The Girl on the Edge of Summer

by J. M. Redmann

  He could be back any second, so I merely said, “Location is warehouse at the west end of Twenty-second street, Kenner, right by the airport. Hostages and an armed and dangerous suspect. Young, short and pudgy, glasses, black hoodie, jeans, about five-four, one-forty pounds. White. Name is Brandon Beaujeaux. Need help asap. Can’t talk. He might hear. Murderer of Edward Springhorn.”

  Then I brought the waning light from his dying phone back to them to help free them.

  Sophia had cut through the ropes on one of their wrists, freeing them from the pole.

  We quickly cut though the rope on their other wrist, at least enough strands for them to work their way free.

  “Hide,” I told them. “Get under a car if you can. Go to the back wall.”

  I went to work on Alan.

  “Prick tricked us,” he muttered as I cut. “Said he was playing a prank and asked us to go along. Got us to tie each other up. Then started laughing like an idiot. Hit me when I said to let us go.”

  “The cops are on their way,” I assured him.

  Maybe Brandon would have second thoughts and, finally, be smart enough to get out of here instead of coming back.

  The outer door slammed.

  And maybe not.

  I clicked the light off, sawing Alan’s ropes furiously in the dark.

  Footsteps in the hallway. The flickering beam from a flashlight licking through the door frame.

  A thud as he hit the door, expecting it to open.

  Alan was free.

  “Hide in the cars,” I instructed, pointing him in that direction.

  Kicking and cursing at the door.

  I felt my way in the opposite direction.

  No, not to be a hero. Well, not much of one, but the more spread out we were, the more bullets he’d have to fire to kill us all. If need be, which I hoped it would not, I could distract him to fire over here. And hope these crates held things like engines or steel plates.

  I crawled around several of them, worming my way back as close as I could to the outer wall. And as far away from the door as I could get.

  My phone rang.

  What the fuck?

  I grabbed it out of my pocket, only wanting to shut it up. Brandon was making too much noise cursing and kicking at the door to have heard the initial ring.

  Joanne.

  Oh, fuck, yeah, the 9-1-1 call from this number and mentioning it was the Eddie Springhorn murder.

  I swiped it on, then darkened the phone before answering.

  She was already speaking, “—the hell is going on? Where are you?”

  I cut her off and told her in a harsh whisper, “I can’t talk. Teenage kid. Brandon Beaujeaux murdered Eddie and he’s trying to get all the rest of us who might know something.”

  Gunfire erupted.

  Brandon had finally figured out his kicks weren’t working and he had something that would.

  “Do not say a word, you’ll give away my position,” I said, then stuffed my phone into my pocket, leaving it on. If I didn’t make it, it would be evidence.

  The building reverberated as the door slammed open, hitting the wall hard.

  Another second and the light came on.

  Hidden as I was I couldn’t see him, but I could hear his footsteps, get glimpses of his moving shadow.

  “I know you’re in here,” he yelled. “All I need to do is open fire and you’re dead.”

  I pulled the change I had gotten from my nuts and water. Two quarters, a dime, and three pennies.

  I wondered how many times he would fall for the same old trick. Maybe enough to exhaust his ammo.

  I carefully slid around the wooden box, just enough to get a clear shot into an empty area of the warehouse. I held still listening for his footsteps. He was nervously pacing. I waited until they sounded like they were walking away from me and then tossed the change as far as I could before skittering back to my hiding place.

  They hit the back wall, metal on metal, making enough noise to capture his attention.

  At the first sound, he opened fire, as if his finger was too close to the trigger and being startled was enough to make him shoot.

  Some of the bullets hit a car, the ping of ricochets landing close to where I was.

  After the deafening clatter, the silence was sudden.

  “I’m not kidding,” he yelled.

  Then he let go another burst to prove his point.

  I thought I heard sirens in the distance, but another plane flew overheard.

