Average Joe

by R. D. Sherrill

  "Stand your men down or you will leave me with no choice," the sheriff answered in no uncertain terms.

  Doug had overheard the exchange and immediately realized the situation Randy had put them in. The entire group was now in jeopardy due to the loose cannon. Their sneaking suspicions about their unstable partner had been proven true.

  "You're going to have to put him down," Harold said, looking Doug in the eye.

  "But I thought there wasn't going to be any more ..." Doug began before being cut off.

  "The situation has changed. Randy has left us with no choice. If they come across the river, all of our heads will roll," Harold said. "You need to take care of the problem. Me and Jerry can hold down here for a little while."

  "I don't know. Maybe we can ..." Doug started, again interrupted by Harold.

  "You're sworn to protect and to serve," Harold said, dismissing his partner in crime. "Do your duty. Protect and serve."

  Knowing Harold was right, Doug resigned himself to what he knew was a mission to assassinate their partner.

  "How do I find him?" Doug asked, knowing the police force outside would be of little help given their small numbers.

  "It should be easy," Harold began. "Just follow the sound of the screams."

  Something didn't seem right to the veteran sheriff. Perhaps it was the chilling air making his brain work overtime or simply the fact that he'd had time to consider the situation while standing on the outside looking in. Either way, red flags were going up in his head. Randolph had been a lawman for many years so his nose was keen when it came to sniffing out a swerve, and this situation was beginning to stink. His brief conversation with the terrorist moments before had confirmed his gut feeling that things weren't as they appeared.

  The sheriff blew in his hands. He rarely wore a coat and never wore gloves. The way the old school lawman looked out it, the cold made people tough. He could often be seen out in thirty degree weather wearing short sleeves. However, this Christmas Eve was a different kind of beast. Even the sheriff's teeth were chattering from time to time, prompting him to go to his car to use the radio every few minutes. In actuality, he was making the pilgrimages to his patrol car to enjoy the warmth of his heater and get the feeling back in his hands. He realized they may have to move at any moment and a steady hand may be needed.

  Nicknamed "The Rifleman" by his friends, the sheriff was the best sharpshooter in the county, winning the annual Thanksgiving turkey shoot seven years in a row. The nickname, however, wasn't conferred on him for his eagle eye when it came to marksmanship. Actually, it was his rugged looks that many people said made him favor that late actor Chuck Connors, who starred in the TV series by that name. Looking in his mirror, he didn't see the resemblance but it seemed everyone else thought he was the spitting image, so he went along with it.

  The sheriff, after restoring a bit of feeling to his hands, again took the binoculars and began studying the blinking green light on the truck.

  "Wonder why they'd do that," the sheriff asked editorially as his Chief Investigator Roy Hale leaned up against the patrol car beside his boss, enjoying the bit of warmth offered by the hood of the running vehicle.

  "Do what, sheriff?" Roy asked as he scanned the other side of the bridge with his naked eye.

  "Why would you put blinking lights to tell people where you've planted your explosive devices?" the sheriff wondered aloud. "Think about it. If I were a terrorist or some nut job in a political group like this guy claims to be, I think I'd want to plant my explosives where folks couldn't find them. I mean, come on, you can see those flashing green lights for a country mile. If I were a terrorist, it seems to me I wouldn't want law enforcement to know exactly where all my bombs are. I would want to make it like a mine field."

  "You're smelling a rat?" Roy asked as he turned his attention toward the sheriff.

  "This is Centertown, Roy. Centertown," the sheriff continued as he kept his eyes peeled through the binoculars. "What self-respecting terrorist would take over Centertown? We're in the middle of nowhere. You heard that bunch of bull they're telling everyone. They want to talk to the President? Really? The President couldn’t even find Centertown."

  "Well, I suppose ..." Roy began.

