Server Down

by J. M. Hayes

  “Trap!” Mad Dog screamed, launching himself toward the nearest of the two uniforms. “Above. On the stairs.”

  Mad Dog scrambled and somehow put a shoulder into one of them just as Hailey, inexplicably came down the ramp instead of up it. She closed her jaws on the other cop’s thigh. Her timing was perfect. He was the one with the functional taser and he’d been about to give Mad Dog yet another dose. Hailey spoiled his aim. As the cop Mad Dog was tackling stuck his pistol in Mad Dog’s face, the taser darts missed and caught the officer instead. The man fired, but his shot only deafened Mad Dog instead of tearing a small hole in his face and a big one in the back of his head.

  More shots. From the stairs this time. Two of them, Mad Dog thought. With his new hearing problem he couldn’t be sure that one shot had really sounded different than the other.

  Hailey had changed grips on the second cop. She took the taser out of his gun hand and didn’t do his fingers any good in the process. Mad Dog freed himself from the unfortunate shock victim and wheeled and threw a vicious right into Hailey’s cop’s belly. And missed entirely, falling over and rolling away. Hailey put her feet on one cop’s chest and pushed the guy over his partner’s back.

  Another shot raised sparks and sent cement chips spraying. One bit Mad Dog’s cheek. Another opened a ropy vein on the back of his hand. He turned in time to see the third cop, the detective, aiming his way. And then the man disappeared behind the fender of a huge black vehicle. The door flew open and a trim little man in black slacks and matching knit top yelled, “Get in.”

  There was something familiar about the guy, but another shot whined off the car’s hood and reminded Mad Dog he was still a potential target. He did as he was told while looking around for Hailey. She was no where to be seen, of course. The little guy popped a couple of shots out his window and floored the accelerator. The G-forces from under the hood threw Mad Dog back against his seat and slammed the door behind him. The wheels bumped over a couple of objects. Mad Dog couldn’t remember there being anything but flat cement. Except, perhaps, the cops who’d intended to kill him.

  The SUV slewed around the next bend and the little man began firing toward the detective as they passed the staircase on the opposite side.

  There were other shots, too. It was like the OK Corral in here, only more so.

  The driver returned his attention to the next corner and suddenly Mad Dog recognized him.

  “You’re him. The one from the Yaqui village. You’re the man who killed that policeman.”

  “Yeah. And I’m the guy who just saved your life.”

  Mad Dog was still trying to decide how to react to that when the rear end went loose as they rounded the next corner. The plain-clothes detective was straight ahead of them, running hard for another staircase at the far end of the building. The detective skidded to a stop, threw himself into a shooter’s stance, and fired two rounds. One starred the glass in front of the driver. The second did the same in front of Mad Dog.

  “Good thing Bobby Earl Macklin likes to bulletproof his personal vehicle.”

  Mad Dog didn’t know a Bobby Earl, though he recalled some Macklins back in Kansas.

  “If you want to thank him, he’s in the back seat.”

  Mad Dog started to turn but the little guy hit the accelerator again. Mad Dog peered around the wounded windshield just in time to see the detective come bouncing over the hood and end up spread against the glass.

  The driver threw open his door, leveled his gun at the broken man who’d just tried to kill them, and demanded, “Where’s Dempsey?”

  “We should stop this,” Mad Dog said, turning to Macklin for assistance.

  Macklin looked back vacantly. That was all he could do. He had no arms, no legs, and no body. He was just a severed head, securely belted into place so he wouldn’t roll around back there like some bloody melon.

  “Urk,” Mad Dog said.

  Macklin, of course, did not reply.

  ***

  Well,” English said, “obviously I’m not on the mine you saw Billy plant. And if I’ve already walked on it, it’s a dud.”

  Frank Ball didn’t encourage him. “All the ones we set off worked just fine.”

  The sheriff looked around his feet and his walker. Winter-killed grass was all he saw. Well, maybe a little disturbed dirt way over to his right, in the edge of the headlight’s beams. And there, wasn’t that clump of grass askew? Maybe the Macklins had gophers—though this wasn’t gopher season.