  Even if the cops got here, they wouldn’t storm in, not against an idiot with a machine gun and a death wish.

  Again, I felt furious at the stupidity of this. His stupid choices, his stupid little ego. At my cynical worst, I could argue that Eddie got what he deserved—Brandon could kill the scumbag and that would be a rough justice. But now the four of us. And the first responders he might take out as well. An utterly stupid, useless waste.

  “You’d better come out!” he yelled.

  Yeah, right, like we’re going to do that.

  A paint can clattered against the back wall. Someone else had picked up my trick.

  His jittery finger fired again.

  And he’d fallen for it again.

  I needed to have a better idea of where he was and what he was doing.

  The problem being that if I could see him, he could see me.

  I crept around the back side of the box, holding still, then took advantage of another plane overhead to crawl farther out.

  Around another crate.

  Then another.

  I could see him in a sliver of light, only a brief glimpse, but enough to know where he was. He was still clinging to his script, that he was in control, pacing in the central, lit area, as if we would eventually come to him.

  Hey, Cordelia, this is a Micky Knight welcome back to New Orleans. I hoped their dinner party had ended early, although past ones never had, and that Joanne was at home or well on her way there before calling me. She would at least have enough sense to go somewhere private, where no one would overhear me blown away by a machine gun.

  Yes, that was a siren in the background.

  Maybe he heard it, too.

  He opened fire again, aiming where the girls had gone.

  Please be under a car behind several cars, I silently pleaded. The sound was harsh, loud from the gun and the bullets hitting the metal wall, the cars, the steel posts.

  And a small cry. Someone had been hit.

  “You’re dead. You’re all dead,” he said, satisfaction, even relief, at finally having a target.

  “You’re just a pussy-boy with a gun.” Alan, from another part of the room.

  Brandon spun in his direction and opened fire.

  In the cacophony, I yanked a board free from one of the containers.

  The firing stopped.

  Silence.

  “Missed me,” Alan taunted.

  Brandon fired again.

  I stood up, slipped past the box, and heaved the board at Brandon’s now-turned back.

  Hit him square between the shoulders.

  The gun jerked up, still firing, as he stumbled off balance.

  “What the fuck!” he yelled, finally letting go of the trigger.

  I slid back behind the containers, crawling on the floor.

  Brandon may have been trained, but he was firing level from where he was holding the gun. If I were standing, he’d be firing right at my chest.

  Which was why I was on my stomach, crawling on the floor.

  Now he fired in my direction.

  Or close to where I had been.

  I could hear the bullets overhead, the splintering of wood from the containers, the thud as they hit the metal outer wall.

  I kept crawling back to the far wall.

  One of the crates cracked open from the bullets, the wood and its plastic-wrapped contents clattering to the ground.

  A shaft of light hit a metal box on the wall.

  I pulled myself to a cro
uching position and managed to grab one of the shattered boards.

  Cupping my mouth and pitching my voice to the back wall to hide its direction, I shouted, “You’re a lousy shot, Brandon!” then threw the board that way.

  It hit the back wall and he opened fire.

  How many fucking bullets does that gun have? I thought as I unfurled from my crouch to slide along the floor, heading for the circuit breaker box.

  Ten feet, crawl, another two feet.

  I was going to be so bruised. If I survived.

  Another plane thundered overhead. I couldn’t tell if the sirens were closer or not.

  Five feet.

  “Come out!” he yelled. His plan was not going well, desperation replacing gloating in his voice.

  “To let you kill us? Fuck no!” That was Alan.

  That distracted Brandon, and he fired toward his voice.

  I pushed myself up from the floor.

  Bruised and sore muscles.

  Was at the circuit box. A tumbling of noise from the bullets’ destruction covered the creaking open of the lid.

  “Lights out,” I muttered and spread my arms to cover both sides, then pushed.

  Darkness.

  “Lights out, Brandon, baby,” I yelled before again diving to the floor.

