A Lesson in Drowning — the conclusion

I’m posting the rest of this story today, but there’s something about it I haven’t told you yet.  “A Lesson in Drowning” introduces OSBI Special Agent Craig Brewer, one of the main characters from my science-fiction book, Time Pullers.  In the book, however, he is no longer an OSBI agent; rather, he has retired from the OSBI and has become an FBI agent.  More significant than that, however, is that “A Lesson in Drowning” takes place during Agent Brewer’s “life before intercontinuum travel.” If you didn’t catch why that little fact is of interest, perhaps you didn’t notice the title banner of this blog.

And now, the final installment of “A Lesson in Drowning.”  I hope you enjoy it.

 A Lesson in Drowning

by Horton Deakins

Conclusion

        “Sheriff,” Jim Henthorn said, “there’s an agent from the OSBI on the line. Says he’s returning your call.”

       “Jim, you’ve had your coffee, time to go home,” the sheriff said. “You do realize you don’t actually work here, don’t you?”

       “You know I’m just trying to help, Sheriff. Not like I don’t have better things to do. See you tomorrow when the coffee’s fresh.”

       “Hello, Sheriff Gray here.”

       “Sheriff, this is Special Agent Craig Brewer with the OSBI. How are you today, sir?”

       “Fine, Special Agent Brewer. And you?”

       “I’m fine too, sir. Could you fill me in on what you know about the D’Angelo drowning?”

       Sheriff Gray brought Special Agent Brewer up to date on the case. “I keep telling everyone it doesn’t pass the smell test, so I was hoping you boys could help us out with this one.”

       “We’ll sure try, Sheriff. I’ll move this one to the top of the pile.”

∞∞∞

       Special Agent Brewer contacted the ME in Tulsa and requested a tox screen. He ran credit card checks and found charges made by Michael D’Angelo at an Oklahoma City gas station on the day of his wife’s death, enough gasoline to fill the tank of the F-250. He found another full-tank charge on the same day in Tahlequah, not far from No Head Hollow, but the time stamp was just after three in the morning. Brewer decided to pay Mr. D’Angelo a visit.

       Michael D’Angelo was watering the roses in his front flowerbed when Special Agent Brewer drove up in his classic ’76 Trans Am. D’Angelo was staring off into space as if he didn’t notice Brewer get out of his car and approach him.

       “Mr. D’Angelo? Mr. D’Angelo, I’m Special Agent Craig Brewer with the OSBI.”

       D’Angelo turned off the water and shook Agent Brewer’s hand.

       “Mr. D’Angelo, I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

       “Thank you. What did you say your name was?”

       “Special Agent Craig Brewer. I’m with the OSBI. I just need to clear up some loose ends concerning your wife’s death. Can we go inside and talk?”

       “Sure, sure. Just let me coil the garden hose.”

       Brewer followed D’Angelo into the house. “Can I get you some iced tea, maybe some coffee, Agent Brewer?”

       “Tea would be nice, thank you.”

       D’Angelo poured two large glasses of tea, lots of ice. Brewer took a sip, and then set the glass on the kitchen counter. “Mr. D’Angelo, again, I’m sorry for what happened. Did you and your wife make frequent trips to the river? Were you into canoeing, fishing, things like that?”

       “No. No we hadn’t been to the river in years. We hadn’t actually been in the water since the day we got engaged. That’s when we first dove off the bridge.”

       “No other trips? None at all? I know it’s difficult to focus right now, but try to remember, Mr. D’Angelo. It’s important.”

       D’Angelo turned away and walked into the living room, and Brewer followed him. Against an interior wall was a large, empty fish tank, the kind you might see at an aquarium.

       “That’s a huge tank, Mr. D’Angelo. What kind of fish did you keep in there?” Brewer asked.

       “Not me, my wife,” D’Angelo said. “I mean, my wife kept salt-water fish in there.” He waved the air in disinterest and plopped down on the couch. “I never liked those fish. Got rid of them this morning. If you’re interested, you can have the tank. Weighs nearly a ton with all the water, though, so you’d better have a sturdy slab foundation.”

