Harmless as Doves (23 page)

* * *

Coast Guard seamen pulled Sergeant Orton out of the water and administered CPR until he coughed up seawater and spat out indignation. Flopped over onto his stomach and belching more water onto the deck, Orton struggled to curse out enough bravado to cover his embarrassment, but eventually he lay flat on his belly, happy just to breathe.

They handed Ricky Niell up to the deck of the UTB and then hoisted Branden, too. Ricky sat dazed on the deck of the boat, fumbling to unhook his life vest, but a bo’sun’s mate stopped him, saying, “You’re gonna want to leave that on, Sergeant.”

When Ricky next saw Branden, he was back in a vest, too, so he stopped working on his straps and sat back to try to understand what had happened. He knew he was on the stern deck of one of the UTBs, and although his hearing was impaired, he could feel the vibration of the diesel engines beneath him. He wasn’t quite certain how he had gotten there, but he knew to cling to the engine hatch as the boat picked up speed.

Branden stood up on the deck beside Niell, clutching the railing and trying to let his knees take the pounding of the deck, as he watched toward the south, where they had told him Connie Render had fled down the bay. He heard the radio squawking in the wheelhouse, and the captain
responded by thrusting forward on the throttles to lift the boat up for speed. Soon they were pounding over the choppy water, spraying water and sea foam off the bow, racing in a long arching curve for the shoreline near Longboat Pass, where pleasure craft were gathering early for a lazy day in the shallows, several boats floating at anchor near the sandy beach, others pulled up on shore, with people in swimming suits carrying picnic supplies to land.

The UTB slowed near shore and broadcast emergency instructions for skippers to beach their boats and clear the channel. Another UTB came in behind and stood off in the channel, to help block the passage out to the Gulf. The professor’s UTB then went on south toward the chase, and over the radio, Branden heard that the Coast Guard had managed to turn Render around at Lido Key. He was headed back north on Sarasota Bay, and orders to engage had been issued, giving permission to shoot at Render’s engines, at which point the chase boats were ordered to back off and make way for the helicopters to come in low with their guns.

When he noticed Ricky trying to stand, Branden handed himself along the orange railing and helped Ricky up. Then, standing together in the stern, their view ahead blocked by the wheelhouse, they held onto the railing, trying to let their legs adjust to the pounding of the hull.

Their boat threw spray to starboard and maneuvered a tight turn a hundred yards offshore, at the northern tip of Longboat Key, and then the engines dropped to idle, and the stern lifted as the bow bit into the water and the UTB coasted to a stop.

From the south, white dots high over the water marked the positions of the helicopters. Beneath them, the men could see Render’s go-fast boat careening to left and right, as it sped up the bay, trying to shake the helicopters trailing it.

The action came closer, Render flying over the water in front of the helicopters, and Branden and Niell could see Render’s engines churning the water as he came forward, slashing close to other craft, rocking boats tied at their moorings, and
spraying water as he swung back and forth, trying to evade the guns on the helicopters. But the helicopters drew steadily closer to Render, and one set up in front of Render, matching his speed, swinging left and right as it came on sideways toward the UTB carrying Niell and Branden.

Commands to stop blared from the helicopters as they chased the go-fast boat up the broad waters of the bay, but Render kept coming. Warning shots went into the water over Render’s bow, and still he charged, engines screaming on a straight path now. The second helicopter came in to flank Render’s boat and dropped low for a shot at the engines, the gunner hanging in a harness from the bay doors on the side of the helicopter. Still the cigarette boat came on, gathering speed where the waters grew smoother, and the gunner opened up on the engines with his slug gun, muzzle flashes and smoke thumping out of the barrel. The first rounds missed, and Render came forward. The helicopter drew down the distance, coming in to hover over Render’s stern again, and a second volley of slugs pierced two of Render’s engines, sending the boat careening to port, with only one engine still operating. Then another shot hit home, and Render’s boat burst into a ball of flame and blew apart like a matchstick model, with a geyser of water pluming boat parts into the sky, before the charred hull fell back and sank on the spot where it had been taken.

35

Friday, October 16

10:05
A.M.

