Loitering with Intent

“We just drive,” Stone said. He, Annika and Dino got into the rental car, then they drove to the main road, turned right and drove along the beach.

A couple of squad cars screeched to a halt, and Tommy gave them Vernon’s description and dispatched them in different directions.

Stone happened to look back toward the airport. “Hang on, Tommy!” he shouted. “You’re not going to need the help.” He pointed at the red Cessna, climbing, then turning north.

Tommy had to call information for the number, but he got connected and asked his questions. He hung up. “No flight plan. They don’t even know his tail number; he took off without contacting the tower. Also, he didn’t have his transponder on.”

“That means air traffic control can only track him as a primary target, which is harder,” Stone said. “Call Paul DePoo. He’ll have the tail number from when Vernon checked in, and he’ll probably have a credit card number for his fuel.”

“Then call the state police,” Stone said. “They must have aircraft that can start looking for him. But first call the Navy base. They’re ATC for the area. See if they have a course and altitude for him; that will make the search easier.”

After several minutes of trying to get the right number, Tommy finally got a controller on the line. “He’s headed due north, and he leveled off at eight thousand feet,” Tommy said. “Then they lost him.”

“Eight thousand is the best-speed altitude for that airplane, and he probably has a stiff tailwind. He can do 155 knots true airspeed, and with, say, 20 knots of wind he can reach the mainland in half an hour or so. Ask the state police to try and alert as many South Florida airports as they can, especially Fort Lauderdale, where Vernon says he’s from.”

Tommy got the state police on the line and talked for several minutes. Finally, he hung up, looking discouraged. “They’ve got only one aircraft available, and it’s in Orlando, but they’re sending it south.”

“He’ll be on the ground somewhere by then,” Stone said. “Best thing is for your department to start calling airports and see if anybody spots him. Then at least you’ll know what city you’re looking for him in.”

“I expect he took his duffel with him,” Tommy said, “so we don’t have the rifle. All in all, I’d say this is a total disaster.”

JIM VERNON DESCENDED to 1,000 feet over the water, then crossed the mainland coast, flying over the Everglades. He tapped a code into the GPS for a location he had defined by longitude and latitude, then he set up an instrument approach he had defined as well, then he set the autopilot for the approach. Soon he was flying along a line that was an extension of the runway centerline, watching the GPS count down the miles. When he was three miles out, he spotted the clearing. Nobody would spot it who didn’t know where it was. He brought back the throttle and began his final descent.

He landed softly on the grass and taxied the airplane back toward the cabin he had built there. Next to the cabin he had erected a ramada, which amounted to poles and a roof, a hangar without sides, which would make it impossible to spot the red airplane from the air. Once under the ramada, he spun the airplane around and shut down the engine.

He walked over to where a dozen 55-gallon steel drums sat, picked up the hose attached to one of them and refueled the airplane, using a hand pump. Best to have a full load of fuel if he needed to get out of there in a hurry.

He went into the cabin, switched on the generator and the TV and opened a can of chili for lunch, then he sat down and watched a news channel while he ate. Then it came.

“South Florida airports have been alerted by the state police to be on the lookout for a small airplane, described as a red Cessna 182. The pilot, whose name is Jim Vernon, is alleged to be a hired killer who shot and wounded a man in Key West two days ago.”

That was it. As long as he didn’t land the airplane at a South Florida airport, they’d never find him. The rest of the country was his oyster, but he wasn’t ready to leave Florida just yet. He burned all his Vernon identification in the woodstove, then opened a small safe hidden under the floorboards and took out a packet of I.D.s. He selected a driver’s license and cards with a new name, Thomas Sutherland, and put the wallet in his pocket.

He was cleaning up after his lunch when his cell phone rang. It was a throwaway, with no GPS chip, so he had no qualms about using it. “Yes?”

“The person who issued the contract has canceled it,” the voice said. “You can keep the first payment, but it’s over. Is there any reason to believe the police know who you are?”

“I have another assignment for you, in the Northeast. Can you depart immediately? It pays better than the last one, and I already have the first half.”

“I can’t leave until tonight,” he replied. “The airplane is hot in Florida. I’ll change the registration number this afternoon and get started after dark.”

“The subject lives alone and dines at home every evening around eight o’clock. A dining room window will give you the access you need, and there is considerable foliage on the property. You can drive within fifty yards, then approach the house.”

“Understood. I’ll call you when the job is complete.” He hung up and went to work. Using a hair dryer, he removed the registration number from the airplane, then affixed new numbers. He went back into the house and, consulting his collection of state and city maps and his aviation charts, he found an unmanned airport called Johnnycake, only a few miles from his target city, then mapped out his route. He would also take along a portable GPS unit.

He packed fresh clothes and put his soiled ones into the washing machine, then he put everything he needed into the airplane. He had only to wait until dark, and he used the time to phone his wife in nearby Jupiter.

HE WAITED UNTIL dusk, then started the airplane’s engine and taxied to the end of the short runway while he could still see without lights. Shortly, he was winging his way to the Northeast.