Head Shot

by Dan Ames

  Chapter 60

  Rose Sharpe poured a pitcher full of water onto the few coals that still glowed red in the pit of the old stone hearth. It was an old-fashioned outdoor grill that had been there as long as the cabin itself.

  Smoke clouds billowed quickly into the air. Small bits of charred wood swirled in their midst before disappearing into the darkness of yet another cool Michigan night.

  When the wood remaining in the pit was soaked thoroughly and held no chance to be reignited, she went back into the main room of the cabin, peeved that Ron had gone to bed but left on the television.

  She sighed heavily to the empty room and walked over to the set, but just as she was reaching for the on/off button a special bulletin broke across the screen.

  Rose turned the volume up slightly and took a step back to get a better view.

  A reporter stood on the side of the road with police scurrying about in the background. They all seemed to be focusing their attention on the woods behind the reporter.

  Rose caught what the woman was saying in mid-sentence.

  "-whether or not the man being pursued at this moment is indeed suspected serial killer Joe Ferkovich, I cannot say. Again, this is an unconfirmed report that a man suspected to be Ferkovich is right now being pursued through the Chequamegon National Forest approximately two miles west of Rodgers Bay, Michigan. He is being hunted by law enforcement officials as well as at least one civilian."

  "Ron! Get in here."

  There was the sound of bed springs and then the soft shuffle of slippers along the wooden plank flooring as Ron Sharpe joined his wife in the great room.

  "What's going-"

  "Sshhhh!"

  The reporter continued.

  "The case of suspected serial killer Joe Ferkovich was broadcast earlier tonight on Nation’s Most Wanted, a show that profiles suspected criminals

  and asks the public to help. Again, this is all unconfirmed, but it is believed to be that a civilian who saw the show also saw a man he believed to be Ferkovich. The civilian then engaged that man in a chase. That is continuing as we speak."

  "Holy cow," said Ron. He ran a hand through this thinning hair, and rubbed his tired eyes.

  "As of right now law enforcement officials will not discuss the matter with us but we will continue to bring you updates as the story progresses. This is Nancy Bishop reporting for Channel 6 news."

  A mechanical voice came over the sound waves.

  "We will now join our regularly scheduled program in progress." The screen jumped abruptly to a rerun of a sitcom that had been canceled some years ago.

  Rose turned the volume down and sat in the rocker, while Ron rummaged through the closet in the hallways just beyond the kitchen. He returned to the great room carrying a double-barreled shotgun.

  He went over to a small trunk at the far end of the room and opened a box of shotgun shells. He pulled out two shells, cracked the double barrels and slid a shell into each barrel, then snapped the barrel closed.

  He sat on the couch across from his wife.

  "Now don't start panicking," Ron said, ignoring the irony of making that statement after loading a gun.

  "If they're two miles west of Rodgers Bay they're a long way from us yet."

  "I'm not worried about us."

  Ron looked at her.

  "I'm worried about Mike and his girlfriend."

  "They'll be fine as long as they don't turn into the world's worst rubberneckers."

  "But they were supposed to get here right about now."

  "Look, Mike's smart enough to avoid that whole mess. He's not going to go running into the woods trying to catch this guy. He knows we'd kill him if he did something that stupid."

  Rose couldn't see the humor in the situation.

  "She said there's a civilian running around out there?"

  "That's what she said."

  "You know how these guys up here get during deer season."

  "Buck fever."

  "Every year some poor slob takes a crap in the woods, goes to wipe with toilet paper and gets a 30.06 slug in the belly. It’s nuts."

  Ron looked at his wife with newfound respect.

  "That was very well put, dear."

  "Quit kidding around, Ron, our son's out there."

  "Look, I know he is, but he's a smart kid. He'll just drive right by that whole mess and make a beeline for the cabin. Worrying about it isn't going to get him here any faster."

  "So what do we do?"

  "Tell you what, let's try out that new espresso machine Mike sent us. We’ll break out the cards and play strip poker until he gets here."

  She rolled her eyes.

  "All right, gin rummy."

  Rose started to agree and then the color quickly drained from her face. She reached out for Ron's hand.

  "Honey, what's wrong?" he asked. His smile faded rapidly as he looked at his wife with concern in his eyes.

  "Oh my God," she said.

  "Rose, talk to me."

  "I just had a terrible thought."

  "What is it?"

  She stood and began pacing in the room.

  "Oh God, please don't let it be true."

  Now Ron stood, walked to his wife, and put his hands on her shoulders. He forced her to look him in the eye.

  "Rose. Tell me. What's wrong?"

  She slowly lifted her eyes.

  "What if the man they're hunting...what if the man...what if it's...?"

  Ron suddenly understood.

  "Mike..." he said.

  Chapter 61

  Joe Ferkovich wiped the tears from his eyes and struggled to the padded bench along the far wall of the boat’s cabin and sat still. His mouth began moving and he broke out into another laughing fit.

  "Did you see that news story, honey?" Joe cackled at the photo of Lisa Young.

  He lowered his head and fought back the laughter. This was too much. He couldn't breathe.

