Page 12 of Backwater Justice

While murder wasn’t really Oliver’s thing, he didn’t mind supplying lethal drugs to unsuspecting customers. Sure, it resulted in fatal doses, but it was their choice to do it, not his. He felt no sense of culpability whatsoever. But now he was in way over his head with no one to save his sorry behind. Benjamin had always been there to dig him out or bail him out, whatever the problem might be. But this. This was a problem he couldn’t turn over to big brother. Benjamin was even-tempered, but Oliver knew something like this could push his brother to commit a felony against him. Even homicide. He couldn’t solicit help from his law enforcement cronies, either. They could look the other way when it came to falsifying documents, speeding, or taking illegal detours. Kidnapping would be out of the question. Drug distribution? Also very much out of the question. The feds and Canadians were coming down hard on the opium superhighway that ran from Mexico to Canada and Alaska. But the Spangler family had a reputation for running a clean business. At least on the surface. Oliver’s accomplices on the side of the law were very few. They liked the non-taxable income they were getting every month, but this transgression was beyond Deputy Sheriff Nelson’s loyalty. He’d turn state’s evidence in a heartbeat. Speaking of heartbeats, Oliver’s was about to speed up.

He started the engine of the Porsche 911 Carrera. Granted, it wasn’t the most expensive of the line, but it had that Porsche crest emblem on the hood, and Carrera spelled in cursive writing across the back. If he could pull himself out of this new glitch, he would be riding in a Lamborghini a year from now.

He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the one-gram brown bottle with the tiny spoon attached to the screw top. Cocaine. Also known as Blow, Nose Candy, Pearl, Toot. For him, the high it gave was the better option. Oliver could not imagine why someone would want to feel the opposite: listless, stupefied. He also couldn’t wrap his head around doing “speed balls,” mixing cocaine and heroin.What was the point?He shook his head. That was what killed John Belushi. He made another scan of the parking lot. No one was around. He dipped the spoon into the white powder and snorted up one nostril, then applied another spoonful up the other.

He zipped through the parking lot as if he were in a Formula One race. His mood was elevated finally to the pace of his heart: racing. That’s what he liked.

CHAPTERSEVEN

Pinewood

Myra was up early. The dogs were her alarm clock. They had to go out and have breakfast. She occasionally thought about installing a doggie door, but instinct told her it would make the house vulnerable, even with five barking dogs and a security system that would make Fort Knox blush. It was no coincidence that Charles had engaged the same company to outfit the house and property.

After the time the Sisters were placed under house arrest, Charles convinced Myra they should have better surveillance than the local authorities could provide. Over the years, Charles and Fergus kept up with the latest reconnaissance equipment. Their technology rivaled that of many counter-intelligence agencies, and their access to personal information was capable of diving to the depths of the dark web. Between Fergus’s stint at Scotland Yard, and Charles’s at MI6, they were a formidable pair. With Myra’s calculating thought process and Annie’s guile, they, too, formed an indomitable duo. Their level of expertise at covert operations only sharpened as the years went on. While no one had any idea where this trip to Oregon would end, Myra was certain there was something afoot in the foothills of the Cascades.

Annie roared into the rear driveway of the farmhouse with Fergus in tow. She was a maniac driver, even in a golf cart. Fergus smoothed his hair, then pulled Annie’s luggage off the back. Annie held the door to the kitchen. “We’re here!” she proclaimed above the yapping of the dogs.

Charles suppressed a smirk. No matter how many times Fergus traveled with Annie behind the wheel, he always looked as if he’d just cheated death. His eyes bulged, his breath was short, and his face red.

Myra wiggled her way through the throng of dogs and gave Annie a big hug. “Good morning! Everything all set?”

“Of course.” The jet was ready to take off, and Annie had made reservations at The Grand Hotel. “Our suite has two beds, a living room, dining area, desk; it includes breakfast, has a view, and it’s soundproof. And it’s just a couple of blocks from the hospital.”

“That will surely come in handy,” Myra responded.

“Plus, they have champagne service.” Annie giggled.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Myra chuckled.

Charles and Fergus rolled their eyes as if to say,Here we go again. The men brought the luggage to the waiting town car. Lots of hugs and kisses from both humans and dogs, and the gals were on their way.

Myra and Annie arrived at the airport and boarded the private jet. Myra phoned Patricia and left a voice mail message saying she and Annie would be arriving around dinnertime. They planned to check in to the hotel and then head to the hospital if that was acceptable to Patricia. Patricia replied several minutes later via text.

Yes. That’s fine. Mill moving to private room.

Myra read the message out loud. “That’s a relief. I’ll be honest. I have no idea why he asked for me.”

Annie raised an eyebrow as she fastened her seat belt. “First love?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Myra gave Annie’s rhinestone boots a friendly tap.

“Not you, silly. Him!” Annie laughed.

“Even more ridiculous.” Myra leaned back into the plush seat, folded her hands, and closed her eyes.

“You’re still nervous about flying?” Annie asked, as she watched Myra fidget with her pearls.

“Always,” Myra replied, and took a very deep breath. “I used to love it, but there’ve been too many incidents lately.”

“At least we don’t have to deal with belligerent, rowdy drunks!” Annie chuckled.

“Well, there’s that.” Myra opened one eye. “I know Phillip is a fine, experienced pilot. It’s the airborne equipment, and the people who are handling it, that I worry about.”

“Maybe a mimosa would help?” Annie grinned.

“Sure. Why not?” Myra wasn’t a big drinker, but an occasional champagne or wine with dinner wasn’t out of the ordinary.

Annie pushed the call button. A voice responded. “Yes, Ms. De Silva?”

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