The Prodigal Son Read online

  As he returned to the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamps he thought of Kelli Newberry and how she’d react when he told her. There would be an argument, of course. He knew he’d calm her down, knew they’d quietly talk. He would ask her what her plans were, but he already knew the answer. She’d stay. Of course she would. She was far too wrapped up in her job at the American consulate to ever leave West Berlin.

  Let her stay if she wants to, he thought. Doesn’t really matter. I’m done here.

  Jack pulled the collar of his coat tighter around his neck and stuffed his hands in the outer pockets. As he trudged through the deepening snow an image of the fishing pier that jutted out into the Gulf of Mexico from Pensacola Beach flashed in his mind’s eye. He smiled. He no longer felt so cold.

  He pictured himself on the end of that pier, under a hot Florida sun, with a small group of fishermen looking on in awe as he reeled in one king mackerel after another from the warm Gulf water below.

  At his side were his younger brothers, cheering him on, as well, wishing their father was present to admire the catch. Jack admonished each of them; older brothers were allowed to do that. He’s right here with us, guys! he imagined himself saying to them.

  Though he was so far away, on a snow-covered Berlin street, Jack Brantley was already home.

  PART ONE

  LOST

  CHAPTER 1

  Jack Brantley stepped out of his apartment onto the shaded second-floor breezeway and immediately noticed how cool and crisp the air felt. The heavy overnight rain had ended early enough that morning to leave the air clean and free of humidity, and as he walked to his car he breathed in the faint aroma of azalea, wisteria, and Japanese magnolia. A brilliant sun was hung midway in the deep-blue, cloudless sky above him, and as he got in his car he immediately reached for his sunglasses for relief from its glare. He started the engine, backed out, and pulled through the gate of the apartment complex and stopped to wait for the traffic to clear. It occurred to him this would be one of those rare, picture-perfect days for driving, so he reached over and pressed down on the power switch to his left. As he pulled out into the thick traffic the cool air rushed in through the open windows of his Camaro, and he inhaled it into his lungs in great gulps and felt vibrant and alive again. He never tired of the springtime in Florida; it was his favorite time of the year.

  Though he found the traffic along the road running about the same as it usually did this time of day—thick and congested, slowly inching its way past the hospital, the crowded shopping mall, and the many businesses that stood on both sides of the road—he was determined to remain calm and not lose his temper, as he so often did. It’s just too nice a day to get ticked off, he thought.

  The nearly twenty minutes it took to drive the next two miles completely tested his resolve; he was quite pleased at how calm he had remained through it. When he finally made it past the sprawling campus of the junior college on his right and through the last two back-to-back traffic lights on the crowded highway, he came to a sudden stop at the light that hung above the broad intersection at Langley Avenue. He signaled to turn, made a right, and drove along the northern fringe of the airport, past the clusters of neighborhoods that broke off to the left and right sides of the street. He followed the road as it turned east toward the bay, and crested the hill that rose above the shore of the bay. He let the Camaro drop down the long hill until it came to a stop where the road dumped into Scenic Highway. He signaled to turn and waited patiently for the oncoming traffic to clear.

  Almost two minutes went by before he saw a break in the traffic that sped by him in both directions; he gunned the engine and quickly turned left onto the highway. The road hugged the shoreline of the broad bay and Jack’s Camaro flowed along with the rest of the northbound traffic on the highway. Within a few minutes he came to a stop at the light in front of the combination convenience store/Dairy Queen that backed up to and overlooked the dark-grey waters of the bay from a cliff-top perch. As he sat waiting for the light to change, he noticed the parking lot was full as usual; people often lingered in the lot after they finished their business inside to enjoy the view of the northern reach of Escambia Bay as it stretched out below them. When the light finally released him, Jack punched the accelerator and the Camaro surged forward. He turned left off the highway and followed the looping entrance onto the eastbound ramp of Interstate 10 and quickly merged with the flow of the thick traffic that crossed the bridge spanning the deep, grey waters of the bay.

