Mr. Sandman: A Thrilling Novel

by Lyle Howard

  Lance hung there for what felt like an eternity, his knuckles turning white from gripping the rope. As all of the blood drained from his arms, he could sense that he was losing the feeling in his fingers. If Dolan didn’t move soon, Lance would have to let go.

  Dolan spied the jet-ski circling in the distance and low­ered his binoculars. That had to have been the noise he heard, he reasoned, but where was the driver? He stood thoughtfully for a moment, wondering if he should radio the machine’s position into the authorities. It was the right thing to do, and maybe someone might be in trouble, so he headed below deck to call it in.

  Lance found that making his way to the stern of the boat was easier than he thought, since the force of the water was pushing him in that direction. Hand over hand, he inched himself alongside the boat, the water pressure lifting his dangling legs out of the sea. Reaching the transom, Lance felt with his right hand for the ladder. Any of the rungs would do. If he didn’t have a firm hold of the ladder when he turned the corner to the stern of the boat, the Animal Magnetism would leave him bobbing in its widening wake like a piece of flotsam.

  Lance’s fingernails scraped against one of the metal rungs, sending an icy shiver down his spine. With a lunging effort, he grabbed a firm hold of the rung and pulled himself around to the back of the boat. Now he was being dragged along on his stomach, his feet flapping behind him.

  As he pulled his body up against the ladder, he could hear the monotone drone of another engine closing in behind him. Getting a foothold on the bottom rung, he turned to find himself bathed in an intense white glow of a floodlight coming from another boat that was gaining on them. He was caught in the powerful beam of light like a convict discovered escaping halfway up a prison wall. He had to shield his eyes from the harsh light before he realized it was Abe Lincoln fetching the Coast Guard as he had promised.

  Lance climbed the ladder and stepped onto the rear deck of the boat. Everything was visible in the revealing brilliance of the floodlight, but no one was to be seen on deck. Even though the temperature was still in the mid-80s, the sea breeze was cold against Lance’s soggy clothes. His bare feet slid across the slippery fiberglass deck as he moved cau­tiously forward to the stairs leading to the cabin below. As he took the first step down, he backed off when he heard Dolan coming up. He could hear Dolan talking to someone, or to himself, as he ascended the stairs. “No way!” he argued to himself. “There’s no way, that they could have gotten here this fast!”

  From the side of the stairwell, Lance reached over and, with all of his strength, yanked Dolan out onto the deck. Dolan fell with his back to the hard deck, surprised to see who the intruder was standing over him. At that same instant, an unfamiliar voice boomed through the still night air from the bridge of the Coast Guard cruiser. “You, aboard the Animal Magnetism…this is the U.S. Coast Guard…stop your en­gines immediately…we will only tell you once!”

  Lance reached down and grabbed Dolan by the collar.

  Dolan pulled away. “Holy crap, mister! What the hell is the matter with your eyes?”

  Lance was breathing heavily. “You better do as they say … these guys don’t screw around!”

  “What the hell is going on here?” Dolan protested.

  Lance leaned down until he was face to face with Dolan. “I don’t know the first thing about boats, pal. So, are you gonna do what they say, or do I have to start ripping out wires?”

  Dolan pushed Lance off his chest. “You just can’t come aboard my boat like this, you freak … drop dead!”

  With one sweeping left cross of Lance’s fist, Dolan was knocked out. The punch caught the prone man square on his jaw, and his mouth began to swell before Lance’s knuckles ever left the flesh of his cheek.

  Quickly, Lance ran to the rear of the sailboat and began waving his arms. The floodlight spotted and stayed on him.

  “Is that you, Cutter?” Lincoln’s voice came echoing across the water.

  Lance nodded his head in an exaggerated motion. “Shut the engines down, Mr. Cutter!” the unfamiliar voice called out.

  Lance cupped his hands over his mouth. “I don’t know how!”

  “The throttles are next to the steering wheel, Mr. Cutter. Pull them back into the idle position!”

