Egg Drop Dead

by Laura Childs

Her brain spun like an off-kilter merry-go-round, complete with dizzying sound effects. Whose truck was this anyway?

  But she knew exactly who owned this truck. It belonged to Todd Lansky. She’d seen Lansky park it here around the same time Julian Elder had appeared.

  Oh dear Lord. Could it be?

  Like a woman possessed, Suzanne gathered up her long skirt, ran back across the road, and slalomed her way through the crowd of Halloween revelers. A werewolf loomed in front of her, a zombie offered her a glass of beer, but she kept going. And didn’t stop until she practically collided with Sam.

  “Whoa, whoa, Suzanne,” he said. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  “It’s . . . I saw . . .” Suzanne wasn’t exactly sure what she’d seen. She drew a deep breath and said, “Did I tell you I saw the name ‘Gleason’ scrawled in Mike Mullen’s calendar?”

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “The thing is . . . I just saw that same name written across a weird-looking barrel-shaped container in the back of Todd Lansky’s truck. But . . . I don’t know what it means.”

  This time Sam offered her a strange, somewhat concerned look. “Gleason?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not referring to Gleason Sci are you?”

  Suzanne grabbed his arm. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Gleason Scientific Medical,” Sam said. “They’re a chemical company. Labs use them. For ether, nitric acid, reagents, and buffers, that sort of thing.”

  Suzanne was incredulous. “You said ether? What would something like that be used for? I mean, if you were a guy from around here. A farmer, let’s say. Why would you possibly need ether?”

  Sam’s brows pinched together. “I kind of hate to say this but . . . maybe for a meth lab?”

  The pieces were suddenly tumbling into place for Suzanne. “And you’d need large tanks, too?” she asked excitedly. “The kind a dairy farm or a cheese shop might use?”

  “I suppose so.” Sam looked nervous. “Suzanne, tell me where you’re going with this. Tell me everything.”

  “Mrs. D.” Joey was suddenly at her elbow. “Petra wants to know if she should bring out the cake now.”

  Suzanne grabbed Joey by the shoulders. “Joey, I need to ask you something.”

  Joey suddenly looked twitchy. “What’s wrong? What’d I do?”

  “I’m going to point to a guy and I want you to tell me if you’ve ever seen him before.”

  “Huh?” Joey said. “What guy?”

  “Just a minute.” Suzanne turned to scan the crowd. “Okay, Joey, that man standing next to the band. You see him? He’s leaning against the tree talking to that lady in the Snoopy costume.”

  Joey’s eyes flicked across the crowded parking lot to Lansky. “Nah, I don’t recognize the dude.”

  “Are you sure? Focus, honey.”

  Joey squinted at Lansky again. “Jeez . . . maybe I have seen him around. But it would’ve been . . . near the school?”

  “Yes!” Suzanne said.

  Joey frowned. “Yeah, I think he sometimes hangs out there. But I always figured he was a parent come to pick up his kid.” His eyes flicked back at her. “Why? What’d he do?”

  “Oh dear Lord,” Sam said.

  “Joey,” Suzanne said. “I want you to go inside and wait in my office, okay?”

  “Now?” Joey asked.

  “Suzanne . . .” Sam said.

  “What about the cake?” Joey asked.

  “I’ll take care of the cake. For now I want you nice and safe, okay?”

  “If you say so.”

  Sam grabbed hold of Suzanne’s arm. “You think Lansky’s been cooking?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you’ve got to tell Doogie about this. You’ve got to . . .”

  “I will,” Suzanne said. “And you go find Deputy Driscoll, okay?”

  “Got it,” Sam said.

  Keeping one eye on Lansky, Suzanne circled around the perimeter of the party. Claudia Mullen was talking to Laura Benchley. Noah was handing his mother a plate of Bat Wings. Byron Wolf and Mayor Mobley were shaking hands with a newly elected city council member.

  None of that mattered to Suzanne right now. Her eyes were focused on the khaki bulk of Sheriff Doogie as she homed in on him like a heat-seeking missile.

  Doogie, no slouch at being cautious and circumspect, saw her coming. He took one step back into the shadows and waited for her.

