by Kelly, Diane
“Nantucket, hmm?” Megan chuckled. “Better be careful or all the ladies will want to sit on your lap instead of Santa’s.”
It was the first time in weeks Randy had seen even a hint of a smile on her face.
“All ready for the holidays?” she asked.
“Sure am,” he said. Given that he did precisely nothing to acknowledge them, he was always ready.
“Big plans?” she asked.
“Just the usual for Christmas,” he said. “You know. Hanging with the folks.” He offered a cringe for authenticity. “I’m working New Year’s Eve, but as soon as the mall closes I’m heading up to Billy Bob’s.” He tossed his lasso into the air for emphasis. “I’m gonna bring in the new year with a bang!”
She smiled. “Sounds like fun.”
If she only knew …
SEVENTY-THREE
RESOLUTIONS
Megan
The profiler had elaborated on his description of the bomber as not only young, white, and male but also of above average intelligence and with sociopathic tendencies. Alas, the profile did nothing to help us identify which young, white, intelligent male with sociopathic tendencies it was. There were probably hundreds in the area. Thousands, even.
Detective Jackson had hoped that publishing the Rattler’s manifesto would bring in some tips, but the few that had come in hadn’t panned out. Given that the second bomb had also contained a horseshoe nail, she’d looked into criminals with ties to the local horse breeding and racing industries to see if she could generate any leads. While there had been some gambling violations and illegal doping, nothing she found seemed to connect anyone to the bombs in any apparent way. The case had hit yet another wall.
Ricky and Scott had pleaded out their attempted-theft charges, receiving a year’s probation each. Last I heard they were flipping burgers at a place on Hulen. Working at minimum wage now, they’d never be able to afford that big-screen television.
The holidays had been the same as always. Loud, boisterous affairs at my parents’ house.
At Thanksgiving, all seven of us had crowded elbow-to-elbow at the kitchen table, fighting for what little oxygen remained in the room and the last piece of pumpkin or pecan pie. I’d fixed Brigit a plate of turkey, dressing, and mashed potatoes. Brigit had eaten every last bite, then curled up on the couch to nap with my father and Joey, displacing the orange tabbies who hissed and spit and gave her what-for.
Gabby’s crush, T.J., had stopped by in the early evening when we’d all fixed ourselves a plate of leftovers and gathered around the television to watch football, fighting again over the limited seats. I’d ended up sharing the ottoman with my mother. I took the whole thing over when she got up to fix T.J. a plate.
He was a cute kid. Clean. Mannerly. And clearly totally smitten with Gabs.
Why couldn’t I find someone who felt that way about me?
Christmas was much of the same. More cramming our oversized Catholic family into a house built for Protestants. More food. More afternoon naps in the living room. Another visit from T.J., who scored extra points by showing up with a tin of his mother’s holiday fudge.
I worked the swing shift on Christmas and spent the evening and early hours of the night arresting drunks who’d indulged in too much wine and eggnog and responding to a seemingly endless series of domestic disturbance calls. There is such a thing as too much togetherness. Really, the city council should enact an ordinance forbidding any family from spending more than four consecutive hours together. It would make my job so much easier and prevent at least a dozen attempted homicides.
The Big Dick had been making noises about the steak dinner he believed I owed him for failing to nab the bomber. When I reminded Derek that we had not put a time limit on our bet he’d pushed for a date. We’d agreed on January 1. Given that it was now New Year’s Eve, I wished I’d padded the time period a little more, stretched it out to St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe Mackey would’ve agreed if I’d upped the ante with the promise of green beer, too.
At 8:00, I was curled up on my futon with Brigit, watching the festivities from Times Square on television, feeling sorry for myself, and wondering what Seth was doing tonight.
Did he have a date? Someone special to kiss at midnight?
Blurgh. Dealing with drunks was a pain in the ass, but I almost wished I’d been assigned to work tonight. At least then I wouldn’t have been alone.
