“I see police lights flashing up ahead.”
“Probably another fucking accident.” I was a little more uptight than usual. After all, I had two million dollars in a backpack in the back seat and only forty-five minutes to deliver the ransom.
The guy behind me honked. I hate that. What do these people think honking’s going to accomplish? He honked again. Goddamn it! I turned around and gave him a dirty look; at the same time spotting a car
stuck in the traffic jam about three rows back. It was a plain wrap Ford favored by the police department. The driver and passenger tried to duck out of sight when they saw me. Stacy was behind the wheel, Piccolo rode shotgun. I opened the car door. “I’ll be right back.”
I walked through the sea of frozen cars. Stacy and Piccolo exchanged a chagrined look, and then Stacy rolled down her window. “Don’t start, Gideon.”
“I thought we had an agreement.”
“You and Hunter had an agreement,” Piccolo said. “We never agreed to anything.”
I turned to Stacy. “If you want to catch this son of a bitch, let me work alone.”
Stacy laughed. “Yeah, right. Last time he stole your car.”
“This time’ll be different.”
“I know,” she said. “This time we’ll handle it.”
Traffic started moving again. But I didn’t. A chorus of horns bleated as pissed off drivers inched around us. “You saw the note,” I said. “If he spots you he’ll kill the dog.”
“Get a grip, Gideon. We’re talking about a goddamn dog! We’re in a no-lose situation here. If he doesn’t see us, we grab him as he leaves the park. If he does see us, all we lose is a dog.”
“Or he could get pissed off and shoot me.”
Stacy smiled. “Like I said, it’s no-lose.”
A guy in a pickup truck drove by, giving me the finger. I flipped him back as I thought it over. I had my own plan to catch the kidnapper, which I wasn’t about to share with them. However, I knew that no matter what I said they were going to follow me. So, I figured, I might as well include them.
“Okay,” I said. “What’s the plan?”
“You meet him at Dragon Flight,” Stacy said. “And we handle the rest.” Stacy dropped her car in gear and roared off, leaving me in the middle of the 5 Freeway, surrounded by a cacophony of curses and car horns.
Abracadabra
The microchip has become the PI’s best friend. From night scopes to lipstick cameras, bugs to homing devices.
I had a SpyZone GPS AJ-1800 sewed into the lining of the backpack. It sent out a signal strong enough to be detected within a five-mile radius.
The plan was simple. I’d go into Magic Land and make the exchange while Hillary waited in the car with the AJ-1800’s tracking unit. If I got back to the car before the kidnapper left the park, great. We’d use the GPS device to follow at a safe distance. If he left the park before I got back to the car, Hillary would follow him and keep me posted by phone.
The only fly in the ointment was Stacy. I didn’t know her plan. But I figured that was okay. If Stacy and Piccolo caught the kidnapper, great. If not, I still had my AJ-1800. So, I decided not to worry.
Big mistake.
Walking into Magic Land was like stepping into a time machine. Brothers Grimm Boulevard looked the same to me as it had thirty years ago. As I walked past Neptune’s Workshop I was flooded with memories. I saw the Magic Emporium where I’d bought my magic wand. Cupid’s Corner where Dad had bought super 8mm film.
As I crossed that cobblestone street toward The Snow Queen ride it was hard to believe I was that same ten-year-old boy. Ten-year-old Gideon had been full of dreams. I’d wanted to be a baseball player. Or an astronaut. Or run a corner grocery. Because Mom and Dad worked so much, I was often left alone, so my dream included marriage and a big family. Eight
or nine kids like the O’Malleys on the corner. I wanted to coach Little League and be an Elk, like Dad. I wanted a house with a swing set and a big lawn I’d mow every Saturday. Simple dreams from a boy filled with hope.
God, I miss that kid.
There were lines in front of the Hansel and Gretel, Rapunzel and Rumpelstiltskin rides. But the longest was in front of Dragon Flight. I loved the part where you flew over medieval London and battled other dragons. It seemed so real. Judging from the line, it hadn’t lost its appeal.
It was three-fifty. I had five minutes to wonder which of the thousands of people was the kidnapper, wonder where Stacy and Piccolo were, wonder why I was supposed to be here at such a weird time, wonder what happened to the dreams of that freckled-faced kid from Milwaukee.