  "Why aren't you laughing, dear? Right at this moment, the cops are chasing me through the woods!" This comment sent him into an even harder laughing spell. It took him several more minutes to calm down.

  It was funny to him that some innocent nobody was out getting chased by the cops while he sat in a boat eating potato chips and drinking beer with a sweet little girl.

  But slowly it was starting to feel less humorous to Joe.

  He wasn't sure why but a part of him didn't like the idea of someone else sharing in his glory.

  It wasn't all about publicity, though. It was more about control. Joe felt that someone else was taking over the control he felt from keeping an entire state in fear.

  He guzzled warm beer from a can and looked absently at his bare feet. It just wasn't fair. He, Joe, was the one who'd done all the work. He was the one who'd outsmarted the cops this whole time.

  The more he thought about it the more pissed off he became.

  He stood and paced inside the cramped quarters of the boat's cabin.

  The picture in the newspaper of the dead bitch from the coffee shop wasn't doing anything for him anymore.

  He was now, like everyone else, a helpless spectator.

  Joe Ferkovich did not like to feel helpless. It was the thing he hated most.

  A plan began to form in his mind. Slowly, he saw a way to recapture his place in the public eye.

  Later tonight and certainly tomorrow, there would be more special reports.

  He would get the necessary facts and then he would get to work.

  He rubbed his hands together as his plan began to solidify.

  Joe Ferkovich could feel the power beginning to return.

  Chapter 62

  The rifle was virtually invisible in the darkness. His eyes scanned the woods until he saw a stand of thick trees. They were about thirty yards off the road and half that distance from the narrow trail that spilled out of the ravine. It was a good spot, Hank reasoned. If the killer came out to the right or to the left, Hank could move up or down the tree line, adjustin
g his location for a clean shot with almost no risk of giving away his position.

  There was a soft breeze and it was blowing against Hank, away from where his quarry would be. That didn't matter. Man just didn't have the sense of smell that a deer or a young black bear had.

  All Hank felt he had to worry about was being seen or heard, two things the big man had no intention of doing. He was going to stay put, keep his mouth shut, and wait it out. If he did that he'd be a hero.

  Suddenly, Hank felt very good.

  He'd shown a big city criminal how the real men in the northwoods operate and he'd wiped out the man's car and maybe saved an innocent victim. Plus, he had the so-called bad guy on the run.

  He didn't even have to kill him. It's just that he wanted to. He wanted to put a bullet into that no-good son of a btich.

  Who knew, there might be a reward in it, too. The Bronco could use a new set of tires and some new super heavy-duty shocks. Shit, if he could collect some reward money he might even get out of the trailer. He'd buy another one but it'd be newer, cleaner. The one he was in now still sort of smelled like his mother. At least the bathroom did, anyway.

  Another thought occurred to him.

  If he succeeded in bringing this guy down, maybe the cops or even the FBI would take him on and make him part of the force. He always figured with his size and his love of beer he'd never make it past the academy training. But if he had one serial murder case solved to his credit they'd almost have to take him on.

  Even if they didn't maybe they'd give him a badge or something. Or a medal presentation at the White House.

  And the women. He knew if he could bring this guy in, dead or alive, every woman in the county would want to meet him and a lot of them would probably want to do even more.

  Suddenly, a twig snapped.

  Hank forced himself to stay still.

  Ever so slowly, Hank swiveled his head toward the part of the woods from which the sound had come.

  At first, Hank couldn't make anything out but shadows, tree trunks, and tall strands of grass.

  But then he saw a shape that moved unnaturally in the dark shadows.

  The killer was on the other side of the narrow trail, the far side of the ravine that burrowed down to the road. The man was moving slowly, looking ahead. He could probably see the road and was wondering if someone had gotten ahead of him for an ambush.

  Luckily, Hank had parked the Bronco farther down the road past the ravine just in case something like this happened. He hadn't wanted the guy to see the Bronco and turn tail back into the woods ruining Hank's only chance to get him.

  From where he sat he could slowly bring the rifle to his shoulder. The tree he was sitting against would afford him plenty of support and since the rifle was good to go it would just be a matter of lift, aim and shoot.

  Hank brought the rifle to his shoulder, the end of the barrel slowly rising.

  In a flash, the killer was behind a tree.

  Silently, Hank cursed.

  He wasn't sure if the man had heard him or just happened to choose that moment to take cover behind a tree.

  Hank debated. If he shifted his weight slightly he could twist his torso giving him a better angle to fire. But he was on a bed of grass and a few leaves which meant that the movement could make noise and give his position away.

  He made his decision.

  With a quick turn of his massive shoulders, his upper body pivoted into the right position.

  A dry leaf cracked and in the still of the woods, it was perfectly clear.

  Hank's heart leapt into his mouth and then something happened the big man never would have predicted.

  The big city killer, upon hearing the noise, stepped out from behind the tree and peered into the darkness trying to see what was rustling around in the underbrush.

  Hank let out a small, involuntary breath. He put the crosshairs on the middle of the man's forehead. And pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 63

  Just before he saw the blinding light of the muzzle flash, Mike Sharpe realized he had just made the biggest and perhaps most costly mistake of his life.