After a half hour watching the revelers and pop bands on television, I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw on a sweater, jeans, and the new boots my mother had bought me for Christmas to replace the pair my partner had chewed up. I moved Brigit’s cage over in front of the closet door to keep her from getting to the few remaining shoes inside and gave her a scratch on the head. “Be a g-good girl, ’kay?”
Grabbing my purse and keys, I headed out.
It was after closing time at the Chisholm Trail mall when I strolled down the walkway, contemplating my New Year’s resolutions. So far I’d come up with:
1. Stop moping around wondering why Seth broke things off.
2. …
I hadn’t come up with a second resolution yet, but I’d keep working on it.
The courtyard was dark when I entered, the overhead lights turned off. I’d forgotten that the mall planned to close earlier than usual for the holiday. It looked like everyone had moved on, employees included. Damn. I’d been hoping to catch Randy, to see if he’d mind me tagging along with him to Billy Bob’s. Country music wasn’t really my thing, but it beat sitting at home like some pathetic loser. Besides, the guy amused me. I could use a laugh about now.
When I found the courtyard empty, my first impulse was to turn around and go. But a moment later something drew me to the quiet carousel. I walked around it in the dim light, eyeing all of the horses just as I’d done as a child, looking for the prettiest one. I bypassed the one with the corkscrew hole and continued my search.
There he was.
A black stallion rearing up on his hind legs, his silver saddle bejeweled with fake rubies.
Leaving my purse on Randy’s podium, I stepped up on the platform and climbed onto the horse. I was lost in thought when a voice came from behind me.
“Riding off into the sunset?”
I turned to find Randy walking toward me. He must’ve come from punching the clock in the employee break room.
I offered him a smile in return. “Thinking about it.”
He was still dressed in his wrangler’s outfit, his lasso at his waist. Heck, he could probably wear the costume to Billy Bob’s. He’d fit right in.
A security guard poked his head in one of the courtyard doors. “Hey, you two. I’m heading out. The custodial staff is off tonight for the holiday, so just make sure the door lock catches when you leave, okay?”
“No problem!” I called.
Once the door had closed, Randy hopped onto the carousel platform and made his way toward me. “No plans tonight?”
I sighed. “No. Any chance I can tag along with you to Billy Bob’s? I can be your wing woman, help you pick up girls.”
He chuckled. “I don’t need any help with that. Girls love the Randy wrangler. I have to beat them off with a stick.”
“Darn,” I joked, giving a finger snap. “Should’ve brought my baton.”
Randy leaned back against the horse next to me, reaching up with his hand to grasp the pole. As he did, the pearl snap at the wrist of his Western shirt popped open. The cuff slid down his arm an inch or two, revealing part of a tattoo—the head of a diamondback rattlesnake, its mouth open to reveal a forked tongue and a set of fangs ready to sink into the flesh of an unwitting victim.
Randy looked up at his wrist, then back at me, his wide-set eyes that usually glimmered with humor now cold with hate.
In that instant I knew.
Randy is the Rattler.
Oh, God! Why hadn’t I seen it? So many things now made sense.
His car in the driveway of his parents’ h
ouse near the country club. No doubt he knew the area and could easily sneak on and off the golf course without detection.
Why the manifesto had rang a bell in my head. Randy had used the unusual word “moniker” both when speaking to me and in his manifesto.
His actions shortly before the bomb exploded in the food court. He’d been looking down at his cell phone, probably watching a timer to see how many seconds remained before he’d need to excuse himself from his post, leave the courtyard, and escape to safety.
The horseshoe nails in the bombs. An inside joke with himself, as he waited to see if Fort Worth PD would make the connection between the nails and the carousel operator. We hadn’t.
Yes, in that instant I knew.
But in that instant Randy also realized I knew.
“Well, well.” A sick smile slithered across his lips. “Looks like you’re not as stupid as I thought.”
