by Sean Lynch
Suddenly flashing lights lit up the truck. Slocum glanced into the rearview mirror, and Cuszack craned his neck to look through the back window. The pulsating red and blue lights of a police car were rapidly approaching.
The snow-covered countryside added an eerie quality to the lights. The glistening white panorama turned a blinking red. Slocum put the truck into a lower gear and headed over to the side of the road.
Cuszack panicked.
“They know what you did at Zeke’s! They know we’re holding dope! They know about the guns! We gotta run for it! We gotta–”
Slocum silenced him with a backhand. He grabbed Cuszack by his collar and slammed him against the back of the seat.
“Shut the fuck up. He probably pulled us over because the truck’s got no license plates. Let me handle it.”
He braked the truck to a stop. The police car halted a car length behind. Slocum closed one eye to preserve half of his night vision. An instant later, as anticipated, a blinding spotlight was directed into the truck’s cabin, illuminating the interior.
Cuszack sat petrified. With one eye closed, Slocum reached under the seat. He then switched off the ignition of the truck. With the engine quiet, the crunching sound of footsteps trudging through snow were audible. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he rolled down the window and unlatched the driver’s door. He slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket.
The darting beams of two flashlights invaded the cabin. Their angle gave Slocum a general idea of both the distance and location of the two police officers directing them. One was on the truck’s passenger’s side, wading through the snowbank on the shoulder of the road. The other, most likely the driver of the patrol car, was approaching from the driver’s side.
Slocum realized the car was not a sheriff’s patrol, but belonged instead to the Iowa Highway Patrol. He could see the silhouette of their campaign hats in the halo of the spotlights.
“No matter what happens, Buddy,” he whispered, “don’t move. You got that? Don’t fucking move.”
Cuszack nodded meekly, frozen in fear. A state trooper appeared at the driver’s side window.
“Evening, officer,” Slocum said calmly. “What seems to be the problem?”
The trooper peered into the truck, shining his flashlight. His partner stood outside Cuszack’s window. He saw the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the seat between the two occupants. When he looked at the driver, he saw a huge man with one eye closed staring back at him. Next he noticed the driver’s hands out of view. By then it was too late.
Slocum slammed his shoulder into the truck’s driver’s door, flinging it open. The impact knocked the trooper to the snow-covered ground. In the same motion he drew the .45 from his pocket and fired three rounds at the trooper standing outside Cuszack’s window. The gunshots were deafening in the confined space of the cabin, and were aimed across Cuszack’s chest. Buddy stayed locked in place, temporarily blinded by the muzzle flashes.
Three holes materialized in the passenger’s window, and then the flashlight was no longer shining its beam into the cabin. Slocum darted out of the truck, pulling the sawed-off shotgun from beneath his seat.
The trooper who’d been knocked senseless clawed at his holster, trying to regain his feet. Slocum kneed him in the face and he fell again. Slocum opened his closed eye, and closed the open one. He brought the sawed-off scattergun to bear on the downed trooper. The weapon roared, and the top of the trooper’s head disappeared in a crimson spray.
Cuszack screamed unintelligibly. Slocum ignored his howls and crouched down, searching for the other trooper.
The remaining trooper was crouched on the opposite side of the truck. Like Slocum, he was using the engine block as cover. Slocum heard a voice over Cuszack’s shrieking, and surmised the state cop was calling for help via his portable radio. He saw spots of blood staining the snow beneath the trooper’s boots, and knew at least one of his .45 slugs struck its target.
Slocum found himself in a stalemate. He had one barrel left in the sawed-off, and five rounds in his pistol. He was certain the trooper had his own weapon ready, and was waiting for him to expose himself. He’d spent the element of surprise on his companion, and couldn’t expect to catch the remaining trooper off guard.
He couldn’t afford to wait for the trooper to make a mistake or succumb to his wounds. His radio call would soon bring every cop in the county, and the snowstorm could only delay their arrival a few moments at best.
Slocum looked under the truck, thankful he had the foresight to preserve his night vision as he’d been taught in the Corps. He could see one of the trooper’s legs from the knee down.
