by Jacob Stone
“Back.” Bogle glanced at the odometer. “A hundred and eighteen thousand miles. You were going to be needing a new car soon anyway.”
“I guess.” Morris breathed in deeply and let it out in a loud exhale. “Any chance I could be wrong about this?”
“None. How are you going to keep the steering wheel from moving?”
“I’ve got a steering wheel lock in the trunk.”
They left the car and moved to the back of it. Morris opened the trunk, handed Bogle the lock and the key for it, and then took out the golf clubs he’d bought five months ago. He took lessons then, and was still shanking most of his drives, but was determined after the Malibu Butcher business to take up a hobby that was healthier than chasing serial killers. With the golf clubs out, all he had left in the trunk were jumper cables and a locked gun box. He dialed the lock combination, opened the box, and took out a .40 caliber pistol. He slid out the magazine, checked it, and then checked the two other magazines he kept in the box. He decided twenty-four rounds would be enough.
Bogle had locked the steering wheel in place, and joined Morris by the back of the car. He asked whether he could borrow one of the clubs. “I wouldn’t put it past this guy to have trip wires back there,” he said.
Morris nodded to take one, and Bogle selected a three wood, and then moved in a fast jog toward the right side of the building.
Morris jammed the concrete slab in place so that it forced the gas pedal to the floor. There was a chance he was wrong about the killer using some of the stolen C-4 to booby-trap the building’s entrance, but even if he was, this would still be the fastest way inside.
His cell phone rang. Doug Gilman calling about the resignation text. Morris turned his phone off. He positioned himself so he’d be able to jump out once the car started moving, then shifted from Park to Drive, and rolled out of the car as it sped forward. He landed on his back and was getting onto his knees when the car hit the entrance and an explosion blew open the front of the building and sent the car flying eight feet into the air.
He’d been right about the C-4. The hole blown through the building was engulfed in black smoke, and Morris raced toward it with his gun held up to his right shoulder.
The hundred-yard sprint took a toll on his forty-seven-year-old knees, but adrenaline pushed him, and he ignored the stitch in his side. He narrowed his eyes to a sliver and held his breath as he made his way around the twisted frame of his car and through the thick black smoke and the opening where the front entrance had been.
He dove to the floor and rolled, ending on his stomach with his gun stretched out in front of him.
The maniac wasn’t there. Instead there was some sort of complex contraption. A Rube Goldberg machine. He heard a rumbling noise to his right and looked to see a bowling ball rolling down a track. The ball hit a bowling pin, which started a chain reaction of more pins being hit before releasing a spring and sending a knife slicing through a trip wire. This released another spring, causing the pin to be pulled from a hand grenade and the grenade to be sent hurtling through the air toward where Morris was lying.
He scrambled to his feet and dove away from the grenade. It exploded and Morris felt something hot and metallic biting into his lower leg. He didn’t look at his wound; instead he turned toward all the new sounds he heard. More objects were being toppled, more balls rolling down tracks, more trip wires and springs being released. The contraption had eight different tentacles, each having its own independent chain of events. Something caused Morris to glance upward, and that was when he saw the lattice of grenades waiting to rain death.
One of these tentacles was going to release the grenades. Morris searched for the mechanism that would cause the pins to be pulled and the grenades dropped. He spotted it, and followed it back until he saw which tentacle would trigger it, and then he started firing at the race car track that was in the middle of it. He hit it with the third shot, breaking up the track into several pieces and stopping the grenades from dropping on him. He emptied his gun as he fired at more of the tentacles, destroying three of them. Within seconds the other tentacles finished harmlessly without tossing any more grenades or deadly objects at him.
Morris looked up again toward the ceiling, and saw that one of the tentacles would’ve opened a panel in the roof if he hadn’t destroyed it. A man who must’ve been Dorsage was moving frog-like on a catwalk directly underneath the panel. Morris couldn’t see what he was picking up, but he knew what it had to be. A drone. If Morris hadn’t shot up the Rube Goldberg machine it would’ve been released to blow up the oil wells.