NEARLY A week later, on a cold Friday morning, Bruce Robertson stood at the north windows of his office and watched light snow settle around the Civil War monument at Millersburg’s courthouse. He had just that morning printed guidelines from the Internet pertaining to proposals to the Department of Homeland Security for supplemental funding in law enforcement staffing. He had found the Internet files just as Rachel Ramsayer had taught him, and now that he was learning computers from an expert, he wondered what had been so hard about IT in the first place. Maybe Rachel was right. Once he got past his aversion to change, he could master computers as well as anyone could. So, I’ll work on that, he thought. Take lessons from Rachel, get modern with the digital age, and bring some long-overdue changes to the sheriff’s office.

Still standing at the window, Robertson heard Ellie come into the office, and he turned to watch her lay papers into the in-box on his desk. Smiling, he asked her, “Can you put any of that on our server?”

“I did some that way,” Ellie said, smiling.

“Good,” Robertson said. “I’ll look at it later this morning.”

Ellie studied the sheriff’s expression for signs of mirth and decided that Robertson was serious. “I can put a lot of this paperwork on the server, Bruce. You wouldn’t need to handle paper copies at all.”

“Let’s not get too crazy,” Robertson smiled. “I don’t want to frighten anyone.”

“Still working with Rachel?” Ellie asked at the door.

“When she can fit me in,” Robertson said. “Evenings, mostly, this last week.”

Ellie nodded her approval. “Ricky and the professor are in the squad room. You ready for them?”

Robertson stepped to his desk and took the Homeland Security documents off the top of a stack of papers. He handed them to Ellie and said, “Bring ’em both in, Ellie. Ricky’s had enough of a vacation. In the meantime, let me know what you think we can do with those supplemental programs from Homeland Security.”

* * *

When Branden and Niell came into his office, Robertson was parked in front of a twenty-four-inch monitor, studying photographs that Sergeant Orton had transmitted from Bradenton Beach—boat debris floating on the water where Render’s boat had exploded, and twisted engine parts that divers had brought up from the bottom of Sarasota Bay.

As Niell and Branden sat down, Robertson tapped the screen and said, “They pretty well blew this boat apart.”

Seated, Niell said, “I’m surprised there’s anything left of it. The gas tanks blew when they shot out the engines.”

Robertson threw a few taps at his keyboard and looked up, saying, “Rachel is a genius. Once you have a decent monitor, you can actually use these things.”

Niell and Branden exchanged bemused glances, and Branden asked, “Did they find a body yet?”

Robertson pushed back from his desk. “No. Orton doesn’t think they will.”

“Are you going to close the investigation?” Branden asked. “Into Spiegle’s murder?”

“Haven’t decided,” Robertson said. “If I had a detective bureau, I’d stay on it a little longer.”

Niell shrugged and said, “The one man who apparently knew it all was Conrad Render, and he went down with his boat.”

Robertson stood and moved to the windows to watch the snow fall on the square. “I think Jacob Miller had figured it all out. Figured out that Render killed Spiegle and Winters. I
think he went back down one last time to blackmail Conrad Render, and it got him killed.”

“Probably,” Branden said, “but we’ll never prove it. Anyway, Vesta thinks her father was using Spiegle’s past to pressure him. You know,
pay up or I’ll tell Render where you are.
That sort of thing.”

Robertson watched the snow for a moment and turned back to say, “Render might have found out Miller was asking around about Spiegle. Then, he could have just followed Miller up here and found Spiegle on his own. But, all in all, it’s not a very satisfying wrap on the case. Spiegle’s murder is going to have to go on the books as unsolved.”

“You’d let it go like that?” Branden asked.

“Don’t see that I have any choice,” Robertson said. “Besides, the more troubling matter to me is how we blew it on Crist Burkholder’s confession. Linda Hart pretty well handed me my hat on that one.”

“I don’t see what we’d have done differently,” Niell said.

Robertson sat behind his desk again. “Ricky, if we had a detective bureau, don’t you think we’d have processed Crist Burkholder more thoroughly? Maybe noticed that his hands weren’t bruised?”

“I suppose so,” Ricky allowed.

Robertson nodded. “Ellie’s working on a grant proposal for me. We’re going to try to expand, using Homeland Security grants. How’d you like to work with Pat Lance at the rank of detective?”

Niell looked to Branden and back to Robertson. “A detective bureau?”