Fear seized me with a frozen grip. If I’d had my baton with me, I’d have delivered a skull-cracking whack to his head. As it was, I had no weapons.
Not my baton.
Not my gun.
Not my pepper spray.
My best weapon, Brigit, was back at my apartment, probably eating the couch cushion since she couldn’t access the shoes in the closet.
My fight-or-flight instincts kicked in and I slid from the horse, leaped off the carousel platform, and took off running as fast as I could across the courtyard, which wasn’t fast at all. Damn it! Why had I worn these new high-heeled boots?
A shadow fell over me a split second before Randy’s lasso came down over my shoulders. I was yanked backward as Randy jerked the rope tight around me. It hurt like hell when I hit the tile floor. Can a person break her ass?
Randy pulled on the rope, singing as he tugged me toward him. “Come a-ti yi youpy youpy yea youpy yea, come a-ti yi youpy youpy yea.”
He jerked me inch by inch, toying with me as I squirmed and struggled, trying to break free from the impossibly tight binding cutting into my skin. As he pulled me close, he hissed, “You didn’t think I’d let you get away now, did you, little filly?”
* * *
Minutes later, and despite my best efforts to fight Randy off, my legs were tied to the black stallion I’d been sitting on earlier, my hands and feet were bound tightly to the metal bar on which the horse was mounted, and a bomb was strapped to my chest.
Looked like I’d be bringing in the new year with a bang, too. At least I hadn’t wasted a lot of time making resolutions I wouldn’t be able to keep. I’d managed to get a few kicks in, too, temporarily disabling Randy with a spike heel to the nuts. Frankly, I was surprised he hadn’t used the rope to strangle me for that.
“Don’t do this, Randy!” I pleaded. “Please!”
He reached out a finger and stroked my cheek, causing me to flinch. “You’re sexy when you beg.”
My stomach clenched tight in terror, my lungs soon following suit. Even as I gasped for air, hyperventilating in pure panic, my mind raced, thinking back to my criminal psych classes and everything the instructors had taught us about sociopaths.
They have no emotional connections to others, no moral compass.
They lie with ease. Manipulate.
They’re egotistical, hypocritical, controlling.
And, above all, they want to win.
“You’ve already won, Randy!” I cried, attempting an appeal to his sense of self-preservation while trying to get my emotions under control. “You’ve proved that you can outsmart the rest of us. Killing me will only make the department more determined to bring you in!”
He eyed me for a moment as if thinking over my words.
I tried my best to persuade him: “You don’t have to let me go, Randy. Just turn the bomb off!”
“Maybe you’re right.” He stepped toward me, his hands reaching out to the device on my chest. “I could escape before anybody knows you’re tied up here.”
Thank God! I sobbed in relief, my shoulders heaving.
Just as his fingers touched the bomb he jerked them back, laughing. “Pysch!”
Rage overtook my fear now. I attempted again to kick him to no avail. My legs and feet were tied too tightly.
He reached out to activate the timer on the bomb. “I’ll set this one for eleven thirty. That way the bomb squad will be here when the real show starts at Billy Bob’s at midnight.”
I’d merely be the warm-up. I supposed it was odd to be insulted by that fact, but nevertheless I was. The least he could have done was set my bomb for midnight, too, so that I could count down to the new year before going up like a firework.
Randy hopped off the platform but turned back to look at me one last time. “I better get going. Time’s a-wastin’.” He gave me an exaggerated wink and gestured to the timer on my chest.
According to the readout on the timing device, the bomb would go off in one hour, twenty-nine minutes, and fifty-three seconds.
He stepped over to his podium and turned the key to start the carousel. The organ music kicked in with “Happy Trails,” the platform began to rotate, and my horse began moving up and down.
“Randy, no!” I screamed as he made his way across the courtyard. “Get back here! Please!”
I was tempted to cry, Why me? After all, I’d never done anything mean to him. But neither had Honeysuckle or the golf player. For sociopaths, it didn’t matter. Everyone was the enemy.
