Chapter Eight
TIMING IS KEY in life, but it could be downright deadly in politics. That is why the politicians-in-training could often be found in high-speed chases rivaling the Indianapolis 500. Candidates race to file; party leaders rush to get petitions signed and approved; activists grab the last few voters on Election Day. Ben Burns and the gang found out that speed, not accuracy, was often the Holy Grail of their political lives.
Shortly after their failed filibuster, Ben and the gang scrambled to get an initiative on the ballot that would restore funding and autonomy to the academic groups that lost it. The sun was literally setting on the last day to file their petitions. Ben was watching from the group’s meeting room over the Colonnade as several of his friends and colleagues ran in with their petitions.
“Is that all of them?” Ben asked as he organized the piles of paper and looked at the dry erase board behind him.
“Nah, Wayne is coming back from University Avenue with the rest,” someone said.
The small cadre, including Eric Keppler and Kendra Jacobson, sat down and dropped their placards and backpacks on the ground, next to a pile of campaign items. Ben offered them drinks, and announced, “It looks like we need Wayne’s petitions to get us there.”
“We have less than ten minutes left!” Kendra exclaimed.
Ben walked over to the window to try and get a first glimpse of Wayne as he made his way down the expansive urban meadow called the North Lawn, which was laid out in front of the Colonnade.
Eric chimed in, “Make that seven minutes.”
All they could do was to wait. “Did Ian lend his motorbike?”
“Yes, yes, calm down, Ben. I have faith in Wayne. You should, too.”
The next six minutes were the most painful to sit through. Everyone could hear and see Wayne make his entrance – up the Colonnade in a mad dash to the Student Government office complex on the third floor.
With a deep breath of relief, Ben said, “You cut it sorta close didn’t, you?”
“That’s what I live for,” Wayne said, panting in between syllables. He walked in with the supervisor of elections in tow. She began counting off the signatures and made a gesture to collect the rest.
“Not a moment too soon,” she said with a wry grin and spun off back to her office upstairs.
“It’s days like these that I question why I do this as a hobby,” Ben said.
“Ah, Ben, you love it!” Eric said with a laugh that soon became contagious among the exhausted campaigners...
ROGER DAVIS WAS used to fame. It took some convincing to get him to play the lead role in “A True Gator Party.” He never cared for film adaptations of books, and felt his notoriety gave him the opportunity to turn down any role he didn’t like, even starring ones. But after accepting the job and taking a tour of Gainesville with Michael and Adam, he became intrigued. Perhaps it was the many residents who viewed Michael as their only celebrity, which annoyed him. Or perhaps it was that the people of this college town took no bullshit, did not buy into the slick Hollywood culture, and never let life go by too quickly or too slowly.
Roger didn’t mind the lines of fans seeking his autograph, even if they preferred “Ben Burns” signatures over his own. He especially did not mind it on this occasion, when the turmoil on the movie set had left him with little else to do.
He was polite and cordial to the last of the fans and well-wishers as he departed. It was cooler than the typical Florida weather, but it was still quite warm and humid. He passed the main part of campus on his way back to his hotel to refresh himself with a good night’s sleep. It was still up in the air whether Michael and Adam would restart filming the next day. As he passed the university plaza, he chuckled at how it resembled a disaster area from yesterday’s activities.
Vroom. The roar of an engine. He turned in the direction of the sound, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. He shook his head and resumed his leisurely stroll.
AFTER FOLLOWING ADAM back to his hotel room for a short conversation and a drink, Mike returned to his apartment. He immediately noticed that the mail had arrived, including a large envelope. He let the mail sit in the foyer area as he entered his living room to turn on the stereo, selecting something with a Latin beat. He poured himself a glass of coke and rum and stepped into the bathroom to get the sticky sweat of Florida heat off his skin. The sound of the shower running competed with the soft Latin music and the tick-tock of antique analog clocks in the condo.
AS ROGER APPROACHED the press tents on the north side of campus, he heard engine noise again. Again, he turned to try and locate where the engine noise was coming from, but failed to find anything out of place on the nearly deserted campus. Just a few students were seen knocking around a ball. He didn’t see the car sitting in the shadows of one of the dorms.
MIKE DRIED HIMSELF off with a large towel and then wrapped it around his waist. He walked through the living room and stepped back into the foyer area to grab the mail. Returning to the living room, he examined an over-sized clasped envelope. It had no return address or any other identifier. Not another one! Mike thought as he dropped the mail on the floor and collapsed into the nearest chair. He sighed nervously, continuing to hold the latest envelope in his hands.
