Crossed Paths

By Wade Olson

Henry Sayer, a New York City investor with an uncanny knack for making people money, had made it to the top of the financial game, maintaining his reputation of honesty and integrity. He was enjoying that life of celebrity and penthouse high society until less-scrupulous people decided to throw him from his pedestal.

Suddenly, he found himself scrounging for his very existence in the Deep South, stripped of his envied status and reputation, even his clothes. As he was forced to live life on the lam, hiding from everyone, his only hope was to make his way back home to collect the evidence that would prove his innocence and help him avoid a life of imprisonment.

It's an uphill battle back to the top, but there's something in store for everyone who crosses his path.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637101650

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Crossed Paths

Wade Olson

Copyright © 2021 Wade Olson

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books, Inc.

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2021

ISBN 978-1-63710-164-3 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63710-165-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

To Linda

Preface

I had been conjuring up stories in my mind my whole life. As a teen with no driver’s license in rural America, I used my idle time to write notebooks full of stories that I never did anything with. They were long forgotten when I finally got that driver’s license, and I never looked back.

Fast-forward to middle age. One day I was looking at all the projects I had sitting around half finished and realized that I couldn’t think of a single project that I completely finished. Some sat around unusable just because of their nature, but most got to a point where I could use them and never put the finishing touches on them. That’s when I came to a point when I had to prove to myself that I could actually start and finish a project without abandoning it. I remembered a few stories that I had written in my head that I never put on paper. So I took on the task of writing one of those stories just to prove to myself that I could finish a project.

I never had the intention of publishing the story. I was going to write it and have a hardback made for myself to put on a shelf. Something tangible that I could see and possibly be encouragement to finish some of the other things I had started. I gave it to my wife and my mother both to proofread it for me, and they both liked it so much they convinced me to publish it.

So here it is. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it—and finishing it.

Chapter One

Henry Sayer was dreaming that he was lying on a beach with his legs in the surf, watching parasailors fly by in the deep-blue Caribbean skies over Cozumel. A scantily clad bathing beauty winked at him as she passed by carrying a tall cocktail with a little umbrella stuck through some tropical fruit, the sun glistening off her golden-brown shoulders and light-auburn hair. Gray and white seagulls were gliding seemingly motionlessly in the sea breeze until they would dive into the surf for their midday snack. The sun was pleasantly hot but gradually began to feel very cold. The brilliant blue sky seemed to melt into a dingy gray overcast, and the sound of a rusty fishing boat’s diesel engine passing by offshore metamorphosed into a grime-streaked garbage truck driving over the rusty metal bridge twelve feet above him.

He woke up to a pounding headache and found himself half-submerged in a litter-strewn creek, with his face lying on the muddy bank. The trees, old bridge, mud, and refuse told him that he was far from where he belonged. He was dressed only in his underwear, and the fifty-degree temperature, though a lot warmer than New York City, in his present state of dress, combined with the breeze and being wet, made him feel like he was freezing. He tried to raise his head, but it caused such intense pain he decided to stay still for a few minutes and see if he could get the pain under control. Then he heard the voices of people walking up the road in the direction of the bridge and decided he better get up and hide.

Raising himself up from the creek was excruciating, and when he got to his feet, he immediately grabbed his head with both hands and stumbled toward the bridge. He barely concealed himself before the people came within view of where he was. Feeling suddenly sick, he leaned against a pylon and started dry heaving. The heaving lasted so long his stomach muscles started to hurt and cramp up. He had to get his head together and figure out what to do. It was cold, he was naked, and the sun was about to disappear. He began to think about his survival training from when he was in the Marines. First order of business was survival. He started to make a mental list of what he would need to survive. He needed to make an assessment of his surroundings, see if there was anything he could use or in what direction would be best to move. Hunched over with his hands on his knees, he started looking around him. The first thing he noticed as he looked back toward where he had been was a newspaper wrapped in a plastic cover, like the ones newspaper deliverers used to protect them from rain and snow. The foot traffic had gone, so he headed out to where the newspaper was and picked it up. Pulling it out of the plastic, he realized he wouldn’t be able to read it without his glasses; as a matter of fact, he couldn’t see much inside of ten feet without them. The article on the front page seemed to be about the firm he worked for. He squinted his eyes and tried to make out what it said, to no avail. He could only make out a few words. But they were shocking.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. A quick scan of the article told him that he was suspected of embezzlement, falsifying records, insider trading, selling stocks that didn’t exist, and worst of all, kidnapping. What the hell was this all about? He knew all this to be bogus and didn’t understand how or why all this came about. In his trade as an investor, he was renowned for his strictly honest manner. No one could find any dirt on him, because none existed. That meant that someone fabricated all this.

