The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara

by James R. Pera

  He finished up, paid his bill, and exchanged final pleasantries with the pretty waitress who’d been his server, leaving her a generously inflated tip just because he liked her smile.

  When he returned to his room, he decided to try calling Carol. He was once again disappointed to hear her answering machine instructing him to leave a message.

  “Hey, beautiful, aren’t you ever home?” he began, but was pleasantly surprised when he heard the sweet sound of Carol’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, darlin’. I’ve been screening my calls. Too many telemarketers and survey takers bothering me at all hours of the day and night. Plus there’s a pest at work who keeps trying to get me to go out with him. Where are you? I miss you and was disappointed that I was out the last time you called,” she exclaimed all in one breath, as if she were afraid the call would end before she was able to speak.

  “I’m fine, sweetheart. Should be back at Fort Campbell in a few more days,” Ryan assured her.

  “What’ve you been doing, love? And where have you been? I feel a little insecure when I don’t know where you’re at or what you’re doing. Makes me think maybe you’re on some secret mission or maybe you’ve found another girl or something.” Carol laughed.

  “You know you don’t have to worry about me finding another gal, sweetheart. You’re my everything. If you don’t know that by now, then… Well, you just never will.” Ryan wondered what his lady would think if she knew that the secret mission part of her jest was closer to the truth than she could ever imagine.

  “So where have you been?” Carol asked again.

  “Oh, I went to some places I’ve been to before and a few I haven’t.”

  “Where?”

  “First I drove up to the Grand Tetons and through Yellowstone. After that I dropped in on the Little Big Horn battlefield in Montana and then drove on to Abilene, Kansas, where I visited President Eisenhower’s boyhood home, museum, and burial site. A lot of World War II history and artifacts there,” Ryan lied, careful not to mention any of the places he’d actually been.

  “So where are you now?” Carol asked.

  “I’m in York, Pennsylvania. I’m going down to Gettysburg to visit the battlefield tomorrow,” Ryan answered, continuing his deception.

  “You and your battlefields. It seems that all you think about is war, war, and more war,” Carol scolded, half kidding but serious enough that Ryan knew she wasn’t as enthusiastic about his interest in the nation’s conflicts as he was. She suddenly changed the subject. “You know, I have something to tell you before I forget. It’s about your ex-wife.”

  “You mean Ciara?”

  “Do you have another one besides her?” Carol asked, pretending she didn’t know that his inquiry wasn’t anything more than a figurative expression.

  “No, no. You know I don’t have any other exes. So what about her?”

  “Well, it seems she paired up with some fella that’s a regular on some television program having to do with the auctioning of antiques,” Carol said.

  “Okay, so she linked up with a junk dealer. Why should that interest me?” Ryan really didn’t care about his ex-wife or anyone unfortunate enough to be suckered into a relationship with her, but now he was curious. “And how would you find out about something like that, anyway?”

  “Because it’s been all over the news, darlin’, that’s how.”

  “What do you mean, it’s been all over the news?” Ryan asked, wondering how a shiftless parasite like Ciara could have possibly done anything noteworthy enough to make headlines.

  “Well, it so happens that her boyfriend, one Boone Potterwell, was in Houston doing a show. He’d been gone for about a week and I guess your ex got lonely, so she decided to fly down and surprise him.” Carol paused.

  “Okay, go on. I’m all ears,” Ryan said.

  “So she arrived in Houston late in the evening and took a cab to the hotel where Mr. Potterwell was staying, went up to his room, and knocked on his door,” Carol continued.

  “And…?”

  “A strange man wearing a bathrobe answered the door and your ex, figuring she had knocked on the wrong door, apologized and turned to walk away. But she stopped when she heard the familiar voice of Mr. Potterwell coming from inside the room. To make a long story short, she pushed her way into the room and discovered Boone sitting on the edge of the bed smoking a joint. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he had makeup on and was wearing women’s lingerie.”

  “Sounds like he’s a little confused.” Ryan laughed. “I’d have given a hundred dollars just to see the expression on Ciara’s face.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was a combination of shock and revulsion. At any rate, when she realized Mr. Potterwell wasn’t the man she thought he was, your ex became hysterical and created a big scene before storming out of the room. She was followed by Mr. Potterwell, who tried unsuccessfully to convince her that his cohabitation in the room with the other man was not what it seemed.”

