532 Words AT THE DROP OF A SHOE
Congressman Mel Hooper, his family and political staff, attended the Episcopal Church services in Cape Cod. While prayers commenced in the coolness of the ivy covered brick building, Tim and Jill Hanks prepared to jump out of a helicopter positioned over Hawthorne National Beach. If all went according to plan, they would land directly at the doorstep of the Hooper’s summer residence. Sharing the crowded sky, a piper cub hummed in the westerly distance and a refurbished army jet rumbled across the horizon.
Hanks glanced at his slender, boyish wife. Jill’s eyes were covered by protective glasses so he could not tell what she was thinking. She raised them intuitively and passed a fleeting look to her husband. Tim gave her the thumbs up signal and knew his lady would be fine.
They parachuted downwards and landed on a small plot of sand opposite each other, imprinting one foot in the wet sand. They were jolted upwards and deposited on a grassy knoll nearby. They unclipped their paraphernalia and watched the helicopter make a full turn and fly off. They looked around cautiously and listened for any unusual sound. Confident they could proceed; they dashed to the house and went inside, going directly to the master bedroom. Tim stripped the lock on the wall safe and removed several documents.
Outside, they replanted their feet in the footprints, and were propelled upwards, supported by a mechanism strapped to their backs. Their thievery successful, they flew away in a low flying piper cub.
Jill slid out of her gear, removed her stretch nylon cap, and shook out her shiny black hair.
“Baby, we’ve stolen the plans of the Pembrooke marijuana fields for the Mexicans. This’ll curtail the government’s drug-raiding efforts and give the Mexy’s an advantage to have a better cash flow. Ditto for us!” Tim rubbed his hands together.
“I’ll lay odds our esteemed security force won’t figure out the decoy footprints. With their kindergarten mentality, they’re apt to believe aliens made the heist.” Jill beamed.
Tim tapped the papers beneath his jumpsuit. “This job was made easier by the four dregs who were supposed to stand guard at the Hooper residence. They’ll regret playing poker in the kitchen and not paying attention to business.” He returned Jill’s sardonic smile and then beeped the pilot in her chamber, assuring her that all was well.
At the Hawthorne Beach site, Detective Marion Mulrooney and his squad carried metal detectors and rods for probing the ground to cover the mile and a half long beachfront property of Congressman Hooper. It was crucial to the government to account for the whereabouts of the stolen plans of the Pembrooke marijuana fields.
Reed Tomas, Number two man under Detective Mulrooney, standing before the soggy footprints in front of the rustic-chic house, rubbed his pointy head. He said, “Whoever did this job had to be double-jointed. How do you account for two shoe prints going in opposite directions on the sand?”
Mulrooney looked serenely skyward and remained silent for a long time.
“Sir, are you soliciting God?” Tomas asked.
“No, solving the crime.”
© 2016, Patricia Crandall. All rights reserved.
The author has granted WritersCarnival.ca, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.