  The bullets whizzed overhead, grinding through the wooden boxes, destroying them. But he was aiming in my general direction, not at me, still far too close for comfort. Some of the shattered boards landed on my back, a nail scraping painfully into my leg.

  I gritted my teeth and swore silently, creeping as quietly as I could to get behind the remaining intact crates. But the floor was now littered with debris, making it slow—and painful—going. Bruises, sore muscles, and splinters.

  He turned his flashlight back on, so was easy to spot.

  He went back to the light switch, uselessly flipping it back and forth.

  “Turn the fucking light back on!” he yelled.

  “Afraid of the dark?” Alan yelled.

  Then the little boy screamed, “You’re cheating!”

  We weren’t playing his game.

  “You’re not a winner!” I yelled at him, flattening myself on the floor as I finished.

  I wasn’t disappointed. A flurry of bullets spewed just above me. More wood shattering, turning to shards.

  He swung wildly, letting the bullets fly in a circle.

  But he was shooting high, higher as he became more erratic. He was doing damage, destroying anything that wasn’t solid metal, the wooden containers and their auto parts groaning apart, piles of paper from somewhere, a pale ghostly white floating to the floor.

  I kept inching around the crates, as one was damaged, to a whole one. But there were few of those left.

  Another barrage of gunfire overhead. My shoulder was hit. But no, it came from behind me, had to be a ricochet. I couldn’t tell if I was bleeding or just badly bruised. My jean jacket, a favorite, would never be the same.

  Like the gunfire, the flashlight wavered erratically. He was having trouble controlling both.

  Unless he was a secret jock—and maybe even if he was—his arms had to be getting tired.

  As if to prove my point, he fired again, but this time lower, the bullets biting into the concrete. I could see the white dust swirl in his flashlight.

  The cops had to be here by now, I calculated. Joanne would be smart enough to relay what she knew to them. But they had to be prepared to confront a man with a high-powered weapon.

  How long? A few minutes?

  When the next second could bring the final bullet.

  He fired again, this time in the direction of the girls, also lower, either too tired to hold the gun up or having finally figured out we wouldn’t be standing tall, ready for his next shot.

  A yelp. Surprise? Pain?

  He fired again.

  No sound this time.

  I crept around the box. I was behind him, but at least forty feet back, across a floor littered with debris.

  Another round of firing.

  But only a few bullets.

  Followed by a click.

  Out of ammo.

  In the jiggling of the flashlight, I could see him frantically digging in his jacket.

  I threw myself off the floor, screaming, “Now!” as I flung myself in his direction, running, jumping, ignoring the junk on the floor, caring only if I kept my balance and going forward. Hurt didn’t matter.

  I had only a few seconds.

  He heard me and turned in my direction, madly trying to jam in another cartridge.

  Almost tripping on a large piece of pipe, over it, nail in my foot, ignore it.

  He dropped the flashlight, then scrabbled for it, then stopped, back at the gun, but without light to guide him.

  Ten feet.

  Five.

  He lifted the gun.

  I grabbed the barrel, shoving it aside, feeling it shuddering in my hand as bullets exploded out of it.

  It didn’t matter. Even if I was hit, the force of my momentum would drive me into him, my fist plowing into his face, my whole body slamming into his, taking him down.

  We crashed onto the floor.

  My fist again in his face.

  The gun stopped firing.

  I hit him again.

  Yeah, I wanted to hurt him. But mostly I wanted to stop him. To make sure he was too hurt to fire that gun again.

  I wrenched the gun out of his hand.

  He yowled in pain.

  I kicked the gun across the floor. Out of his reach.

  I brought a knee hard into his groin.

  Another grunt of pain and he tried to curl up, but I put my forearm across his neck, pinning him down, enough pressure to keep him from moving.

  “You’re hurting me,” he muttered. His nose was bleeding.

  “Too bad.”

  I didn’t let go.

