James wasn’t a stone cold killer, and shooting a man in the back seemed wrong. And in most cases, it was wrong. But was it wrong here? Now? Was killing Elmer wrong? Or was killing Elmer the only true option that he had. And what about Debra? Didn’t she deserve justice? Didn’t she deserve a bullet in the head too?
He considered the situation, thinking murder was the right thing to do. And maybe it was. But James didn’t like it; he didn’t like it at all. If he were alone with Elmer it would be one thing. He could detain him, get the police involved and try to gain control over the situation. But Elmer had two thugs with him, and the relationship that James had with the police wasn’t too good these days. They probably wouldn’t even listen to what he had to say.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, James remembered Switch.
Switch left the ropes loose; he was an unknown variable. Moore and Elmer were not. They were the enemy. But Switch––
He raised the gun, pointed it towards Elmer’s head. His fingers tightened. His eyes widened.
This one’s for Debra, he thought. I hope it hurts like hell.
Then he pointed the gun at Debra.
Ah, fuck it, he thought. This one’s for me.
117
The poodle loving asshole tossed a chewed tennis ball from hand to hand, keeping the dog amused. The dog barked twice and jumped up and down excitedly with its clipped tail wagging and its head bobbing. It wasn’t a bad dog, as far as its demeanor went, but the haircut that covered its frame suggested that the owner either hated the animal, or simply liked having a dog with a style best suited for a music video from the 1980s.
The dog barked, snapping Elmer from his daze. He shook off the cobwebs, grabbed his beer from the railing and swirled the beer inside the can. Little did he know––James was free. After a drink, Elmer pulled his gun from his waist.
He wanted to shoot the poodle-man.
“You’re lucky, fucko.” He said, stroking the weapon. “Lucky I don’t blast you and that stupid dog.”
On the other side of the cottage, the gunfire began.
Elmer panicked and fired three shots. Two bullets went into the sand; one hit the poodle-man in the face. As poodle-man fell, the chewed ball rolled from his fingers. The dog snatched the ball from the sand and ran across the beach, more excited than ever.
Elmer spun around.
A man in a blue baseball hat walked along the shoreline with two women. Both women were in their fifties. One had a bathing suit and sandals, the other, jeans and a bikini top. All three of them stopped walking when Elmer began firing. The man said something and ran; the two women followed close behind.
Elmer fired more bullets.
One bullet hit home, dropping the man to the sand. The two women kept running.
Elmer fired more bullets; he was panicking now. He didn’t know what he was doing or why he was doing it. All he knew was this: He had to kill James quickly and get the hell out of dodge.
He stopped firing. Everything seemed quiet. Feeling the coke in his system and the anxiety of the moment, he stepped inside and pointed the gun at James. But James wasn’t there; he was gone.
“What the fuck?” Elmer said. “Where is he? Where is everybody?”
Then Moore came through the door on the far side of the cottage, like a bear, shouting, “The cops are here! The cops are here!”
“Where’s James?”
“Huh?”
“Where is James? Look! He’s gone! That little fucker is gone! Where is he?”
Moore was obviously surprised. “I don’t know man, but we don’t have time for this.”
“Where’s Switch?”
The door blasted open and two officers came charging inside.
“Freeze!” The first officer said.
Moore turned quickly and pulled the trigger. The shotgun blasted both officers at once. He pulled the chamber and fired again. The two men were still in the same spot, give or take a few inches, and the second blast finished them off. They tumbled backwards, flopping against each other with their bodies destroyed.
Then a third cop appeared behind the two fallen men and fired a pair of shots. The bullets went into the wall. Moore fired again, missing his target for the first time.
He didn’t know it, but he had one shell left.
The officer shot another two bullets and tucked out of sight. Both bullets zipped through the air, between Moore’s left arm and his ribcage, hitting his clothing but missing him. It was an impossible shot had the officer tried to make it, one in a million. Moore didn’t realize it happened. He thought the bullets went wide.
Then came the shouting.
“Freeze!” Officer Scriber said. He stood at the broken patio door with Officer Markus White. White was a big man with a large mouth. He didn’t talk a lot; his mouth was large physically––big lips and a lot of teeth.
Scriber was glad to have White at his side instead of Layton, the asshole. And Scriber liked White, even if White was an out of shape slug that had lost his lust for life. The thing was, Scriber hated Officer Layton so much he couldn’t sleep at night, and White was a good shot––a very good shot. He ranked in the top ten percent on the force.
Elmer scrambled behind the kitchen counter, firing two shots wide.
Scriber pulled the trigger five times. The bullets hit everything except his target.
Moore snapped off his final shell, tearing the top half of Scriber’s head off and that was the end of him.
And during this time, while the bullets soared and Scriber died and Elmer hid behind the counter (and rammed his hands against his ears), White––the man with the amazing shot––steadied his hand, aimed, and fired three times.
