Deadly Shore, page 5
*****
About thirty miles away at the Barnstable Municipal Airport, people were already flooding the terminal trying to get flights to wherever they could go that would get them off the Cape.
Not exactly the busiest airport in the world, it was quickly overwhelmed by the crowds. Hearing the news about the bridges and the ferries, airport officials quickly made the decision to cancel any remaining commercial flights for the day. Featuring small regional airlines, Barnstable Municipal Airport had found its niche as a laid back, small town airport, catering to vacationers, businesspeople, and tradesmen, and servicing mostly Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard with a bevy of ten-seater propeller planes. Over the years, as the demand warranted, some of the larger carriers signed deals with the airport to provide service to Boston, New York, and various other northeast cities. A Jet Blue flight to Boston had just taken off, leaving the airport without any larger planes on site.
Seeing the crowds forming, and noting their general state of panic, the airport officials suggested to the local carriers that any remaining flights on the ground quickly take off—minus passengers—and head over to Nantucket until further notice. Their thinking was that if the airport had no planes available, maybe the crowd would disperse. So in rapid succession, six very empty planes took off, much to the chagrin of the hundreds of onlookers who never would have made it onto the planes in the first place.
The quick thinking by the airport officials ended up potentially saving many lives. Twenty minutes after the last of the six planes took off, a series of explosions rocked the airport, sending the screaming crowds that were inside the terminal racing for the exits. The first of the explosions destroyed the tower. The second, third, and fourth targeted the refueling trucks, sending fireballs hundreds of feet into the air. The last two explosions were the most damaging, as these were in the runway itself, creating large craters in the tarmac and rendering the runways—and in turn the airport itself—useless. Had the officials not closed the airport to incoming and outgoing traffic, express flights from both Boston and New York, in addition to several local commuter flights, might have been casualties of the attack. However, nothing could save the men and women working in the tower.
One of the first questions asked was how this could have been carried out. How could the terrorists have gotten access to the trucks and the tower? An even more concerning question was how they could have rigged charges in the runway without anyone seeing them. Down the line, airport security would once again get looked at, analyzed, and talked about endlessly, and new measures would be put in place to make sure it never happened again. But for now, the concern was a more immediate one: dealing with the dead tower workers, putting out the fires, and clearing the airport of the panicked masses before any further casualties resulted.
*****
In the police station a couple of miles away, Captain Chandler heard the explosions and knew exactly what it was. So when the call came in moments later, he was expecting it. He found himself shaking and quickly made his way to the bathroom, where he threw up. He had never felt fear like this. First the bridges, then the ferries, and now the airport. For whatever reason, some group had successfully cut Cape Cod off from the rest of the world. Whatever their intentions, they were now in complete control. Not knowing what was coming next was just plain frightening. Were the police stations next? Was he about to be blown to kingdom come?
He washed his mouth out with water and composed himself. Whatever was coming next, he still had a job to do. He opened the door and surveyed the utter chaos around him, with phones ringing off the hook, officers running back and forth, and crowds still packing the lobby.
Where the hell was he going to start?
Chapter 10
Doyle had hit the big time. Finally. This wasn't just some run-of-the-mill low-class break-in. No, not this time. Those days were over forever. He had just joined the big boys. The elite. The cream of the crop.
Well, except for the little problem with the car. By now they probably knew who he was. Okay, so maybe it was more than just a little problem. The fact was though, he had just ripped off one of the richest men on Cape Cod, Emerson Flint. One of those self-made millionaires who grew up on the streets of Boston, Flint was now the owner of numerous transport companies and real estate; the guy made the rest of the millionaires on the Cape look like paupers, people who should be selling pencils on the street. He had always heard that expression. Did they really sell pencils?
