Rolling Thunder (John Ceepak Mystery) Page 24

  Parkhill glances at me. I shrug.

  What the hell. I’ll do it.

  “Okay, Skip. Give Danny a second to change.”

  “Sure. No problem. Take your time, guys. I’m sorry to put you through the wringer like this, Danny, but shit, man, you know?”

  Parkhill shoots Ceepak a knowing look. I heard it, too. Skippy sounds semihuman again.

  “It’s okay, Skip,” says Parkhill. “We’re getting the beach gear for Danny right now. Thanks for the tip on the shop. We sent someone over there.…”

  “Stay away from the T-shirts, man. They’ll rip you off on the tees. Of course, I guess you guys don’t have to pay.”

  “Not today, anyway,” says Parkhill, sounding like the jolly uncle he probably actually is when he isn’t on the job dealing with wingnuts like Skipper Doodle. “Okay. We’ve got the gear. Give us a couple of minutes.”

  I turn around and a guy in more padding than a middle linebacker for the New York Jets is standing in front of me holding a stack of Hawaiian print swim trunks.

  “I figured you were a medium, sir,” she says.

  Okay. The guy is a girl. In their SWAT getups, it’s hard to tell.

  “Yeah. Medium. Thanks.”

  About six guys in black body armor form a circle around me. They face out so I can change in private. While I slip out of my shoes, lose my Tyvek vest, my shirt, my pants, my socks, and my underwear, I hear Parkhill bargaining with Skippy.

  “Skip, Danny’s getting changed.”

  “Cool.”

  “He’s going to a lot of trouble to give you what you want.”

  “I know. Tell him thanks. I’m just a little freaked out in here, okay?”

  “Sure. Understandable. Hey, why don’t you give Danny something?”

  “Like what.”

  “Let a couple of hostages go when he gets there. Seems like a fair trade.”

  “Fine. I’ll let one of the girls go.”

  “Great. You want that sandwich, Skip?”

  “Nah. I’m not really hungry. Besides, you guys would drug it. Put crushed sleeping pills between the fucking meat and cheese. And no fucking water, either!”

  And crazy Skippy is back.

  “You must think I’m a fucking moron, Asshill. I know all the fucking tricks. I went to the police academy, remember?”

  I tug on a baggy pair of swim trunks: Tommy Bahamas that hit me mid-thigh. White tropical flowers and green ferns on washed-out black fabric. It could be worse. The SWAT team lady could’ve brought me a Speedo.

  “I’m good to go,” I say.

  My dressing circle parts.

  “Okay, Skip. Danny’s dressed. He’s coming over.”

  “Put Ceepak on the line.”

  “I’m not sure if Officer Ceepak is here right now.”

  “Put him on the goddamn line or I’ll send one of the fucking girls out the door dead.”

  “Hang on.”

  Ceepak steps forward. Parkhill unclips his tiny microphone, hands it to him.

  “This is Ceepak.”

  “That motherfucker tried to lie to me. Said you weren’t there.”

  “How can I help you, Skip?”

  “You have to promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “That you will not follow Danny! That you won’t sneak up behind him so you can bust in here and ream me out again like you did that time in the middle of goddamn Ocean Avenue where everybody and their brother could see what a dipshit you thought I was.”

  “I will not follow Danny.”

  “You still live by that stupid code? The one Santucci used to rag you about?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “So you can’t lie to me, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “So when you say you won’t follow, Danny.…”

  “You have my word. I will not follow Danny.”

  “Okay. Good. You’re a good cop, Mr. Ceepak. I could’ve become a good cop, too. Right?”

  “Yes, Skip. You could have.”

  “Could” being the operative word in that sentence. Hell, anybody can. Skippy, however, didn’t.

  Parkhill gives us a “let’s move on” hand signal.

  “Danny is on his way,” says Ceepak. “Here is Officer Parkhill.” He hands the microphone back to the negotiator.

  “Okay, Skip. Danny’s coming over.”

  I make my way out of the food booth, hit the boardwalk, pause, and take in a deep breath. I’ve got twenty yards of open planking to cross before I enter the Rolling Thunder. I’ve also got goose-bumps—and not because it’s 65 degrees and I’m half naked.