  “No sign of one near me. The lawn should be disturbed where anyone planted one of those things.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ball said. “Billy had a military style trenching tool. I’d think you’d see some sign ‘cause it seemed like he was working in a hurry.”

  “I can’t stand here forever. Guess I’ll just move ahead real slow and stay in the headlights.”

  “Real slow, sir. I’m sure there’s one awful close to where you are.”

  English shifted his walker a foot forward and followed it, head down and eyes glued to the ground.

  “Wait, Sheriff,” Ball said. “Look at Cole.”

  The boy on the porch was waving his hands like crazy again. When the sheriff looked at him, the boy kept his left hand up like he intended the sheriff to stay where he was. Cole’s right hand closed, holding up one finger, and slowly lowered to point right at the sheriff. Well, not right at, English decided, but just in front.

  And then he saw it. The lawn dipped a little there. A batch of dead leaves lay in a hollow and covered freshly turned earth.

  “I see it,” the sheriff said. “Does that mean you know where all of them are, Cole?”

  The boy’s right hand went up again, this time displaying a finger and thumb in a circle with the other three fingers raised. The sheriff had gotten it right.

  “So you can direct me? Get me to that porch so I can cut you free?”

  The boy made the sign again.

  The sheriff took a deep breath and hoped Cole’s memory and eyesight were both excellent. “Let’s get to it then. People may be dying in Tucson.”

  Cole pointed to the sheriff’s left.

  “You want me to move that way?”

  Cole circled thumb and finger again. English edged the way the boy indicated, slow and easy, and taking lots of time to examine the ground for himself. It was possible, the sheriff knew, that Cole’s real loyalty remained with his brother, even if he had tied him up and left him behind. It was possible Cole had shown him one mine because Frank knew it was there. And that the boy was now directing him straight toward one Frank Ball knew nothing about.

  ***

  Heather jumped rails. There was a train station on her left, dark and closed—no surprise in a country where passenger rail service was as uncommon as a night without violence. As if to reinforce her thought, shots echoed from the buildings ahead of her.

  The shots would have prompted her to run faster but, even with the aid of a nearly full moon, it was hard to maneuver across the tracks without stumbling.

  There was more construction just west of the station, another chain link fence like the one on the side she’d come from. Someone had cut some strands and dug a way under this one, too. She ducked, avoided snagging her clothes, and came out sprinting.

  Across the way, headlights wheeled at an impossible angle. And then she realized they were shining out of an upper level from a parking garage. More shots exploded inside the same structure.

  A big white Ford idled at one side of the garage. The man inside held a microphone in one hand. He had to be a cop. The generic Ford four-door confirmed it—too big and expensive for any buyer other than government to purchase without investing in a trim package.

  The man at the wheel was watching the building and there were sirens, now, coming from every direction. He hadn’t noticed her approach. He jumped when she threw herself against his window and put her badge in his face.

  “Deputy English,” she said, purposefully omitting her juri
sdiction. “Mad Dog in there?”

  “He is.” The guy was too shocked not to answer. Or too guilty about waiting out here where it was safe. “I’ve got back-up on the way.”

  “Who else is in there?”

  “Some of my officers. A Sewa policeman. And whoever just drove that Mercedes SUV inside.”

  “I’m going in,” Heather said, acutely aware that she was carrying nothing more lethal than a pink pocket knife. “You coming with me?”

  “No, wait,” he said. “You can’t go in. You’re that Kansas girl, that sheriff’s daughter, aren’t you? The one we’ve been looking for all night.”

  Heather didn’t bother answering. There were no entrances on this side of the building and the cop in the Ford had nodded his head to the west when he mentioned the Mercedes. He sounded more likely to hinder her than help. She sprinted for the next corner.

  “Hey! You!! Halt!!!”

  The Ford started up behind her, burned rubber. She found the corner and went around it. A Mercedes SUV hurtled out an exit, got sparks as it careened off the far curb, and accelerated hard going south. The Ford rounded the corner behind her and a familiar figure came running from the exit the Mercedes had taken.