  Lance moved to the steering wheel, stepping over Dolan’s inanimate form on the way. The throttles were exactly where the voice told him they would be, and Lance pulled them back until the boat lost all of its forward momentum. Once the boat was safely stopped, Lance reached into his pocket and quickly slipped his contact lenses back in.

  Within seconds, the cruiser was pulling up alongside the sailboat and Lance was catching mooring lines and tethering the two boats together.

  Abe Lincoln was the first to come aboard. “Jesus Christ, Cutter, you look like you’ve been in a blender!”

  Lance put his hand on the detective’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe the half of it!”

  Captain Wells was the next to board the Animal Magnetism. “Captain Eugene Wells, U.S. Coast Guard.”

  Lance shook his outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you, Captain.”

  Wells smiled. “You actually chased this guy down,” he said, pointing to Dolan who was beginning to stir, “on a jet-ski?”

  Lance combed his wet hair off his face with his fingers. “You know what they say about necessity, Captain. Some­times we have to manage with whatever we can find.”

  Wells shook his head. “I don’t know whether you’re the gutsiest or the stupidest man I’ve ever met, Mr. Cutter. But either way, don’t ever let me catch you driving a jet-ski at night again in my channel, understand?”

  Lance smirked. “I don’t think you’ll have to stay up nights worrying about me, Captain. My days as a jet-ski driver are over.”

  Lincoln was standing over Dolan as his eyes began to flutter open. “He’s coming to.”

  Lance rubbed his sore hands as he walked across the deck. “You think he’ll talk now?” he asked Lincoln.

  Lincoln pouted. “He may not be able to talk for days with that grapefruit you just put on his jaw!”

  Lance massaged the knuckles of his left hand. “I guess I don’t know my own strength.”

  Lincoln shook his head, unable to conceal his dissatisfac­tion with Lance’s strong-arm tactics. “I guess you don’t.”

  “What the hell happened to me,” Dolan mumbled through his swollen lips.

  Lance leaned over and glared ferociously at the blurry-eyed kennel worker. “The party’s over, Dolan. We know everything.”

  Lincoln held out his hand to push Lance back. “Who talks like that, Cutter? The party’s over? I haven’t heard that expression in years!”

  “I don’t know what your talkin’ about,” Dolan pleaded.

  Lincoln helped slide Dolan into a sitting position. “You’re Edward Dolan … correct?”

  Dolan nodded. “And you work part-time at Broward Animal Control and part-time in a commercial photography laboratory?”

  “So what if I do?” he slurred.

  Captain Wells stood out of the way, by the steering wheel, watching the pair of men interrogate their suspect.

  Lance moved closer, but Lincoln pushed him away again. “Just give me five minutes with him, Abe. Come on.”

  The intolerant detective shot him a look that could have chilled a shrimp cocktail. “Back off, Cutter. I’m handling this now.”

  The detective knelt down next to the dazed suspect. “You’re in a load of trouble here, Eddie,” Lincoln continued. “You’re on your way to being charged with multiple counts of murder. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  Dolan’s bloodshot eyes opened wide. “I don’t know what you think I’ve done, but I swear …”

  Lincoln shook his head. “If you don’t tell me what I want to hear, Eddie, I may have no other choice than to let Mr. Cutter over there,” he said, pointing with his thumb, “take another turn at talking to you.”

  Dolan’s eyes began welling up wi
th tears and his speech became worse through his swollen lips. “But, I’m telling you the truth! I didn’t kill no one!”

  Lance clenched his fists on his hips. “We know how you did it, Eddie. You took the chemicals from the photo lab and you spread it on the animals fur. How did you dream that one up?”

  Dolan shook his head stupefied.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Eddie! You work at both places … and you’re a fanatic about animal rights …” Lance was finding it hard to control his temper. “Where’s your van?” He continued to rouse Dolan. “Is that where you keep all of your equipment, like the pet carriers?”

  Dolan looked genuinely scared, as though he had seen into his immediate future and feared it. “I’m not the only one who works at those two places!” he cried. “Jacob works three jobs, the kennel, at the lab with me, and at a pet store too. I lent him my van. Why don’t you question him?”

  Lincoln looked up at Lance. “Jacob? Who’s Jacob?”