As he struggled to his feet, he pulled out the empty magazine and slid in a replacement. Dorsage was already running away. Morris fired at him, but struck the catwalk instead, and Dorsage disappeared from view.
Morris tried to run after him, but the wound in his leg slowed him to a hobble. He saw Dorsage racing down a back staircase and carrying what had to be a drone. It was bigger than the commercial ones he’d seen in stores.
Morris was seventy feet from the back door. He slowed to a halt, raised his pistol, held his breath, and aimed. When Dorsage stepped into view, he fired, but some sort of sixth sense caused Dorsage to duck, and the bullet instead struck the glass door. Dorsage was quickly outside with the drone, moving in a severely bowlegged, but surprisingly quick, gait. Morris fired two more shots as he tried to hit Dorsage through the door, but the killer was already out of sight.
Morris gritted his teeth as he chased after him, trying his damnedest to ignore the hot, screaming pain burning through his leg. As he pushed his way through the back door, he first saw Dorsage thirty yards away busying himself with the drone, and then he spotted Charlie Bogle lying in a crumpled heap.
A rush of anguish and outrage filled him. He raised his gun and aimed it at Dorsage as he hobbled toward the killer.
The drone started to make a whirring noise, its propellers spinning.
“Turn that off and lay on the pavement,” Morris ordered, his voice catching in his throat and coming out as a raspy croak.
Dorsage looked toward Morris at first as if he didn’t recognize him, then his face twisted into something violent and hateful.
“If you shoot me, I’ll be letting go of this! You know what will happen then. People will die and it will be your fault!”
Morris continued hobbling toward the killer, his gun aiming dead center at him. He was close enough that he was sure he’d hit Dorsage, but he needed to get closer before he’d be confident about hitting the drone, because that was what he planned to shoot.
Dorsage seemed to sense what he had in mind. His expression shifted to one of intense fury, and as he held the drone with his right hand, he reached behind his back with his left and pulled out a gun that he must’ve had wedged in his pants. He was swinging this around when Morris shot him in the left eye. Dorsage fell backwards, the drone releasing from his grip. Morris fired at the drone until his gun clicked empty, but it zipped away from him faster than he would’ve expected. He thought he heard one of the bullets ping off of it, but if he hit the drone, he didn’t bring it down.
He moved over to Dorsage and saw that his bullet had torn out the man’s eye. Skull fragments and gore littered the pavement, showing that the bullet must’ve exited the back of the killer’s head. He was dead.
Morris heard sirens approaching from several miles away. The Long Beach PD. Bogle remained crumpled on the pavement. A heaviness welling up his throat nearly left Morris choking as he made his way over to him and kneeled by Bogle’s body. He’d been shot in the chest, but he was still breathing. Morris pulled out the empty clip, slid in his last one, and fired into the air to alert the approaching police where he was. He could see several police cruisers racing down Kinetic Productions’ private drive.
Chapter 65
Charlie Bogle lay in the hospital bed with a thick bandage wrapped around his chest. His
skin had an unhealthy grayish pallor, and his face appeared craggier and older than it should’ve given that he was only forty-five. When his eyes cracked open, it seemed to take a long time before he recognized Morris.
“How long have I been out?” he asked, his voice weak and raspy.
Morris put a straw to Bogle’s lips so he could sip some water.
“Eighteen hours. You’ve been up before, but you were too drugged to realize what was going on.”
“Yeah? So I’m going to live?”
“It appears that way. At least that’s what the doctors keep saying. I do have some bad news. I didn’t know this before but you’ve got B-negative blood, and there was only one of us at MBI with the same blood type.”
Bogle’s face turned craggier with the news. “Polk,” he said.
“Yep. You’ve now got three pints of Polk’s blood coursing through your veins.”