Moore took the first bullet in the throat, the second bullet in the chin, and the third bullet in the eye. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Two cops, stepped over Scriber’s body, then came two more. They were inside the common room with guns raised and eyes wide.
“We’ve got you surrounded.” Officer Layton said, leading the pack. He didn’t know if the place was surrounded or not, but he liked the way the words sounded when he said them. His meat-hook hands strangled his gun. His legs were in an open stance.
Elmer didn’t know how many cops he was up against, but he knew that he was beaten. He tossed his gun where everyone could see and tried to force some tears.
“I’m the hostage,” he said. “I’m one of the good guys. I’m sorry I fired at you. I thought you were the man that kidnapped me! I thought you were James! Be careful guys… James is around here somewhere!”
118
James tucked himself into a bedroom. As the gunfire increased, he dropped onto his belly and slid under the bed. It was a temporary solution, but it was the best he could do.
And now the battle had ended.
He could hear the officers cuffing Elmer against his wishes. He could hear Elmer complaining, saying that he was innocent, saying that he was the victim, saying anything and everything he could think of to free his neck from the hangman’s noose. And although the case was cloaked in confusion, Jennifer McCall––the woman that Elmer had beat up and Debra had brought to the hospital––made a full, detailed report. Elmer may or may not have been the victim of a crime, but as far as the police were concerned he was more than likely guilty of one.
James heard the panicked discussions, the officers calling for back up, calling for medical assistance and helping the wounded. He could hear the cries of pain.
The men were checking bedrooms now––gasping and whining as they discovered the four bodies that were piled on top of each other. It was only a matter of seconds before they would enter the room, find him hiding and slap a set of cuffs on him. And James felt that he had no choice but to allow it to happen. He didn’t want to fight these men. They had done nothing wrong. They were the boys in blue, risking their necks to make the world a better place.
Why fight them?
Why continue the battle?
> The door opened. He could see their feet.
“I’m here,” James said. “I’m under the bed. I surrender. I won’t do anything stupid.”
Then a voice: “Captain,” the voice said. “We’ve got one!”
119
There was a stampede of footsteps.
“Sir?” The voice sounded tough, professional. “Are you armed?”
“Yes,” James said. “I have a handgun, but I will not use it.”
The tension mounted.
“Throw the gun where we can see it.”
James could hear the sound of weapons clicking and feet shuffling. They were fully prepared to fire upon the bed; fully prepared to kill him.
James slid the gun along the floor, where it spun in a circle before coming to a complete stop. He expected one of the cops to grab it. Nobody did.
“Sir? Do you have another weapon?”
“No.”
“Are you positive?”
“Yes. That was my only weapon.”
“What is your name?”
“My name is James McGee.”
A collective gasp filled the room. Then came a pause. James wondered what they were doing. He stretched out his neck, attempting to steal a glimpse. He saw nothing but feet, and was about to ask a question when the dialog resumed.
“Sir? We would like to see your hands, one at a time. Do it slowly. No sudden movements.”
As James put his first hand where they could see it, someone picked his weapon off the floor. It happened very quickly, as if they expected the floor beneath the gun to be booby-trapped. He shifted his position and slid his other hand out. They grabbed him immediately. Seconds later, James was in cuffs.
120
They stood James up, read him his rights and walked him out of the bedroom. He tried to turn left, towards the door, thinking they’d walk him outside and throw him in the back of a cruiser. They didn’t. They walked him into the common room and sat him in a chair.
Across the room, Debra slumped into herself. Her skin was phantom white; much of her blood had drained out of her.
James hated seeing Debra this way, and wished that someone would throw a sheet over her. After punishing himself with her image awhile, he tore his eyes away and spotted Moore lying on his back with a pool of blood around his head. He looked past Moore, to a place where two officers were talking. There was blood on the walls and ceiling around them. Just outside the door, another two officers had fallen. One man was alive and one was dead. James could see neither man, but could hear a third officer talking with the injured man. The conversation wouldn’t last long. The wounded man was thirty seconds from dying.
He glanced at the broken patio door. Scriber’s feet were inside; the rest of his body was out. James didn’t realize that part of the man’s head had rolled off of the patio.
Officer Layton stepped out of a bedroom and approached James. He looked fifty percent pissed off and fifty percent ecstatic. He said, “So tough-guy… you proud of yourself?”
James ignored him.
“I asked you a question.”
“Why am I sitting here? Why not throw me in a car?”
“Why should I tell you anything?”
“I’m just curious. I don’t care much for the view is all.”
“I find that hard to believe, considering you’re the guy responsible for this fucking nightmare.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yeah right.”
“I didn’t do this.”
Layton released an exaggerated puff of air. “I’ve seen guys like you before. I’ve seen guys like you a million times before. You think you’re smart. You think you’re tough. But you know what? You’re just a gutless piece of shit… you know that? A gutless piece of donkey shit. You know what your problem is?”