BRRRING.
It sounded like an old-fashioned telephone ring. A cellphone ringtone, no doubt.
BRRRING.
Loud, too. I looked around, but nobody seemed to be reacting to it.
BRRRING.
The sound seemed to be coming from a trash container. Why would someone throw away a cell phone?
BRRRING.
Of course ... Ask not for whom the cell phone BRRRINGS. It BRRRINGS for thee. I dug through the empty popcorn bags, ice cream sticks and churros wrappers until I found a cheap Motorola. I pulled it out “Hello.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look.”
“Yes, I am,” I said before realizing what I said. “I mean ... Fuck what I mean! Where’s the dog?”
“Where’s the money?”
“In the backpack.”
“Good. See the bench to your left?”
“Yes.”
“Take off the backpack. Put it on the bench and sit down next to it.”
I did.
“Good,” the kidnapper said. “Now chill. I’ll be by in a bit to pick it up.”
“What about the dog?”
“All good things come to he who waits. Oh, and I’ll want the cell phone back. Put it in the pack with the money.” Click, he hung up.
Smart request. Cell phones contain a treasure trove of information. From fingerprints to call records, cops love cell phones. Hell, they can even use them to triangulate your location. But I had my AJ-1800, so I dropped the Motorola into the backpack.
I did a quick scan. Still no sign of Stacy or Piccolo. No hint of where the kidnapper/car thief/ murderer could be hiding.
Then I heard the sound of an approaching brass band. Kids jumped up and down in glee. Parents focused their video cameras as they lined the street. A parade! Son of a bitch, I thought. That’s why I had to be here at 3:55. The killer was going to use the parade as cover.
The Pied Piper led the procession of Magic World costumed characters. The classics like Cupid, Merlin, Rapunzel and those creepy Goblins. Then came some of the new stars, Piper the Pixie, Elvis the Elf and Tommy Troll. It’s not that I keep up, but you can’t buy a Big Mac anymore without seeing some damn promotion for the latest Magic Land 3-D movie.
Suddenly Merlin danced out of the parade and toward me. Merlin is, of course, a man completely enclosed in a costume. He’s got a huge head with busy eyebrows and the trademark long flowing beard.
He swept the backpack off the bench with his left arm, and then danced through the crowd of squealing kids and back into the parade.
Shit, I thought. This guy’s good.
Then I heard it. Piccolo’s whiny voice: “Freeze, police!” I spun to see Piccolo burst through the crowd, weapon drawn. Stacy was a step or two behind him.
Suddenly Merlin’s left hand exploded, blown out by the bullets fired from the gun hidden beneath the costume.
Stacy and Piccolo dove for cover as the shots zinged harmlessly off the pavement. Stacy rolled, came up, gun ready. But Merlin was standing in front of the Jack and the Beanstalk float. Stacy was too smart to shoot in a theme park full of kids.
Piccolo wasn’t. He leveled his automatic and fired. Merlin lurched left, the bullet missed him and hit Rapunzel. The impact of the blast lifted her off her feet and into the arms of a stunned Rumpelstiltskin.
Merlin was a better shot. He f
ired twice, both shots hitting Piccolo. One bullet tore into the bulletproof vest, the second was buried in his left shoulder.
Stacy worked her way past Tom Thumb and Thumbelina, trying to flank Merlin. As she raised her weapon, a 315-pound plumber from South Bend, Indiana—on vacation with his wife and three kids—saw what he must’ve thought was a crazed woman trying to shoot the beloved Merlin and decided to be a hero. He dove, wrapping his huge arms around Stacy, and drove her into the ground. Stacy let out a cry as the wind was knocked out of her.
That left me. Now I could’ve been smart, let Merlin leave the park and just use my tracking device to follow him. But bullets were flying, my ex-wife was watching, and the testosterone kicked in, making me stupid. So I pulled the Glock out of my shoulder holster, jumped off the bench, and leapt into the fray.
Meanwhile, Merlin grabbed Ali Baba by the arm and yanked him off his black stallion. Merlin tried to put his feet in the stirrup, but the costumed boots were too big. He tried to pull himself up by the horn, but the costume was too heavy.