His head hurt so bad he couldn’t think, but he didn’t have time to figure that out right now, anyway; he heard more traffic approaching the bridge. He needed to find a better place to conceal himself. As he headed back under the bridge, he did a three-hundred-sixty-degree sweep of the area as he went.

The creek went north and south from the bridge, the banks about eight feet high on both sides, wooded all along the top. North of the bridge, there were wooded areas on both sides highly congested with clinging vines, making very dense briar patches. About two hundred feet west and running parallel to the creek were train tracks. South of the bridge, the woods along the top of the banks were about thirty feet deep, going away from the creek in both directions, but he could tell that beyond the woods it was clear land. The banks prevented him from seeing what was there. He noticed at the southeast corner of the bridge a fence sticking out over the bank running parallel to the road that passed over the bridge. It did not turn to continue along the bank of the creek, and on the side of the fence, away from the road, was a way to pass between the fence and the woods. He decided after the traffic cleared, that was the way he would go.

He began to analyze the sounds around him. Off to the northwest, he could hear what he could only describe as a steel mill. To the east, about a thousand feet away, he could hear a fair amount of traffic on what he guessed was a four-lane highway. Two planes he had seen since he woke up were flying low and on the same flight path, telling him there was an airport to the southwest. To the northeast, perhaps a mile away, he had been hearing a lot of train horns. There must be a train yard up that way. No sounds to the south. He must be on the southern limits of a city, and with the presence of the clinging vines, he was sure he was in the South. That meant it shouldn’t get as cold as New York City. However, he remembered hearing of people dying of hypothermia in the streets of Tegucigalpa, Honduras, when they had a cold snap one spring, in the sixties, at night. Not very reassuring.

With the traffic passed, he left the security of the bridge and scurried up the bank behind the fence. As he cleared the woods, he found himself on the edge of a retention pond that was about seventy-five feet wide and a hundred fifty feet long. Directly in front of him, and on the other side of the pond to the east, was a house facing the road, but the rest of the land from the backyard of the house south to the next road was a large junkyard. He knew he needed to get out of view of the house and started circumnavigating the retention pond, heading for the cars in the junkyard. At least he might be able to find a decent hiding place for now, until he could assess his situation and options and give his headache time to subside. Although he knew he had been unconscious for a couple of days at least, he was still groggy and slightly off-balance, no doubt a side effect of whatever drug his kidnappers had used to subdue him.

When he got to the south side of the pond, he had a full view of the yard. He guessed it to be around twenty acres, with around fifteen hundred cars and trucks. Diagonally from him on the southeast corner of the property was the main building. He didn’t see any activity around the building or grounds. All the forklifts and other equipment were sitting idle. The yard was free of any plant life and seemed to be very organized, with each make of vehicle or body style having its own location. Very efficient. He still wasn’t sure what day it was, and the lack of activity simply told him they had already closed for the day or it was a day they were not open. It was late in the afternoon, so it was likely they might have closed already, though it would be better for him if it were the weekend; it would give him more time to think before he had to worry about employees discovering him.

The closest vehicles to him were full-size vans with few windows. Good concealment. But he preferred something he could see out of. No one could see him inside, but if someone approached to pull a part from that particular vehicle, he would not be able to see them in time to escape discovery. He needed to find a vehicle with lots of windows and privacy tint; that way, he could see out but no one could see inside easily without opening a door. Unfortunately, he was having a hard time keeping himself going at the moment. He still had the splitting headache, he was dog-tired, he was extremely hungry now that his stomach had started to settle, and he was shaking uncontrollably. And on top of that, he hadn’t had his acid reflux medication in days and had a severe case of indigestion. He hurt worst now than he could ever remember hurting before. He could conceal himself immediately, but he needed to find a way to get warm. Climbing in a vehicle would get him out of the wind, but it wouldn’t do much for the temperature. He continued to search through the yard.