  It took him just a few minutes to cross the three-mile-long bridge; when it ended it spilled its traffic unceremoniously onto the concrete roadway that ran eastward across the sandy Avalon Beach peninsula. Jack ignored the first exit after the bridge, choosing instead to wait for the second one to appear a few more miles ahead. He hoped the county road running north from that exit would have far less traffic at this time of day; if so it would take him quickly through the quiet hamlet of Bagdad and then onto the busier streets of Milton.

  He made his way along the nearly empty streets of Bagdad and turned left onto U.S. 90. He entered the heavy traffic on the wide four-lane highway that ran east and west through Milton. Unable to move into the left lane to pass, Jack was forced to follow a very slow-moving white VW Beetle for the next half mile until he was free to make a right turn onto Highway 87. That road took him past a mix of small businesses, shopping strips, and a sprinkling of wood-frame houses on each side of the road until it began its run along the northern fringes of the small panhandle city. He made it a point to keep a cautious, wary eye on the speedometer while traveling this route, to be certain he was just under the posted speed limits. Though he lived in Pensacola, he was well aware of Milton’s reputation as a “speed trap.” He made it a point to exercise caution when navigating its roadways. Rumor had it the county sheriff ordered his deputies to sit in their patrol cars on the city’s roadways, face the oncoming traffic, and fill their citation books before they ended each eight-hour shift. Jack figured that’s the way most small towns and counties operated, and if he was careful enough he could stay out of those books and stick to his schedule. No use getting mad about this, either, he thought. It is what it is.

  * * *

  He had been on Highway 87 for several minutes and was well past the road that jutted off to the right that led to the naval base at Whiting Field. He thought it strange not to have seen a sheriff’s deputy up to this point. Maybe they’re tied up on U.S. 90, on the west side of town, over toward Pace, he thought. It’s all under county jurisdiction anyway. Must be more opportunity out there to fill up those books today and get them to cough over their money. Not mine. No, sir.

  To be on the safe side he held his speed just shy of forty-five until he saw a new sign; he gently pressed the accelerator and watched as the needle on the speedometer climbed to a more respectable—and legal—fifty-five miles an hour.

  He soon found himself farther along, as the highway stretched out to make its way north alongside the western boundary of the Blackwater River State Forest. It wasn’t long before he spotted a patrol car; he knew from its white-and-green markings it was a Santa Rosa County Sheriff’s patrol car approaching him from the north. He glanced down at the Camaro’s speedometer, and saw he had let it creep up to nearly seventy. Man! How did I let that happen? he thought as he eased up on the gas pedal and slowed to the posted limit.

  He had heard the sheriff’s department updated all its vehicles and figured this would undoubtedly be equipped with a radar gun on its dash. If it was, the cop inside would have it trained on any oncoming vehicles from the south, and Jack cursed at himself for not paying attention to his speed. The probability that the cop would quickly turn around and follow him with his blue lights flashing was great; a stop would completely throw him off his schedule. He had hoped to avoid any confrontations with the law on this trip but was confident if it went that way he was adequately prepared. His license and insurance card were in order, and the vehicle’s regis
tration was above his head, clipped to the back of the sun visor. Everything will be fine, he assured himself. Eddie hasn’t let me down yet. Let’s just see how this thing plays out.

  Eddie Trask did a lot of work for Jack Brantley; he was one of the best forgers Jack had ever known. The confidence level he had in the documents Eddie had prepared for him was unusually high and Jack knew the license, insurance card, and vehicle registration bearing the name of Robert Tilton of New Orleans, Louisiana, were all impeccable. Eddie, you better not let me down this time, either. Jack knew Eddie staked his reputation—and his life—on the quality of his work. He remembered Eddie once telling him, “Jack, in this business if I mess up I’m a dead man.” He figured that wouldn’t happen. He knew Eddie Trask wanted to live a long, long time.

