by Eric Meyer
"Clarence, three hundred meters, RPG."
Wheeler whirled, saw the target, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. And kept it squeezed. Once again, the belt snaked through the breech; the mechanism clattered and sent a stream of bullets that almost tore the missile shooter in half.
Everything was quiet. Clarence took a careful look around, and then glanced back at Walker. "I reckon they've gone."
"Apart from the bodies lying out there. Clarence, I don’t know what to say."
He grinned. "Say you’ll buy me a beer, that'll settle the score. Hold still, buddy, I’ll try to pull you outta there.”
He had to get the jack to slide under the chassis, and he pumped it up enough for Walker to slide out from underneath.
When he was free, it was one of the best feelings he’d ever experienced. "That does it. Free beer for life I reckon, and I’ll still owe you."
"Make it two beers, and we’ll call it quits."
* * *
After discharge they'd come back to Lewes, and since then Clarence had been drunk for much of the time. Shortly after that epic rescue, he'd taken a bullet that grazed his spine, and he'd been unable to walk, at least normally. He walked with a slight limp, and his body swayed like a sailor on the heaving deck of a ship caught in a storm. He lived on a small disability pension, supplementing it with his earnings as a bounty hunter.
Despite the booze and the limp, Clarence was good with a gun, good at bringing in fugitives from bail. He had an uncanny ability to get his man, and he was brave as a lion. He had a good reputation with bail bondsmen across the State of Albuquerque until the drinking became worse, and he was often unavailable for work, sleeping off a hangover, or busy getting a new one.
Kaz had mixed feelings about his old buddy. He was the Sheriff of Lewes, and it was his job to keep the town free of falling-over drunks blocking the sidewalks. But Clarence was also a vet who'd proven his bravery many times over, a man who deserved a break.
He compared him with Albert Carter, the loser they’d released that morning. Carter deserved a good beating every time he mistreated his wife. Clarence deserved a medal; except he'd sell it to buy booze.
How’re you doing, buddy?" He knelt beside him, and Clarence looked up through blurry eyes that saw little and understood even less. "Who are you?"
"It's me, Kaz Walker. Sheriff Walker."
"Sheriff, I’m okay. Leave me alone."
"I can't leave you alone, Clarence. You need help. I'll get you in the car and take you back to the office. You can sleep it off in a cell."
"I'm okay sleeping here."
"I don’t think so."
He made a feeble effort to resist when Kaz pulled him out from under the cardboard and dragged him into the rear seat of the cruiser. Back at the office he put an arm around his body and half dragged and half walked him inside. Rick Tolley glanced up from the desk.
"Jesus Christ, Sheriff, that's two drunks in two days. I know that guy. He's an ex-Marine. Always drunk, we should run him out of town."
"He's a good guy, Rick. He just needs a helping hand."
"He needs a helping boot on his backside. The city can do without vagrants like him. Fucking Marines, they ought to teach them to hold their liquor."
"I was a Marine." Rick knew he’d been a Marine, and he'd intended the barb to strike home, "Clarence save my life, and we're gonna look after him."
He sighed. "You want me to put him in the tank?"
"I'll do it."
He helped him into the cellblock and laid him down on the cot. He was already asleep and starting to snore. He made sure he wasn't going to choke before he locked the door and left him.
Back in the office the phone rang, and Rick answered. He listened and passed the phone to Walker. "Someone wants to talk to the Sheriff."
He took the phone. "This is Sheriff Walker."
“I saw it happen, Sheriff. He killed them."
He felt uneasy. "Who killed who, and when did it happen?”
"Jesus, Sheriff, I just said. Beechtree Mall. It was yesterday, this guy, he looked like a spic, and he killed these two old folks. Stuffed the bodies in the trunk of their car and drove away."
“Why didn’t you report it when you saw it happen?”
A pause. “Well now, I thought everyone else would report it. We talked about it last night, and my wife said I should call it in, in case no one else bothered.”
“That’s very public spirited of you, Sir.
Even if it is almost a day late.
“Give me your name and address. I'll take down some details and get a car out there right away."
"You don't need my name and address, I already said what happened. You need to find that spic."
The call ended, and he didn't bother to trace it. He told Rick what he’d said. "We need to go out there and check it out. Get someone else on the desk. You can come with me. It happened in the parking lot of a mall, so they may have caught something on CCTV. It could be the same guy who did the shooting."
They made the short drive to Beechtree and rooted out the security boss, who passed on everything he knew, which was nothing.
“We didn’t know anything about it, Sheriff. What with the killing and all the panic, we didn’t think to search the parking lot. Is it true it happened again?”
"We’re still looking into it. What about cameras? The caller said it happened on the edge of the parking lot."
"We don't have cameras out there, only inside the mall, and they just cover the entrances."
He cursed. CCTV could have been the break they needed, a clue to the identity of the killer and the license plate number of the stolen vehicle. They crossed to the edge of the parking lot, and he saw the blood on the tarmac, as well as a bag of discarded groceries. There was nothing else, when they had a stroke of luck. The station opposite had a CCTV camera, and they went inside to make sure it was working. The camera had caught it all. Although the images were too blurred to identify the killer or the plate number, they were able to replay it and see when the vehicle had passed the gas station on the way in to Beechtree. Minutes later, they had the license plate number. He called it in and told them to put out an APB. There was no sign of the elderly couple that'd been carjacked, and the bloodstains suggested the worst.