  For the second time in as many days, that little voice in the back of his head began nagging at Lance. He knew something hadn’t been right about this whole affair … when was he going to learn to trust his instincts?

  “Yeah,” Dolan sputtered in his own defense, “Jacob Cone … you met him the other day at the kennel …de little guy with the bad leg … go ask him …”

  As soon as Lance heard Cohen’s name tumble recklessly out of Dolan’s bruised mouth, the revelation hit him like a ton of bricks. They had gone after the wrong man! That’s what Harry Kaplan was trying to tell Julie … Jacob Co-hen not Cone. Kaplan must have managed to find out Jacob Cohen’s name some­how!

  Lance pulled Lincoln off to one side. “You realize what we’ve done here, Abe?”

  The seething detective glared at Lance. “What we’ve done? This was your collar, Cutter …I was just along for the ride, remember?” He began backing Lance across the deck by jabbing at his chest with his forefinger. “You said that Dolan was your man. I’d never even heard of this son of a bitch, Jacob Cohen, until old mumble-mouth over there coughed up his name!”

  Lance looked over at Captain Wells who crossed his arms on his chest and shook his head regretfully.

  “I was wrong,” Lance apologized.

  Lincoln thought his head would explode from his sudden case of skyrocketing blood pressure. He chided himself for not having spent the evening at home with his wife in front of the television the way he had wanted to. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, in a misleading whisper. “I couldn’t hear you … speak up!”

  Lance threw up his hands. “Okay, I was wrong …I admit it!”

  The detective ran his hands over his scalp as he began pacing nervously across the deck. “Boy, oh boy, I hate to think what the department is gonna do to me for this little escapade of yours, Cutter!” he brooded as he slammed his foot on the deck with a resounding thump. “I can’t believe I went along with you! Listen,” he said, cupping his hand over his ear, “can you hear that noise?”

  Lance cocked his head. “What noise?”

  Lincoln tipped his ear as though he was listening for the melody of some far-off music. “The sound of my career being flushed down the toilet! Can’t you hear it?”

  “Come on, Abe, you’re exaggerating things a bit, don’t you think?”

  Lincoln’s upper lip curled into a snarl. “My record was spotless until tonight, Cutter!”

  Lance grabbed at Lincoln’s sleeve. “It still can be, Abe. If we can get back to shore fast enough … “

  Lincoln backed away faintheartedly. “Oh, no you don’t!”

  Lance pleaded with the detective, holding up two fingers on his left hand only a few inches apart. “Come on, Abe … we’re this close … we know who it is now, for sure … you’ve got to help me nail him…”

  Lincoln looked over at Wells. “Do you hear what this madman is askin’ me to do now?”

  Wells gestured with his hands, as if to say, “Hey, leave me out of this!”

  “He’s put the damned noose around my neck,” Lincoln charged, “and now he wants me to step off the damned chair!”

  Lance reached out to the detective, but Lincoln swatted his arm away. “Don’t touch me … If you touch me, I’ll kill you!”

  “Come on, Abe. This is our chance to apprehend and lock away a major felon. Don’t you think that’ll perk up your record a bit?”

  Lincoln hesitated for a moment as he weighed the alter­natives in his mind. Then he looked over at Dolan. “What are we going to do about him?”

  Captain Wells stepped forward. “I think I can help you two gentlemen on that count.”

  Dolan rubbed his swollen jaw and stared nervously at the stairs leading below deck.

  “It seems as though Mr. Dolan, here, has let his registra­tion on this vessel lapse,” Wells said, holding up a faded yellow slip of paper that was mounted next to the steering wheel. “That gives us every right to board and search this ship.”

  Just then, one of the guardsmen came up from below decks holding a clear sandwich bag stuffed with an oregano-looking substance. “Here you go, Skipper,” he said, proudly handing the packet over to Wells.

  The Captain opened the bag, sniffed at the contents and smiled. “It looks like your record won’t be blemished after all, detective. I’d say there’s over an ounce of Gainesville Gold right here in my sweaty little palm.”