  “Problem,” Suzanne said.

  Doogie leaned in as Suzanne gave him a two-minute, CliffsNotes explanation that connected the single word scrawled in Mike Mullen’s calendar with the canister in the back of Lansky’s truck. Doogie interrupted only once to ask a question as Suzanne struggled to explain, trying to connect the dots that led to a probable meth lab. When Doogie had heard enough, he gave a hard-eyed nod.

  “Stay back,” he warned Suzanne. “Let me handle this.”

  “Be careful,” Suzanne said. “Mike must have figured out the meth angle and confronted Lansky. And then Lansky got angry or frightened or whatever and killed him.”

  “I’ll deal with it.”

  Doogie sauntered over to Deputy Driscoll, who’d been cornered by Sam. He added a few more gruff comments to their whispered conversation and then Driscoll hunched his shoulders and nodded.

  Slowly, casually, the two officers walked toward Todd Lansky, who was now standing near one of the fire pits and holding a longneck beer.

  Curious, Suzanne moved in closer, trying to look as unassuming and innocent as possible.

  Doogie was talking to Lansky now, looking serious and nodding his head. His words floated across to Suzanne, a little jumbled, but she caught the gist of his conversation: “. . . received an emergency call . . . dispatch . . . need to roll out.”

  Lansky gave a grave nod and turned to follow Doogie. But as his eyes roved the crowd, they happened upon Suzanne. She was caught standing there, barefaced, listening to them, her posture almost rigid with nervous energy.

  Lansky started to give her a half smile and then it slipped. He stared at her intently, the features on his face hardening. It was almost an acknowledgment that he knew that she knew.

  And then, fast as greased lightning, Lansky bolted sideways, his bottle of beer flying out of his hand.

  “Stop him!” Suzanne shouted.

  Doogie spun around, pulled out his gun, and hollered, “Everybody down!”

  People screamed and dove for cover as Lansky, running like a cornered jackrabbit, zigzagged madly through the crowd. As he veered toward the second fire cauldron, Junior Garrett, quick as a snapping turtle’s bite, stuck out his crutch and tripped Lansky.

  Lansky went down, sprawling face-first into a mess of orange pumpkin goo. Cursing, his eyes wild with fear, he slipped and slid, finally managing to get his legs back under him. Then Lansky was off and running, half limping as he picked up speed, pushing right through the startled musicians, headed for his truck.

  Lansky threw himself inside and, two seconds later, the engine roared to life. His wheels spun crazily on the blacktop, trying to find purchase. His truck lurched ahead just as Nolden’s hay wagon pulled right in front of him. Lansky’s horn blatted wildly, causing the two draft horses to rear up in fright and paw the air. Then their front hooves, along with the tonnage behind them, smacked down hard on the hood of Lansky’s truck.

  Clunk, thunk!

  Suzanne saw the look of panic on Lansky’s face as he threw his truck into reverse, spun left, and hit the gas. Five seconds later his taillights were just a red blip in the dark night.

  CHAPTER 31

  DOOGIE sprinted for his cruiser with Driscoll stumbling after him. Suzanne was right on their heels.

  As Doogie ripped open the driver’s side door, he shouted, “You can’t come w
ith us,” and dove inside.

  Suzanne ran to the passenger side, stuck an elbow in Driscoll’s gut, and hopped into the front seat ahead of him. “Please, I have to.”

  “Doggone it!” Doogie yelled as he cranked the engine and hit the gas. “You civilians just don’t listen.”

  Driscoll was still pulling his seat belt across his chest, Suzanne scrunching between the two men as they roared out of the parking lot.

  Doogie careened down the highway, driving one-handed, flipping switches like mad, lights and siren coming on full bore as they continued to pick up speed. “This is a really bad idea, Suzanne,” he huffed as he tromped down hard on the accelerator.

  “Sorry,” Suzanne said. She wondered what Sam would think, worried what Sam would think. But even as she sat tucked like a little mouse, knees bumping against her chin, she was jacked up on adrenaline. The dashboard of Doogie’s car glowed like the control panel of a 747 and she was right in the middle of an honest-to-goodness, just-like-in-the-movies police chase!

