The Violet Crow

by Michael Sheldon

  As Fischer concluded, Chief Black looked at his watch and called Biff on his radio. “Tell everybody to stay in position outside. It’s a bit dicey in here. We may need to move fast.”

  Fischer introduced Dr. Jurevicius, who seemed to have twice the energy as his predecessor. He moved briskly around the stage while he talked about the company’s financials. Since all of the revenue came from agriculture, that was his focus. He mentioned medical research briefly, noting, “The burn rate is still manageable for the time being.”

  Then he stepped to the front of the stage and shielded his eyes from the glare. “Some of our newest shareholders are students in the Sociology Department at the University of Pennsylvania,” he announced genially. “Can we give them all a warm NewGarden welcome?” The spotlights panned across the section where Alison was sitting. Most of the audience applauded politely, with a few ironic jeers and whistles mixed in.

  “Judging from the signs I saw on the way in …” The crowded interrupted Jurevicius with a lively chorus of boos.

  The Chief took advantage of the noise to send another quick radio message. Bruno couldn’t hear what he said, but there was a look of urgency in his eye.

  Jurevicius quieted the crowd with an upraised palm. “Now, please. Let’s show our friends we welcome debate as an exchange based on facts.”

  There was a hearty round of applause for “facts.”

  “The fact is, Scarecrow Corn does not kill crows. It merely makes the corn unpalatable to them, without changing the taste or nutritional qualities for humans and animals.”

  More applause.

  “Now I’d like to show you a little movie we’ve made to illustrate how our technology works. It’s a remix of a couple of classic tales. I hope you enjoy it.”

  The film started out as a homage to Hitchcock. Filmed in lurid Technicolor, it played off the promotional newsreel for The Birds. Instead of repeating, “The Birds is coming,” the NewGarden version said, “The birds are going” over and over. And of course it didn’t show crows attacking schoolchildren. It showed crows dive-bombing cornfields, then pulling up at the last second, shaking their beaks with disgust.

  Then the film segued into the famous hangover scene in Dumbo, where the crows sing, “When I see an elephant fly.” The corporate version was called “I Doan Like Dat Scarecrow Corn” and it had new words dubbed in. It started out with the crows half-talking/half-singing among themselves:

  I like corn on the cob.

  I like corn dogs, too.

  I even like corn chowder.

  Then they break into rollicking, full-fledged harmony:

  You can hang me from the highest treeee

  If y’ever see me eatin’ dat Scarecrow Corn.

  The audience was laughing and cheering wildly while Jurevicius came prancing back onto the stage. “Isn’t that a hoot?” he yelled, stirring the crowd to further excesses.

  The university contingent sat dumbfounded. No one showed Dumbo in public anymore. It was beyond offensive; it was taboo. Was this a shareholder meeting or a KKK rally? Some of the more suggestible even worried they might not get out of there alive.

  Then things got even spookier. At Jurevicius’ signal the light dimmed. Next, the audience saw the image of a giant crow floating four feet above the stage in ultraviolet light. Jurevicius, decked out in an ultraviolet suit, hopped nimbly up onto the float and stood at the feet of the giant crow—to the audience’s continuous applause. At last the noise died down and he bowed his head in thanks. “We’d like to end the meeting with a brief Q&A. We have time for about a half-dozen questions.”

  Bruno felt his heart beating rapidly. Why? What did he think was going to happen? If Alison had something to say, she was going to say it now. He looked over at the Chief. He could see his jaw working. He must be feeling the tension, too. The Chief held his radio close to his mouth. Bruno heard him say, “This is it. Get ready.”

  But the first questioner was a money manager. An usher presented him with a microphone and he asked a lengthy question about the quality of earnings. Jurevicius provided a detailed answer with references to the supply chain and overseas demand.

  The next question was from an individual investor. She wanted to know when the company was going to start paying a dividend. Jurevicius hit that one out of the park. NGBS was a growth company. When it reached a cap size of say, $10 billion, which implied a share price growth of 1,000%, then he’d start paying a dividend.

  The audience went giddy. The applause started to hurt Bruno’s ears.

