hey,” said Theo. “You want to get home or don’t you?”
The crack of gunfire echoed in the darkness. The Jeep full of armed guards was speeding toward them.
“Holy shit!” said Jack.
“Get in!” said Lutu.
They scampered up the wing and climbed aboard. Lutu took the yoke, Theo strapped himself into the seat beside him, and Jack sat behind them. The plane was moving before Jack could find his seat belt, and the engines roared as Lutu asked for every bit of power they packed. They were speeding down the bumpy dirt runway, the entire plane shaking so intensely that Jack was bouncing like a pinball from one side to the other.
“Sorry,” said Lutu. “Got to get dis here plane up fast!”
Jack wedged himself between the seats to keep from slamming his head against the ceiling. The rain was cascading off the windshield, the wipers working furiously. He managed to catch a glimpse of the fast-approaching Jeep. It was a game of chicken, the plane against the Jeep, Lutu against the lunatic aiming his rifle straight at them. Jack saw the sudden recoil in the man’s shoulder.
They’re shooting at us!
“Wooo-hoooo!” shouted Theo, loving every minute of it.
The plane hit another huge hole in the airstrip, and Jack went flying. He had to grab something, so he grabbed Theo by the throat.
“Woooo-glupp!”
Lutu pulled back on the yoke, and the bouncing stopped as they lifted a few precious feet off the ground.
“Pull up!” said Jack.
“Watch this,” said Lutu. He held the plane steady, exactly the right altitude to decapitate everyone in the oncoming Jeep.
“Are you crazy?” shouted Jack.
The flying plane was closing fast. The men in the Jeep jumped out just before the plane passed, ditching the Jeep but saving their scalps.
“Wooo-hoooo!” shouted Theo.
“Oh shit,” said Lutu.
The tall trees at the end of the airstrip were fast approaching. Lutu pulled back on the yoke, all the way back, sending the plane on a mean vertical climb. Jack fell back in his seat and banged his head, nearly knocking himself silly. He fought to keep his bearings, got on his knees, and watched, his eyes shifting back and forth between the rising altimeter and the approaching treetops.
“Come on, baby,” said Lutu.
“Please, God,” said Jack.
They cleared the tallest tree by a good half-meter.
“Yes!” said Theo. He and Lutu were slapping high fives. Jack was checking the knotty bruise that was taking over the back of his head.
Theo glanced back, all smiles, and said, “You owe me big time for this one, Swyteck!”
“Yeah, and I can’t wait to pay you back.” He slid into his seat, searching frantically for both ends of the seat belt as the plane soared into the night, climbing by the second.
Thirty-nine
The mood in Vivien Grasso’s conference room was even more tense than Jack had expected. As personal representative of the estate, Vivien was seated at the head of the rectangular table. To her left were Jack and Tatum, followed by Deirdre Meadows and her lawyer. Seated on the other side of the table were Miguel Rios, Gerry Colletti, and Mason Rudsky, each with his own attorney. All eyes were upon Jack, as if to say, “This had better be good.”
Immediately upon returning to Miami, Jack had called Vivien to arrange a meeting in her office first thing Monday morning. Naturally, Jack hoped that sitting down face-to-face with the other beneficiaries might lend some insight into who was threatening Kelsey. But that was a secondary objective, one that he’d have to approach subtly, as the attacker’s warning had left Kelsey afraid to utter a word to the police or anyone else. Jack was far more direct when addressing the main point on his agenda.
“Rene told me that Alan Sirap was Sally’s stalker.”
Silence fell over the room for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, Vivien said, “So there really is an Alan Sirap?”
“No. According to Rene, it’s a phony name he shared with Sally in one of their communications over the Internet. But it’s the best information Sally had about him.”
“I’m not sure it’s good enough,” said Vivien.
“Good enough for what?” asked Jack.
“To establish his entitlement to an inheritance. I’m not saying it’s impossible. I’m sure that somewhere in the history of our jurisprudence a court has upheld a will where a nickname or perhaps even an alias is used to describe the beneficiary. But it would be up to that beneficiary to come forward and prove that he is in fact the person described in the will.”
There was silence again, as each of them pondered the implications. Jack said, “So by naming Alan Sirap as a beneficiary, Sally was inducing her stalker to come forward and say I’m the guy, I’m Alan Sirap. In effect, she was giving him a choice: Reveal yourself as a stalker and take your shot at forty-six million dollars, or just stay silent.”
“I’m not prepared to speak as to Sally’s intentions in this setting,” said Vivien.
“Well, I am,” said Miguel. “You people seem to keep forgetting that I was married to Sally when this stalker first appeared, and if you ask me, he’s the piece of shit who murdered our daughter. So let’s clear up one thing right away: This Sirap character isn’t going to come forward and reveal himself, not even for forty-six million dollars.”
“That depends,” said Jack. “Maybe he’s convinced that no one can prove he did anything but send Sally a few e-mails.”
The prosecutor piped up, as if this talk of “proof” was hitting too close to home. “With all due respect to Mr. Rios, we already know that Mr. Sirap-whoever he is-isn’t going to stay silent. Each of us received a letter from him that flat-out warned us to get out of the game.”