  Dolan let his head slump back dejectedly against the bulkhead. He should have known better. He was stupid for not having checked out the galley bins before he left the marina. Estaban Munoz, the dock master, was always leaving him presents for letting him clean the boat.

  Captain Wells signaled with a circling motion of his hand for the pilot of the cruiser to slowly turn both ships about. Still tethered to the more powerful ship, the Animal Magnetism followed the cruiser through the one 180 degree turn like a puppy on a short leash.

  “How quickly can you get us back to port, Captain?” Lance asked as he reached for a handhold on the rigging, both boats beginning to swing around toward the port.

  Wells stroked his royal-looking beard. “Well, I was going to tow her into port behind the cruiser, but I’ll tell you what. Since you’re both in such a hurry, I’ll sail her in myself and let the cruiser take you back. How does that sound?”

  Lincoln pointed down to Dolan. “Are you sure? What about him?”

  Wells reached over and patted the holster of the guards­man who had found the contraband. “I think we’ll all be just fine … it looks like a nice night for a sail anyway.”

  TWENTY ONE

  After retrieving the abandoned jet-ski, the cruiser dropped Lance and Abe back at the base where Lance changed into dry clothes, and Abe fed Rex a sumptuous spread of tasty left­overs from the base’s mess. Twenty minutes later, they were ready to roll.

  As they drove off the base, Lincoln flipped on the over­head map light and glanced to his right at Lance who was staring blankly out of the passenger’s side window. “You know, I think it’s true what they say,” Lincoln commented drolly.

  Lance turned to him quizzically as the car bumped over the uneven beach road. “What are you talking about?”

  Lincoln reached over and tugged at the elbow of the bright orange Coast Guard jumpsuit that Lance had slipped into. “That the clothes make the man.”

  Lance contemplated his new accouterments. At least he was dry. “Very funny, Abe … just watch the road.”

  Neither Lance nor Abe Lincoln professed to be experts in the field of deviant sociological behavior, but delving into the psyche of Jacob Cohen and trying to figure out what kind of heinous event in his life must have triggered him to undertake such a bizarre and unmerciful campaign of terror, provided a spirited discussion for the two men as they headed in the direction of the Broward Sheriff’s Office.

  “I’m telling ya,” Lincoln argued, as he searched a pocket on the car door hoping to find a stray pack of cigarettes, “this guy had to have been beaten or tortured as a kid. I don’
t know why, but child abuse always seems to figure into these things.”

  Lance watched the lights of the city blur past his window. “I think you’ve been seeing too many slasher movies, Abe.”

  In the back of the car, Rex yawned contentedly as he stretched out across the seat.

  “I’ve been on the force too long,” Lincoln reflected. “I’ve seen the same thing a million times. Mark my words … this guy was abused as a youngster.”

  Lance patted the chest of his jumpsuit, hoping he had remembered to switch his lens case into the new clothes. He found it in the breast pocket. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, Abe. I just think that he must have gone through something pretty horrific to cause this kind of homicidal behavior, don’t you think? I mean, not everyone that’s abused in childhood goes off on a killing spree.”

  Not yet having reached the point of turning frantic, Lincoln checked the ashtray for any sign of a spare cigarette butt that might still be worth smoking, but he came up empty. “He didn’t go off on a killing spree, Cutter.”

  Lance looked over at the detective as the car came to a stop at a traffic light. “Then what exactly would you call it?”

  Lincoln had suddenly become very analytical, a side of him that years on the force had developed, but a side he rarely showed to anyone. “This Cohen guy was selective. He didn’t just kill willy-nilly for the pleasure of it. He was calculating and methodical in his actions.”

  Lance considered that. “You mean, he might have thought he was defending the doomed animals at the shelter?”

  “Perhaps in his mind, at least.” Lance stared through the windshield at a three-quarter moon that peeked through the royal palm trees that lined the center median on U.S.I. “But why such a powerful affinity toward animals?”

  Lincoln shrugged as he stepped on the accelerator and pulled away from the green light. “Maybe he feels inferior toward other humans and sympathizes with the plight of the condemned animals he works with.”

  Lance smiled irascibly. “Why … that’s very profound, Abraham.”