It was enough.
Taking careful aim with the shotgun, he fired at the cop’s leg. The trooper bellowed in agony and fell to the ground. Most of his foot, and the boot which once covered it, dissolved into a bloody pulp. Slocum took a hasty shot with his .45, but saw it go wide. The trooper rolled away from the truck and into the snow-filled ditch.
Slocum started to rush the trooper, but retreated when several bullets struck the fender of the truck, narrowly missing his head. He returned fire, angry with himself for wasting a precious bullet on a reflex shot.
It was a stalemate again. The trooper, though wounded at least twice, had taken cover in the ditch. Slocum’s pistol was only three shots from empty, and the shotgun was now useless. The trooper had an unobstructed view of the truck, and he doubted the cop would miss again if given another shot. All the state cop had to do was wait for the cavalry to arrive.
Slocum bit his lip. He contemplated making a dash for the dead trooper’s gun. That would mean breaking cover, and in all likelihood he’d be cut down. He thought about reaching into the cab of the truck and grabbing the AR-15 stashed under the seat. That would expose his legs, and leave him to the same fate as his now crippled adversary.
To do nothing, however, was certain death. Any moment more cops would swarm in. He had to act.
Slocum was preparing to rush the trooper, infantry-style, when he heard the truck’s passenger door open. It was then he noticed Buddy had stopped screaming, although he couldn’t remember when Cuszack had grown silent.
Shots rang out, a lot of them. Slocum could hear screams again, both Buddy’s and the trooper’s. He peeked over the hood of the truck, startled at what he saw.
Buddy Cuszack leaped from the truck with the AR-15 rifle. He charged the prone trooper, firing from the hip. The cop, who’d been focusing his aim at Slocum, hadn’t seen Buddy emerge from the truck until too late. He was cut to pieces in a hail of fire from the semi-automatic weapon. He crumpled face down in the snow, steam rising from the countless holes in his body.
Cuszack continued to fire until the weapon’s magazine was empty. Only when the bolt locked back, and the last brass casing spun off into the snow, did he cease firing. He dropped the rifle and sank to his knees, sobbing.
Slocum wasted no time. He ran to the trooper in the ditch and grabbed his revolver and spare ammo. Pocketing the cop’s weapon, he grabbed Cuszack and hoisted him into the truck. He tossed the AR-15 rifle in after him. He went to the other trooper’s body next and took his revolver and spare ammo as well. He jumped into the truck, started the engine, and sped off.
Cuszack was in a catatonic state. Slocum patted him on the shoulder.
“You did real good back there, Buddy,” he said. “I owe you.”
CHAPTER 23
Deputy Kevin Kearns lay prone on the motel room floor grunting through a set of push-ups. He’d been alone for several hours since Farrell left to go grocery shopping. The retired San Francisco cop checked them into a Holiday Inn under the names Richard and Donald Henderson; father and son.
Kearns had the TV turned on, though was only half-heartedly paying attention. Star Trek was playing, but not the old reruns with Captain Kirk and Mister Spock. Commanding the Enterprise in this new show was a bald guy with a British accent. Kearns was about to switch the channel to something e
lse when a member of the crew named Counselor Troi appeared on the screen in a uniform that showcased her cleavage. Kearns decided he liked the new Star Trek.
He was also thinking about what transpired within the last twenty-four hours. He was certain Sergeant Evers and the sheriff were wondering what happened to him, and guessed Special Agent Scanlon had already issued a warrant for his arrest.
He finished the push-ups and reversed his position to begin sit-ups. Exercise cleared his head. He needed a clear head now.
A few scant hours ago a stranger posing as his attorney lured him away from what was left of his ruined career. That same stranger, now claiming to be an ex-San Francisco cop, convinced him to join forces and hunt a serial murderer named Vernon Slocum. A killer whose identity was known only to them.
Sweat glistened on his body. His brain felt as if it was also sweating.
Too much was happening too fast. He wondered if a more experienced cop would have avoided the series of events which led to his predicament. Frustrated at having no better instincts to rely on, he took out his anger on his muscles.