“I’ve got a feeling you’re going to tell me. I also have a feeling that you don’t know why I’m sitting here. It’s not up to you, is it? You’re just a little fish, a nobody… the last guy that people want to talk with, isn’t that right?”
Layton’s face turned red. “We’re securing the area, asshole. And asking your buddies some questions you’re not allowed to hear.”
“And waiting for back up?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Well, why not tell me? Jesus.”
“I don’t have to tell you shit.”
“Why are you talking to me this way? Is this really how you small town, half-wit, police force, Rambo wannabes do it? Fuck. Don’t you have protocol to follow or something? Can’t you see that I’m upset? My girlfriend is dead!”
“And you killed her!”
“No I didn’t!”
“Sell it to the judge, asshole. Because nobody here is going to believe you.”
“My God man, leave me alone. Get out of my face you stupid prick.”
“Now listen a minute. My partner’s dead, in case you didn’t know it. And I’m thinking that you killed him. We’re all thinking you killed him. This is your fault… you and your buddies. Look at that!” Layton pointed at Moore. “I bet your upset about that one, aren’t you? You’re friend is dead.”
“Are you crazy? That fucker…” The words got caught in his throat and a wave of sickness flashed through his body. “That fucker raped my girl.”
“You probably raped that poor girl.
“You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah right. I don’t think so. You’re the one going to prison.”
The back door opened and a man in a nice suit entered the room.
“Officer Layton,” he said flatly.
Layton turned. “Yes sir?”
The man in the suit seemed very professional. His name was Henry Wilson; he just turned fifty. “I want you on the road,” he said. “You’re going to ride with Dylan… escort this guy here to the station.” He nodded in Elmer’s direction. “When you get there, file your report. Don’t stand around talking about it. Do it. File it first, before anything else. I want to read the report when I get back, you understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay. Good. I’m going to have your car. Get lost.”
“Sir?”
“Yes Officer Layton?”
“Who do you want me to ride with?”
“Dylan.”
“Dylan’s dead sir.”
Wilson sighed. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. I want you to go it alone, then. Take Dylan’s car. Neilson has the keys.”
“But sir––”
“Don’t talk to me about protocol Layton, not on a day like this. You’re to go it alone, and call for back up at the station. Someone will assist you with the suspect here, and there. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay. Call it in and prepare for transfer. Get out of my face.”
Layton hauled Elmer away in cuffs. Two officers followed. Wilson apologized, and said something about the men being upset.
James nodded; he closed his eyes and mumbled, “Don’t worry about it.”
Wilson grinned an unhappy grin. “Very well.”
It was clear that Wilson wasn’t impressed with Layton. Perhaps Layton was a pain in everybody’s ass, James thought. Oh well. Your problem, not mine. I’ve got my own things to deal with.
121
Officer Layton, Elmer, and two other officers, walked the slope of the driveway, watching their footing the same careful way that Moore had, three minutes and thirty-seven seconds before Moore took a bullet in the throat and two in the head. When they reached the road, Layton noticed that more police cars had arrived. An ambulance was speeding towards the scene with lights flashing. There was a sheet covering Officer Wayne Carey, the officer that had taken a shotgun shell in the chin.
Officer Alice Romero was crying, half mad with fear, shock and pain. She had lost a lot of blood, and was moments away from passing out. At this point, the female officer hung on through determination alone. Her leg would never be the same.
Layton and
Elmer approached Officer Neilson, who was standing next to a cruiser. Neilson rolled his eyes. An ambulance drove past; it turned a corner and disappeared into the shadows of the cottage driveway.
Then another cruiser pulled away; Switch was in the back seat. He looked sad. He didn’t realize how lucky he was to be leaving.
“Good morning,” Layton said with a sick, careless grin. “Nice day for a slaughter, isn’t it?”
“Fuck off Layton.” Officer Neilson said.
Elmer was stuffed into the backseat of the cruiser.
“What’s you’re problem?” Layton asked.
“You’re kidding me, right? Do you have a lump of coal where your heart should be?”
Layton shrugged.
“If I have to spell it out, my problem is you. You’re impossible. We have four dead policemen and one wounded, plus four civilian bodies that we found in a bedroom, two dead civilians on the beach, and one dead fucking asshole suspect. The body count for this morning is eleven dead and one wounded, in case you hadn’t noticed. And you’re asking me what my problem is? My problem is you, you insensitive, silver spoon, half-wit ass-licker. Get the fuck away from me. I rather ride the lightning with my mother sitting on my lap than talk with you.”
“I don’t care. I’ve got to bring this guy to the station.” Layton pointed at Elmer.
“You’re kidding me right?”
“Nope.”
“But this is my car.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Are you sure?”
“Everything is screwed up today. Half of us will be riding alone, and most of us will be in different cars.”
“And who are you riding with? You’re not bringing him in by yourself, are you?”
“It’s just me.”
“Yeah right.”
The Dead Parade Page 24