by Robert Rand
“Have your cameraman zoom in close on those two and I’ll give you reason to believe me.”
“Well, I don’t…” the director began.
“Do it or I’ll kill another cop!”
“Hold on.” The director came back on the line within 15 seconds. “It’s done.”
“Now watch your TV,” Conan said, setting the phone on the bed. He and Scrappy leveled their recently acquired weapons at the prone officers.
“On three,” Scrappy whispered.
“Three,” said Conan.
Both men opened fire.
Deputy Curtis Ross was killed instantly. The three-round burst Conan had put through Ross’ mouth and chin exited his neck, disintegrated his fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae, severing his spinal cord.
Wayne Chapman wasn’t so lucky. The first bullet entered his face, just below the right eye, blinding him. The second entered his shoulder, ricocheting off bone to tear a painful, and ultimately fatal path of destruction, before exiting above his left hip.
Conan picked up the phone and said, “See, I told you it was me!”
Allen was about 20 feet from the open door – on the opposite side from the two deputies who had just been shot. Rage filled him. His men were being executed. He had to stop it, or die trying. The SPAZ-12 held a drum magazine that contained 50 rounds. It was like a huge Tommy gun, only four times faster and twenty times more dangerous. He got to his feet and began pumping rounds into the open doorway as he rushed forward. The heavy gun bucked in his hands. He pulled it tighter to his shoulder and charged into the abyss, buckshot strafing the room.
The first shot sent pieces of the Motorola into Conan’s skull. The lead pellets shattered the phone, the hand that held it and the ear that it was pressed against, a split second prior to taking the life of the person – some would say animal – laughing into the receiver.
Scrappy turned to his left, attempting to bring his weapon to bear on the source of the sudden onslaught of hot lead.
A dark figure broke through the smoke and flame, flashes of red and orange extending in front of it. Scrappy felt himself being lifted into the air. His hands suddenly empty, weapon gone. There was no pain. Just heat. Heat blossomed from his chest, hip and both knees as he fell back into the flame engulfed carpeting.
Allen saw the first skinhead in a bloody heap near the door when he first entered. In the split second his mind registered the body, it also told him to ‘be sure’. He pumped another round into the head of his ‘target’.
The second skinhead was turning toward him. His mind registered the weapon, but it didn’t matter. The weapon was already falling to the floor, as shot after shot found its mark.
Stepping over the king-size bed, Allen continued firing into the body of the skinhead who lay in the flames.
Scrappy’s last thought was one of thanks to this cop who was killing him. Thankful that he wasn’t being left to burn to death in the flames that were already beginning to melt his flesh.
Allen stooped to check for a pulse on Cruz. There was none. He grabbed his radio and keyed the mike, “All clear! All clear! Get some fire crews in here! Both suspects dead!”
The smoke was thickening, but Lt. Timothy Allen would have had tears in his eyes, even if the air had been clear. He set down his weapon and pulled Deputy Cruz’s body outside.
Mrs. Kravitz insisted on Deputy Matern stopping at the store so she could get snacks and a drink for the baby. By the time they arrived at the hospital, news crews and photographers were swarming the emergency room entrance. Matern parked in front of the hospital, avoiding the reporters.
Once inside, April was taken to the emergency room, where she was sedated.
Mrs. Kravitz held and talked with the baby and waited. She was pleased when a woman she recognized as a frequent visitor to the Rourk home was ushered into the waiting room and introduced herself as April Rourk’s grandmother, Lee Zigan. With her was her granddaughter, Victoria. “Vickey,” insisted the young woman, as she sat next to Mrs. Kravitz on the coarse, brown weave, patterned couch.
The television in the corner was tuned to Channel Seven. The deaths of four deputies and the two skinheads suspected of killing them was being rehashed for the 10th or 12th time. Big news for a big city – HUGE news for the desert.