  They raced down the blacktop highway, whipping past All Saints Church, Bim’s Discount Gas, Seifert’s Used Cars, and the occasional house with its front porch light on. Ahead of them, cars heeded their siren and dove to the side of the road, allowing them to blast on by. But Lansky was still outdistancing them by at least half a mile.

  “Get on the horn and call the comm center,” Doogie instructed Driscoll. “Tell them we’re in pursuit of a red pickup truck . . . uh . . . did anybody get the make and model?”

  “I think it’s a Ford F-150,” Suzanne said.

  “Got it,” Driscoll said.

  “Dang,” Doogie said as he hung a left on Reservation Road. “He’s heading right for downtown.”

  “Kids will be out,” Suzanne said. “Trick-or-treating.”

  Doogie grimaced. “Our bad luck.”

  But just as Lansky hit Lawndale, the first cross street that marked the border of downtown Kindred, his brake lights flared and he slewed his truck into a screeching, rubber-laying right-hand turn.

  “Where’s he going?” Doogie muttered as he braked, cornered, and sped after him.

  “Out Sawmill Road?” Suzanne wondered.

  Lansky’s truck was weaving wildly now, crossing into the oncoming lane, threatening to take out a parked car or two. And then he did!

  “Holy smokes,” Driscoll cried. “He just smacked a fender on that green Toyota! Ooh, and he just clipped an SUV. Insurance adjuster’s gonna be hopping tomorrow.”

  They roared down the mostly residential street, where home owners peered nervously out the windows of tidy little bungalows and Cape Cod homes, and into a suburban area of newer homes. They were closing the gap now, running just two blocks or so behind Lansky, the engine of Doogie’s big Ford screaming like an Indy car coming down the final stretch.

  “Hang on!” Doogie warned as they squealed into a tight S-turn, past a defunct oil change business, the Suds & Duds Laundromat, Pickfair Garden Center, Hector’s Automotive. And then, suddenly, they were in open country. Rolling hills, a hobby farm, mowed hay fields, woodlots here and there.

  “Where’s he going?” Driscoll wondered.

  “Going to ground,” Doogie growled through clenched teeth.

  “I bet he’s heading for his farm,” Suzanne said. “He’s going to try to make a stand.”

  “You know where that is?” Doogie asked.

  Suzanne shook her head, but Driscoll said, “Yeah. He rents the old Miller place. It’s another six or seven miles out, just past that country store and gas station that Dick Webster runs.”

  “Hot dog,” Doogie said. “Better notify dispatch again and have them call in our reserve deputies. Then tell ’em to contact the State Patrol and request backup.”

  “Got it,” Driscoll said. He already had a finger on the button and was connecting with the comm center.

  While Driscoll snapped out instructions, Suzanne hung on for dear life. Doogie, driving with an incredibly leaden foot, had again narrowed the gap on Lansky. Now they were tailing him by only fifty yards.

  Like a miniature, high-speed convoy, they flew around dangerous curves, clattered over a one-lane bridge, and hit speeds nudging one hundred miles an hour in the flat stretches.

  “A meth lab,” Doogie said, gritting his teeth. “And you think Mike Mullen found out about it?”

  “I’m positive he did,” Suzanne said. “That’s why Lansky killed him.”

  “We knew there was meth being sold around here,” Doogie said. “Terrible to think it might be happening right under our noses.”

  “Disheartening to think we were pointing the finger at the wrong people,” Suzanne said.

  “Gosh darn it,” Doogie stewed. “There he was, the little cockroach. Deputized by yours truly and sitting in on all our meetings.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Suzanne said.

  “None of us knew,” Driscoll said.

  “Hang on, hang on, Lansky’s turning!” Doogie suddenly screamed. A burst of gravel hit their windshield, pattering like a sudden, intense hailstorm. Doogie cranked his steering wheel hard, churning after him, wheels screaming as he fought to maintain control through the turn.

  They jounced along a bumpy, gravel road, the car’s shocks being tested to the max as they pogoed up and down. Suddenly, Lansky’s taillights disappeared completely.

  “Where’d he go?” Doogie shouted. “Did we lose him?”