“Lord help me.” Bogle’s eyes took on a faraway look. “He must’ve shot me from a window. I never saw the bastard. What happened to him?”
“Dead.”
“That’s good. So you stopped him.”
“Mostly. His plan was to release two drones. That didn’t happen, but he still got one of them in the air. Three oil wells blew up.”
“No kidding?”
“It could’ve been a lot worse. The drone was pretty high tech and was powered by both a hydro fuel cell and solar. It could’ve been flying around for hours. The crime tech guys were able to figure out its flight plan from programmed GPS coordinates, and it would’ve blown up at least twenty-two wells except four of them were already cleared of bombs, and when I shot at it I damaged its fuel cell enough to send it crashing after passing seven of the wells. As it was, LA felt tremors from the wells that blew up. I heard they measured a 3.1 earthquake.”
“What do you know? It would’ve worked. Maybe Jenny will give me a break,” Bogle said.
“She should. So far they’ve found forty-six bombs. Charlie, we did good.”
“We paid a price. I doubt I’ll play the saxophone again, and you lost your car.”
“Do you even know how to play the sax?”
“No, but now I never will.”
“Don’t be too sure. I talked with your doctors. They’re saying you’ll be making a full recovery. One of your ribs took most of the brunt and punctured a lung, but it also redirected the bullet from doing any major damage.”
What Morris had said was true, but he was also sugarcoating it. Bogle had lost a tremendous amount of blood and there was a good deal of internal patchwork that needed to be done, and it was touch and go for the first twelve hours. Bogle seemed to sense Morris was sugarcoating it, and his expression showed that he was dubious. He gave Morris a sideways glance, and his face folded into a grimace. “Ah, jeeze, I just noticed you’re in a wheelchair.”
“I took a piece of shrapnel in the leg. It’s a scratch compared to what happened to you, and I’d be walking around now except I need a second surgery to repair some tendon damage. That’s why they put me in this chair.” Morris chuckled. “Nat thinks my suit’s ruined and I’ll have to buy a new one. The poor woman will be once again disappointed when Marv does his magic.”
“How’s Natalie taking this?”
Morris became subdued. “You know. She’s tough, and she’s trying to be strong for my sake, but it still hit her hard. I’ve been seeing the cracks when her guard’s down. If you know what I mean.”
Bogle knew exactly what he meant.
“You’re a lucky man, Morris.”
Morris agreed. There was little doubt about that.
Chapter 66
Los Angeles, one month later
There was no more magic.
At least that was what Marv claimed. The suit damaged by the shrapnel was beyond repair. While Morris would’ve liked to replace it with a suit off the discount rack, he wasn’t going to deprive Natalie of something she’d been dreaming about for years, namely picking out a new suit for him. And so he didn’t complain when she took him to the ritzy men’s clothing store on Rodeo Drive that Doug Gilman recommended, nor utter as much as a peep when she had him try on eleven different suits before deciding on the one she wanted for him. He also kept quiet when he saw the suit’s price tag. He likewise didn’t say anything when she picked out eight dress shirts and four new ties, nor when he saw the final bill.
They had brought Parker along. They didn’t have much choice in the matter. The bull terrier had taken it hard when he saw that Morris had been injured, and he acted as if it was his fault for not being there to protect him. Since then the dog had insisted on staying close by. Even when he tried on the suits, the dog camped right outside the dressing room and nothing would’ve budged him.
Up until a week ago, Morris had been using crutches, but he was now able to get around with a cane. As they were leaving the store with their purchases, he commented that Natalie looked quite pleased with herself.
“You bet I am,” Natalie said. “I’ve been wanting to do this for years.” Her smile dimmed and worry creased her forehead. “I just hope the alterations can be done in time. You’re not wearing one of your old threadbare suits to the ceremony!”