  What if Skippy’s still jealous about me getting the cop job he always wanted? What if this swim trunks deal is just his twisted way of making me an easy, unarmed target?

  I’m about to start walking again when somebody taps me on the shoulder.

  Ceepak.

  “Which way are you going?” he asks.

  I point at the entryway to the Rolling Thunder roller coaster. The jagged thunderbolt neons are dead ahead.

  “Good. I’ll go out the back way, crawl underneath the boardwalk, find that access panel. I just wanted to make sure you and I weren’t taking the same route.”

  In other words, he’s keeping his word.

  He’s not following me.

  He’s just covering my ass.

  41

  I HAVE TO STEP OVER DOMINIC SANTUCCI’S BODY.

  I also have to not puke.

  Skippy blew open the poor guy’s guts. I’m reminded of how Santucci was there the day I saw my first dead body ever, on the Tilt A Whirl in Sunnyside Playland. Now, I’m looking down at his. There’s a swarm of flies flitting over his black and bloody intestines.

  I have to keep moving.

  I climb up the short ramp to the covered waiting shed and I see Skippy’s second victim. This time I want to cry. The guy was just a kid in a black heavy metal T-shirt who watched too many movies and, to mangle some Springsteen lyrics, tried to walk like the heroes he thought he had to be.

  Guess you could say the same about me.

  I keep walking. Toward the stranded roller coaster.

  Toward the control room.

  The door creaks open. There’s nothing but blackness on the other side.

  “Danny?” It’s Skippy.

  “Yeah.”

  “You look ridiculous, man.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m just yanking your chain, pal. Try wearing a skirt to work everyday.”

  Right. Mr. O’Malley never missed an opportunity to humiliate his son on a daily basis.

  “I’m like Ceepak,” says Skippy. “I never lie. So, as promised, I’m sending out one of the girls.”

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  “Go,” he yells. “Now!

  Richard Heimsack stumbles out of the dark doorway. I think Skippy shoved him. He shields his eyes with a hand. Guess Skippy doused the lights inside the control hut so the snipers couldn’t see him, even though they probably could with night vision scopes. Anyway, the darkness in the metal box means the flashbooms will be more effective than the sunshine blinding Richard Heimsack right now.

  “Keep moving,” I say to the college kid through clenched teeth.

  “I …”

  “Keep moving, man. Don’t look back. Take good care of Sam, okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

  He rushes past me.

  “Look at him run. Biggest pussy in the bunch. Heimsack. What a name. I called him Ballsack even though he doesn’t have any. Come on, Danny. Come on in.”

  He gives me a big smile and a happy hand gesture like we’re both ten again and he’s inviting me to climb into the giant sand castle he just built on the beach.

  I make my way across the parked roller coaster. I chance a glance under the tracks. I don’t see Ceepak. Then again, he had a much longer distance to travel, most of it on his belly.

  I go through the open door in the middle of the
twenty-foot-long, ten-foot-deep aluminum-sided rectangle.

  Ceepak’s gonna need good aim to toss a grenade from the front end of the first roller coaster car into this three-foot-wide door.

  “Close it.”

  I shut the door behind me. Jeez-o man. We didn’t think about that. The grenade’s just going to bounce off the door.

  But then I notice two tinted windows over the control console. They look out at the loading dock. Okay. We’re still good to go. Ceepak’s just going to have to have to use his hook shot and smash out some glass.

  “Grab a seat, Danny.”

  My eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness, but from the sound of his voice, I think Skippy just hunkered down in a corner.

  “Where are you, Skip?” I say as I knee into a rolling chair.

  “Over here.” He flicks on a small flashlight.

  Yep. He’s crouched in the corner at the south end of the room. Mr. Ceepak is right beside him. I have never seen so much fear and hate colliding in one man’s eyes before. Of course, Skippy has his Beretta 92FS pointed at the side of the old man’s skull, which might have something to do with his sour mood.