  "And, how do they get out?" the sheriff interrupted. "Sure, they may have been able to take over, but how exactly do they plan to leave? Do they think we'll just let them stroll out? They planned this thing through, down to the most minor detail, but leave themselves no realistic escape strategy. All you have to do is look at our situation to realize they have limited options. And, before you ask, there's no way they take even one hostage out of this town. Everyone in Centertown stays in Centertown."

  "If they aren't who they say they are, then who are they?" Roy asked. "They appear to be well-organized and know what they're doing."

  "I don't know, Roy," the sheriff admitted as he finally lowered his binoculars and looked at his investigator. "But I sure would love to find out."

  The sheriff returned to his binoculars, this time studying the movements of the masked man on the opposite hill.

  "They know our town," the sheriff declared. "Whoever is doing this has been here for a while. They didn't just wander in and hit us at random. Tell me, Roy. If you were them, how would you get out?"

  Roy thought for a moment. The question was a challenging one.

  "Well, they can't fly out since that would be easy to track, plus the weather has everything grounded," Roy began. "They can't drive or walk out since we have all the bridges blocked. Boat. They could cross on a boat. That's the only way."

  "Bingo," the sheriff agreed. "I'll bet you twenty bucks that's their plan. To cross somewhere down the river and hit the back roads out of the county."

  "If you're right, they're going to try to do it at night," Roy declared. "They would have to use the cover of darkness to do a crossing. And, let me point out, the river is nearly frozen solid. You can't cross in just any boat. The ice would crack the hull of a regular boat. They'd need a flat bottom."

  "So they take all the trouble to take over the town just to sneak out in the middle of the night empty handed?" the sheriff wondered aloud. "I severely doubt they get to talk to the President before daybreak and if they stay into the morning they'll be a thousand cops and half the state's National Guard surrounding the town. And, let me point out that none of them will be very happy since they’ll be giving up their Christmas to be here. I should be having visions of sugar plumbs dancing in my head right now, as a matter of fact."

  "What do you think they're up to, sheriff?" Roy asked. "If it isn't some crazy political agenda, what are they after?"

  "Money," he responded. "What other reason is there?"

  "Robbery?" Roy asked. "Do you think they're trying to rob a couple of thousand people at the civic center?"

  "I wish I knew," the sheriff admitted. "If we could just get some eyes on the other side of the river, maybe we could answer some questions. I don't know if those rookies the chief has running around over there know what they're doing. They fired most of the experience on the force after the last election. Now all they got over there is a bunch of kids wearing blue and a badge."

  "Why don't we?" Roy asked matter of factly.

  "Why don't we do what?" the sheriff asked.

  "Get eyes on the other side," Roy responded. "I know we don't want to go charging in but that doesn't mean we can't do a little looking around over there."

  "Good point," the sheriff agreed. "But we can't just walk across the bridges either."

  "Let's get a flat bottom and cross," Roy suggested. "We can get a few deputies and slip across down at the landing."

  "I like it," the sheriff said as he passed his binoculars and hailed the rescue squad director who was pouring himself a cup of hot coffee from the nearby mobile command post that had been set up, using the squad's spotlights.

  "Hey Dan," the sheriff called out, hailing the middle-aged rescue director. "Your squad has a flat bottom
boat, don't you?"

  "Yep, sheriff, we sure do," Dan replied as he took a gulp of the hot coffee. "We just got a new one last year for swift water rescue to replace the one that sank."

  "Great, do you suppose we can borrow it?" the sheriff asked.

  "Sure," Dan answered. "You just got to go get it."

  "Okay, that shouldn't be a problem," the sheriff replied.

  "Well, that's where you're wrong," Dan corrected as he pointed toward old town. "It's on the other side of the river."

  The sheriff gave a deep sigh. So close yet so far. For now, he would have to be satisfied playing defense.

  "Listen, Dan, I need you to do me a favor," the sheriff began.

  "Sure. Name it," Dan replied.

  "See if you can find me a flat bottom," the sheriff declared. "Surely there's a fisherman around here who has one."

  "I'll see what I can do," Dan responded.