And yet, Doyle ripped him off. How comical was that? And it was easy. It just cost him about $20,000 in seed money. Of course, he didn't have the money, so he had to get it from a loan shark. Since he got the loan a couple of months earlier and hadn't paid any of it back yet, his tab was around thirty grand now. And, he had to tell Murphy—the loan shark—sort of what it was being used for, and Murphy demanded a cut in addition to the loan. Ten percent! What an asshole. Oh well, he figured he had to have scored a mil at least, so he should have no trouble paying back Murphy and giving him his cut. The nice thing? It was all cash. Nothing to fence. Plus, he could hide half of it, not tell Murphy, and pay him a smaller amount. He'd have to do it soon though. He was supposed to do the job a week ago, but Flint's schedule changed and screwed him up. Now Murphy was on the warpath for his money. No problem. In a few hours, he'd walk right into Murphy's office and drop a bag of money on his desk. He couldn't wait to see Murphy's face.
If he ever got there. Problem was, he was stuck in traffic. Route 6 was a parking lot all the way to Harwich. He wasn't going anywhere soon. He looked in his rearview mirror. He had done it about a thousand times, but so far hadn't seen anyone following.
The $20,000 was to pay off one of Flint's right-hand men. Turns out Flint was cheap. Really cheap. He paid his staff shit. He figured the prestige of being able to say that they worked for the great Emerson Flint would be worth its weight in bragging rights. But you can't live on bragging rights. His nickname amongst his staff was Skinflint. Behind his back they all called him Skin. Like, "What's Skin up to today?" Twenty grand to one of them was six month's salary—tax-free! Add to that five percent of the take and the guy jumped at the chance. Doyle assured him there was no way Flint would know it was an inside job. That was a lie. Of course he'd know, but by then Doyle would be long gone, sipping drinks with umbrellas in them on a tropical island.
Flint was in his eighties, but looked about a hundred and fifty. He was a ruthless sonofabitch and was pretty sharp for a man of his age, but he was beginning to forget the little things, like people's names, and unimportant things, like the combination to his safe—the same safe that contained a million in cash. It was suggested by those who knew his condition that he write down the combination and keep it in a secure place. His answer was simple: he'd forget where he put it. Others suggested that he get a safe that responded to his fingerprint, but he had no faith in that. Give him a simple combination lock any day, he said.
The upshot was that he entrusted the combination to his aide Vincent, the one person who was willing to sell him out. Despite his cheapness, there were many on his staff for whom bragging rights must have been important, and who were loyal to a fault. Or maybe they just hoped he'd remember them in his will. Vincent wasn't one of them.
Doyle robbed Flint during the fireworks. Flint had his own celebration to which he'd invited many of Chatham's elite. The house was pretty deserted, with everyone outside for the show. Robbing the safe was just about the easiest job Doyle had ever pulled. The problem came an hour later when he cleaned out his hotel room only to find his car dead. He knew it was coming, but why now? It was the transmission. AAA wasn't going to be able to help him. He couldn't steal a car—getting caught in a stolen car would ruin a great heist. He couldn't take a cab without arousing suspicion. And of course, none of the rental agencies were open. He'd just have to sit tight for the night and hope that they didn't break Vincent. Luckily, he had the room rented for another week—insurance if the robbery didn't go off when planned—so he just moved his stuff back in for the night.
Doyle and Vincent had devised an elaborate plan whereby, after the money was stolen, Vincent would play with the old guy's mind, convincing him that he had told others the combination as well. Doyle didn't have a lot of faith in the plan, but he also didn't care. He wasn't going to tell Vincent that. Let him get caught. Less money Doyle would have to pay out. He had already given Vincent the twenty grand, and had arranged to meet him at Fanueil Hall in Boston in a week to give him the five percent. Now he was reconsidering that. Hey, the guy got some money out of it, he can't complain. No, it was time for Doyle to skip town. He'd deposit the money in a couple of banks in Boston, take some spending money, and head to a Caribbean island.