  Jurevicius fielded a few more questions from money managers. Bruno looked at the Chief. He gestured frantically to Bruno, “Let’s move. Now.” They stayed low and started creeping down the center aisle.

  Then Jurevicius scanned the audience. “I’ll take one final question from one of our friends at the U of P. But please, no politics. This is a business meeting.”

  Several hands were raised. Then it struck Bruno. He was searching for Alison. What if the microphone were rigged with a detonator or something? He looked at the Chief. He was down in his crouch, walking crablike as quickly as he could. Then it happened. The ushers had found Alison. They were handing her the mike.

  Bruno felt frozen in place as Alison lifted it to her mouth and started to speak.

  “Where is Dr. Fischer?” her voice boomed.

  “You don’t have to shout, my dear, your voice is amplified,” said Jurevicius.

  “Where’s Dr. Fischer?” Alison repeated.

  “He’s right here, backstage, of course. What is your question?”

  Bruno thought Jurevicius looked momentarily confused. He looked around as though trying to catch someone’s eye. Was he summoning Fischer?

  “I’m asking,” said Alison, her voice rising in volume along with her emotions, “because I came here today to accuse you, you and Dr. Fischer …”

  Jurevicius frantically gestured with his hand cutting across his throat.

  “… of murder. I saw the whole thing …”

  The lights went out and they cut power to Alison’s mike. Above the crowd noise you could hear her shouting, “I saw the whole thing … and I found Ginnie Doe’s body on your property!”

  Then there was a flash of light and a loud noise. It seemed as if the violet crow was exploding. People started screaming, “Someone’s been shot.”

  Then they stormed the exits.

  “We have to help her,” Bruno screamed, trying to push his way against the crowd.

  The Chief grabbed Bruno and pulled him back. “You’ll never get to her that way.” He used the crowd’s momentum to carry them to the nearest exit. Fortunately, the door opened easily and they were hurled safely out onto the NewGarden loading dock.

  Chapter 62

  The parking lot was chaos. People were screaming. People were injured. People were crying.

  The Chief spoke quickly but calmly on his radio. He was summoning more help. He put out a call for all available emergency medical response units. And he called the State Patrol to put them on alert.

  “Why isn’t their security coming out to help?” he radioed Michelle.

  “Don’t know, sir. Probably busy dealing with the situation inside.”

  The Chief turned to Bruno. “What are you doing?” he shouted. The psychic had been lurching from student to student, trying to find out what had happened. The responses were incoherent. The Chief pulled him away and led him to Randy. “I want you two to stay together. Keep a low profile, and if you see Jurevicius or Fischer, let Randy know right away.”

  They got into Randy’s Charger and pulled into a spot in the parking lot where they wouldn’t look too conspicuous.

  They waited for what seemed an impossibly long time. The line of cars trying to clear the parking lot had almost dissipated. Medical vehicles were arriving with sirens blaring and their crews were rushing around treating the victims. Then the radio crackled to life. It was the Chief. “I’m inside the building. Security is non-existent; they s
eem to have melted away. One of the professors got shot; it’s sort of serious, but not life-threatening. Fischer’s having a nervous breakdown. No sign of Jurevicius.”

  “What about Alison?” shouted Bruno.

  “No sign of her either,” the Chief reported. “I guess she escaped.”

  Bruno knew he should not be taking this as good news. Nevertheless, he felt elated. Alison wasn’t killed or injured. She was safe.

  A few minutes later, a red 5-series BMW whipped out of the garage and headed out of the parking lot. Serge Jurevicius was at the wheel and he appeared to be alone.

  “That’s him,” said Bruno, hopping into the passenger’s seat.

  “What are you doing?” asked Randy.

  “It’s simcha time. Let’s party.”

  Randy stared at Bruno with a mixture of dismay and disbelief. He had come to the NGBS circus in undercover attire, jeans, and a leather jacket—the right look for someone driving a ’68 Charger. After facing combat in the first Gulf War, with live ammunition spraying at him from hostiles with automatic weapons, he was not prone to getting too worked up over matters of lesser urgency. He saw Bruno as a civilian, nothing more, nothing less. Bruno’s lack of training concerned him. However, the Chief had ordered them to stay together.