       “No thanks, Mr. D’Angelo. Say, can we go out to the garage? I heard you had an F-250, and I’d like to take a look at it.”

       “Why?”

       “Ah. You’ll have to excuse me — that’s just a personal interest. You can’t pick up a load of anything with a Trans Am, and I’m thinking of getting a second vehicle.”

       The two entered the garage. The F-250 had been backed in as if ready for a quick getaway.

       “Nice. That’s last year’s model, right?”

       “Yeah.”

       Brewer noticed there were dozens of five-gallon plastic jerry cans occupying the space where another vehicle would have been. “Did you get rid of the car, too, Mr. D’Angelo?”

       “Huh?”

       “The car. Your wife’s car. She did have a car, didn’t she?”

       “Oh, her car. Yeah, I gave that to her brother. I can’t afford insurance on two vehicles.”

       “So, what are all the jerry cans for?” Brewer asked.

       “She had a guy make up the salt water mixture special, and we’d put the cans in the truck and go pick it up.” D’Angelo opened the door to the house. “I’m going back inside to get my tea.”

       Brewer picked up one of the cans and removed the lid. He shouted back to D’Angelo, “Say, I wonder why the inside of this can doesn’t smell salty?” He turned his back to the door to test another can, and then he realized what the smell was. River water.

       The next thing Brewer knew was his head was killing him, he was face down on a bed of putrid fish tank gravel, and his hands were tied behind him. Worse than that, D’Angelo had locked the lid to his prison down tight, and he had rigged the garden hose to fill the tank through a small opening.

       “Stay cool, stay cool, just grab your piece and shoot the glass,” Brewer told himself. But both his primary and backup pistols were missing.

       The tank was filling fast. Brewer managed to turn onto his side to get a little more space between his face and the water. The rope was tight around his wrists, cutting into his flesh, and he was still wearing his jacket, so it was difficult to move.

       He rolled to his back, took a deep breath, and tried kicking the lid. No go. But he felt his keys still inside his pants pocket. He took another breath and thrust his hips upward several times until his keys fell out.

       Brewer grabbed the keys and then pressed his face against the lid to catch his breath. Not much time left, he had to move fast. On his key ring was a small punch tool he carried in case his car ever went into water and he needed to break the glass. He took one more breath and rolled over onto his side. He brought his knees up for leverage and pushed the punch against the glass with all his might.

       The broken glass, water, gravel, and Special Agent Brewer spilled out onto the living room floor. Michael D’Angelo was nowhere to be found, his truck was gone, and Brewer’s cell phone was permanently out of order.

       Brewer picked up D’Angelo’s land line phone and called the OSBI.

       “D’Angelo blind-sided me and nearly drowned me in a fish tank,” Brewer told one of the other agents. “He must have drowned his wife in there, too, because he had over forty jerry cans he had used to bring back river water the night before. That’s why he had to buy gas so early in the morning in Tahlequah.”

       “We discovered he had purchased dry ice,” the other agent said. “He must have used it to keep her cool to confuse the time of death, and I’ll bet he lined his truck bed with that plastic sheet so he could keep her in the iced-down river water for the trip back to the bridge.”

       “Must have,” Brewer said. “Anything else?”

       “Yes. Your suspicions were right about the tox screen. They couldn’t find anything in Tina D’Angelo’s blood because it had been over twenty-four hours, but they discovered evidence of flunitrazepan, you know, date-rape drug, in her urine.”

       Brewer could tell from the other agent’s tone he was holding out on him. “And?”

       “Okay, ya got me — I’ve been saving the best for last. Three months ago D’Angelo took out a million-dollar insurance policy on his wife.”

       “I suspected something like that. But now we have to find him,” Brewer remarked.

       “Already on it. He just charged a bus ticket to Tulsa, and he’s on his way. Plans to take a plane from there to St. Louis, and he’s got reservations from there to Jamaica, but he’ll never get there. We’ve got agents and the Cherokee County sheriff waiting for him at the Tulsa bus station.”

       Brewer stripped out of his wet coat and threw it into the trunk of his Trans Am. He wanted to be there when D’Angelo got off that bus.