By then I’d reached him. I threw a punch, catching Merlin squarely on the jaw. Unfortunately, the thick costume cushioned the blow. Merlin swung the backpack at me, hitting me in the face. Dazed, I dropped to my knees. He whacked me in the head again, and I went down, double-dazed.
Merlin leapt onto the Jack and the Beanstalk float and from there jumped onto the horse. By now, people were beginning to figure out Merlin was a bad guy.
Elvis the Elf and Tommy Troll tried to rush him. Merlin fired twice—dropping both of them—kicked the flanks of the horse and rode off.
I got to my feet and stumbled after him, watching helplessly as he galloped into the Deep Dark Forest.
“Do something,” Stacy wheezed as she joined me, still fighting for breath.
“All right,” I said, and ran. Not after Merlin, but in the opposite direction. I ran past the charging security people, past the siren-blaring ambulances. I ran through the panicked crowd, and charged toward the exit.
I jigged around a terrified little girl, clinging to her equally terrified mother. I leaped over a moaning woman clutching a twisted ankle.
I burst through the main entrance into the parking lot. Police cars and ambulances screamed through the sea of cars toward me. My Taurus was parked about a half mile away, wedged between a Lexus and a Ford Aerostar. I had to get to my SpyZone AJ-1800, but I was pooped. I’d run about as far as I could without cramping up or throwing up. Luckily I saw one of the parking lot trams at the curb, the driver standing next to it, staring at the incoming procession of cops and paramedics. I slid into the front seat and floored it!
Now a souped-up golf cart pulling eight twenty-four-foot tramcars doesn’t exactly burn rubber, but I was pleasantly surprised when it accelerated rapidly.
The tram driver spun as he heard his tram driving off and yelled at me, “Stop!”
I didn’t.
The tram driver ran after me but the tram was really starting to roll now—twenty, twenty-five, thirty miles an hour. In a last ditch effort, the tram driver dove and grabbed onto the bumper of the last tramcar. Hanging on by his fingernails, his legs dragging across the asphalt, he slowly tried to pull himself into the last car.
What was wrong with this guy? We’re talking about a tram here, not the prototype of the stealth fighter, and he was doing an Indiana Jones, risking his life to stop me.
Suddenly a motor home pulled out ahead of me, blocking the road. I yanked the wheel hard left, ducking into the nearest row. But as I skidded past a Mercedes, just missing its bumper, I knew the law of physics was about to wreak havoc.
Force, mass, and inertia combined to send the train of tramcars behind me into an ever-widening arc, whipsawing the trams toward a line of parked cars.
I glanced back to see the tram driver’s eyes saucer open in horror as he slid helplessly toward a Cadillac Eldorado. He let go and was slingshot past the Caddy, under a battered Ford pickup and into a Lexus LS400 with the personalized plate: HPYFCE. The tram driver hit with a sickening thud and slid to the ground, unconscious.
Behind me, the caravan reached the end of its arc. The coupling snapped on the last tram and it flipped over, tumbled once head over heels, and smashed into an old Volkswagen bug.
The second-to-last tram also broke free. It hit a Honda Accord first, crushed the hood and shattered the windshield.
The tram then bounced into a Chevy Lumina, crunched a Toyota Celica and mashed a Jaguar XJS before it came to rest, upside down, on top of three Harleys with New Mexico license plates.
I thought to myself, Thank God this isn’t a movie. In a movie, the motorcycles would’ve blown up. Things always blow up in movies, but almost never do in real life.
KABOOM! One of the motorcycles blew up. KABOOM! The other two blew.
I just kept going, faster now that I was pulling fewer cars. I zoomed past more incoming black and whites, squealed a right turn into Row Q34—my train of tram cars snaking obediently and safely behind me—and skidded to a stop next to a surprised Hillary.
She was standing outside the car, staring incredulously at the fireball.
“What happened?”
“The expression, ‘It’s a long story,’ comes to mind,” I said, jumping into the car and starting the engine.
Hillary climbed in next to me. “Where we going?”
“After the kidnapper.” I picked the AJ-1800 off the seat and handed it to her. “He could be half way to L.A. by now. Which way’s he moving?”