Vickey kept thinking of the song ‘Dirty Laundry’ as she watched the blonde woman attempt to not smile in front of the camera while reporting the tragedy: “THE BUBBLE-HEADED BLEACHED BLONDE COMES ON AT FIVE – TELL YOU ABOUT THE PLANE CRASH WITH A GLEAM IN HER EYE.”
Vickey was not a glamorous kind of woman, but beautiful, like Bailey on WKRP or Mary Ann on Gilligan’s Island. The kind of girl guys the world over hoped to take home to momma. Her long brown hair was luxuriant and the natural highlights matched the gold flecks in her eyes. She was disgusted by the news coverage.
“Can I hold the baby, Mrs. Kravitz?” she asked, needing a distraction.
The older woman was grateful for the break. She hadn’t held a baby in thirty-seven years. And Lisa, being just over 3 years old, was getting pretty heavy.
Sullivan came out of the emergency room to find Granny and Vickey waiting with Lisa.
“Where is April?” he asked.
“Are you okay?” Granny asked, standing up and placing a gnarled, yet comforting hand along his jaw.
“Yeah, fine, Granny. Where’s April?”
“In there somewhere,” she said, pointing toward the double doors he had just walked through.
His eyes flashed with concern and he spun around to the admitting window. “You have my wife – April Rourk – is she okay?” he demanded of the admitting nurse.
“She’ll be fine. In fact, she should be released any time now. She just needed a sedative.”
Chapter 31
The gauntlet of reporters they had to pass on the way out of the hospital was twice as bad as the last time infamy had touched upon Sullivan Rourk. The cops were no help – they had just lost four of their own and four more were being treated inside for injuries sustained at the Rourk house. The fact that Sullivan wouldn’t provide the detectives with any cooperation, wouldn’t make a statement, wouldn’t aid in getting closure to this horrendous nightmare, didn’t exactly endear him to the Sheriff’s Department.
Klieg lights. Microphones. Flashes. Questions. An assault on the senses. Sullivan stopped to address the crowd, letting everyone else escape the onslaught.
“I want to express my deepest condolences to the families and friends of those who lost their lives today. They protected my family, my neighbors and myself with their very lives. For that I am grateful and deeply saddened. When the investigation is all done, it’ll be anyone’s guess where blame gets placed for these deaths”, Sullivan paused, turned slightly to stare straight into the lens of the Channel 7 mini-cam, then continued in a voice filled with venom, “but I can tell you right now that the blame doesn’t belong with anyone that was there today – it belongs with the FBI, because if they hadn’t gone off half-cocked and shot me up, none of this would be happening now.”
“Are you saying that this was a setup by the FBI, Mr. Rourk?” shouted one reporter.
“No” he replied before hurrying into the parking lot. A Ford Aerostar minivan was waiting with its sliding side door open, April waving to him from inside. He jumped in and slid the door closed behind him.
“Vickey thinks you have terrible taste in men, April,” said Granny Zigan as they pulled out of the parking lot.
“Granny!” Vickey said, her face and neck turning bright red with embarrassment.
“I’m not so sure myself, Vickey,” April mumbled.
“I believe you have wonderful taste – this time” Granny said, surprising everyone in the van. She had their attention and continued, “I spoke with Frank this morning. He told me that I should come and get you all because trouble was sure to be comin’ and it wasn’t Sullivan’s fault. So lets just quit tryin’ to fix blame. The three of you will be stayin’ wi
th me – April, you can have your old room.” Granny looked off into the distance, seeing something none of the others could. “That room is just like you and Lisa left it.”
The Sheriff’s Department had taped off the Rourk’s house as a crime scene, but they had been allowed to go inside to retrieve some personal items. They were also allowed to take the Corvette and the Jeep. It was a small caravan that drove away from the destruction on Arroyo Grande, Sullivan, alone with his thoughts in the Vette, April and the baby ahead of him in the Jeep, both following Vickey and Granny to Lancaster.
Sullivan had a vague recollection of the desert town from years earlier when he had driven out to Edwards Air Force Base to see the first space shuttle landing. It wasn’t much of a town, from what he recalled – but as long as it was safe for his wife and daughter, he would be happy in any town.