He was looking for the ideal car to hole up in, but everything he found either had a poor view of his surroundings or some windows were missing. Though he could find something better when he had more daylight, they wouldn’t do much for the wind. Most of the cars were full of car parts, so getting inside was impossible or dangerous at best, much less any way to get comfortable inside. He finally came upon a car that was pretty clear of junk; it had bucket seats, and he noticed that the previous owner had made makeshift seat covers from T-shirts, simply sliding them down over the backrest of the seats. He slid one off and tried it on. It was a little baggy and out of shape, but it helped to cut the wind. This gave him an idea—there must be more clothes in other cars. He started digging through the cars, looking for any kind of clothing he could wear or tie around himself. A car close by had a towel covering the top of the back seat, and he noticed it had a key in the trunk lock, so he turned it and looked inside. Jackpot—in the trunk he found garbage bags full of clothes. They were mostly kids’ clothes and some toys, but he did find one pair of jeans that must have been for a good-size woman. They would have to do. He tried them on—way too big. But at least they went on. He took some of the kids’ shirts and tied them on his feet. Another pair of pants, he ripped the legs from and put them on his arms. He was beginning to feel better already. The activity and makeshift clothing were warming him up a little. Fat chance he would actually find food in one of these cars or that it might be edible. It was starting to get dark, and he wasn’t sure how much visibility he would have around here when the sun went down. He continued looking for a vehicle to climb into for the night.

He found a car that had all its windows and had a minimal amount of car parts inside. He tried the passenger rear door, but it was locked. He went around it, checking the doors. Only the driver’s door was unlocked, though it was difficult to open. He reached in and unlocked the rear door, opened it, and threw the radiator, cooling fans, and a few other pieces into the front seat. He stretched across the rear seat, using the armrest of the right rear door as a pillow. Lying back against the door, he began to contemplate his situation and any way he might have of getting out of it. When he had more light, he would read the article in the paper in detail to get the extent of trouble he might be in. That was when he realized, once again, that he couldn’t read the paper because he didn’t have his glasses. Hopefully, tomorrow he would have a chance to search the cars more fully and find some necessities.

How the hell did all this happen? Someone had been planning this for a while and went through a lot of trouble to snatch him and displace him so far away from the city. If he was where he was estimating, he was at least a thousand miles from New York. If all this was truly public, then he was going to have a problem trying to get back to the city without being seen and apprehended. And with no money and no way to eat or travel, he didn’t see a very quick fix to this problem.

He was going to have a problem resting. He needed to sleep off the effects of the drugs, but he was having a problem getting to sleep. His stomach and head were hurting severely, and the armrest on the door was not comfortable at all. He finally got up and went back to the car with the clothes in the trunk, found a pillowcase and stuffed it with kids’ clothes, and headed back to the other car. As he climbed inside and got comfortable on his back, he looked up through the back window and noticed the sky was starting to clear and stars were coming out. Then his situation, which at first had seemed so surreal, now was beginning to sink in. If all this was out on the national news, which it probably would be, considering the high visibility of the company and his own reputation, then he would not be able to show his face in public without the risk of being arrested.

What had he done wrong to cause this and all the recent bad luck that had befallen him? Losing a million dollars to his ex-wife in a divorce. Their house on the island of St. Thomas having been destroyed by a hurricane. His yacht being stolen and destroyed, not that he ever used it much. And now he, whose idea of fast food was getting out of a restaurant with a bill less than a hundred dollars, didn’t even have enough money to buy a single ninety-nine-cent hamburger. And the worst of it is, until he could find out the extent of the situation, he couldn’t risk contacting anyone or showing his face in public.

He thought about his mother and what she had said to him when he asked why people were so inconsiderate to others. You’re such a good boy, Henry. Even to ask that question tells me that I brought you up right. Most people, especially in this day and age, only think about themselves anymore. And my boy thinks about everyone else. You will go far. Just don’t give in. Don’t turn into a bully or one of those inconsiderate people. Always be honest and respectful to others. Do that for me.

I will.

Promise me, Henry. Promise me you will grow up to be the most honest and trustworthy man in this degenerating society.

I promise, Mama.

That’s a good boy. Pulling him to her, she said, I love my boy.

Just then, she started to cough and go into convulsions. Henry’s father ran into the room and tried to help her through it and make her comfortable. Peter! he yelled. Peter came running into the room. Take your brother and sister in the living room.

