Letters From the Grave
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 track
ing 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