The house hadn’t changed. It was still the same desert tan stucco with chocolate trim. The grass still refused to grow in the strip of ground adjacent to the driveway. The garage door still didn’t close all the way.
“Don’t tell me Frank still has that old car up on blocks in the garage,” April said to Vickey when they walked up the drive.
“You don’t think he’d let Granny get rid of it, do you?” she replied.
Inside everything was different, yet the same. The walls in the kitchen and living room had been repainted with the same stark white paints as were used when April had helped Lisa and Vickey paint them years earlier. The living room furniture was new, but close in style to the old, dark, comfortable furniture April remembered. The three-cushion couch sat near the sliding glass door – just as the old one had. Against the far wall was the love seat sitting at a 90-degree angle from the couch – just as the old one had. End tables, coffee table, Lazy-boy, entertainment center – all positioned just as before.
Vickey whispered into April’s ear, “Granny keeps it all the same, in case you or Lisa ever came back, so you would feel at home.”
Tears threatened to spill over April’s lashes, spiking them with the wetness as she blinked them back. All these years Granny had held out hope for her to return. Her and Lisa. Now she and Lisa were home. Not the same Lisa, but still a Lisa that Granny loves, just the same. Granny came through the bat-wing saloon doors that separated the kitchen from the entrance hall. She carried four open long neck bottles of Budweiser between the gnarled fingers of her left hand, and a baby bottle filled with apple juice in the other. “Welcome home” she said, her voice catching as emotions ran high.
The Rourks settled in quickly. The house in Indian Wells would have to be leveled. The insurance company settled easily enough. With that money, Sullivan figured to buy a place in Lancaster. April didn’t want to move, though. She was happy to be home.
When Sullivan bought a house on the next street without talking it over with his wife, she was furious. She wouldn’t even go look at it. Sullivan spent weeks on renovating the house. By the time he was done, April was happily spending money to decorate. It was Granny Zigan who had persuaded April to follow her husband. “Damn it, child, this house is and always will be your home, but you’ve got to get out and live your own life – build a home of your own. Besides that, you and that horny husband of yours are keepin’ me awake nights, what with all that moanin’ and groanin’ and carryin’ on.
April had turned bright red, embarrassed that Granny had been hearing them make love.
“You think she’s noisy now?” Sullivan chided, “You should hear her when nobody is in the house!”
April slapped him on the arm.
Granny laughed, and then leaned over close to April, “Is he really that damn good?”
“Granny!” April exclaimed.
Sullivan and the old woman laughed.
Getting settled into their new home was fun and easy from that point on. Sullivan had found a job with a consulting firm in the San Fernando Valley. He had a long commute when he went into the office, but was able to do most of his work from home.
April went to work for the city. She took a position with the zoning office. She would have to inspect all blueprints before permits being issued. Like her husband, most of her work could be done from her home office. The Rourk’s 5 bedroom house was reduced to 3 bedrooms and 2 offices.
The baby grew quickly. By her fourth birthday it was obvious that Lisa would have her mother’s good looks and her father’s height. She would be a star.
There remained a dark cloud over the Rourk’s lives. Sullivan had never notified his parole officer of his new address. In fact, he had never reported to his parole officer.
Spanky had paroled a couple of months after Sullivan. He stayed out of trouble for nearly two years before he was pulled over right in front of the Rourk’s house and arrested for possession of methamphetamine. He had pulled into Sullivan’s driveway on his Harley, the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s patrol car right behind him. April had gone out to see what was going on – Sullivan hid from view within the house. Spanky was already in cuffs by the time April got to him.
“Have your ol’ man take care of my bike, sis” Spanky called out over his shoulder while one of the two deputies escorted him t the back seat of the patrol car.
“Why are you arresting my brother?” April demanded.
