by Eric Meyer
The killer from Mexico, the mall shooter, he’s here.
He knew he was dead. The moment he dropped the gun he’d put a bullet in him. With his undoubted skill, the bullet would drill into his head, and he’d cease to breathe a split second later. He had to take a chance, and he moved, swerving away. The tiny gun fired. He was facing the shooter, and he saw his cruel, Hispanic face screwed up in a maddened grimace of fury. He also saw the dressing on his head, as if he'd been wounded. His sudden movement caused the bullet to go wide, and he brought up his gun to shoot back. He was too slow. The man fired again, but he was moving, and the bullet went through his shirt, tearing off a strip of skin over his ribs. The shooter had moved, and he dived out the door. Another shot followed him outside, this time piercing his Stetson, and he rolled away out of the shooter’s line of sight.
My God, that guy’s fast, and he’s good.
His battle experience in Iraq came into play, like an automatic response when going into urban hot zones, clearing houses of hostiles. The speed and instincts he'd acquired back then saved his life. He doubled across the parking lot, continually jinking from side to side, and crouched behind the Cadillac, breathing hard. The odor of death was pungent and strong, but he ignored it. He didn’t intend to become another corpse. Today it could have been him stuffed inside the trunk like yesterday's garbage.
He grabbed his radio. "This is Sheriff Walker. I need backup immediately. Traveler’s Rest Motel, the mall shooter is here. Call SWAT. Call everybody. I don't give a shit if it’s the guy who cleans the office but get them here."
He stayed down behind the Cadillac, and the guy didn't reappear. Without doubt, a professional like him would be long gone before reinforcements arrived. But he still had to check. He made sure the Hi-Power was loaded with a full magazine, safety off, and he raced back toward the room where’d he’d last seen him. Again, he swerved from side to side, crouched over low, and when he dived through the door he rolled across the floor.
He thought he saw something, and he fired, once, twice, three times, and a lazy fly landed on the window, staring back at him in contempt. The ceiling fan turned slowly, casting moving shadows on the wall. The shooter had gone. He ran to the rear window to check and found what he expected. The window was wide open. He didn't know if it was a simple reaction or sheer terror, but he sat on the floor with his back to the wall, and he couldn't stop shaking.
He heard the noise of an engine outside. He got up and stood in the doorway where they could see him. The SWAT van had arrived, and black-clad men in helmets and body armor fanned out around the lot. Minutes later, Rick Tolley drove in with another deputy, and two more deputies arrived in another cruiser. Rick was wary, approaching the motel room with gun drawn, looking every which way for a possible target. He looked scared.
"He's gone."
The deputy came nearer, and his gun was still up, searching for a target. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
Tolley walked over to talk to the SWAT leader, and Kaz thought about what he'd seen, replaying it in his mind like he'd recorded it on a movie camera.
The gun was a Beretta .22, an assassin’s weapon. Why would any self-respecting hitman use anything else? The guy’s a crazed assassin, and he could still be loose in the city. He killed a woman and her two sons inside the mall, gunned them down in cold blood. He killed the two oldies to escape in their Cadillac and dumped them in the trunk, and a few minutes ago he almost killed me. Too many people have died, and yet we’re no nearer to catching the shooter.
Tolley took another look around. "You have any idea where he went?"
"Away."
At least, I hope he's gone away, a long way away. If he’s still in the city, this place will become a bloodbath. As if it isn’t already.
There was something about the way the Mexican had staged the ambush. This was a guy who had both the skill and the taste for killing. But the burning question was why. Why was he still here, and why was he doing it? Did he have other targets in Lewes? Or was he wrong and he wasn’t a pro. Just some psycho with a screw loose who'd decided to go on a killing spree. It didn’t seem likely. He walked outside, and they were staring at him, the deputies, the motel manager, and a cleaner. A Mexican, but he had a bucket and mop. It wasn’t him. Walker relaxed.
Tolley stepped closer. "Sheriff, you're bleeding, are you hurt?"
"A scratch is all."