  "And, Dan," the sheriff called out as the squad director walked away. "Make it fast if you would. I'm crossing that river ... tonight."

  VIEW TO A KILL

  The snow was starting to subside as Joe and Brittany worked their way through yards and over fences, being careful to keep off the streets while on their way to Joe's house. They could even see patches of clearing sky above them as evidenced by a faint glow of the moon from time to time. However, Joe hoped the clouds would remain their friends for the next few minutes, allowing them to get to his house and his kerosene heater under cover of darkness. The near-full moon would light up the landscape like midday.

  Joe had lost feeling in his lips long ago. The wind chill continued to drop just in the twenty minutes since they had left the high school. Their trek along the scenic route combined with the calf-deep snow was making their journey much longer than expected. At some point, Joe had feared, they would have to stop and ask for refuge in one of the houses along their way and risk the possibility that the takeover had been more widespread than they believed. Now, however, they were almost in sight of his house, so they would press on and be in his living room, warm and toasty, in less than five minutes.

  "Let's take the road. It'll be easier. I live just down there," Joe said.

  He pulled Brittany by the hand toward the street where the snow was not as deep. The freezing snow had seeped into their shoes during their prolonged winter walk, leaving both of them feeling stinging needles stabbing in their feet, made worse by each step.

  Brittany gladly followed Joe onto the frozen pavement. The pain in their feet was overcoming their fear of being discovered. They were becoming brave as they neared Joe's house.

  "Maybe we can even have a little hot cocoa," Joe quipped, making Brittany force a laugh through her frozen lips. "If we're lucky, I may be able to even round up a few of those little marshmallows."

  "That'd be so nice," she said, holding onto Joe's arm in a death grip. Her shivering suggested to Joe that she was in the early stages of hypothermia.

  "Quick, into the hedges!" Joe exclaimed as he saw a single headlight coming up the street. It was a motorcycle.

  The two threw themselves into the hedges, which they quickly found out, much to their chagrin, were actually holly bushes, their prickly leaves stabbing into their frozen skin as they dove for refuge. They were within sight of Joe's house. So close yet so far. They would wait until the motorcycle passed and then quickly make their way to their destination. The problem was that the cycle didn’t pass. Instead, it slowed in front of the house next door from where they were hiding. The clouds provided just enough light that Joe could make out the figure of a man dismounting the motorcycle. Then, much to his dismay, he realized the man was dressed as were the gunmen inside the civic center. Maybe they were completely occupying the city. Perhaps this was really a worst case scenario. Had Centertown been invaded? If so, by whom?

  Watching the man from their uncomfortable hiding place, they saw him enter the front yard of the residence, the yard filled with Christmas characters. The house was located just down the street from Joe's place. He realized it was the house which normally lit up the night, its blinking lights and glowing Christmas characters making it almost gaudy in its scale. Some people really overdo Christmas.

  If Joe's memory was correct, since he hadn’t had time to unpack all his boxes since moving into his new neighborhood, let alone meet everyone on his block since moving in earlier that year, the place belonged to some bank president in town. Dawes. That was it.

  He was the old bachelor who had the perfect front lawn. His grass was always that perfect shade of green, putting everyone else's to shame in the neighborhood. It seemed like the guy was out on his riding mower every day. His dedication to his lawn was both admirable and irritating since Joe felt he had to somewhat keep pace with the grass lengths once Mr. Green Thumb cut his lawn. At least Dawes wore a shirt when he mowed his lawn unlike Joe's next door neighbor, who was a good ninety pounds overweight yet insisted on partial nudity anytime he did yard work.

  Of course, lawn care was the last thing on Joe's mind as he wondered why the gunman was making his way toward Mr. Dawes' home.

  There would be more screams in the dark Centertown night as Randy arrived at his next house call, this one to the President of First Third Bank.

  Like Mr. Archer, fat cat First Third President Phil Dawes had opted to leave Randy to drown in debt rather than make him a relatively small loan that would have saved his business.