  There’s a girl huddled against the wall, maybe two feet down from Skippy and Mr. Ceepak. I can see better now. In fact, I can tell that Skippy has his seven remaining “guests” lined up along the wall, their knees tight to their chests. I see Cliff Skeete in his bright red doo rag. Ken Erb. People I don’t know. Mostly young. They all look scared to death.

  Except that one girl. The one closest to Skippy.

  She’s short, maybe five-one, 100 pounds. Cute librarian glasses.

  And now I see the shotguns. Skippy just laid them down. On the floor. Right in front of his feet, their barrels pointing in my direction. He could pick one back up and blow my brains out whenever he feels like it.

  “Sorry about the swimsuit,” says Skippy.

  “You like it? I think it’s last year’s model.”

  “I think it’s cute,” says the girl.

  Skippy snaps around to face her. “Shut up!”

  She flips up her hands to say, “Whatever.”

  “Meet Layla,” says Skippy. “She mouths off from time to time like that. Makes her number two on my hit list.”

  “Am I number one?” I ask. I’m seated in a backless swivel chair. I guess it’s what the guy who runs the ride uses to slide around and punch buttons. The console is behind me, its padded leather bumper nudging me in the back. When I was feeling around for the chair in the dark, I noticed that the video monitors displaying security camera feeds are mounted on the walls. Skippy can see everything from his vantage point in the corner. His eyes flick from screen to screen. So far, the snipers haven’t budged. They’re still birds on a wire, perched on the coaster’s crossbeams.

  I roll sideways. Closer to the corner.

  Skippy’s maybe four feet away. The guns maybe two.

  “Am I number one?” I ask again.

  “Nah, Danny. You’re my witness.”

  “For what?” I think I’m asking open-ended questions like Ceepak told me to. I’m not exactly sure what the term means. I wish I’d had more time to study this stuff. I might be doing it wrong.

  “The government’s witness to the execution of Mr. Joseph Ceepak.”

  “Whoa,” I say, like Skippy and I are playing beer pong. “Hang on, buddy … time out.”

  Mr. Ceepak tilts his head sideways. Skippy is burrowing the muzzle of his Beretta deeper into the soft spot at his temple.

  “Your partner? This piece of shit’s son? He never really thought I’d make a good cop. But I would. I am. I can bring the justice, which is what a good cop does, Danny. He brings the goddamn justice. And in a just world, this old drunk definitely deserves to die. I know what he did, all those years ago. He should’ve gotten the needle. Lethal injection. I wish I still had some of that potassium chloride but I left it all on Tangerine Street.”

  “Yeah. That was clever, Skippy.”

  “Thanks. But, you want to know the truth?”

  “Sure.”

  “I got lucky. I was just gonna plant the drugs on Dad, but I couldn’t figure out how to get you guys into the house. Then, boom! My father’s whore texts his phone while it’s sitting in my pocket. Talk about meant to be. God wanted me to kill her, too. After that, everything just fell in place, you know?”

  “Sure.”

  “So how’d I blow it?”

  “Huh?”

  “How’d you guys figure out I was the one who killed Gail?”

  “You know … this and that.” I am trying so hard not to piss him off.

  “Yeah, right. You got fucking lucky, too.” He jams the gun even tighter against Mr. Ceepak’s skull. “The prosecuting attorney’s office in Ohio cut this dirty old bastard a deal. He got off easy. Then he got out early. That’s not fair. He cheated the system. So, if I can’t kill my dad, I figure I’ll kill Ceepak’s for him and maybe someday, when I’m dead and gone, which, you know, could happen any fucking second now, Ceepak will return the favor and pop a cap in my old man’s head.”

  “Hey, Skippy—remember Mrs. Fabricius?”

  Skippy looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “What?”

  “Sophomore year. She taught us math.”

  “Oh, yeah. Her. She was okay.”

  “Okay? Jeez-o, man, Skip—you were her favorite.”

  He shrugs. “She made it interesting. Not dry and dull, you know?”

  I inch forward.

  “You aced every exam.”

  “You remember that?”

  “Sure. You blew the curve, bro.”

  I roll closer.

  “Hey, how about Mr. Skaggs?”

  “Who?”