  He grunted, “Fine,” and dropped the Charger into gear. “Don’t touch this unless things get really crazy.” He placed a small revolver on the console. “It’s my backup. Smith and Wesson 340PD.”

  “You just point and shoot, right?”

  “Very funny. It’s got .357 loads, five of them. Use two hands or it could break your wrist.”

  Jurevicius drove furiously out of the gate. He took the turn onto Marter Avenue with tires squealing, then slowed to a moderate pace when he saw no one in hot pursuit. He didn’t seem to notice Randy, who was following at a prudent distance. Slowly, they wended their way through downtown Maplewood and the endless succession of traffic lights in Berry Hill.

  Bruno had nothing to do and, after the excitement of the meeting, a peculiar sort of manic boredom started to set in. His face twisted into a snarl as he assumed a crazed Edgar G. Robinson voice: “Coppers ain’t gonna get me! Not me. Yahahahaha?”

  Then he switched to a different character, a big, dumb lug, who replied, “Yeah boss.”

  Randy stole a quizzical look at Bruno, who was grinning idiotically. “Dow. Dow. Dow. Dow. Dey shot the door off, but dey ain’t gonna get me! Yeah, boss.”

  Randy shook his head. Guys had funny ways of preparing themselves for battle, but this was pathetic. He tried to ignore it, but Bruno wouldn’t let him.

  “Ganefs,” he pronounced, putting down his imaginary gun and resuming his own voice. “The story appeared in the premier issue of Mad Magazine. October 1952.”

  “OK.”

  “‘Ganefs’ means ‘thieves’—not that they ever bothered to translate, or even tell you it was Yiddish. The ganefs are the boss and his assistant, Bumble. They’re trying to get away, but the coppers keep shooting their car apart, a piece at a time. The boss keeps yelling, ‘Nyaah, coppers. You’ll never get me.’ And Bumble keeps saying, ‘Yeah, boss.’”

  “I think I get it.”

  “You do?”

  Randy thought for a moment. “Hold on a second.” They were on Old Kings Road in Gardenfield, right in front of the Municipal Building. He called to report his position. They were stuck at the light at Garden Avenue, about four cars behind Jurevicius. Then he said, “I think we’re the coppers. So we don’t want the bad guys to get away.”

  Bruno had to admit he had a good point. Jurevicius turned down the old Lenape trail. The light turned yellow, but Randy was able to nip through. The way Jurevicius was driving, he didn’t seem to notice he was being tailed.

  —“We’re leaving Gardenfield,” Randy radioed to the dispatcher. “Heading south into Barrington.” He turned to Bruno: “Does the boss have a name?”

  That took Bruno by surprise. He thought Randy was ready to change the subject. Before he could answer, Randy stomped on the brake and swore, “Hot damn.”

  They had just passed the White Horse Pike and Jurevicius had pulled over at a gas station. Randy eased off the brake and kept driving.

  “What do we do?”

  “Pull over and hope for the best.” Randy drove ahead two more blocks and pulled into an empty parking lot. It was a Korean restaurant that didn’t open until 5. Randy warned Bruno not to turn around. Instead he slumped down and used the side mirror to keep an eye on their quarry. Jurevicius gassed up his car, and even took the time to clean his windshield. He handed the attendant his credit card and waited.

  Randy whistled. “Either this guy’s innocent or else he’s cold as ice. Look at him standing there like he’s got all the time in the world.”

  “Something’s funny,” said Bruno.

  “What?”

  “His license plate. It reads SBGN.”

  “You’re looking at it backwards,” Randy scoffed. “NGBS is the company’s stock symbol.”

  “Yeah. But when I first started working on the case, I dreamed about SBGN. Now I know what it means.”

  “Too bad you didn’t figure that out two months ago …”

  Bruno could tell Randy was starting to get antsy. He resolved not to say anything for a while, but then he noticed something else. “His car is shaking, isn’t it?”

  “I see what you mean.” Randy looked closer. “It could be a rough idle. That car doesn’t look like much, but I have to admit it’s got some muscle to it.”

