Shoot to Thrill

by P. J. Tracy

  “Shut up, Frank, and listen.”

  Wow. Her voice was actually shaking.

  “I’ve got a crowd of people from Minneapolis yammering at me over the speakerphone, including an FBI agent, and there’s no number in the book for what they say is happening.”

  Frank flipped on the roof lights and pulled over onto the shoulder. “Okay, calm down, Mary, I’m listening.” He heard her take a deep breath.

  “They said someone’s going to kill one of the girls at the Little Steer tonight unless we can stop it.”

  “What? How the hell do they—?”

  “Don’t ask questions, Frank, just take it as gospel and get the hell over there. We don’t have much time.”

  He turned on the siren, cranked the wheel, and stood on the accelerator. Shoulder gravel rooster-tailed into the ditch and then the front tires caught tar and the back tires laid twin lines of rubber. “Jesus, Mary, I’m twenty miles away!” he yelled into the radio. “Isn’t there someone closer?”

  “No! There isn’t! So just step on it! And leave your radio open.”

  “You got it.”

  Frank didn’t do much talking after that, because he was doing sixty now on the road, trying to dodge the worst of the mud ridges the tractor tires had left, getting thrown from side to side, jerking the wheel, trying to keep the car upright. His palms were sweating, greasy on the wheel, and his heart was hammering.

  Nothing you can do, Frank, nothing you can do, just get there in one piece, and who the hell would want to kill one of the girls at the Little Steer, and why, for chrissakes? Who’s on tonight? Alma for sure, she worked every night shift; and Lisa, natch, because she damn near lived at the place, and oh, God, no, not Lisa.

  She was a great cook, a great person, his daughter’s best friend, a frequent visitor to the house when there had been a family living there, and two plump arms at the funeral wrapping around his waist, squeezing the breath out of him while she tried to hold his heart together, her tears soaking the one and only tie he’d ever owned.

  Look at you, Frank, you can handle sixty on these goddamned mud ridges, and that means maybe you can handle seventy, just ease it up slow, pay attention, breathe, goddamnit, breathe . . .

  A green mile marker flashed by the right side of the car. Fifteen miles to the freeway.

  THERE WERE TIMES GRACE could remember her heart actually hurting, as if some giant fist had it in its hand, squeezing down harder and harder until she thought it would surely be crushed. Those times all had names—people horribly murdered because of her—kept sacred in her memory like jewels in some Pandora’s box that only opened when another name was about to slip inside. Kathy and Daniella, her roommates in college; Marian Amburson and Johnny Bricker, foolish enough to want to be close to her; Libbie Herold, sent to save her, lifeblood flowing on the other side of a closet door, where Grace cowered, helpless.

  Helpless then, helpless now, huddled with the rest of them around the speakerphone at the big table, listening to what was going on in Wisconsin as if it were a horrible radio play.

  Frank, where are you?

  Coming up on the ten-mile marker. You got backup coming?

  The call’s out to everyone. Tommy’s up at the northern end of the county, but I got Brad out of bed, he was the closest. Should make it to the diner in about forty. Three counties and WHP are sending cars, but they’re all farther away.

  Shit, Mary.

  No answer at the diner. Maybe they all went home early.

  Pray to God.

  Agent John Smith leaned over the speakerphone. “Agent Smith here, Mary. Give us the owner’s name. We’ll call from here and get mobile and home numbers for whoever was working tonight.”

  They could hear Mary breathing hard, clicking on a keyboard.

  Then: “Ted Kaufman in Woodville. And thanks. I’ve got my hands full here . . .” the shrill ring of another call coming through on her end interrupted her.

  Roadrunner was covering ground to his computer station, long fingers moving even before he hit the chair. Precious seconds seemed to fly by. “I have Kaufman on line two, John, pick up and do your thing.”

  John took the call at Annie’s desk because it was closest, and so he wouldn’t interrupt the transmissions they were still getting over the speakerphone on line one. It was turning into a nightmare of noise now; the siren in Frank’s squad wailing whenever he keyed in, Mary on Dispatch talking nonstop to the highway patrol and other deputies who were calling in.