  “Monkey man. The gym teacher. Remember how he’d hang off the chin-up bars chomping on a banana?”

  “Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re wasting my time.”

  “I just thought—”

  “I’ve got work to do.” He uses his thumb to slide the hammer drop, take off the Beretta’s safety.

  “Whoa, easy.”

  Now his thumb pulls back the hammer spur. His finger quivers on the trigger.

  His hand is trembling.

  Where the hell is Ceepak?

  “For fuck sake, don’t shoot me, kid!” All of a sudden, Mr. Ceepak is begging. “Come on. I never did shit to you. Cut me a fucking break!”

  “Shut up!”

  “Come on! You don’t really want to kill me!”

  Incredibly, Layla laughs. “Uh, yeah—he does.”

  Skippy looks stunned. Lowers his pistol a couple inches. Turns to glare at the girl.

  As he turns, she kicks out her foot.

  Sends one of the shotguns skittering across the floor to me.

  I pounce on it. Flip it up and twirl it over. Aim it at Skippy’s heart.

  “Freeze!” I shout.

  He swings back, Beretta aimed at me.

  “Danny?” His eyes go wide.

  Everything shifts to super slo-mo.

  Skippy’s trigger finger twitches.

  Mine twitches faster.

  The shotgun in my hand explodes.

  The wad slams Skippy in the shoulder. Shrapnel freckles his face with blood.

  Reflexes swing him right.

  The muzzle of the Beretta is now aimed at Mr. Ceepak’s gut.

  A round goes off.

  Mr. Ceepak recoils, clutching his stomach. An artery is spurting.

  Skippy wheels around to squeeze off another round.

  But I already have his head in my sights.

  I have to kill the crazy bastard.

  That’s when glass shatters, the whole world explodes, and we all go blind.

  Ceepak finally tossed in the flashboom.

  42

  MY EARS ARE RINGING AS A BATTALION OF HEAVILY ARMED ninjas swarms into the control room.

  I see four silhouettes of soldiers grab Skippy’s arms and legs and lift him
up off the ground. His pistol rattles to the floor.

  He’s screaming.

  “My arm! Jesus, my fucking arm!”

  Through the blinding white burning my retinas I can see a rump roast of raw beef where Skippy’s right shoulder used to be.

  The SWAT guys drag his ass out the door. Fast. All around me, it’s smoky bedlam. People screaming. Crying. Wailing. Soldiers shouting, “Out, out. Go, go.”

  Mr. Ceepak is somewhere on the floor, wheezing. I smell the metallic scent of blood.

  “We need a medic over there!” I stumble toward the door. “There’s a wounded man in the corner.”

  “Good work, Officer Danny!” a voice cuts through the panicked din and the alarm clock bells jangling in my eardrums.

  It’s the girl. Layla.

  “Out, out, out!” Robocop is in the house, hustling Layla and the other hostages out the door.

  My temporary blindness finally fades.

  “Keep your legs down, Dad!”

  It’s Ceepak. In the corner. Working on his father, who is gurgling and rasping and gushing blood.

  “Johnny,” the old man groans. “You gotta fucking help me … don’t fuck this up, you stupid shit.”

  “Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you see?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need more sterile gauze.” He tears off his T-shirt and stuffs it into his father’s abdomen. “Stat. Alert the medics, then grab the AED out of the ticket office. He’s going into v-fib.”

  Ceepak starts pumping on his father’s chest.

  As I’m running out the trailer door, I hear Ceepak shout, “Don’t die on me, you goddamn son of a bitch! Don’t you dare die!”

  43

  I DON’T KNOW IF ANYBODY’S GOING TO GIVE HIM ANOTHER Distinguished Service Cross for it, but Ceepak saved his old man’s life.

  Brought him back from the brink, just like he did for that soldier over in Mosul, although I’m guessing the soldier deserved to live more than Joe Sixpack did.

  But who am I to judge?

  They took him to the hospital in the second ambulance.

  Skippy got the first ride. He’s going to live but he’ll never play tennis or badminton. Apparently, my shotgun blast seriously dislocated his shoulder—like into the next county.