  “But the engine’s shut off, isn’t it? Don’t you have to shut it off before you fill up?”

  “I don’t know. Crooks don’t always follow the rules,” said Randy. “Get down, don’t let him see you, he’s pulling out.” Moments later Randy eased into traffic about a half-dozen cars back. The next intersection was the Black Horse Pike. Jurevicius turned left and Randy followed him.

  “This will take him to Atlantic City,” said Bruno. “Why would he go down the shore?”

  “Maybe he’s feeling lucky …”

  “Or he’s looking for a small, out-of-the-way airport. Do they have one in Atlantic City?”

  Randy shook his head. “I dunno. I think they keep an eye on who comes in and goes out of ACNJ. Maybe Jurevicius has contacts at one of the casinos who can help him disappear.” He called on the radio: “Heading south on 168. Repeat that, 168, the Black Horse Pike. We’re heading to Atlantic City for an afternoon of fun and entertainment. Still on his tail. No sign of evasive action. Over.”

  The Chief came on the radio. “Change of plans. Repeat. Change of plans. We believe Jurevicius has kidnapped Alison Wales. We don’t know if she’s dead or alive, injured or healthy. It’s time to reel him in. Confirm.”

  “Got it, Chief. Will proceed to apprehend suspect. Over and out.” He turned to Bruno. “Here, open your window and put this on the roof.” He handed Bruno a detachable red roof light.

  At that moment Jurevicius started to accelerate. They were right at the junction with 42, the north-south freeway that led to the Atlantic City Expressway. Randy floored the Charger and Bruno felt like he’d left his stomach back in Gardenfield.

  “Make sure you’re buckled tight,” Randy howled, “’cause I promise you’ve never seen driving like this.”

  Chapter 63

  Bruno thought his face was peeling off and his eyeballs might pop out of his head. He was afraid to look at the speedometer. Finally he managed to ask Randy out of the corner of his mouth, “How fast?”

  Randy chuckled. “You mean how fast are we going? About 120. But don’t worry, this baby has a lot more left in her.” He stole a look at Bruno, who was plastered in his seat, and tried to reassure him. “Everything’s OK, you’re in good hands. Look on the bright side. We’ll get where we’re going twice as fast. And we don’t have to worry about speeding tickets.”

  The Atlantic City Expressway is the best route when you’re in a hurry to get to the shore. Built in
the ’60s, it bypasses the old local roads with their endless delays: traffic lights, traffic circles, fruit stands, towns, taverns, and the like. A straight shot, the Expressway offers from two to four lanes of generally excellent, flat pavement, supported by tolls collected at booths along the way and at the relatively infrequent off-ramps.

  No wonder Randy liked his chances. Other than a drag strip, you couldn’t hope to find a straighter road. Raw speed was the Charger’s advantage over the BMW, whose strength was maneuverability. Jurevicius might try to make a dash for an off-ramp, but the approach would be difficult at these speeds. If the BMW slowed, Randy would be on top of him in moments and would nudge him into the ditch. So what was Jurevicius’ exit strategy?

  Randy grabbed the radio. “We’re on the Expressway, heading toward AC. We need road blocks at all toll plazas.”

  “Roger. When will you be there?”

  “We’re doing 120 to 125 …”

  Bruno heard shuffling paper on the other end. “It’s about 25 miles, you should be there in twelve and a half minutes.”

  “Can the State pull it together that fast?”

  “Dunno. I’ll call you back.”

  The scenery screamed by. Deciduous trees, not pines. Lots of weeds and bare patches of sand in the median strips. Jurevicius was weaving in and out of traffic whenever the opportunity came up. He used slow-moving vehicles as obstacles, trying to force Randy into a mistake.

  The dispatcher called back. “The State Patrol will do their best. The personnel at the toll plaza have vehicles at their disposal. But there are seven bays at Egg Harbor and only four cars in the vicinity.”

  “Are you telling me they can’t seal it off?” Randy shouted.

  “Calm down, OK? They’re doing their best. Backup plan is to blockade the next plaza, which comes up right after you cross the Parkway. That only has four bays and they can get the cars there, guaranteed.”