  John talked fast, too fast, and probably sounded crazed. “Mr. Kaufman, this is Special Agent John Smith of the FBI and I need the home and mobile numbers of anyone working at the Little Steer tonight.”

  “Who did you say this was? Goddamnit, George, is that you? If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times . . .”

  John dragged his fingers down his face so hard they left angry red rake marks on his cheek. “Please shut up, Mr. Kaufman. I’m an FBI agent and we have a killer either in your diner now, or on his way to kill one of your employees. Now give me their phone numbers right now.”

  Silence for a moment, then John heard, “I gotta get my book. Hang on a second.”

  John rolled his eyes upward to see Annie standing next to him. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “This is a fucking nightmare.”

  Annie covered his hand with hers, and then he had to snatch it away because Ted Kaufman was spitting out phone numbers like a slot machine hitting the jackpot. He wrote them all down, then ripped off the tablet sheet and handed it to Annie. “Split ’em up, call them all.”

  “Except Lisa,” Ted Kaufman said through the receiver. “It’s just ten o’clock. That’s closing, and she’s there cleaning up for an hour after, regular as clockwork, every night.”

  “We’ve been calling the restaurant, the phone rolls over to voice mail.”

  “Huh,” Kaufman said. “That’s weird. Lisa always answers. Her mom’s been sick.”

  Smith closed his eyes.

  LISA HAD HER ARMS braced on the Formica counter while she watched the young man eat her meatloaf sandwich. He was almost dainty, using a fork, chewing each bite for a long time, eyes closed and lips curled in the slightest smile.

  “Unbelievable,” he said between bites, careful to make sure his mouth was empty. “Sage, for sure, and what is that? A little thyme?”

  Lisa beamed. “That’s right.”

  “And shallots, not onions. You caramelized them first, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  He took a last bite, and pushed the plate away with one finger. “You ever watch the Food Network?”

  Lisa slapped an open hand to her ample bosom. “Omigod. Are you kidding? I never miss any of the shows.”

  “That guy who does the show on great food at diners, what is it called?”

  “Omigod again. That’s Guy What’s-his-name. Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. He’s so amazingly totally super.”

  “You belong on that show.”

  He had really blue eyes, or maybe they were green, but oh, Lisa felt them look into her and see what was really there. “How do you feel about going on camera?” he asked.

  Lisa felt her heart flutter. “Excuse me?”

  THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING Grace could do. Listen to Mary fielding calls to Dispatch in Wisconsin; listen to John shouting into the phone at Annie’s desk, and then to Annie and Harley and Roadrunner frantically calling people who were on shift at the Little Steer, and now home, safe. All except Lisa, whoever she was.

  She heard Charlie whine and looked to her right. He was on the chair next to her, eyes worried while her right hand twisted the hair on the top of his head. “Oh, Charlie,” she murmured into his forehead, “I’m sorry.” His tongue accepted her apology just as Mary asked Deputy Frank Goebel where he was and how much longer.

  Five miles, Mary. Three minutes if I don’t crash first. This road is shit.

  It’s Lisa, Frank. She’s there alone. The Minneapolis people called the rest of
them, and they’re all home. I’ve got no help for you for at least another fifteen minutes. You’re the man.

  FRANK SAW THE LIGHTS a full mile away. The clouds were low tonight, and the sodium vapors bounced from cloud back to earth, marking the place the Little Steer claimed for its own near the freeway.

  He tasted the braised steak and garlic potatoes Lisa Timmersman had made for his lunch just today; he felt her arms around his waist at his daughter’s funeral over a year ago; and in a very strange way, he saw things coming together to make a destiny he never would have imagined.

  EVERYONE WAS BACK AROUND the table in the Monkeewrench office, all of them leaning toward the speakerphone, listening hard, faces brittle and swept back like astronauts in a centrifuge.

  Turn off the siren, Frank. He’ll know you’re coming and he’ll bolt.

  I love you, Mary, but fuck you. I want him to hear the siren. I want him to bolt. I want Lisa to live.

