Rolling Thunder (32 page)
She flips up her hands to say, “Whatever.”
“Meet Layla,” says Skippy. “She mouths off from time to time like that. Makes her number two on my hit list.”
“Am I number one?” I ask. I'm seated in a backless swivel chair. I guess it's what the guy who runs the ride uses to slide around and punch buttons. The console is behind me, its padded leather bumper nudging me in the back. When I was feeling around for the chair in the dark, I noticed that the video monitors displaying security camera feeds are mounted on the walls. Skippy can see everything from his vantage point in the corner. His eyes flick from screen to screen. So far, the snipers haven't budged. They're still birds on a wire, perched on the coaster's crossbeams.
I roll sideways. Closer to the corner.
Skippy's maybe four feet away. The guns maybe two.
“Am I number one?” I ask again.
“Nah, Danny. You're my witness.”
“For what?” I think I'm asking open-ended questions like Ceepak told me to. I'm not exactly sure what the term means. I wish I'd had more time to study this stuff. I might be doing it wrong.
“The government's witness to the execution of Mr. Joseph Ceepak.”
“Whoa,” I say, like Skippy and I are playing beer pong. “Hang on, buddy ⦠time out.”
Mr. Ceepak tilts his head sideways. Skippy is burrowing the muzzle of his Beretta deeper into the soft spot at his temple.
“Your partner? This piece of shit's son? He never really thought I'd make a good cop. But I would. I am. I can bring the justice, which is what a good cop does, Danny. He brings the goddamn justice. And in a just world, this old drunk definitely deserves to die. I know what he did, all those years ago. He should've gotten the needle. Lethal injection. I wish I still had some of that potassium chloride but I left it all on Tangerine Street.”
“Yeah. That was clever, Skippy.”
“Thanks. But, you want to know the truth?”
“Sure.”
“I got lucky. I was just gonna plant the drugs on Dad, but I couldn't figure out how to get you guys into the house. Then, boom! My father's whore texts his phone while it's sitting in my pocket. Talk about meant to be. God wanted me to kill her, too. After that, everything just fell in place, you know?”
“Sure.”
“So how'd I blow it?”
“Huh?”
“How'd you guys figure out I was the one who killed Gail?”
“You know ⦠this and that.” I am trying so hard not to piss him off.
“Yeah, right. You got fucking lucky, too.” He jams the gun even tighter against Mr. Ceepak's skull. “The prosecuting attorney's office in Ohio cut this dirty old bastard a deal. He got off easy. Then he got out early. That's not fair. He cheated the system. So, if I can't kill my dad, I figure I'll kill Ceepak's for him and maybe someday, when I'm dead and gone, which, you know, could happen any fucking second now, Ceepak will return the favor and pop a cap in my old man's head.”
“Hey, Skippyâremember Mrs. Fabricius?”
Skippy looks at me like I'm the crazy one. “What?”
“Sophomore year. She taught us math.”
“Oh, yeah. Her. She was okay.”
“Okay? Jeez-o, man, Skipâyou were her favorite.”
He shrugs. “She made it interesting. Not dry and dull, you know?”
I inch forward.
“You aced every exam.”
“You remember that?”
“Sure. You blew the curve, bro.”
I roll closer.
“Hey, how about Mr. Skaggs?”
“Who?”
“Monkey man. The gym teacher. Remember how he'd hang off the chin-up bars chomping on a banana?”
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“You're wasting my time.”
“I just thoughtâ”
“I've got work to do.” He uses his thumb to slide the hammer drop, take off the Beretta's safety.
“Whoa, easy.”
Now his thumb pulls back the hammer spur. His finger quivers on the trigger.
His hand is trembling.
Where the hell is Ceepak?
“For fuck sake, don't shoot me, kid!” All of a sudden, Mr. Ceepak is begging. “Come on. I never did shit to you. Cut me a fucking break!”
“Shut up!”
“Come on! You don't really want to kill me!”
Incredibly, Layla laughs. “Uh,
yeah
âhe does.”
Skippy looks stunned. Lowers his pistol a couple inches. Turns to glare at the girl.
As he turns, she kicks out her foot.
Sends one of the shotguns skittering across the floor to me.
I pounce on it. Flip it up and twirl it over. Aim it at Skippy's heart.
“Freeze!” I shout.
He swings back, Beretta aimed at me.
“Danny?” His eyes go wide.
Everything shifts to super slo-mo.
Skippy's trigger finger twitches.
Mine twitches faster.
The shotgun in my hand explodes.
The wad slams Skippy in the shoulder. Shrapnel freckles his face with blood.
Reflexes swing him right.
The muzzle of the Beretta is now aimed at Mr. Ceepak's gut.
A round goes off.
Mr. Ceepak recoils, clutching his stomach. An artery is spurting.
Skippy wheels around to squeeze off another round.
But I already have his head in my sights.
I have to kill the crazy bastard.
That's when glass shatters, the whole world explodes, and we all go blind.
Ceepak finally tossed in the flashboom.
42
M
Y EARS ARE RINGING AS A BATTALION OF HEAVILY ARMED
ninjas swarms into the control room.
I see four silhouettes of soldiers grab Skippy's arms and legs and lift him up off the ground. His pistol rattles to the floor.
He's screaming.
“My arm! Jesus, my fucking arm!”
Through the blinding white burning my retinas I can see a rump roast of raw beef where Skippy's right shoulder used to be.
The SWAT guys drag his ass out the door. Fast. All around me, it's smoky bedlam. People screaming. Crying. Wailing. Soldiers shouting, “Out, out. Go, go.”