He looked in the rearview mirror of his newly rented Malibu again. He'd lost most of his morning waiting for one of the rental agencies to open up. Flint would know by now that he'd been robbed. He'd call the police, of course. If they didn't get Vincent to cough it up, Doyle was safe from the police. But it wasn't the police he was worried about. Flint had his own security guards (a lot of good they'd done the night before). They weren't overly intelligent, but there was a lot of muscle among them. They'd be more than happy to find Doyle and deal with him before turning him over to the police.
So the sooner he was off the Cape, the better. But "soon" wasn't a word he'd be using today, not with this traffic. And his day was about to turn from bad to worse. A breaking report on the radio detailed the falling of the bridges. His heart stopped. The first question that ran through his mind was: "Are we being attacked?" The second was a little bit more immediate: "Where can I possibly go where Flint's men and the police can't find me?"
All of his euphoria from the night before was gone. Now he was simply scared. He had a million dollars and no place to go.
Chapter 11
They were out in hordes, like locusts descending on a cornfield—the cornfield in this case being the North Truro Stop and Shop. Ann had never seen it like this. She had lived through countless storms and hurricanes, but had never witnessed the fear consuming those around her now. She grabbed one of the last remaining carts and hurried to the water aisle. The water wasn't yet cleaned out, but give it five minutes and it would be.
She put as many gallon containers into her cart as she could fit. Already she was exhausted. At eighty, she had a lot of stamina, as well as a good deal of arm strength, but the combination of having to work fast and sensing the frenzy surrounding her tired her out quickly. A young woman pushed by and took two of the waters from Ann's cart.
"Hey," Ann yelled. Yelling was the only way to be heard. But the woman had already disappeared.
It was then that Ann realized the danger she was in. Sure, a hurricane was possibly coming, and a major one at that. But this was different. The bridges were down. Getting supplies to the Cape was going to be a nightmare for many months to come. People knew that. And then add the word "terrorists" and rules and courtesy went out the window.
Now she was scared. She wasn't without food at home, so she had to get out of there as quickly as possible. Besides, the canned food aisles were jammed with carts. If she left hers to grab some cans, she'd come back to find her cart gone, and the water was more important. She passed an endcap loaded with canned pineapple, so she threw as many as she could into her cart. Another endcap had pasta and sauce. She could live on pasta for a while, so she loaded up her cart.
Enough! Time to go. The store was getting more crowded by the minute. A few people were just walking out without paying. So far, they were the minority. Most were still willing to pay, but it wouldn't be that way much longer. Panic was setting in. The line she was in wasn't too bad yet—most people were still stocking up—and she got to the checkout counter without too much delay.
Suzie was at the register, and she looked terrified. Unmarried and in her early sixties, she had worked for Stop and Shop for almost twenty years, first in Hyannis, and now here.
"Oh Ann, what's going to happen?" she asked.
"The minute chaos breaks out, you get out of here. Do you have supplies?"
Suzie leaned over and whispered, "The manager put a pallet of water aside for the employees to take home. He moved the water and some canned goods into one of the spare rooms and locked it. He said if people start going into the storeroom to grab things, ours should be safe."
"It's only a matter of time before things get out of control, so watch yourself, okay?"
"I will, Ann. You too."
As Ann was pushing her cart toward the door, two Truro police officers—one of whom was Parker, whom she had seen earlier at her house—came in the front door with a bullhorn.
"Attention shoppers. This is the police. Calm down now. Panic will only make things worse. Be considerate of those around you. Anyone trying to steal food will be arrested. It's a tough situation, but none that we can't handle. No one will go hungry…"
He was still talking when Ann left. She wheeled the cart to her Jeep in the pouring rain and opened the back. Suddenly a young guy stepped from the shadows and grabbed her cart.
"Sorry lady, but I'm taking this." He began to wheel it away. All Ann could do was stand in shock.
No it wasn't. Clear thinking kicked in. She reached into her purse and pulled out her revolver. Her hand was shaking as she lifted it and pointed it at the back of the robber.