Peter walked over and put his arm around Henry’s shoulder and started leading him out of the bedroom. Their father was holding their mother’s hand and trying to tuck in the covers with his other hand. As he tried to put the oxygen mask on her, he realized she had stopped moving. Marge? he called. The boys had stopped in the doorway and were looking back. Marge! But there was no response. After a minute, he laid his head on her chest and started to shake with his silent weeping.

*****

Henry sat up with a start and a whisper on his lips, Mom. He put his head in his hands and sat there for a few moments. A tear ran down his cheek and fell on his baggy jeans. I love you, Mom. He hadn’t thought about her in a long time. His job had kept him busy for so long he hardly had time for anything else. That was probably the main reason for the divorce. He raised his head and looked around. It was still nighttime. The way he felt, he figured he had been asleep seven or eight hours. That would make it around one or two in the morning. His head was still hurting, but not as much. He didn’t like the thought of getting back out in the wind or walking around with no shoes, but he was anxious to find out more about the area he was in. He hated being without a plan or sitting idle; it would end up driving him crazy.

He got out of the car and looked around. On the west side of the yard that bordered the creek, there was a work shelter positioned about halfway between the two roads on the north and south sides of the property. There was a security light there that lit up a little of the yard. There were streetlights along the two roads. The first house he had seen when he entered the property was one of three in a row along the north road. There was a space about two hundred feet wide where the yard went all the way to the road, then there were two more houses. After that was another space, then what looked like a convenience store on the northeast corner. The south side of the yard was right up against the road. The east side did not reach all the way to the four lanes; there were businesses and houses between the yard and the highway. He decided to walk that way and take a peek over the fence. But first, he needed to mark this car somehow. The yard was quite big, and he didn’t know if he could find his way back easily and quickly. He saw a coffee mug on the floorboard, picked it up, and set it on the roof, then started off toward the highway.

Occasionally, he would step on a piece of glass or metal. He had to find some shoes. As he came closer to the fence, he stepped on something round and hard. Then another one that cracked. It sounded like a nut. He picked one up. A pecan. He looked up at the tree above him and saw the Spanish moss hanging from the branches. Must be South Georgia. That was good—he liked pecans. He picked up a few and put them in his pockets.

When he reached the fence, he stepped up on the trunk of a car and looked over. It was the backyard of a house, and there were lots of cars parked in the yard. He didn’t like that at all; it would mean lots of people around. But there were no lights on. There were a few bicycles leaning against the house and lots of beer bottles in the yard. Mexican beer bottles. Might be migrant workers or, better yet, illegal aliens. That might work in his favor. On the other side of the highway was another convenience store, and he saw a person loading papers in a newspaper dispenser. He had to get over there and look at the date on those papers. He would wait until the paper man left, then hop the fence.

He looked to his left, north, up the highway and saw a bank sign. Forty-one degrees and 2:21 a.m. The sun would be up in another four hours. The paper man finally left, so he eased himself over the fence and slowly made his way to the street. He had to make sure he wasn’t seen. In this getup, he was sure to arouse suspicions. As he approached the sidewalk, he looked both ways down the highway. To the north he could see perhaps half a mile. To the south the highway went straight about two miles. He saw no headlights, so he ran across the road and up to the paper box. The streetlight did not lend much illumination, and without his glasses, he couldn’t make out the date; but he did see the day. Saturday. If he hadn’t been unconscious for a week or more, then it must be the fourteenth. That was when it struck him—he had found himself in the creek on Friday the thirteenth. Go figure.

He stood there staring at the newspaper that he couldn’t really see, remembering what it was like to wake up to this predicament when he sensed headlights coming down the highway from town. He stepped behind a gas pump to wait for them to pass. Oh, crap. A cop car. And it was turning into the convenience store on the corner. The cops passed through its parking lot, shining their spotlight in the windows. He just knew they were coming here next. If he tried to run back across the road, he would be in full sight. Best to hide behind the store. Sure enough, they pulled out on the highway and came down to this store. He stood behind the store, waiting for them to leave. He saw the headlights shining past and behind the store and then realized they intended to drive around the store. He started circling the building, just barely staying ahead of them. He ended up going all the way around and stopping behind the store again. The cops pulled up under the shelter over the gas islands and parked. Oh, great. How long did they intend to sit there? He had waited there for about ten minutes when a second cop car pulled up beside the first. The new cops handed coffee and doughnuts through the window to the others, and they continued to sit there, talking, while they enjoyed their snacks. He eased away from the back wall and made his way to the garbage dumpster, sat down and leaned back on the back of the dumpster, and waited.