“Except for that.”
The deputy was looking at the hole in his hat, and he didn't need to read Rick's eyes to know what he was thinking. An inch lower, and it would’ve been Sheriff Tolley, shedding crocodile tears at Walker's funeral.
“Sheriff, when you called in, I put out roadblocks. We’ll get him when he tries to leave the city."
"If he leaves the city."
Tolley looked shocked. "You don't think he’s still here, not after this?"
He shook his head and felt it spinning. "I don't know."
He climbed into the cruiser and looked at his hands. They were shaking, and he didn't feel able to drive. Not yet. He saw some of the SWAT guys patrolling the parking lot, and a deputy walked past, scattergun held firmly at the hip, as if the shooter was about to materialize out of the tarmac. He ignored them all. Rick Tolley climbed into his cruiser and called him on the radio.
“Sheriff, there’re plenty of guys here, and I reckon he’s long gone, so I’m heading back in.”
“You do that, Rick.”
He’d have another reason for leaving, and that was a streak of yellow, but Walker didn’t care. He cared about his city, and something told him he hadn't left the city. It could be he had more business in Lewes. What that business was he’d no idea. He needed to get a take on the guy, find out what made him tick, an expert in the human mind. There was one person who might help. He called Curtis Brand, who’d just landed the Huey at Lewes Airport outside the city.
"What can I do for you, Sheriff?"
"Since when has it been Sheriff and not Kaz? We go back a long time, Curtis."
"Since I heard about the shooting. It was on the TV news here in the hangar. You're wondering what’s inside this guy’s head, is that right?"
"Are you going to tell me?"
"Sure, but it'll cost you.”
“How much?”
“The price of a tank of gas for the Huey. This thing burns fuel like you wouldn't believe."
Walker smiled. He didn't blame him, and there was nobody within two hundred miles with Brand's level of insight into the dark depths of the human mind. Besides, he’d done the Sheriff’s office a few favors in the past, and his business ran on a shoestring.
"It's a deal. Come by my office right away. I'll be back in ten."
"I'll be there. Don't forget the gas money."
He drove back slowly, struggling to keep his hands steady. He wanted to go inside the office, lock the inner door, and drink a couple of cups of hot, strong coffee to straighten out his brain; if that didn’t work, maybe something stronger. Instead, he got the Mayor, who was waiting for him inside the building, chatting to Rick Tolley.
"What can I do for you, Mayor Bridges?"
His expression was set in smooth, sympathetic lines, about as genuine as an Arab promise. "I'm worried about you, Sheriff. They told me what happened at the motel, and they said the guy almost got you. Why didn't you wait for SWAT?"
He didn't want to go through it all, but he didn't have a choice. "We'd called in SWAT, but I didn't want to wait, in case he got away."
"But he did get away, and he almost killed you."
The smooth expression altered slightly, and it looked close to a smirk. He wanted to hit him then, for Bridges was gloating at his close run-in with death. In his imagination, Mayor William Bridges was stretched out on the floor of his office, bleeding from a broken nose. Except he'd sworn an oath when he took the job, and that didn't include knocking down the guy who called the shots inside the city. "That's the way it goes, Mr. Mayor. I made a judgment call, a
nd I was wrong."
“We all make mistakes," he said, his tone solicitous, "However, now the bastard has left the city, it’s over for us."
"We don't know that for sure."
He scowled. “You’re just guessing. He’s a problem for the next town or city he enters. I take it you’ve put out a warning.”
"Mr. Mayor, as you know I just got back, but as soon as you give me a moment, I’ll get on it. The good news is I got a good look at the shooter, which I’ll pass on when l put out the APB across the state. There's also the question of the shooting down in Ciudad. I'm pretty certain it was the same guy. Although I don’t know what the connection could be. Not yet."
The sneer returned. "You think he has a grudge against shopping malls?"
“I don’t know. I doubt it.”
"Well, now he's gone, we can relax."
"That’s not a good idea. I'm seriously considering posting cops at every shopping mall in the city. And if he strikes again, we may have to close them down to protect our citizens."