  Walking through the president's lawn, filled with a Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer scene and even a Nativity, all of which were normally lit up during the evenings, Randy leaned his shotgun on his shoulder, holding it with his left hand while reaching out to punch a Frosty the Snowman decoration square in its button nose. The jolly happy soul flew off its base and onto the ground.

  "Thumpety, thump, thump you white piece of crap," Randy mumbled as the character crumpled from the blow.

  Making his way up to the front porch, Randy had already decided to make this one quick. He didn't even plan to track in snow to Dawes' residence. After all, he still had responsibilities when it came to the heist. These visits were simply for pleasure.

  Reaching out to rap on the front door, Randy sensed movement behind him. He turned around and saw lights coming up the road. They were the headlights of Patrolman Jenkins who had tracked the Windwood killer across town from the scene of the first slaying.

  Jenkins, who had been with the department a little over two months, making him the junior member of the squad at the age of twenty-three, had been able to follow the cycle tracks in the snow for the several blocks from the Archer house. His cellphone dead and not wanting to tip his hand to the gunmen who had taken over the civic center, Jenkins had decided to forge out on his own.

  After all, he had taken an oath to protect and to serve and there was a killer roaming the streets. He felt it was his duty to do everything he could to protect the people of the city he had grown up in even though he wasn't due to go to the police academy for his formal training until the first of the year.

  Stopping his vehicle in the road, just short of the motorbike, Jenkins turned on his spotlight, bathing the front yard with its bright glow. The few snowflakes that still fell looked almost like confetti as they passed in front of the light. Also exposed by the light was the dark figure of Randy standing on the porch. Opening his door, the patrolman took up a position behind the driver's door, his gun drawn pointing at Randy who turned toward the light.

  "Freeze right there or I'll shoot!" Jenkins ordered with a tone of authority in his voice. “This is the Centertown Police Department. Drop your weapon and step away.”

  Stepping off the porch, Randy walked into the spotlight almost like a zombie.

  "Then shoot," Randy growled, leveling his shotgun, taking out the squad car spotlight in one blast.

  Jenkins instinctively squeezed off four quick rounds in response to the volley, aiming for the gunman's center of mass. Randy was the one of the five dressed in real body armor. The rounds
barely registered as the armor did its job. That allowed Randy to fire his own response. The three quick pumps and blasts cutting through the door of the cruiser like a knife through butter.

  Unfortunately for Patrolman Jenkins, his vest sat in the passenger seat of his cruiser. In his rush to respond to the call, the off-duty officer had neglected to put it on. It would prove a fatal mistake. The officer was dead before he hit the ground.

  Joe placed his hand over Brittany's mouth, muffling her scream, the sound of the shotgun's echo masking her stunned cry.

  Then, like a robot, without a hint of remorse, Randy turned back toward the banker's house. The terrified resident was now forewarned as he had watched the entire shootout from inside his front window. Not sticking around to see what the gunman wanted, Dawes ran toward the back of his house.

  Randy anticipated the banker's move. He didn't take time to knock as he blasted the front door open and finished the job by kicking what remained of the wooden door open with his boot.

  With that, Joe had seen enough. He grabbed Brittany and hurried her toward his house, hoping the gunman would not emerge from the house and see them. They would only get a few steps before they were stopped in their tracks.

  The fire fight could clearly be heard from Sheriff Randolph's position as the gunshots echoed across the river through the otherwise quiet evening.

  "What's going on over there?" the sheriff quickly questioned on the city frequency, hoping for any response, either by an officer or the hostage takers.

  The voice that answered his call was that of Chief Bouldin.

  "It's coming from the Davis Street area," Chief Bouldin revealed. "I'm just pulling up on the scene. We already have one unit here. I think we have it under control."

  The chief, who had approached with lights off upon learning of Patrolman Jenkins' ill-advised manhunt, had pulled up quietly on Joe and Brittany, catching them by surprise as they emerged from the bushes.