He realized he had dozed off when he was awakened by the sound of the two cop cars starting up and speeding away. As they sped into the street, their lights and sirens came on. Henry jumped up and headed out toward the sidewalk. Looking both ways too far-off traffic, he ran across the street, through the yard, to the fence and used a car to cross over. As his feet hit the ground on the other side, he heard a screen door slam at the house. He hoped he hadn’t been seen. He noticed he could still see the bank sign from here. The time was four forty-seven. He and those cops had sat there for a long time. The sun would be coming up soon. He went back to his car and lay down again and quickly fell asleep.

Chapter Two

Daimond Richards was getting dressed in front of his full-length mirror, adjusting his tie and brushing lint from the sleeves of his jacket, when he heard a cell phone vibrating. His wife was asleep on the bed, and he was glad the phone’s ringer was turned off. He searched around and determined the sound was coming from some clothes piled in the floor of the closet.

Picking up the jacket, he didn’t find anything, so he picked up the pants. Clipped to the belt was the offending cell phone. He unclipped it and looked at the display—it was no one he knew. He quickly turned off the phone and replaced it on the belt. He found a clothing bag in the closet from a high-end department store, dumped out its contents, bundled up the pile of clothes, and put them in. He never noticed the item that fell to the closet floor. He finished getting ready, gathered up his briefcase and overcoat, grabbed the bag, and headed off for the office.

When he stepped out onto the sidewalk, it was snowing lightly, so he put on the overcoat and hailed a taxi. On the way, he emptied the pockets of the clothes, leaving the contents in the bag. He asked the cabdriver to stop at a dry cleaner, where he dropped off the suit, then continued on their way.

After paying the driver, he took the elevator up to his floor and headed to his office. He walked in, hung his overcoat on the coatrack, set his briefcase down on a chair, and sat down at his desk. He unlocked the bottom-left hand drawer and placed the bag of contents from the clothes in the very back and relocked it.

*****

John McDowell was a very distinguished-looking man just shy of seventy. He looked young for his age and stood just slightly taller than six feet. He unlocked his office door and headed over to the coatrack to hang up his winter garments, then dropped his briefcase on the couch and sat down at his desk. His secretary had left a folder of papers to sign on his desk, notes about calls received while he was gone, and newspapers from the last two days.

Opening the folders, he glanced at the forms. These could wait. He casually thumbed through the notes. Only one of the calls could be returned before Monday. Placing all this in his in-box, he unfolded one of the newspapers and started to read. This was preposterous. He had known this man for twenty-three years now; there was no way he could believe what they said he had done. Henry was one of his most dependable and trustworthy employees—hell, not just employees, but people he had ever known. The evidence would have to be pretty damning for him to believe it. Henry was like part of the family and had even spent holidays with them in their house in the Berkshires.

Just then, his thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Daimond Richards, another investor that had been with the company for eight years. As he knocked on the door, he said, Hey, John, did you have a nice trip?

Until I was so rudely interrupted by this mess. Come in and sit down.

Daimond walked in, threw his coat over the back of one of the two leather chairs positioned in front of the desk, and sat down in the other.

As he sat down, John asked him, So how did things go with your client in Atlanta?

Excellent. I hear you had a lot of rain in San Francisco.

The change in subject did not get by John unnoticed. If I had had to spend any time out of doors, it would have been absolutely miserable. What do you know about this situation concerning Henry?

After a moment of hesitation, Daimond said, very directly, It appears that he took all the bearer bonds out of the safe, doctored our books, kidnapped your granddaughter, and skipped town.

Straight and to the point, aren’t we?

Just like you. He paused. I assumed by your lack of small talk you were all business. I was just being direct.

You said ‘it appears’ he did these things. Appearances can be deceiving. What did you see that is related to this incident?

He kidnapped your granddaughter and you are still inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt?

Mr. McDowell just glared at Daimond and offered no reply. Daimond hesitated again, then took a deep breath. Wednesday night, Henry was working late, at least I thought it was work. He had some of the company books on his desk. When I passed by his office, I stopped in the door to say something to him. He seemed surprised to see me there and tried to hide what he was doing without being conspicuous. Then I excused myself and went to my office.