Tolley shifted uneasily. “Sheriff, this doesn’t look good. I reckon we should get SWAT on standby. If this was the mall shooter, we know he's armed and extremely dangerous."
"First, we need to find him.”
He called in the forensic team again, but this time there was no need for the Chief Medical Examiner. Not until they found the bodies. That was the message of the bloody mess on the ground. Bodies. The word had gone around and suddenly the investigation started to come together. To his annoyance, the TV news got hold of the report about the carjacked vehicle. But by the middle of the afternoon they’d broadcast it across the local networks. Within an hour, the manager of a local motel called to tell them the suspect Cadillac was in the motel parking lot.
"Dammit, I can see it right there in front of me. It can't be any more than fifty yards away, big Cadillac. Pretty new, I wouldn’t mind one of those myself."
I doubt you’d say the same if you knew what happened to the owners.
Walker confirmed the license plate number twice. There was no doubt. It was the same vehicle. "Sir, is the driver in your motel?"
"Sure he is. Say, is he dangerous? Like an armed criminal?"
"We're not sure, Sir. What I want you to do…"
"It's not him, is it? Not the mall killer? If it is, you should get down here right away before he kills a whole lot more people. Jesus, he could kill me, and I’m the motel manager!"
"Is he in his room?"
“Shit, I saw him go in there about an hour ago, maybe two. Yeah, I was calling one of my cleaners. She hadn't turned up for work. The news was on and I said to her, Carmen, why are you…"
"Sir, are you sure he's in there right now?"
"Did
n’t I just say?"
"That’s fine, I get it. Do not approach this man, no matter what the reason."
"Should I evacuate the motel?"
Kaz had a vision of the suspect seeing people fleeing in panic, and he'd be gone in a flash.
Should I advise them to evacuate? No, if they start to run, he could use the panic and confusion to get away. Maybe kill even more people.
"Negative. Carry on as normal but stay away from his room. We’ll be there in minutes."
"You’re calling in SWAT? I’d like to see those guys in action.”
"We'll do whatever is necessary. Keep calm and stay away from his room.”
He left the office and started toward his vehicle. When he looked back, Rick Tolley hadn't followed. He was standing in the doorway with a greasy grin pasted across his face. "Sheriff, you go on, and I’ll call SWAT to make sure they get there right away. As soon as I’m done, I’ll follow."
"Yeah, you do that."
He drove the short distance to the Traveler’s Rest Motel and pulled up behind the office, parking in the bay that stated it was reserved for the manager. He went straight into the office, and the manager gave him a self-important smile.
“I hope you’ll give me credit for finding this guy, Sheriff. Is there a reward?”
“No reward. Where’s his car?"
He looked out the window and pointed. "See, it’s over there."
The Caddy fitted the description, and he confirmed the registration plate. “Which room is his?"
The guy pointed across the lot. “That one. We’ve just had it refurbished. I don’t want you to make a mess in there. I have bookings for the whole of next month.”
“I hear you.”
He strolled out into the parking lot, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, just routine, nothing to cause the driver to run. Unless he came out and saw him inspecting the Cadillac, in which case he'd react fast, probably with extreme violence. Too bad, he had to take that chance. He put his hand on the butt of his Hi-Power, ready to draw and aim. He reached the vehicle and noticed blood had dripped down onto the tarmac beneath the trunk.
He put his hands on the release, and it was unlocked. Even before he'd opened the lid, the smell was one he was all too familiar with, the smell of death, the beginning of decomposition. He opened the trunk wide, and they were in there. Two pairs of eyes stared up at him, their expressions frozen in the agony of violent death. It was all he needed. He drew his weapon and approached the room. He should have waited for SWAT, but they could take too long, and the guy could be long gone by the time they arrived. Even now the suspect may have seen him approach. Walker knew he'd handled it wrongly. He should have arrived in an unmarked car with a posse of deputies in support, SWAT moving into position to surround the building, and roadblocks, in case he bolted. But now it was too late. The guy was here, and he’d have to take him.
* * *
Diego Rivera took a handful of painkillers and washed them down with water from the tap. It tasted foul, like it’d come from the drainage system, but he swallowed the tablets and slumped back in the armchair to wait for them to take effect. Almost a half-hour later he got to his feet, and his head had eased a fraction. He was stiff and uncomfortable, and he felt jumpy and irritable. He paced around the room, flexing his muscles. Twice drawing his Beretta in a swift movement, the way he’d practiced so many times. Draw, aim, and fire, so fast the target wouldn’t have time to react. He grinned, if anyone got in his way they'd go down. They always did. The .22 didn't pack much of a punch unless it was in the hands of an expert shooter. He was an expert shooter.