The door swung shut behind him, sealing my fate. The timer continued to count down, at one hour and twenty-eight minutes now.
As the carousel circled, I screamed and shrieked and wriggled and squirmed and tried to free my limbs. It was no use. Randy had tied me tighter than a calf at the rodeo. The only thing I managed to do was dig the rope deeper into my wrists, drawing blood that seeped into the wristbands of my sweater.
An hour later I was exhausted and delirious with horror, had only twenty-seven minutes left to live, and was singing along with the organ music at the top of my lungs.
“Oh, come along, boys, and listen to my tale,
I’ll tell you all my troubles on the ol’ Chisholm Trail.
Come a-ti yi youpy youpy yea youpy yea,
Come a-ti yi youpy youpy yea.…”
A loud rap sounded at the window of the courtyard. I looked over to see the Big Dick standing behind the glass, his flashlight in his hand. Although the carousel music was too loud for me to hear his words, I was able to read his lips.
What the fuck?
Who would have thought I’d ever be happy to see that guy?
He spoke into his shoulder-mounted radio. In three minutes the fire department had arrived and used a battering ram to break through the glass. Two men in bomb squad uniforms stepped through the jagged space and came inside, one leading a black Lab, the other leading a yellow Lab.
Seth.
Wonderful. Could anything be more humiliating than having to be rescued by the man who’d dumped you without explanation?
Mackey stuck his head through the hole in the glass but didn’t come inside.
“Derek!” I screamed. “Get officers up to Billy Bob’s! Randy’s there now!”
“Who’s Randy?”
For God’s sake, Mackey, get a clue! “The skinny guy who runs this ride! He’s the bomber!”
Derek backed away to make the necessary calls to Dispatch. Damn. He’d get credit for bringing Randy in. I was going to have to buy that asshole a steak, wasn’t I?
Seth rushed over as fast as he could in his gear and stepped onto the carousel platform. My eyes met his through the clear faceplate of his helmet, his intense, pained gaze carrying a load of turmoil and regret. “Megan, I—”
“It’s okay, Seth. Really! You have nothing to feel bad about.”
Actually, I thought he should feel like a total shit for the way he treated me. But the last thing I needed right now was for him to be distracted trying to obtain a last-minute absolution from me to clear his conscience.
Seth didn’t loo
k like he was buying my story, but nonetheless his focus went from my face to the explosive device on my chest. His eyes popped wide when he saw that only nineteen minutes remained on the timer.
His eyes narrowed as he cocked his head one way, then the other, evidently assessing how best to dismantle the bomb without blowing both of us to bits. He looked up at me one final time before he reached out with trembling hands to slowly and methodically begin pulling the bomb apart.
While Seth worked on me, the other tech made his way around the large room with Blast and the black Lab, the two dogs sniffing around the furniture and fixtures, searching to see if Randy had planted more bombs. I doubted they’d find any. The one he’d strapped to me was definitely impromptu, part of the stash he’d planned to take up to the stockyards. Still, it couldn’t hurt to be extra-cautious.
The timer continued to count down. It was at ten minutes now.
Then nine.
Worry lines creasing his forehead, Seth continued to pull the bomb apart. I mumbled incoherent, frantic prayers and tried my best not to wet myself.
Eight.
Seven.
Time was running out and Seth still wasn’t done. My head felt as if it were full of air and spinning like an out-of-control carousel. With any luck, I’d faint from fear before I was blown to smithereens.
Six.
Five.
A drop of sweat ran down Seth’s cheek.
Four.
Three.
Two.
When the timer hit one minute, a cry burst from my lungs.
This was it. My life was over.
I’d die without ever marrying or having kids or even an expanded cable package. Brigit would be assigned to a new partner and probably forget all about me. How would my family achieve closure without a body to bury? All that would be left of me would be chunks of flesh, maybe a limb or two. My new boots would be ruined.