  “Matus,” she yelled. “Is my uncle all right?”

  The Ford squealed to a halt, blocking the sidewalk in front of her. The man behind the wheel was pointing a service revolver her way, but she hardly noticed.

  “I don’t know,” Matus said. “Your uncle was on the floor up there. Then we got ambushed. That Mercedes came in. The driver killed some cops. He just left. And he took Mad Dog with him.”

  “Cops? Dead? Who?” The guy in the Ford had lost all interest in Heather.

  “Two uniforms. Don’t know their names. The Mercedes ran down another, a plain-clothes detective.”

  “And Sergeant Parker?” the man in the Ford asked.

  “She’s with the detective. Trying to keep him alive until the EMTs get here.” Matus leaned down, peered into the Ford. “Why, it’s Chief Dempsey, isn’t it?”

  “Deputy Chief,” Dempsey said, as if he was trying to distance himself from all responsibility.

  “That detective had a message for you. Said the guy in the Mercedes wants to meet you at El Tiradito.”

  “El Tiradito?” Heather and Dempsey made the question a chorus.

  “Right. God knows why, but he said he’d have something special for you at the Wishing Shrine.”

  “Mad Dog?” Heather wondered.

  “I’ll send every unit I’ve got,” Dempsey said, reaching for the radio.

  “No,” Matus said. He stuck his gun in the Ford’s window and put it in Dempsey’s ear. Reached in and tore the microphone out of the chief’s hand. Out of its socket, too. Took Dempsey’s pistol and threw it across the street. “He said you were to come alone. But I figure he’ll put up with the girl and me if we make sure you don’t bring anyone else.”

  ***

  Mad Dog was still trying to figure out what to do about the killer—or maniac, perhaps—as the Mercedes wove between buildings and avoided the swarm of cop cars that seemed to be headed for the place they’d just left. He still hadn’t come up with anything when the driver squealed to a stop at the curb near a Mexican restaurant south of some big, sprawling buildings surrounded by limited access parking. There was a small, nearly vacant lot there. It contained only a few modest lamps and clusters of votive candles in niches and on crude candelabras in front of a grimy adobe wall.

  “Behold, El Tiradito,” the killer said.

  “What is it?” Mad Dog asked. He was genuinely curious, but he also felt the power of the place. He nearly forgot he was in the company of a man who’d brought along a severed head.

  The killer opened his door and went to the back, removing Macklin from the web of seat belts.

  “Shaman like you,” the killer said, “I’m surprised you don’t know.”

  “This place is close to the spirit world,” Mad Dog said. “I can feel that.”

  The man with the spare head smiled. “That’s hardly a convincing display of your powers at this point.”

  He carried the head around the front of the SUV and into the lot. For some reason, Mad Dog got out of the Mercedes and followed him. Running like hell would have been smarter, but the guy had saved him at the parking garage. Besides, his own muscles still ached and threatened to cramp because of the mistreatment they’d received earlier. And, for some strange reason, he didn’t feel he was in any serious danger from this man.

  “The Spanish name, El Tiradito, means the castaway. People also call this place the Wishing Shrine.” He nodded at a plaque a few yards in front of a wax-soaked adobe wall and all those flickering candles.

  “This is one of those folk shrines you find in this part of the world. They say, a long time ago a young man went searching for his bride and found her in the arms of another man. He killed his rival with an ax, then was put to death for the crime and buried here in unconsecrated ground. Actually, near here. The city moved him to put in a sewer. But by then, people had taken to lighting candles at his grave. Sometimes, miraculous things happened as a result—cures, wealth, children for the childless—good luck of all sorts. The people who come here do so to make wishes. They say this poor devil, as penitence for what he did, intercedes with God on their behalf. That’s what all these candles are. Wishes.”

  “I’ve heard of stuff like this,” Mad Dog said. “But, how do you know about it, and why have you brought me here?” He wasn’t sure he really wanted an answer to that last part.