  Jack waited to see what would happen next. Best case scenario: the cop would get out of the cruiser, approach Jack’s Camaro with professional courtesy, ask him for the necessary documentation, return to the car, and call in the license and registration. Trusting that Eddie Trask did his job well, everything would come back clean and he’d get a ticket citing a violation of some Florida statute with a notation of Seventy in a Fifty-Five Zone. He’d be asked to sign the ticket and forced to wait as the cop would tear it off, hand it to him, and smile as he recited the usual “Have a nice day, sir.” With another ticket for the books and his daily quota the cop would walk back to his patrol car, get in, and drive off. That’s the way it’s supposed to go down.

  Then there was the other scenario—the way it wasn’t supposed to go. If the documents didn’t check out clean. Jack reached over to the glove compartment and opened it and placed his hand on the Colt .45 automatic, satisfied he was quite ready if it went that way. He checked the gun. Locked and loaded. Just like the LT back in ’Nam had taught him. “Lock and Load” Second Lieutenant Richard L. Hackett was always pleased with Jack’s readiness for any and every situation. God rest his soul, Jack thought. That man sure trained me well.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror to see what the cop in the patrol car would do next. Suddenly he felt an uneasy sense of déjà vu. Something he had repressed for so long suddenly came to mind. After the tingle up and down his spine went away he thought about it again; he began to recall the details: getting off I-75 at the Tifton exit, just after the hit up in Macon last year, traveling through some small-time south Georgia county, just trying to get to I-10 and then head home to Pensacola. And that stupid county deputy just had to be sitting there, off to the side of the road, just before I would have crossed into Florida. Pulled me over. Said I was doing seventy in a forty-five zone!

  He shuddered again when he saw it happening in his mind’s eye. It had spiraled downward so quickly—a routine stop turned into something he had not anticipated. It wasn’t like him to be caught off guard like that, and it angered him even now as he recounted it again. He should have just gotten a speeding ticket and been on his way; instead a cop was dead with two .45 slugs lodged in his chest. The Tallahassee Democrat covered the killing, of course, as did the Florida Times Union in Jacksonville. The Pensacola News Journal even picked up the story. Jack remembered reading the headlines and the accompanying stories in the papers that “a massive search was underway by authorities in several states for the killer of Deputy Trent Holloway.”

  He hated taking the cop’s life like that—it wasn’t part of the plan. It was just one of those necessary evils that came with what he did for a living. He hoped he wouldn’t have to do it again with this cop, but he knew he would if it came down to it.

  Jack glanced in the rearview mirror again, watching as the rear lights came on the patrol car as the cop tapped his brakes while rounding a slight curve a half mile back on the highway. He continued to look in the rearview mirror as those same brake lights went off and the patrol car remained on its steady southward route. Maybe the radar gun wasn’t working today, he thought. Lucky for you, bud.

  * * *

  Jack continued his drive north on Highway 87. The two-lane blacktop twisted and rose and fell as it made its way through a thick forest of slash pines that stood tall and green-capped against the cloudless blue sky. He noticed the freshly mowed grass lining both shoulders of the road, and his eyes followed a few of the red clay logging roads that broke off intermittently to the right and left of the highway, only to fade into the thick forest. As much as he’d always gripe about the time it took to get to the interstate, he liked this part of the road, as well as a couple of other quiet, less-travelled state roads that ran out of Pensacola and Milton. Though he preferred to stay on the east-west run of I-10, as most of his jobs took him to Tallahassee or Jacksonville or Mobile or New Orleans, sometimes a contract would take him on a run like this up to Montgomery, maybe as far as Birmingham, or over to Macon or even to the Atlanta area, and he’d use this road to take him to Interstate 65 to get him there. For the most part, however, he preferred the jobs that kept him close to the coast. But it wasn’t always his choice, and he accepted that. He went where the job took him, where the money was to be made. Price was important, but control over the when and where was also paramount to him.