He pondered bracing Farrell when he returned, and telling the older cop he wanted out. Returning to the sheriff’s department and facing the music. Informing Agent Scanlon and Sergeant Evers about Slocum and about the file Farrell swiped from the VA hospital. Maybe they would understand.
Not likely.
Kearns switched back to push-ups. He chuckled to himself over the irony of it all. The task force had no idea of Slocum’s identity. An alcoholic ex-cop from California produced more by himself, in one afternoon, than the combined efforts of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Iowa State Police, and the Story County Sheriff’s Department.
For all his seedy methods, the chain-smoking Californian got results.
Kearns got up to answer a loud and insistent pounding on the motel room door. He squinted through the peephole.
Farrell stood in the doorway laden with packages. He was knocking on the door with his foot. Kearns opened the door, and Farrell staggered into the room under the weight of his burden. He dropped his cargo on the bed and plopped down, out of breath.
“Getting your Christmas shopping done early?” Kearns said.
Farrell shrugged out of his trench coat and loosened his tie. “Give me a minute to catch my wind,” he said, lighting a cigarette.
Farrell went to the bathroom and poured himself a large glass of water. Kearns had been exercising in his undershorts and now donned his trousers.
“Hell,” remarked Farrell, noting Kearns’ muscular torso. “If I’d known you were Charles Atlas I’d have brought you along to carry the groceries.”
“You told me to wait here. I waited here.”
“It was sound advice; by now most of the cops in Iowa will be looking for you.”
“Thanks to you.”
Farrell motioned for Kearns to sit down. He made an extravagant gesture of unpacking his purchases, which consisted of two large bags and an oblong-shaped box.
From the first bag Farrell produced a carton of Camel cigarettes and a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon whiskey. Kearns grunted. Next, his bony fingers brought out several pairs of thermal underwear and two packages of socks.
“We’re not going to have time to do laundry,” he said. “And it’s cold as hell in this godforsaken state of yours.”
Next came food, none of which seemed particularly healthy to Kearns. Instant coffee, doughnuts, pretzels, cough drops, breath mints, and a box of Oreo cookies.
“This is what you ventured out into a blizzard to get? These are the essentials?”
“One man’s pill is another man’s poison,” Farrell said. “Be patient, young deputy, the best is yet to come.”
He tossed the empty grocery bag aside and delved into the other. Its contents proved more interesting.
Farrell held up a Radio Shack box and handed it to Kearns. It was a police scanner.
“The guy at the mall sold me all the crystals for the police frequencies. Cost over a hundred dollars, but worth it. Here, this goes with it.” He tossed Kearns a parcel. “It’s an adapter that plugs into the car’s cigarette lighter.”
Digging further into the bag, Farrell withdrew two other items and set them on the table in front of Kearns.
“You carry a Smith & Wesson Model 19, two and a half inch, don’t you?”
“How’d you know that?”
“You’ve been a cop as long as I have, you learn to check people for guns. Your coat pocket’s a lousy place to carry your roscoe; you’ll get a shitty draw. Try this.”
He handed Kearns a holster. It was a Bianchi right-handed model for the S&W Model 19, two and a half inch barrel. With the holster was a box of cartridges in .38 Special +P caliber.
“You carry magnums in that six-gun?”
Kearns nodded.
“Lose them. You’ll get more control with .38s out of a short barrel, and better recovery time between shots.”
Kearns took his revolver from his coat pocket. The gun fit snugly in the new holster. Thumbing open the weapon’s cylinder release, he ejected the six .357 magnum cartridges. He replaced them with the new .38 +Ps.
“I don’t have any money to pay you for this.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Next Farrell unpacked two flashlights and batteries. “I’m afraid of the dark,” he said.
“What’s in there?” Kearns asked, motioning to the oblong box. “Flowers?”
“Nah,” Farrell said. “We’re not at that stage of our relationship; maybe on the second date.” He opened the box to reveal a shotgun. Kearns’ eyes widened. Farrell hefted the weapon and held it lovingly at arm’s length.
“Remington 870, twelve-gauge pump. Best goddamned law enforcement public-relations tool ever invented.” Farrell placed the shotgun gingerly on the bed. He filled a plastic cup with ice and topped it with Jim Beam.