If a cop tried to confront him, he'd put a bullet in his head before he had a chance to tell him to put his hands up. Which reminded him, he was always careful, always checking to see if anyone had spotted him. He strolled to the window and saw movement. A cop cruiser had entered the front yard of the motel and driven around back behind the office. He hadn't stayed alive for so long by ignoring obvious threats. Neither had he stayed alive by making assumptions, like it could be a routine check. Always assume the worst. Before the uniform started checking, he slipped out of his room and checked out the room next door. The door was unlocked, and when he stepped inside, it was vacant.
Perfect. All I need do is wait until the cop knocks on my door. I’ll step outside and put a bullet in him.
He guessed they knew about the Cadillac, which would have brought them here. He wasn’t too worried. He’d steal another vehicle. Carjacking was like taking candy from a baby. Put a bullet in the driver, just like the day before, and stuff the body in the trunk. Then he’d be ready to return to the mall and finish the job. Find the target, the woman with the dark hair and her kids, and kill them.
He frowned, something about that scenario sounded familiar, but he dismissed the thought. The Jefe had given him the job, and he’d do it. Then he could go home, still not sure where home was. Mexico, yes, he knew that much, but it was strange he couldn't remember the name of the town. He shrugged. It had come to him soon. First, he had to deal with this little problem.
He watched the cop enter the office. He emerged a few minutes later and strolled across to inspect the Cadillac. He opened the trunk and stared inside. Diego saw him wince and hold his nose at the smell. Then it came back to him about the bodies. Too bad, he’d have a third body to join them before he left. If the cop was missing, they’d search for him, and that’d give him time to find another vehicle and return to the mall to finish the job.
He watched the cop approach the door of his room. It was the Sheriff he'd seen earlier. Diego was waiting in the room next door with his hand on the doorknob. Ready to step outside and take the shot. It was the moment of maximum danger, going up against a cop with a gun in his hand, and he forced himself to stay still and calm. He watched the Sheriff open the door of his room and enter. It was time to take him down.
Chapter Three
Sheriff Walker started to turn the door handle, still not sure if the guy was inside.
And if he is, does he know I’m here? Will he be waiting for me with a gun in his hand? Will he shoot first, and add my corpse to his tally?
He waited, reluctant to take that final step. To push the door open and maybe he’d be staring into the muzzle of a gun. It would be the .22 pistol the shooter had used in the mall, and this guy wouldn't miss.
For a moment he was back in Iraq, the enemy was just over the next rise, and intel had stated they were there in strength. They also had armor, Russian built T-62 tanks, and the A-10s supposedly flying close support were ten minutes out. He remembered that day, remembered the faces of the men in his platoon, and he froze. What had brought it back was a helicopter flying overhead. Back then a flight of Apache gunships came to their rescue, chewing the enemy armor into ruin with missile and cannon fire.
This time the rotorcraft overhead wasn't an Apache or the Black Hawk he'd flown in during his Iraq war service. This was a helicopter he knew well, one that flew regularly over the city. The pilot was Curtis Brand, who'd flown Black Hawks in Iraq, and the guy was something of an enigma. After college he’d trained to be a doctor, and after he qualified, he trained for psychiatry. He qualified again, but before he could practice the war in Iraq had boiled over, and he trained for yet another specialty, flying helicopters.
When he returned home, he stayed with his love of flying, putting all his savings and severance pay into the purchase of a Vietnam War era Huey UH-1. He based it at an old Army airfield on the eastern side of town on Desert Drive. Just a couple of prefabricated buildings, a short strip, and a helipad, back in the day enough for training Army pilots. When they abandoned it, he leased it from the military. The price was low because no one else had any use for the remote, windswept airfield. Since then, his helicopter had become a familiar sight in the skies over Lewes, and he used the Huey to carry personnel and equipment to companies across the State. As well as frequent pleasure flights, mostly from Vietnam vets who wanted to reca
ll those nail-biting days flying over the vast green seas of endless jungle during that terrible war.
The Huey flew past, and the clatter of rotor blades seemed like it was sending him a message. He still couldn't bring himself to open the door. Something had frozen inside him, some premonition of death, like a thick, black cloud that held him fast. Deep inside that cloud was a memory of his wife dying in a hail of bullets. He could be about to meet the same fate, the victim of yet another mass killer; a killer who had no obvious motive and would never be found unless he opened that door. He was delaying too long. He jerked the door open and stepped inside. Moving swiftly away from the open doorway in case the killer took advantage of him silhouetted against the light, but nothing happened. The room was almost in darkness, with the shades pulled down. It was obviously empty, although the sheets on the bed were rumpled. He'd been there recently.
I can smell him, a mixture of spices and cordite, unwashed body, and tension and fear. Like his presence has remained in this room, a malevolent, invisible entity intent on killing me.
He shook his head to clear it. He was thinking nonsense. He took another step inside the empty room. And stopped. He'd heard a noise behind him, and he started to turn.
"Put the gun down, amigo."
He kept hold of it but lowered the weapon, turning his head a few inches. His worst fear confronted him, and he was staring into the muzzle of a small .22 caliber automatic. The man behind it was standing in shadow, so he couldn't see his face. But the accent needed no identification. Neither did the gun.