What time was that?

Eight thirty. About fifteen minutes later, I heard the safe close and what sounded like someone hurrying out. When I left my office for home, I noticed Henry was gone.

And what time was that?

I swiped out at nine oh-five.

What do the records say about Henry?

He had swiped in that morning at seven twenty-three and swiped out that evening at eight forty-eight.

And that was all you saw?

Pretty much.

At that moment, John’s cell phone started ringing. Hello, Elise. He sat listening for about a minute. That’s wonderful news. Meet me at the airport. We’ll take a company jet. Bye, dear. He closed his cell phone and got up from his desk. We’ll have to finish this later. That was Elise. She says they found Katy alive and well. The FBI has her.

Where did they find her?

Evidently, she escaped her captors. They have her in their Camden office.

That’s very good news.

John walked over and retrieved his coat and hat. Thank you for coming in on a Saturday morning like this. Sorry to leave so abruptly.

I understand the necessity on both counts. If there’s anything I can do to help…

Thank you. I’ll see you Monday. He waited at his door until Daimond left the office, then he locked the door and headed for the elevator.

*****

Elise and her mother were standing by their car when John’s limousine pulled up at the hangar. As the driver opened the door for him, John gave him instructions. Take the car home. I’ll call you with a time to meet us back here.

Yes, sir, Mr. McDowell.

He walked over and greeted Elise with a hug and gave Claire a peck on the cheek. We’ll have her back very shortly, my dear, he said to Elise. Turning back to Claire, he said, It pleases me to see you, Claire. How have you been?

I have been well, Claire replied.

John and Claire had been married for forty-five years. John had worked in investing for the whole time. Claire had worked in a publishing company for many years, but after John had built their fortune, she had quit. Never liking the city, ten years ago, she decided to move to their country home. John stayed in the city. They were still married, though Claire kept her maiden name. They just didn’t see each other very often anymore. Perhaps once a month or so, John would travel out to the country to spend a week or weekend.

That’s good to hear. They walked together toward the plane. As he reached the stairs, the pilot was there to greet them.

Good morning, Mr. McDowell.

Good morning, Sam. Sorry to call you out so soon after that last flight.

No worries. It’s always a pleasure, sir. Is there a reason you decided to take this aircraft today instead of your preferred one?

Indeed there is. Who’s your copilot today? John asked.

Walter Taite, Sam replied.

When we get to cruise, I’d like you to join me in the rear and bring the logs for this craft.

I will, indeed, sir. We are cleared and ready to roll.

Get us in the air, Captain.

Wild blue yonder, sir.

The ladies had already boarded and taken their seats when John entered the craft, followed by the pilot. Sam closed the door behind him and headed up to the flight deck while John took a seat in one of the plush chairs near the bar.

I called the bureau on the way to the airport to let them know we were on our way. They wanted us present before they started questioning her.

Are they bringing Katy to meet us when we land? Elise asked.

No. I have a car from the Philly office coming to take us across the river.

What was that about the logs, Daddy?

Nothing, dear. I just like to spot-check my employees’ activities once in a while. Daimond used this aircraft for a business trip to Atlanta after I left on Tuesday. It was an unscheduled meeting. The logs will tell me where he went and for how long.

Do you think he’s using company assets for personal pleasure?

I try not to. I’m just confirming the flight.

You must have a reason.

Just something he said to me earlier today. It’s nothing to worry about.

Just then, the pilot turned on the PA system. If everyone would kindly fasten their safety belts, we are about to be on our way. Looks like clear skies and smooth sailing. We’ll be in the air for approximately forty-two minutes. As the jet started to taxi, John opened his briefcase and took out a portfolio to read, Elise looked out the window, and Claire laid her head back and closed her eyes.

John glanced over at Claire and said, You still don’t like air travel, I see.

Still. If this weren’t for my granddaughter, I’d be on a train heading down the corridor.

Our.

I don’t care how long the flight is. I still don’t like it.

"No. ‘Our’ as in our granddaughter."

Oh, yes. Well…

Elise broke in, Will you two play nice, please?

Of course. Looking at Claire, he said, I promise to get you there and back without incident.

You better.

The plane taxied on to the runway, and Claire groaned as it accelerated and took off. Ugh!

They had all sat quietly for about ten minutes into the flight when the pilot came back with the logbook.