  He felt a wallop and then everything went to black. His body folded and he crashed to the ground.

  When his head hit the ground, however, it cleared his vision and he saw the shadows of trees against a night sky.

  There was the sensation of cold metal pressed against his lips, and the face of a man appeared over him.

  "Well, look what the cat dragged in," the man said. He reared back and kicked Mike in the ribs. The blow took his breath away and turned him over. Mike felt the big man's hands on his body, searching for a weapon.

  He moved his mouth, struggling to find his voice. He needed to tell this maniac that it was all a big mistake. A case of mistaken identity. That he was just an actor, not the actual killer. But when he opened his mouth to deliver that message nothing came out. The wind had been knocked out of him and he lay like a fish out of water gasping for air.

  "Funny, you don't look so dangerous now, Mr. Big City Killer," the man said.

  He jerked Mike to his feet.

  Mike watched helplessly as a fist, quite possibly the biggest fist he'd ever seen in his life, filled his vision and struck him in the middle of the face.

  His knees buckled but he remained standing, held upright by the man's other obscenely sized hand.

  Mike felt blood pour out of his nose into his mouth and he struggled to spit out the red liquid.

  He vomited on the man's pants.

  "Shit!" the man yelled and punched Mike in the stomach. This time the big man let go and Mike fell into a sitting position. The big man shifted his considerable weight to his back foot, swung and threw a devastating right hook at Mike's head that caught him flush on the jaw.

  The blow sounded like a second rifle shot in the still of the forest and blackness came again to Mike, this time to stay.

  Chapter 64

  This was proving to be the best day of Hank Campbell's life. He was a hero.

  The pile of shit he had slung over his shoulder proved it. All the victims' families could rest in peace as the man who killed their loved ones was now in custody.

  He walked around to the front of the Bronco and with an effortless heave, dropped the killer onto the hood of the blazer.

  Hank walked around to the back of the Bronco and opened the rear door. He reached inside and retrieved several sections of rope and rubber tie-downs. Back at the front of the Bronco, Hank bound his prize’s legs together with one piece of rope and used another to secure his arms over his head.

  He then ran another section of rope through the hooks beneath the truck's grill. He joined all of them together and made it fast to each of the oversized side mirrors.

  The guys at Feit's were going to love this. Sure, he could drive to the police station or just wait for the cops to arrive, but if he showed up at the bar with the big serial killer strapped across his hood like a ten-point buck he would be a legend.

  Hank stepped back to admire his handiwork.

  The killer looked like a beaten animal, which he was. Blood still flowed freely from the head wound although now it was darkening and would stop soon. The wound from Hank's first bullet looked to have re-opened with fresh blood covering the older stains on the man's shirt.

  It was a gory picture of which Hank was immensely proud.

  Years ago he had gotten his picture in the local newspaper once for an eighteen point buck, the biggest of the year, and it was framed in a section of Feit's saloon.

  But this was a whole new ball game.

  People said Hank Campbell was good for nothing but drinking and fighting. All those lawyers and bankers and doctors, all those goody two-shoes who made Hank feel like he was a lowlife. He'd show them.

  No one would snicker behind Hank Campbell's back again.

  He walked to the rear of the Bronco, threw the rubber tie-downs in the back and went to the driver's door.

  He opened
it and was about to climb in when he heard the sirens and saw lights appear over the top of the hill.

  Hank began to feel his plan slipping away. Oh well, I’ll still be famous, he thought.

  It just wouldn't happen quite the way he'd planned.

  Chapter 65

  Chief Lenzen braked hard, and skidded to a stop.

  Inside the cruiser, Lenzen cursed, while Ray Mitchell struggled to believe what he saw before him.

  An enormous man climbed out of the cab of the Ford Bronco. The big vehicle rocking from the sudden lightening of the load. It would take a huge man to shake the vehicle that way, and Ray could see proof standing before him.

  "Let me take a wild guess," he said to Lenzen. "That's Hank Campbell."

  Lenzen was already out of the car, his hand on his revolver.

  "Hank, show me your hands. Show me your hands right now!"

  The big man's face broke out into a huge smile but he raised his hands nonetheless.

  "I got him Chief. I got him!" he said, advancing toward the police cruiser.

  "I see that, Hank," Lenzen responded. "But why don't you put your hands on the Bronco anyway?"

  This time, Campbell didn't do as he was told.

  "But why? I got this guy myself, he's the-"

  "He's an actor, you dumb shit! You got the wrong guy. Now put your hands on the Bronco! Do it!"

  Shaking his head as if Lenzen hadn't understood what he said, Hank slowly did as he was told.

  As Hank moved toward the Bronco, Lenzen spoke into his radio.

  "This is Chief Lenzen, send the ambulance up to Millet Road about two miles off of Highway 2."

  He looked at Mike Sharpe still strapped across the Bronco's hood.

  "And hurry."

  As Lenzen put the cuffs on Hank, Mitchell raced to the cruiser's trunk, pulled out a first aid kit and ran to Mike Sharpe's side. He hurriedly untied the rope, dug out a bandage and pressed it against the middle of the bloody patch on the side of Mike's head.