  The killer laughed. “I’ve got lots of people who do research for me. I was looking for an appropriate place for Bobby Earl, and I feel some sympathy for the poor bastard who’s buried here. What I found out about this place makes it perfect. Bobby Earl’s head will make a lot of his political opponents’ wishes come true. And the message it sends his friends will come with a dramatic postmark.”

  There was a kind of niche in the adobe wall, a spot where you might expect to find the statue of a saint or maybe a crucifix. A couple of votive candles were all it held. The man with the head, carrying it by the hair, stepped up to the wall, nudged the candles gently aside, and tried placing Bobby Earl in the niche. The ledge was too narrow or too slanted. The head toppled onto more candles below, mixing blood with the wax that had stained this earth for generations. Its hair was singed and smoking a little when the killer picked it back up.

  “Uh, why would this man’s head answer wishes? And what kind of message will it send?”

  The killer patted the hair until it stopped smoking and brushed the face clean, not that Mad Dog could see that doing either made any improvement to its looks. The killer stepped back and examined the wall and the metal rack of candles in front of it.

  “Bobby Earl Macklin was a big man in Tucson. Owned car dealerships, restaurants, construction companies that build ticky-tack housing developments that fall apart in a few years and where every place looks alike. Bobby Earl’s worth was in the hundreds of millions, maybe more. And he happens to be a cousin to the Macklins you know back in Kansas. Those Macklins don’t like you very much, do they?”

  “I suppose not,” Mad Dog said.

  “Bobby Earl’s the head, you should pardon the expression, of the local business mafia and their bought and paid for politicos who run this town. And he’s the guy who hired me to get you labeled a cop killer and see that you were gunned down by the local constabulary.”

  “But why? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “A favor for his cousins, and it seems you were a thorn in his side anyway.”

  “Oh?”

  “One of those Kansas cousins put together a batch of computer hackers. They persuaded Bobby Earl and his Tucson buddies to come up with the seed money to fund their start up in exchange for fixing a Tucson election. The Kansas Macklins also offered a spot in the middle of nowhere to stick an ethanol plant where Bobby Earl and his pals could launder cash and provide a conveni
ent excuse for their cousin’s sudden wealth. Your ruckus over the ethanol plant put you in Bobby Earl’s way. By then, the Kansas hackers were arranging for people to clean up little problems like that. They contracted with me for this Tucson operation. Turned me into their Mr. Fix It.”

  For a moment, Mad Dog thought he’d said Fig Zit, and recalled how the man’s features resembled those of the towering monster that had turned so much of his play time in War of Worldcraft into a nightmare.

  “Tucson’s election hack was coming undone. Some people were considering talking. One of them was your victim at Pascua. He was nobody, just part of Macklin’s muscle. But he and the guy who actually fixed the vote got scared and tried to cut a deal. Fick, what your hackers called themselves, had been planning to eliminate you. They broke into your email account and discovered you were on a last minute trip to Tucson. So Bobby Earl and his boys decided to kill three birds with one stone. Me, I was their stone. Even though this thing got complicated and amateurish toward the end, everything would have worked if I hadn’t gotten hurt. That’s when they decided you’d be easy to take out and they didn’t need me anymore.

  “I don’t understand,” Mad Dog confessed.

  “Don’t need to.” The killer moved a couple of candles and tried the head on the metal rack. It looked impressive there, surrounded by glimmering saints, virgins, and images of a very Caucasian Jesus painted on the glass candle containers.

  “They underestimated me,” the killer said, admiring the way Bobby Earl stared into eternity with a puzzled smile. “So I decided to cut their organization off at the neck,” he grinned, “literally.”

  Mad Dog understood that part.

  “Got the head. Now we’re waiting for the hands—the guy who’s in charge of their local muscle. Handles the dirty work, or arranges for others to do it for him.”

  “Who’s that? Why would he come here?”

  “He’s the Deputy Chief of Police. Guy named Dempsey. And he’ll come because he knows, if he doesn’t stop me now, I’ll end his gravy train.”