The deputy showed her a small zip-lock baggie containing a white crystalline substance and said, “Possession of methamphetamine.” He went on to ask if the motorcycle would be okay there. When she said it would, he handed her the key.
Several hours later, Sullivan answered the phone, “Hello?”
“Hey, Bro, glad it was you and not Helene who answered”, Spanky said from the other end of the line.
“Spanky! How much is your bail? We’ll get you out right away.”
“Ain’t got no bail, the parole office has a hold on me, so I ain’t gettin’ out any time real soon.”
“Shit!”
“Hey, don’t trip. I had a good long run. This’ll just be a little vacation.”
“How the fuck can you call that shit hole a vacation spot?” Sullivan was incredulous.
“Look, I need a favor.”
“You know all you need to do is ask.”
“Lift the tank and get rid of what’s there.”
“On the bike?” Sullivan asked.
“Yeah – don’t say nothin’ more on this phone” Spanky warned.
“Alright. Call me back in an hour.”
“It’ll probably be tomorrow before I get back to a phone.”
“Okay, call me tomorrow then. Do you need any money on your books?”
“Naw, I got plenty of cash for now, but call that mouthpiece you met, the kike.”
“His name is Friedman, Gary Friedman, and I doubt he would be much good to you if you call him a kike,” Sullivan warned his brother-in-law.
“Hey, no disrespect intended” Spanky said.
“Alright, alright, I’ll get him to come see you this week.”
“Thanks, bro.” Spanky said before he hung up the phone.
Placing the receiver into its cradle, Sullivan hurried out to the garage. He checked the bike over. The 1962 Pan Head was immaculate. The two tone powder blue and white paint was almost as reflective as the chrome that glistened from most of the metal parts. He used a ½ inch socket to remove the bolt at the bottom of the tank, and then lifted it up. On the frame, rolled up and fastened with black electrical tape, was what had to be a pound of meth in a plastic baggie. He pulled the baggie free with his left hand and eased the Fat Bob tank back down with his right.
Sitting on the bike, Sullivan began to sweat, even though it was only 55 degrees in the garage. He stared at the drug within the big zip lock bag. It looked like shards of glass. He hadn’t done any speed since before he went into prison. That was 5 years ago.
Five years and still, the sight of the powerful powder reached out and grabbed his very soul.
“I’ll get rid of it,” he whispered to himself, even as he broke the seal on
the baggie, turning the green strip to yellow and blue.
There was a warm bottle of Dr. Pepper sitting on the dryer. Sullivan had left it there; it’s contents half drank, earlier when he had pushed the motorcycle into the garage. He reached for it now and dumped a small quantity of the meth into warm soda. The drink fizzed as the dope dissolved. He drank it down in several long gulps.
The Dr. Pepper couldn’t mask the taste of the meth, but it did dilute it considerably. Still, Sullivan’s face contorted as the bitterness assailed his taste buds.
Within a matter of minutes, Sullivan was feeling the effects of the drug. Everything around him appeared clearer, all of his senses seemed to be enhanced. His energy level had more than tripled. He quickly rolled up the baggie and hid it in his rollaway toolbox, carefully locking the cabinet before going in to call the lawyer.
Chapter 32
“Damn it, Sullivan, you’re using again!” April shouted at her husband, who was under the kitchen sink replacing the garbage disposal.
“Yeah, right,” he tried to sound tired, “hand me that nine-sixteenth wrench.”
She handed him the tool, peering in at him, a questioning look on her pretty face.
Sullivan finished tightening the bolts, and then used a pipe wrench to tighten the drainpipes. Slowly he crawled out from under the sink. Wet and dirty, he forced himself to slow down his movements, feigning a minor pain in his back as he shoved the dish soap and scrub pads back into the cabinet. He didn’t look at April until he had gathered his tools and the old disposal unit. “What?”
April was looking at him intently. He knew she knew, but he wasn’t going to ever admit it. In fact, he would deny it until she believed him.
“Bullshit! Your eyes are dilated and you’ve been busting your ass around here for the last two weeks.”