  He declined the numerous international hits that were always offered to a man of his skills and talent—he had had enough of them in his time with the CIA. Those hits took him to so many far-flung places throughout Asia and Africa and Europe that he had long forgotten their names. He left the employment of the CIA, and because he had been careful with his money he had padded several lucrative bank accounts and he had returned to the states with a stake big enough to become an independent contractor. He made a vow to himself he would contract exclusively in the southeastern U.S. and he’d live in and operate out of Pensacola. Who would look for, or even expect to find, a man of his caliber and skills in a small Gulf Coast city like that? And in his own hometown? He figured he was safe, as long as he was careful, and he knew from having grown up there it was a good place to live. Most of all, it was a great way to simply stay under the radar.

  * * *

  Boredom from the lonely drive soon set in. To break it, at least momentarily, he made the decision to ignore his cardinal rule about the speed limit. At least until the state line. After all, he was way out here in the boonies, Deputy Barney Fife was probably back in Milton now and Deputy Chester What’s-His-Name was probably over in Jay getting a donut at a convenience store. Go for it, Jack, he thought. Test her out again. He pressed the accelerator to the floorboard and the Camaro Z28’s hundred eighty-five horses were unleashed from their harnesses. The vehicle immediately came to life under him, charging forward along the road as it took on the climb up a long, steep hill. The thick and profuse pines at the bottom of the hill swept by, quickly giving way to a much thinner stand of pines that was mixed with sourwood and water oaks and dogwood at its crest, and Jack eased off the pedal and brought the vehicle from ninety-five back down to sixty and held it there. He loved the car’s power and smooth handling, but knew he had to keep the horses under control always. He kept his life like that, also, and it had fared him quite well up to now.

  * * *

  Jack calculated he had a little over an hour before he would hit Interstate 65. Nothing much to do now but think, so he let his mind wander a little while and he began to think of his father and his father’s older brother Walter, who had become his favorite uncle. He remembered when he was a boy and they took him into woods such as these and had taught him the names of the trees and the animals that made their homes among them. And then came those fall and winter days, when they had taught him how to hunt and kill some of those same animals. That was when he felt most alive, when he was in those woods hunting, when he began to kill quickly and effortlessly, and he came to the realization that he enjoyed it all too well. He remembered the time he told his father and Uncle Walter how much he liked it, and it had disturbed them greatly. The ensuing conversation quickly digressed into anger on their part, and he knew they just did not understand him. He thought about what they h
ad called it then. “Bloodlust,” they said. And then, “Boy, you got to show some respect for these woods and them animals,” Uncle Walter once admonished him. His father piped in shortly thereafter. “You kill one more songbird, Jack, and I’ll take away that rifle of yours.” Jack remembered he quit killing the sparrows and mockingbirds, but not the blue jays. No one liked them anyway.

  What he remembered most was how he resented his father’s and uncle’s efforts to try to change him and shape him into something else. They wanted him to be like them, killing only for the meat that would fill their freezers. That’s okay for them, he remembered thinking. But not for me. He was different and he knew it. He remembered he didn’t fret over it too long, because graduation came along and he was free of high school and them and, thank God, along came the Vietnam War. Jack didn’t wait to be drafted. Instead he signed up in June, found that he tested out accordingly, and after basic training he discovered one of those prized green-colored berets fit his head quite well. He loved it so much he did two tours in Vietnam. He would have done a third but the CIA came calling. Looking for “talented people with special skills,” they gave Jack what he was looking for—a way to make a good living and a great deal of opportunities for him to kill for the thrill of it, for the adrenaline high. Uncle Sam didn’t seem to mind at all.

  The CIA honed his talent and skills to machine-like efficiency over the next six years, and Jack became one of the best assassins in recent memory. But he grew tired of their agenda, their rules, the endless travel, and living out of a suitcase. No one to trust but yourself, he thought. Like Russell Nash. After two tours in Vietnam with the army and six years with the CIA, he’d had enough. He quit and became an independent contractor, to play by his own set of rules. The money’s still good, and nothing beats being back in the states.