Robertson buzzed his intercom and asked, “Ellie, can you make Ricky a copy of those Homeland Security guidelines?” Then to Niell, he said, “I want you to look over the guidelines, Ricky. I think we can get funding for this. I want to hire Rachel Ramsayer as a consultant, too. Have her on staff as IT chief.”

Branden smiled and nodded to Ricky, “Detective.”

“Anyway,” Robertson said, as he stood. “Get the documents from Ellie, and let me know what you think.”

Unsure what to say, Ricky pushed out of his chair, stepped to the door, and said, “Detective?”

Robertson said, “We made mistakes with Crist Burkholder, Ricky. I think we need a detective bureau. But, you let me know what you think, once you’ve studied the guidelines.”

* * *

After Ricky had left, Robertson said to Branden, “Mike, you need to call Ray Lee Orton. He’s been bugging me for your cell number.”

“Why?” Branden asked, still thinking about Robertson’s unexpected forward momentum with computers and detectives.

“He says he has a beach cottage, on Longboat Key,” Robertson said. “He’s grateful to you for saving his life, and he wants you to use the cottage whenever you need a vacation. Wants to send you a key to the place.”

“He doesn’t have to do that,” Branden said.

“You should call him,” Robertson said. “Take the cottage once in a while. You and Caroline could use a break.”

“I teach,” Branden said. “And in the summer, it’d be too hot in Sarasota.”

“I was thinking maybe it was time for you to come down out of your ivory tower, Mike.”

“And do what?” Branden asked. “Work for you?”

“Wouldn’t be so bad,” Robertson said. “You could work in my detective bureau.”

“I’m a classroom teacher, Bruce,” Branden argued. “I wouldn’t know how to do anything else for a regular living.”

“But, if I got a detective bureau,” Robertson asked, “you’d consider it?”

“I’d still want to teach,” Branden said.

“Seems to me,” Robertson said, “that you’ve been doing both of these jobs, for the last couple of years, anyway.”

Branden nodded. “But I don’t think our new college president would like the idea very much—part-time teacher, and part-time detective—at least not at an official level.”

“You’ve already been doing the work, Mike,” Robertson said. “I’m just talking about giving you the title to go with that.”

“I’m not sure that would work out, Bruce.”

“Because of your new president?”

Branden nodded.

“Didn’t you pretty much hire her?” Robertson asked.

“I chaired the committee that hired her,” Branden said. “Then I went on sabbatical.”

“Is she working out?” Robertson asked.

Branden shrugged. “Been on sabbatical, Bruce.”

“Well, when you get back,” Robertson said, “I hope to be able to offer you an official position.”

“What would it pay?” Branden teased.

“Practically nothing,” Robertson laughed. “You’d have to teach on the side, to earn a living.”

Branden smiled and changed the subject. “How’s it going, studying computers with Rachel?”

Robertson popped out of his chair. “Been great, Mike. But listen to this. I want to know if you’ve heard of this guy.”

Then Sheriff Robertson punched
Play
on his CD rack, and an island rhythm with steel drums and an easy guitar was playing behind a singer who knew that
one particular Caribbean harbor.

Branden smiled. “That’s Jimmy Buffett.”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Yes, Sheriff. I’ve heard of Jimmy Buffett.”

“Humpf,” Robertson grunted out. “Rachel plays these songs when I go over to take lessons with her. Seems to relax me.”

Branden laughed out loud, and Robertson asked, “What?”

“Jimmy Buffett and Bruce Robertson,” Branden said. “Who’d have believed it?”

“He been around a while, Mike?”

“Oh, about fifty years, Sheriff.”

“Well, I kinda like him.”

“OK, then,” Branden said. “I think I’ll call Orton, after all.”

“What changed your mind, Mike?”

“We’ll take that cottage, after all, Sheriff. You and Missy, Caroline and me. We’ll go down to Florida and find a Jimmy Buffett concert to go to.”

“That’d be good, Mike. I think I’d like that.”

36

Saturday, October 17

4:45
A.M.

THE BISHOP pulled the curtains back at his bedroom window and studied the vast spray of stars across the sky, thinking how lucky he was to see this every morning. How many men in America have this blessing, he asked himself? To see the stars from your own farm, ten miles from any human light that might dim this declaration of vastness. How many men knew about this blessing, to wake before most had ever dreamed of doing, and see the lights of night?