She studied it for a confused moment and said, “He’s not.”
“What?”
“He’s not moving. Unless this thing is, like, broken, he’s still in the park.”
Abracadabra Already
Thousands of people spilled out the Magic Land exits as Hillary and I fought our way back into the park. We could hear snippets of conversation from the fleeing masses.
“Merlin had a machine gun and opened fire on ...”
“No, sixty hostages, in the Gargoyle Maze …”
“Arab terrorists, who else would bomb ...”
“Two hundred dead so far and they’re still ...
The rumors were flying. Judging by the armada of news helicopters circling above us, I knew that every TV station in L.A. had interrupted regular programming to report that murder and mayhem had visited Magic Land. The news media loves this kind of shit. The bigger the disaster, the better. Live remotes. Expert interviews. Useless speculation. If corpses could spin in their graves, Edward R. Murrow’s would look like a tornado hit it.
Cops and paramedics swarmed over the scene of the shooting. Yellow police tape had already been strung as shocked Magic Land security people kept back the morbidly curious.
I spotted Stacy, radio in hand, standing by her wounded partner. When she saw me she rushed over. “Are you nuts, Gideon? You watch that murdering SOB ride off one way and you run off the other? I always knew you were a fucking asshole, but I didn’t realize you were a chickenshit fucking asshole.”
She did have a way with words. “You find him?” I asked.
“No, he’s vanished.”
I held up the AJ-1800. “Maybe this’ll help.” We were getting a signal, strong and steady, to the north-northwest, about half a mile away. I headed at a quick trot in that direction, Stacy and Hillary beside me.
Stacy barked into her radio. “This is Wilson. I may have a 20 on the perp. I’m mobile, moving from Brothers Grimm Land to the Deep Dark Forest. Request backup.”
We got it backup. With every step we took, it seemed like another cop joined us. By the time we passed the Cave of the Cyclops, we were twenty-five strong.
The AJ-1800 led us to the bathrooms across from Mermaid Lagoon. “In there,” I pointed.
The cops formed a semi-circle surrounding the double doors, and then looked at Stacy for instructions.
“Don’t go in there,” I told her.
“You think he’s got a gun aimed at the door?”
/> “No. It’s a men’s room.”
Stacy withered me with a look, and then turned to the cops. “Gonzales, Pederson, Jacobs, back me up.”
“I’m going in, too,” I said, pulling my gun.
“Forget it, Gideon. This is police business.”
“Only because you and your nitwit partner fucked up the drop. If you’d let me do it my way ...”
“Can it, Sinatra. You’re waiting out here.” She turned to her cops. “On three. One, two ...”
I’ve never been good at taking orders and wasn’t about to start now. I handed Hillary the AJ-1800, shouldered past Stacy and burst into the bathroom.
Merlin was standing against the back wall, his arm up, gun aimed at my heart. Swinging my gun into position, I dove for the floor.
I fired three times. My shots sounded like hand grenades in the tile room, and I kept waiting for the echo of his shot. It never came.
I looked up to see three ragged holes in Merlin’s chest. He didn’t move for a moment; then he tipped over and fell.
The costume was empty. As Merlin landed, his head popped off and rolled across the floor, coming to rest in front of me. We were nose to nose.
The door banged open as Stacy and the cops ran in, guns ready. Hillary came through the door next, a panicked look on her face. “Gideon?!”
“I’m fine,” I said picking up Merlin’s head and looking at the empty costume. “But we’re too late. He’s gone.”
Hillary aimed the AJ-1800 at one of the stalls and pushed open the door. My backpack lay crumpled on the ground, empty.
“He switched the money into another bag,” I said. “Damn it.”
Hillary reached into the backpack. “There’s something in here.” She pulled out a key with a Magic Land logo stamped on it. A locker key.
Locker 257 was one of the small lockers—you know, the one you rent to store a breadbox. I slipped in the key as Hillary, Stacy and all twenty-five cops gathered round. They’d followed me back to Brothers Grimm Boulevard, all the way from the Deep Dark Forest. I felt like the Pied Piper. I was also starting to feel a little smothered, so I said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the SOB planted a bomb in here.”
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