So, Mr. McDowell, what might we be looking for?

Let’s move farther up front so we don’t disturb the girls.

They moved up to the very front of the cabin and talked quietly.

The flight that left Wednesday for Atlanta, Mr. McDowell said.

Yep, right here. JFK to ATL. Flight time: two hours, thirty-six minutes. Gary was the pilot. However, see the hour meter reading? There’s almost two hours not accounted for.

How could that happen?

Omitting a flight. Or incorrectly recording the meter reading.

When was the meter confirmed last?

December 2. I always do my checks on the first Monday of each month. The only other flight this plane has taken was that same week when I flew Henry to Milwaukee. Is that what this is about? Henry?

Let’s not talk about that right now.

The times on that flight are absolutely correct.

So this plane flew somewhere for two hours that was not recorded.

If you wish, we can compare this log with my personal log.

No, no. I trust you, Sam. But I will be having a look at Gary’s logbook. Where were the two missing hours? Can you tell?

The time recorded at the end of the first leg of the Atlanta flight is not the same as the time recorded at the beginning of the return flight. The way it’s recorded, there are two hours in between flights that are not accounted for.

Between the flight down and the return from Atlanta.

That’s the way it appears.

As I’ve already said once today, appearances can be deceiving. Thank you, Sam.

You’re welcome, sir. As Sam returned to the flight deck, John went back to the bar and mixed himself a drink.

Would either of you like something? he asked.

I’ll have a soft drink, Elise said.

Claire raised her head and opened her eyes. I’ll have a seven and seven.

*****

Daimond walked into the diner and stopped just inside the door. He looked over the whole place before he took off his sunglasses, then walked the full length of the restaurant, making sure there was no one there he might know, before sitting down at a booth with two rough-looking characters. One man was of medium build, with beady eyes, a strong chin, and bangs that were overly long for the haircut style he was wearing. He was a really cool customer sitting with one leg on the seat and one arm over the back of the backrest positioned so he had a view of the whole diner. The second was a slight short person with a nervous disposition, very excitable, what most people would call squirrelly, with a short haircut and bad teeth.

Daimond unbuttoned his jacket and said, I was surprised to hear from you so quickly.

Mr. Cool flashed a fake smile that showed off his gold tooth and said, We’re fast.

Squirrelly immediately followed that up with, Real fast.

Daimond leaned back and looked these two over. I don’t see this as being a fast job. Besides, I haven’t heard that he’s been caught yet.

Scraping some old food from the table with his thumbnail, Mr. Cool said, We weren’t supposed to catch him, just release him.

And keep track of him.

Squirrelly spoke up. That was never part of the deal.

That was always part of the deal, you idiot! I needed you to watch him until he was apprehended. I need to know that he doesn’t get ahold of any evidence that might turn this around on me.

That’s not our problem, said Cool. Just give us our money and we’re outta here. The miscommunication was not our fault.

Miscommunication or not, you’re not getting a damn dime until I know I’m safe and he is in custody, Daimond said without hesitation.

Squirrelly started shifting in his seat. Are you sure you want to change the deal right now? He pulled out a set of brass knuckles and showed them to Daimond, who immediately raised his hand and snapped his fingers. A large man in an expensive leather jacket standing outside snuffed out his cigarette on the sidewalk and stepped just inside the diner door, crossed his arms, and looked their way.

With raised eyebrows, Daimond asked, Do you? Squirrelly shuffled nervously and put his knuckles back in his pocket. Daimond continued, This guy is connected to some really influential people, if you get my meaning. If anything happens to me, guess who he will come for first.

Mr. Cool glared at him for a minute with a perturbed look. You’re the dealer.

What do you mean by that?

You seem to think you hold all the cards. They sat there looking at each other for a few uncomfortable moments before Cool continued, Just so there’s no more miscommunication, what are you expecting of us from here on out?

Surveillance. That is, after you locate him again. Then call me and let me know the situation. After that, call me if the situation changes. All his movements, all his contacts, anything you feel is important, let me know.

We will need operating capital, Mr. Cool said.

Daimond reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of money. Here’s five grand. That should hold you for a month. If it drags on longer than that, I’ll get you more.

How do we get back to Georgia?

Daimond got up and buttoned his jacket. That’s your problem. You should never have left him in the first place. He walked out of the diner without another word.

Squirrelly looked at Cool and said, "I told you