"Stop!" she cried out. He kept on without turning. Now she wasn't scared, she was angry. She was still shaking, but not as much.
"You've got one second to stop before I put a bullet in your back."
He stopped and slowly turned around, a mixture of fear and surprise on his face.
"You wouldn't really do that," he said.
"Sonny, I've been shooting since I was a little girl. I'm very good. Would I put a bullet into someone cowardly enough to rob an old woman? You'd better believe it."
In fact, Ann had never shot a gun in her life. The revolver she was holding belonged to Marie, who insisted that Ann have one for home protection, living as far out in the boonies as she did. It was against the law for Ann to even have it. She had only taken it to appease Marie. But in case she ever did need to use it, it was nice and simple—point and pull the trigger.
It was enough to convince the punk. He let go of the cart and ran off. She retrieved her supplies and, pleased with herself, mumbled under her breath, "Dirty Harry's got nothing on me." She put the gun back into her purse and finished loading the Jeep. A minute later she was back on Rt. 6 heading home. The road was the busiest she had ever seen it, cars going in both directions in a wild scramble to locate supplies. She had a picture in her head of a thousand mice being let go on a kitchen floor and scampering in a thousand different directions. The problem was, there just weren't enough stores down Cape to support the number of people desperate for supplies. She wasn't even sure if there were enough stores on the whole Cape. Oh, it was going to get ugly.
She got to her road and made the turn. It was nice to be off the main road. She now felt safe. But how safe? She'd be okay for a while, but eventually she would have to venture out into civilization—such as it was—to replenish her supplies.
And then there was the hurricane. If the power went out, the pump on her well would stop working and she'd be without water for washing, much less drinking. She also couldn't charge her cell phone. Her landline should continue to work—she had an old rotary phone someplace—but things would get bad fast. She would be totally cut off, communication-wise.
The hurricane didn't scare her before all of this. Now it terrified her—seriously terrified her.
Chapter 12
So close. Doyle was so close to making it over the bridge and on his way to freedom. Whoever brought them down couldn't have waited a few more hours? That would have sealed his escape. Well, there was no sense in sitting in this unmoving traffic. He was in a good spot to make a U-turn, so he turned back the way he had come.
He had to think. Hopefully, Flint's men would assume he made it over the bridge and not try a pursuit, especially now with so many other things to think of. So he was stuck on the Cape, maybe for a long time. Where should he go? All the hotels would be sold out by now. He could live in his car, but not someplace downtown. Way too crowded and dangerous. He had a gun, but little good it would do him around so many people. No, his best bet was to head further down Cape—Truro, Wellfleet, or the outskirts of P-Town—somewhere not so crowded. Of course, this was Cape Cod on 4th of July weekend and everything was crowded. But it would be less so down there. He could live in his car near the beach. He'd have to get some supplies, but he could do it. Then again, what if the hurricane hit? One problem at a time.
Everyone was making U-turns. Probably most had no idea where they were going to go, but they obviously knew that the bridge wasn't it. Others stayed in line. Most likely, they didn't have their radios on and hadn't yet heard the news. Well, between cell phones and word of mouth, they'd know soon enough.
People were already getting crazy. Cars trying to reverse direction were slamming into cars speeding away from the bridge. He felt like he was playing bumper cars. Somehow, though, he was managing to avoid an accident. This went on for many miles, until he reached Orleans. After that, it lessened up. Why would that be? At that point Route 6 became a much narrower road. You would think it would be the opposite. And then it hit him. Supplies! People were heading to the Mid-Cape in search of supplies. That's where they would find the Home Depots, the warehouse stores like BJs, and more supermarkets. Also more gas stations. Well, he had news for them. By the time they got there, those places would be cleaned out.
He looked at his own gas gauge. Half full. Half empty would be more like it. He'd have to find a place to park to wait this thing out. But not in his car. What if it took a couple weeks or more to get supplies here? He'd never make it.