That Saturday the mayor was going to be awarding the entire MBI team, including Parker, distinguished service awards. Morris agreed only on the condition that Commissioner Hadley be the one to put Parker’s medal around the bull terrier’s thick neck. He later heard from Annie Walsh that Hadley threw a conniption fit when he found out, but that the mayor insisted he do as he was told.
“Marv promised me he’ll have it ready by Friday night, and Marv’s word is gold.”
As they walked, Parker made sure to keep his thick body between the two of them. Morris glanced over at his wife as she carried the bundles from the clothing store, and he was again stunned at just how beautiful she was.
“I hate to tell you this but you’re not going to get another chance to replace my other two suits,” he said. “This time I’m done with serial killers, no matter what they do to try to drag me in. MBI’s only taking corporate cases from this point on.”
“Don’t say that.”
Morris was surprised by her reaction. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t fight it if another one of these cases comes along that you need to take,” she said. “You’re too good at what you do. If you didn’t stop that madman, thousands might have died.”
“Nat, Charlie almost died.”
The truth was, he’d almost died too, but Natalie didn’t know that. Another second, and he would’ve lost his chance to disrupt Dorsage’s final Rube Goldberg machine, and live grenades would’ve been falling all around him.
“He didn’t, though.” A wetness showed around her eyes, and her voice choked a bit as she said, “And maybe Rachel might have if all those oil wells exploded.”
Morris didn’t mention that although Bogle didn’t die, something had changed with his investigator and friend. He was gaunter in the face, and a half step slower, but there was something else. A gloom had settled over Charlie Bogle and it seemed like a shadow now darkened his features. But it had only been a month. Maybe that would all pass.
Morris was holding Parker’s leash in his right hand but that didn’t stop him from reaching over to Natalie. She was holding packages in both hands, but they still managed to lock pinky fingers as they walked to Morris’s new car, a Lexus sedan. Natalie had picked it out and the city of Los Angeles picked up the bill, although they expected to recoup the money from Dorsage’s estate.
Epilogue
Parker had behaved himself until Hadley tried slipping the medal around the dog’s neck. That was when the bull terrier bared his fangs and growled.
The ceremony was being well-covered by local and national media, so Hadley attempted to show he was a good sport by joking that the dog’s react
ion was because of his aftershave, eau de salami. After three more attempts, each ending with bared fangs and growling, the police commissioner lost whatever semblance of good humor he was attempting to project. His jowly face grew chalky white and he growled in a low enough voice for only Morris to hear that he better control his dog.
“Martin, relax. He’s only smiling.”
“I mean it, Brick. There will be serious consequences if he bites me!”
Morris had had his fun. He held out his hand for Hadley to hand him the medal, and he slipped it around Parker’s neck, and in exchange got back an excited grunt from the bull terrier and a lick on the nose.
A few minutes later as the mayor presented medals to each member of the MBI team, Morris caught a look exchanged between Rachel and Doug Gilman, answering the question about who his daughter was dating. He kept this knowledge to himself, not mentioning it to Natalie during the cocktail reception that followed the ceremony. When he had the opportunity, he pulled the mayor’s deputy assistant aside.
“You’re looking really sharp in the new suit,” Gilman remarked, a big grin on his face.
Morris ignored the compliment, and instead asked him if Rachel told him about how he had starred for his high school baseball team. Gilman’s grin disappeared and his cheeks reddened.
“Morris, I wanted to tell you I was seeing Rachel, but she insisted we keep it quiet.”
“I understand. My daughter’s stubborn like you wouldn’t believe. She gets that from me, except more so. But I have a reason for mentioning my baseball days. I was good with the glove thanks to my low center of gravity. Nothing got past me. But I was even better with the bat. My pop used to like to say I could hit the ball a mile. My senior year I hit two home runs in the state championship to help us win the title. Yeah, I could always hit the ball hard.”
Morris held out his cane as if it were a baseball bat. His eyes grew wistful, but he shook himself out of the past and used the cane again to support himself.