  “Must have hit the ditch,” Driscoll said.

  Doogie punched the brakes hard, almost sending Suzanne flying through the windshield. Then Driscoll rolled down his side window and stared out into a night that was black as pitch.

  “I don’t see him,” Driscoll said.

  “Is this his farm?” Doogie shouted. “Are we close to his farm?”

  “I think so,” Driscoll said, but he didn’t sound all that confident.

  Suzanne strained to see in the darkness. She knew Lansky couldn’t just disappear—poof!—in a puff of smoke. He had to be here somewhere. She put her hands to either side of her face to block out the interior light and help narrow her focus. And there, just ahead, she saw a dark shadow loom up.

  “There’s something up ahead!” Suzanne cried. “Some sort of silo.”

  “Maybe his farm?” Doogie said as he stomped down on the accelerator and rocketed forward.

  It was Lansky’s farm. But the place was silent as a graveyard. No lights were on in the house, none burning in the barn. His truck sat silently some forty yards in front of them.

  “There’s his truck,” Suzanne said in a low whisper.

  “I’ll be damned,” Doogie said. “Lansky is here.” He rolled to a stop and sat for a moment, thinking, trying to appraise the situation.

  “But where’d he go?” Driscoll asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Doogie said. “We’ll smoke him out. Pull your sidearm and we’ll grab the other guns and gear out of the trunk.”

  Doogie and Driscoll scrambled out of the car. They slapped on bulletproof vests, grabbed a high-powered rifle and a shotgun. They acted like they’d done this a hundred times before, though Suzanne knew they hadn’t.

  Doogie stuck his head inside the car. “Suzanne, you stay put. No matter what happens, don’t you dare move from here!”

  “Okay.” Suzanne was picking up on their stress and didn’t have any keen desire to get involved in a gun battle or crazy standoff. But she did feel like she was a sitting duck.

  Crouching low in the front seat, she watched as Doogie and Driscoll slowly approached Lansky’s truck. Was Lansky sitting inside? Waiting for them? Was he armed?

  They snuck up on either side of the truck, ripped open both doors, and poked their guns inside. No sign of him. So where was Lansky? Hiding inside his house?

  Suzanne held her breath as Doogie and Driscoll had a whispered
confab, then turned and headed for the barn. Wasn’t that dangerous? she wondered. If there was a meth lab inside, wouldn’t Lansky fight to defend it? Or, since his cover was blown, would he be scrabbling around, trying to grab whatever was important to him—drugs or money—so he could try to disappear?

  Nose pressed against the passenger side window, Suzanne watched the shadowy figures of Doogie and Driscoll as they stealthily approached the barn door. They were armed to the teeth, she decided, and professionally trained, so they must know what they were doing. With barely any wasted effort on their part, they slid open the door. It was a typical barn entrance, tall and wide enough to drive a tractor through.

  Suzanne focused on their every move as they crept inside. Okay. So they’d probably assess the threat level, shout out their orders, and show their weapons. And that would be it. If Lansky had any sense at all, he’d surrender peacefully. No weapons would be fired. It would be a clean capture.

  But that was the best-case scenario. And Suzanne knew plans such as that rarely went off without a hitch. Which was why she wasn’t at all shocked when she caught a hint of movement and saw a shadowy figure slide around the far end of the barn.

  What happened? Did Lansky clamber out a window or something? Oh dear, what if he slinks over to his truck and tries to take off? Or maybe he’s got a second vehicle stashed somewhere.

  But Lansky didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he pressed himself against the outer wall of the barn and slowly, carefully, crept toward the gaping, dark hole where Doogie and Driscoll had just disappeared.

  He’s trying to circle round and sneak up on them!

  Like a shadow man, a Halloween haunt, Lansky oozed his way along the length of the barn. Every couple of feet, he’d stop and crouch down, almost military style.

  Suzanne’s nerves were beginning to fray. Please be careful, Doogie! Please watch your back!

  As Lansky rose to his feet and took another step, something long and thin poked out ahead of him.

  Long gun! He’s carrying a rifle or a shotgun!

  But what could she do? Suzanne didn’t have a weapon and she’d been ordered to stay put!