Bridges looked fit to explode. "No way, Kaz. You will not close them down. Dammit, Black Friday is almost here, and the traders need the business if they're going to survive. You know how things are."
"I know. But if he does strike again, I won't have a choice. The malls will have to close."
"Not without my say so, and I say no. What else are you planning?"
"I've called in Curtis Brand. He may have some ideas about this guy, what makes him tick. We can pass on what we find out to other police departments."
"Curtis Brand?" The Mayor grimaced, "You must be as crazy as he is. Didn't he train as a doctor, retrain as a psychiatrist, and then retrain again as a helicopter pilot to fight in Iraq?"
"That's right."
The sneer deepened. "You know his reputation. He spends most of his spare time propping up the nearest bar, and some folks worry about him flying while he’s drunk.”
"I know Curtis, and he’d never do that. He’s a doctor, and a damn good one."
"Then why doesn't he do some doctoring and stop flying that Vietnam War relic over the city, making my voters nervous."
He didn’t reply, and the two men stared at each other for long moments, until the Mayor snorted, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the office.
Kaz made himself some coffee. He was sipping at the hot brew when Tolley banged on the door. "Someone to see you, Sheriff."
He was giving him a lewd grin, and at first, he didn't know why. It had to be Brand, and he hoped he hadn’t been drinking "Show him in."
"Sure. But it's not a him."
He left, and the undeniably sexy and gorgeous figure of Eva McCoy entered his office. She was all smiles, all polish, hair, make up, and clothes immaculate. As if she was about to anchor the evening news. "Kaz, how’re you doing?”
He grunted a non-committal reply.
“I came to talk to you about this shooter. I've done some preliminary research about mass killers, and as you may imagine, they're pretty rare in Lewes. The last one was…"
She stopped, and he didn't need to wonder why. The last mass killer in Lewes was the guy who'd fired an AK-47 into a diner. A drug-related shooting, and his wife happened to be inside at the same time. She died in the hail of gunfire, and the last thing he needed was to hear a replay of that tragic event.
"I know which was the last one."
"Kaz, I'm so sorry.” Her pretty face had assumed a warm, sympathetic expression.
Real or false? There’s no way to know.
“Eva, I have a lot of work to do. I appreciate the call, but…”
She brushed past the obvious dismissal. “Kaz, I went into our studio to view a clip of the mall shooting. The thing is, we pulled up a clip of that other shooting, two years ago.”
“I know what it was.”
“Right, sorry. Two years ago, one of our cameramen was filming some stock footage, and he captured a single frame in the distance."
"Uh, huh. Send over what you have, and I’ll look at it later.”
She stared back at him and didn't speak for several seconds. He was about to remind her he had work to do when she murmured, "The guy who killed your wife, it was him. The guy in the mall."
Everything went black, and he was struggling to breathe, even to think.
"What are you talking about, Eva?"
"It was like I said. I was looking for background to pad out the mall shooting story, and I came across that single frame. You can see the shooter's face through the car window. I made a hard copy for you." She paused, and when she continued her voice was almost a whisper, "I thought it might be useful."
She handed him a sheet of paper, a color laser print, and his guts lurched. He was looking at the man who'd almost killed him at the motel. The man who'd murdered a mother and her two sons at the mall. Murdered the two senior citizens and stolen their car. It was him. He stared at the image for what seemed like a lifetime, his brain spinning. Remembering that moment when he thought he was going to die inside the hotel room. That face was etched on his brain forever. The man who'd killed Sheryl, if this print was to be believed. He felt his hands begin to shake.
"Eva, thank you for this." He had to struggle to keep his voice from trembling, "Leave it with me, and I'll get back to you if I need to talk to your cameraman."
"Something wrong, Sheriff?"
"No, no, nothing. I'll call you."
She took the hint and left the office. He left the print on his desk, filled in a sheet with the features and distinguishing marks of the Mexican, and sent out an APB across the State. On second thought, he sent to the neighboring States, and after more thought, he sent it nationwide, and finally he sent it across the border to the Mexican cops in Ciudad.