  “It’s safe,” I yelled to the others. “I’ve got him pinned.”

  Footsteps, running.

  Alan. He picked up the flashlight.

  More footsteps, slow, halting.

  “Back to the left on the wall, there’s a circuit breaker box,” I told him.

  He trotted away, shining the light to the ceiling so it reflected enough to give us all a dim glow.

  “Let me up, I’ll behave,” Brandon said.

  I ignored him, looking where Sophia and Janice were coming from.

  Janice was limping, blood running down her leg, her arm across Sophia’s shoulder.

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  “You will be,” I promised her. Relief was too small a word for what I felt seeing them standing and moving. Okay considering what could have been.

  “Please, I will behave,” Brandon again pleaded. “Let me up.”

  “Fuck you,” Sophia said for us all.

  “Not a chance in hell. You’re restrained until the cops arrest you,” I explained. Soon, I hoped. It was a strain holding him like this, left knee in his chest, right arm across his neck with my other leg and arm to balance and hold me up enough to not choke him or break ribs.

  The light came back on.

  The warehouse looked like a tornado had ripped through it, debris everywhere, paper strewn across the floor, concrete dust hanging in the air.

  “There are cops outside,” I told them. “Go out slowly, with your hands up, announce who you are as you exit.”

  Janice was sagging against Sophia. I didn’t know how long she’d been bleeding, and she needed medical attention.

  Alan went to the other side of her, taking her arm over his shoulder.

  Sophia let her go. “I’ll stay here,” she announced. Then she sat down on the floor, bracing her knees around Brandon’s head, pinning him down.

  “Girl power. I think he’ll hate that,” she said. She grabbed both his wrists, holding them together.

  I gratefully took my arm from his throat so I could hold myself up with both arms.

  For a few mere secon
ds, it was us and our ragged breathing; then a sea of uniforms and lights invaded the space.

  As I had promised, I let Brandon up to be taken into custody.

  “This isn’t fair,” were his parting words.

  In relief and exhaustion, Sophia and I hugged each other. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I told her.

  “Me too. I’m glad I’m okay,” she answered. “I’m glad we’re all okay.”

  We broke our hug.

  I remembered the phone in my pocket.

  It was still on.

  “Well, I think I used just about all my minutes,” I said into it. I had no idea if she was still on the line.

  She was. “Probably the most interesting phone call I’ve had in a long time. I’m outside. We can hang up now.”

  I did and limped out of the building.

  “We’re all okay.” I wondered if that was true. I should have been more suspicious, not treated Brandon like a schoolboy. But did I want to live in that world, wondering what lurked beneath even the most innocent face?

  I welcomed the outside air, even the rain on my face. The place was surrounded with flashing red and blue lights, harshly jarring against the black night.

  Joanne touched my arm.

  “I’m sorry I ruined your party,” I said.

  “That’s okay…wait, what are you talking about?” She tried to save it, but it was too late.

  “You were all busy this weekend. You, Danny, Torbin. And…I saw her. Driving through the French Quarter. Put them together.” As wrung out as I was, I wasn’t going to admit to following Torbin and spying on them.

  “Ah. That wasn’t intended.”

  “That’s what life is, so much unintended, isn’t it? All we can do is climb into the next day.”

  We were silent until she said, “You need to be looked at. Your leg is bleeding and you’ve got cuts and scratches all over.” She led me to a waiting ambulance.

  I was too exhausted to argue. Or claim I was okay.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Somehow I managed to drag myself to my office for my meeting with Mr. Douglas Townson.

  Yeah, I was limping. Everything hurt. I was right about the bruises and sore muscles. Way too right. I’d required two stitches on my leg, a glancing ricochet, and three on my shoulder, also a rebound, thankfully. Maybe I could stitch the jacket back together; dark denim is so forgiving of blood stains. After being released from the hospital early Sunday morning, I had crawled into bed and only come out to take painkillers.