Mr. Ceepak is somewhere on the floor, wheezing. I smell the metallic scent of blood.
“We need a medic over there!” I stumble toward the door. “There's a wounded man in the corner.”
“Good work, Officer Danny!” a voice cuts through the panicked din and the alarm clock bells jangling in my eardrums.
It's the girl. Layla.
“Out, out, out!” Robocop is in the house, hustling Layla and the other hostages out the door.
My temporary blindness finally fades.
“Keep your legs down, Dad!”
It's Ceepak. In the corner. Working on his father, who is gurgling and rasping and gushing blood.
“Johnny,” the old man groans. “You gotta fucking help me ⦠don't fuck this up, you stupid shit.”
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you see?”
“Yeah.”
“I need more sterile gauze.” He tears off his T-shirt and stuffs it into his father's abdomen. “Stat. Alert the medics, then grab the AED out of the ticket office. He's going into v-fib.”
Ceepak starts pumping on his father's chest.
As I'm running out the trailer door, I hear Ceepak shout, “Don't die on me, you goddamn son of a bitch! Don't you dare die!”
43
I
DON
'
T KNOW IF ANYBODY
'
S GOING TO GIVE HIM ANOTHER
Distinguished Service Cross for it, but Ceepak saved his old man's life.
Brought him back from the brink, just like he did for that soldier over in Mosul, although I'm guessing the soldier deserved to live more than Joe Sixpack did.
But who am I to judge?
They took him to the hospital in the second ambulance.
Skippy got the first ride. He's going to live but he'll never play tennis or badminton. Apparently, my shotgun blast seriously dislocated his shoulderâlike into the next county.
I don't think he'll be getting many visitors. The O'Malley clan is conveniently forgetting they ever had a boy named Skipper. Maybe Mary will drop by. Maybe they'll end up in the same psych ward after the trial.
I called Samantha like I promised I would. She was at her mother's house. After Sam thanked me for saving Richard Heimsack's life, her mom got on the phone and told me what a hero I was and how she always knew I'd do something heroic because I was such a hero and blah, blah, blah. Then she asked me whether I wanted to come by for Sunday dinner because she wanted to bake me a cake and introduce me to some of her friends who she'd already told what a hero I was.
I said thanks but no thanks, as I had prior commitments for Sunday afternoon.
First, Ceepak and I are going to his father's apartment and toss his things into a U-Haul so he's ready to head back to Ohio or wherever he wants to call home when he's released from the hospital. In grudging gratitude for his son's lifesaving administration of CPR and expert use of the AED, Joseph Ceepak has promised never to darken his son's door or life again. He has also taken a solemn vow to leave Ceepak's mom the hell alone.
After we pack up the old man, we promise Marny Minsky we'd check out her apartment. Make sure none of the sugar daddies booby-trapped it or planted miniature video cameras in her ferns. What can I say? She's still a little paranoid. But starting Monday, she's turning over a new leaf. Rita made a few phone calls, got her a job at Santa's Sea Shanty. Less bling. More jingle bells.
When Marny's settled, we'll head back to Ceepak's place and the little patio behind the Bagel Lagoon.
We're going to give his stepson T.J. the Farewell to Sea Haven/Hello, Annapolis party he truly deserves. There will be no putt-putt. No roller coaster rides. We'll simply crack open a couple of beers, toss some meat on the grill, eat some of Rita's potato salad, and tease T.J. mercilessly. Then we'll let him know how proud we all are of him.
You see, when Ceepak and I first met T.J. Lapscynski, he was a punk kid with a paintball rifle and a bad attitude causing trouble up and down Ocean Avenue just for the hell of it. But Ceepak saw something in him that maybe nobody else ever did. Talent. Character. The way he looked out for his mom, Rita. Over the years, Ceepak helped turn the kid around, saved his life, probably, the same way he saved his father's today.
My partner's pretty good at that.
Heyâlook how far he's come with me.
Oh, by the way, Layla will be at the cookout. We bumped into each other again at the house when I went there to put on some warmer clothes after the medics checked me out. I thanked her for the assist. She said I looked cute in my swim trunks.
Layla Shapiro is her name.
Jen Forbus, the officer who'd been debriefing Layla, said the two of us made a good team.
Who knows. Maybe we do.
Maybe we will.
Acknowledgments
F
IRST AND FOREMOST TO ALL THE READERS AND FANS
, especially the mystery mavens on DorothyL, who would not let Danny and Ceepak die.
To Claiborne Hancock, Jessica Case, Michael Fusco, Ann Kirschner, and everyone at Pegasus Books for offering the Jersey Boys a fantastic new home. It's particularly great to have Michael designing the covers again! This one makes me think of orange-and-white swirl cones down the shore.
To Otto Penzler for his help in finding Ceepak a new home.
To my fantastic agent (and roller coaster aficionado) Eric R. Myers, who keeps finding Ceepak and Danny nice places to live.
To Chief Michael Bradley of the Long Beach Island Police Department and Lee Lofland (author of
Police Procedure & Investigation)
for helping me get the cop details right.
To Kathy Williams, Capt. Dave Morkal, John Broadwater, Nikki Bonanni, Karen Corum, Jen Forbus, and Lynne & Rhys Fraserâmy terrific early readers.
To Lisa Knauf and Steven Smith, who made generous contributions to the Artemis Project animal rescue group in New York City so they could name Gizmo (a.k.a. Hideous Gizmideus) and Puck.
And, most especially, to my beautiful and extremely talented wife J. J. She is the first editor of every writer's dreams.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 2011 by Chris Grabenstein
interior design by Maria Fernandez
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This 2012 edition distributed by Open Road Integrated Media
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