  SOMETIMES THERE WAS NO explanation for the way God worked in this world. Lisa Timmersman didn’t understand why a nice young man with a really nice face who liked her meatloaf would suddenly grab her by the neck and slap a piece of gray sticky tape over her mouth; or why he’d tie her hands and ankles with those plastic things that Best Buy used to hold their bags together; and she didn’t understand why anyone would carry around a knife that big.

  “I’m afraid this might be very painful,” the young man said with a small smile, and that’s when Lisa began to buck her way across the linoleum floor like an inchworm trying to outrun a snake. He laughed at that, and for the first time, tears squirted out of her eyes.

  THE FIVE PEOPLE at Monkeewrench were still leaning toward the speakerphone on the table, staring at it as if their eyes would help them hear something other than the deputy’s siren. That’s all there had been for the past several minutes; the constant wailing of that siren and occasionally in the background, a steady, whispered mumbling, probably coming from Mary.

  “What’s she saying?” Annie asked.

  John Smith, who had known his way around a church a million years ago, folded his hands together as if he were in one now. “She’s praying.”

  Mary, I’m there!

  They all jumped at Deputy Frank’s sudden shout.

  I see Lisa’s car and a red Ford F-150 parked around the side, can’t read the plate—Jesus God there he goes!

  In Minneapolis, they heard the siren, still wailing, the release of a seat belt, a car door flung open, and then there was Frank’s voice, screaming.

  Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot!

  The roar of an engine, the sound of tires screeching on asphalt, and then the gunfire. There were nine shots, and then Mary yelling into the radio.

  Frank? FRANK!

  THERE WASN’T A FRACTION of a second small enough to measure the time it took for Deputy Frank Goebel to make his choice. Chase the bad guy as he sped out of the parking lot and onto the back roads, or go inside and see to Lisa. No choice at all really. No options.

  He found her tied to one of the stools at the counter, clothes-line around her neck, pulling her head back, blood seeping from the duct tape across her mouth. One of her eyelids was swollen shut, but the other eye opened when he bent over her and said her name.

  “Hey, Lisa.” He tried not to hurt her when he pulled the duct tape from her lips, apologized because he knew it was painful, and then he took his knife to the plastic and rope that bound her, screw whatever evidence he was destroying, and called into his shoulder unit for an ambulance.

  “Hi, Mr. Goebel.”

  “Hi, Lisa.”

  “He didn’t cut me. He had a big knife and he said it was going to hurt and then he heard the siren and ran away.” Blood was coming out of her mouth, garbling her voice.

  Frank scowled hard and kept working at the ropes around her, trying not to look at her ruined face, trying not to remember that he’d been a second too late—just a second—to save his daughter from bleeding out when a drunk driver had crossed the freeway median and sent a sliver of windshield through her jugular. “I’m glad, Lisa. Be still now.”

  CHAPTER 20

  MAGOZZI STILL HADN’T GOTTEN USED TO WALKING INTO HIS own house through the front door. Nothing looked right, and he doubted very much that it ever would again. He’d learned that there were a couple of life-changing mistakes it was almost impossible to undo: one was marrying the wrong person; another was—and God help any man who tried it—hiring a decorator.

  He stood at the archway to his living room, knowing absolutely that he was not supposed to set foot on that stupid Oriental rug without taking his shoes off. Why the hell would anyone slap down an area rug on top of wall-to-wall carpet? There was no sense to that at all, and some very real dangers. His socks always tangled in the silly fringe around the edges, and you could see every misstep he’d made in shoes on the cream border.

  Shoes, or not shoes. Funny how he could make rational snap judgments at a river crime scene, looking at a bloated body, yet found himself paralyzed at the entrance of his own living room.

  His old battered recliner was gone; the big-screen TV was hidden behind the massive doors of a piece of furniture he still couldn’t pronounce, and funny-colored pillows in weird shapes were scattered all over the place.