What the hell, maybe they’re in the pockets of the narcos, but that isn’t my business. I have a job to do, and I’ll do it. Sheryl’s killer! Now it’s different. It’s personal. Still, the connection seems impossible. A Mexican hitman, back here for more killing after two years! It can’t be. It just isn't possible, after all this time, the same killer has turned up in the same town. It’s ridiculous, and yet I have the evidence of the blurry print right in front of me.
He was still trying to get it straight in his mind when Curtis Brand arrived. As usual, the former doctor, psychologist, and helicopter pilot for hire was disheveled. He wore the battered brown leather goatskin A2 flight jacket with the American flag on the sleeve. Walker gestured to a chair.
"Take a seat, how’re you doing, Curtis?"
"I'm good. How are you, Kaz?"
"Fine, fine."
He looked Curtis over, and his appearance didn’t inspire much confidence. He wore stained chinos, scuffed jump boots that looked like they were in line for a long service medal, and his hair was long and unkempt. The three-day growth on his chin was normal for him. He looked fit enough, as if all those hours flying the Huey in a cramped pilot’s seat, on those occasions when he wasn't attending the local bars, hadn't done him any harm. Still lean, his face lined and leathery. Dark eyes fixed in a permanent squint, the result of too much time peering out the Perspex canopy of the helicopter.
Curtis grinned. “Me, too. I work out. And I gave up smoking a while back. I took up jogging instead, and I do five miles most days. Truth is I’m firing on all cylinders. Why don't you tell me what’s on your mind?"
"The mall shooter. Can you tell me anything that might help?”
He chuckled. "Like I said on the phone, I knew you’d call me. Your department is okay for the price of a tank of gas."
"Already agreed. Tell me what you think about this perp. Is he a professional hitman, a crazed lunatic, a spree killer, or what?"
He shrugged. “I’ve thought about this ever since I heard about the killings, and the straight answer is I don't know anything for sure. One thing I can tell you, he's not some crazed lunatic. He’s…different." He was thoughtful, “No, definitely not crazy. Not in the clinical sense.”
"Why d
id he target those people in the mall?”
A shrug. "If we rule out a lunatic, we have to be looking at a pro. A gangland hit, possibly. Organized crime, Mexican cartels, the Colombians, you name it. His actions, his MO, they’re those of a professional hitman, almost a classic case. I'm betting he used a .22, and when he fired, he didn't miss."
Without thinking, Kaz put his hand to his side. He'd taped a sticking plaster over the skin where the bullet had torn through his shirt and taken a couple of Advil for the pain. The hole drilled in his favorite Stetson was something else. A sticking plaster wouldn’t fix it. "No, he doesn't miss. Most of the time, anyway."
He explained about running into him in the motel room, and how he’d popped two bullets at him. He’d missed hitting anything vital, but that was because Kaz moved like lightning to avoid taking a bullet. “I’d say I was lucky.”
“He must have come here with a specific target. The two old folks in the Caddy were something else, killed so he could take their car and make a getaway, but the woman and two kids in the mall must have had an OC connection."
He’d dismissed that as unlikely. "Negative, the woman he killed was a vet, and her husband works for the city, some kind of health inspector. I also checked their criminal records, there’s nothing. They were all clean.”
Brand gave him a rueful grin. "So not a family with criminal connections. In that case, if he is a pro, there's only one possibility left. He made a mistake."
"A mistake?"
"Nothing else explains it, a case of mistaken identity. You know what that means, Kaz. Guys like this don't make mistakes, except on very rare occasions. And when they do make a mistake, they put it right."
"You're saying…"
"Right. I’m saying he’s still here."
They chatted for a while longer, and they got no further forward. Brand’s explanation was the sole possibility, and that created a problem, a huge problem. If the killer were still looking for his target in a local shopping mall, sooner or later he’d strike again. He’d have no choice but to post a man inside every mall in the city.