ROGER DEFINITELY HEARD the roar of the engine this time. As he passed the main library, a gray Ford sports utility vehicle with blackened windows whizzed past him, missing him by inches. What the hell?
THE LETTER WAS almost exactly like the first one. It was short, to the point, and disturbing. It read: “You can choke on nuts and live. You can always break a fall. But being run over is hard to survive.” What the hell?
THE SUV SWUNG around quickly, giving Roger little time to react. He felt unsteady and frightened. He looked around in time see the car’s second pass. It was more successful. Roger was slammed off his feet. The mysterious car pulled in reverse and spun away from the scene, leaving a badly injured actor lying on the road, unconscious. The victim was the only witness to the accident.
DETECTIVE MARX WAS on the phone with Mike when another call came into the police station. Jimmy answered the call on the other line, stepping out of the cramped office to give his boss some needed space.
“Detective Marx’s office?”
“Jimmy? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Brad. Where are you?”
“I am at the hospital,” said the policeman, “Mr. Marx wanted to know if and when anyone was admitted to the hospital and if he was part of the cast or crew of that movie they’re filmin’ over at the university.”
“Sure. Spill the beans. He’s on the line with Adams right now.”
“Alright. Are you sitting for this one?”
Jimmy leaned against a wall, knowing his friend Brad wouldn’t exaggerate any news he had. “Give it to me.”
“It was a hit and run, Jimmy. He’s in Emergency right now.”
“Who is?!?”
“The guy playing Ben Burns, that’s who! Roger Davis himself.”
This case has just got a whole lot more serious. Jimmy shook his head. This could mean an end to the entire production. It was becoming more important than ever to find out what was going on and to stop it.
MIKE WAS NOT having a good evening. Whoever mailed those messages had something to do with the accidents that were happening. What’s more, the writer was elevating the seriousness of the acts by threatening to attack a cast member. And not just any cast member, Roger! Roger was not a famous actor, and the lead in the movie.
The three most important characters in his book – Nicola Jackson, Eric Keppler, Ben Burns - and the actors who played them were either victims or about to be. At least one he could have prevented, and the last one he could have done more to get advance notice out to the police.
Vicious, premeditated crimes on this scale were rare in Gainesville. That’s why he chose to come back to his alma mater to film the outside scenes. He thought it would be safe. That was no longer true.
AS CROWDS GATHERED outside Shands Hospital, and the media clambered to get the tiniest tidbit of information, Mike made his decision and told Adam. “It’s the only, best way, I know to deal with this.”
“I don’t think so. You know this town and this film better than anyone else. We need you.”
“This guy is out to get me by hurting other people involved in this project. This is the only way. You know how to reach me. Hopefully this will be all over soon.”
Mike and Adam embraced briefly before Mike stepped into his vehicle, and drifted down the north side of the hill. Adam turned to face the Southside, overlooking Shands Hospital. The frenzy at the bottom of the hill was growing louder. Someone spotted him and directed the media mob towards him.
I’m the decoy in the spotlight, Adam thought as he waited for the inevitable gathering of the paparazzi.
“TICKET FOR ONE,” the man in the sports coat said to the Delta Airlines employee behind the ticket counter. “For the flight about to take off.”
“Of course, sir. Identification and credit card? Will you be checking any bags with us today?”
“Nope.”
“Total comes to $984.”
“Fine. Just get me on that plane.”
“Okay.” The flight attendant began typing away. The incessant tapping became a faint background noise, as the passenger listened to the nearby news monitor.
The news anchor was reporting on breaking news in the local area. From his tone, the anchor seemed utterly unprepared for the news he was reporting live to millions of Americans. “Our local correspondents have confirmed this late-breaking news from Gainesville, Florida. The lead actor for the upcoming film “A True Gator Party” has been struck, by a moving vehicle. Also, sources close to the director, and to the master-mind behind the film, have learned that the two have made a startling reversal of policy.”
“Here’s your ticket. Enjoy your flight, Mister,” the flight attendant said.
The anchor continued unabated. “Those sources say that the previous decision to keep production going despite unexplained accidents has been reversed. Filming has been suspended, indefinitely, in an apparent attempt to help resolve a police investigation into the matter...”
The new passenger, feeling more confident now that he had ticket and carry-on in hand, made his way to the one and only gate at Gainesville’s small airport. With a smile, he began thinking to himself. This just might work. Smoke the bastard out. See what his problem is.
The attendant at the gate greeted her last passenger. “Welcome aboard.”
When the guy got to his seat, and turned his carry-on to its side to put in the overhead compartment, one could clearly read who owned that luggage. This flight out of town had a very special, if easily unnoticed, passenger on board.
His name was Mike Adams.