  When the decorator had finished two months ago, there had been a very specific place for each pillow; something to do with contrasting colors and textures, the cohesiveness of the room design—bullshit like that. The pillows still pissed him off. It took several to cushion his head when he crashed on the sofa that was a foot too short for his six-plus feet, and they kept sliding off the new leather massage recliner he’d insisted on buying, even when the decorator made a prune face. Someday, when he was retired from the force, he was going to hunt down that woman and slap her silly with those pillows.

  The phone rang while his second frozen dinner was still in the microwave. He never looked at the picture on the box when he bought them, never looked before he nuked them, but this one smelled really weird. “Magozzi here . . .”

  Grace never bothered with hellos before starting a phone conversation, especially if she was tired or stressed, and tonight she sounded both. “Wisconsin saved the girl, the perp got away. I don’t know where you got your information about the location of that diner, but make sure you tell the source they saved a life. Apparently the guy heard the siren coming and bolted before he could do some real damage. He pulled out of the parking lot just as the deputy was pulling in.”

  “How is the girl?”

  “Pretty banged up, pretty terrified, but she’s talking. He tied her up and came at her with a knife, Magozzi, just like the one in Medford last night.”

  Magozzi thought about that for a minute. “Oregon’s a long way from Wisconsin.”

  “If he flew, it’s possible, and, God love airports, they have cameras all over the place. The girl gave a pretty good description; they’ve got a sketch artist with her now, hoping for some distinguishing characteristics they can start comparing to security footage.”

  “Witness sketches suck, Grace, you know that. They all look like celebrities. Did the deputy get a tag on whatever the perp was driving?”

  “Better than that. He put nine bullets into it. They found it at a freeway wayside four miles away. Stolen, of course. They’re guessing he had his own vehicle parked there and switched them out. He could be anywhere by now.”

  “Cameras at the wayside? And how about at the diner?”

  “Nothing at the wayside, and get this: he backed into the door at the diner so the camera couldn’t pick up his face.”

  “Smart. Any more news out of Medford?”

  “No. The woman’s still unconscious, and the cops and Feds are still processing. Prelim reports by tomorrow morning, they think, but still no leads.”

  The microwave pinged and Magozzi popped open the door, releasing an unidentifiable miasma that smelled lethal. He peeled back the film to reveal an unappetizing brown mash.
<
br />   “Listen, Magozzi, I’m dead on my feet. Anything else you need before I collapse?”

  “Yeah. Do you know what Indian food smells like?”

  “Doesn’t matter what it smells like. It’s good for you. Eat it.”

  After he hung up, he examined the cardboard box that had contained his latest gift to the microwave, then poked a fork into the mushy brown stuff. It wouldn’t win any beauty contests, but surprisingly, it was pretty damn good. Anant would be pleased.

  Between mouthfuls, he picked up the phone and dialed Gino.

  “This better be good, Leo, because you just woke me out of a sound sleep,” he grumbled.

  “How are you already asleep? You just got home.”

  “I was already asleep before I walked in the door. What’s up?”

  Magozzi relayed his conversation with Grace, which seemed to perk up his partner considerably.

  “Hell, that’s terrific news. Way to go, Judge. Send him a fruit basket.”

  “I’ll do one better than that—I’m going to call him right now.”

  “Whoa. You found religion in the last half hour? Since when are you into validating drunken sots?”

  “Since never. But he saved a life, unwittingly or not.”

  “I think the unwittingly part means something, Leo.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Don’t trip over your skirt on the way to bed, buddy.”

  “Screw you, Gino. Go to sleep.”

  “I hear, and I obey.” Gino hung up instantly, which meant Angela had put her hand on him, and maybe exhaled against his skin, and in that moment, Magozzi hated him.

  JUDGE JIM WAS SITTING in his office, reflecting on the history of technology. Invariably, all the powerful technological tools that were invented for the good of mankind ultimately fell into hands that turned them toward evil. Dr. Richard Gatling invented his rapid-fire weapon because he thought it would end war. The A-bomb was invented for the same reason, and now every crazy fucker had one. The people behind weapons of destruction should have spent less time in their labs and more time on the streets, observing humanity. And now, the World Wide Web . . .