“What’s the shotgun for?” Kearns asked.
“Butterfly hunting,” Farrell said dryly.
“Fuck you.”
Farrell ground out his cigarette.
“What do you think this is, boy: an Easter egg hunt?” The word “boy” was not lost on Kearns.
The Californian cocked his head to one side, appraising the Iowa deputy. “You think I’m a washed-up has-been who’s deluded himself into thinking he’s going to catch big bad Vernon Slocum, don’t you?”
Kearns’ silence was his answer.
“Yep, that’s me,” Farrell said. “A classic burnout.” He took another swig. “But let’s get something straight. I may be a has-been, but you’re a never-been. You wouldn’t know Slocum’s name if it wasn’t for me. You’d still be back at your hick town sheriff’s department getting the third degree from a federal bureaucrat. Answering ‘yes, sir,’ and ‘no, sir,’ and wringing your hands. All because you fucked up bagging Slocum when you had the chance.”
Kearns’ eyes flashed, but he held his tongue.
“That’s right. You fucked up. If you’d stopped Slocum in the schoolyard we wouldn’t be here now. I wouldn’t be freezing my gonads off in the middle of Iowa, and half the cops in the state wouldn’t be missing dinner with their families. You’d be a hero, that kid wouldn’t be dead, and your career wouldn’t be in the sewer. Those are the facts.”
“That’s enough,” Kearns said under his breath.
“No,” Farrell said, gulping down the last of his bourbon. “It ain’t enough. You’ve got some truth to face. We’re the same, you and me. Vernon Slocum made us that way. I’m you, a few years from now. The blood of Tiffany Meade is as much on my hands as yours. I fucked up my chance to take Slocum out in Vietnam.” He refilled his glass with bourbon. “It won’t happen again.”
“That was twenty years ago.”
“Makes no difference. Just like you, I let him slip through my fingers. And another child paid for my fuck-up.”
“You can’t blame yourself. It was out of your hands.”
Farrell grinned at
Kearns. “You’ve been telling yourself that for a couple of days now. Sleeping any better?”
Kearns looked at the carpet.
“Well, kid,” Farrell said, raising his glass in a mock toast, “if it’s any consolation, I ain’t been sleeping so good either.” He emptied his glass for a second time.
Farrell’s voice softened. “Kevin, the shotgun is because we’ll need it. Do you think finding Slocum is going to be the hard part? Assuming we locate him, he’s going to go out like a wolverine. If we aren’t ready he’ll leave us both hanging in a tree.” Farrell ran his hands through his thinning hair. “Maybe I was wrong to drag you into this. I thought you understood what we’re up against. I figured because of what happened in that schoolyard you’d want in. Maybe you’d better rethink this whole thing. You won’t hurt my feelings if you want out.”
“I don’t want to quit. I know what I’m getting into.”
“I’m not sure you do. I can’t have you along if you’re going to question everything I do. Like I said, this ain’t a butterfly hunt.”
“Cut me some slack. Six hours ago I didn’t know who Vernon Slocum was. I don’t want out.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Just start treating me like a partner instead of a subordinate. If I knew what you were up to, I wouldn’t have to question you all the time.”
“Fair enough.”
The men shook hands awkwardly.
“Jesus,” Farrell said. “You don’t want a hug, do you?”
“Not likely. I’m going to hit the shower.”
“About time; you smell like a goat. Soon as you’re done we’ll get a bite to eat. I’m starving.”
“I forgot,” Kearns called out from the bathroom. “You told Scanlon you were taking me out to lunch.”
“So I lied. It was dinner.”
While Kearns showered, Farrell field-stripped the shotgun and cleaned off the Cosmoline. He switched the channel from Star Trek to a local news broadcast.
“…our top story tonight: In the wake of a fiery explosion outside Coon Rapids today, investigators have ruled out the possibility of an accidental cause in the blaze. State arson inspectors would not comment on the incident, but this station has learned that foul play is definitely suspected. Ron Rawlings is live in Coon Rapids.”