  “So what you’re telling me is that my ex-wife got involved with a dope-smoking transvestite named Buffoon Potterwell who didn’t level with her about his dalliances with…”

  “Yes, but his name is Boone, not Buffoon,” Carol replied.

  “This is all very intriguing, but you mentioned that my ex-wife and this guy, Boone, made the news. I don’t see how a domestic situation between two men and a woman merits a news story. So what else happened?”

  Carol explained, “Ordinarily it wouldn’t, but after creating the scene and leaving the hotel, your ex flew back to Sacramento ahead of Mr. Potterwell. When he arrived a few days later, he found his store trashed.”

  “How was it trashed?” Ryan asked.

  “Your ex began by slashing a couple hundred thousand dollars’ worth of paintings, after which she took an ax and destroyed several pieces of eighteenth-century colonial furniture. When there wasn’t any more furniture to ruin, she broke into a glass display case and destroyed several antique firearms, including a musket that dated back to the Revolutionary War. She finished up her little task by pouring bleach on several irreplaceable Persian rugs and destroying all the china and silverware in the showroom.”

  Ryan chuckled. “Sounds like her, all right. She never could control herself. She must be off her meds again.”

  “Yeah, well, it probably wouldn’t have made the back page of any reputable newspaper. But when the tabloids found out about it and made a connection between Boone Potterwell and the television show, it went viral. For several days, it seemed to be the only story anyone was interested in. It even competed with coverage about the serial killings. But the public seems to have finally lost interest and that murder spree is once again the number-one story,” Carol said.

  Ryan jerked involuntarily as adrenaline rushed through him, but quickly recovered after taking a deep breath. “What serial killings?” he asked, as if he didn’t know. “I’ve been traveling all over the country and haven’t heard anything about any serial killings. But then I haven’t been paying any attention to the news, either.” He added to his growing list of lies.

  Carol explained, “There’ve been several murders over the past few weeks. They’ve taken place in Chicago, Arizona, and New York. There’s a lot of speculation that they’ve all been carried out by the same people.”

  “You don’t say,” replied Ryan. “I guess I’d better tune in to the news once in a while. I could have been in a restaurant sitting right next to whoever is doing these dirty deeds and wouldn’t have even known. Why, I might have been killed.” He laughed.

  “No, darlin’, I don’t think you have to worry about anything like that happening to you. It looks like these crimes are being carried out by someone with an ax to grind against former activists from the Vietnam War era. The victims all shared a common background that included college activism, rioting, and domestic terrorism.”

  “Well, then, their deaths don’t sound like any big loss to me. They probably had it coming.” Ryan
snickered.

  “Aw, come on now, love. You shouldn’t say things like that, even if you’re only joking,” Carol admonished.

  It wasn’t often that Ryan got annoyed with Carol, but this statement was a little too much, even coming from her. “Look, sweetie, I wasn’t joking. Likening domestic terrorists to victims is like comparing dogs and rats. Dogs are loving and loyal pets. Rats are disease-carrying vermin that eat the food in your pantry and shit on your kitchen table. You take care of dogs and you kill rats. Domestic terrorists are rats, so I’m not going to get all worked up if some guy, playing exterminator, is roaming the countryside ridding the planet of a few anarchist human rodents.”

  “Okay, I get it. I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s forget about all the negative talk. I don’t like it when you get upset,” Carol said.

  This was the Carol Ryan loved and appreciated. She never pushed an unpleasant topic or tried to get one up on him to make a point. When she didn’t like something he said, or when they disagreed, she usually backed off and didn’t escalate the problem like Ciara had always done.

  “That’s okay, baby. I’m sorry I snapped at you. But getting back to Ciara and this Buffoon Potterwell…”

  “Boone Potterwell, Ryan,” Carol corrected.

  “Yes, Boone, right. I’ll try to remember. So where does that mess stand now?” Ryan asked.

  “Your ex was arrested and remains in the Sacramento county jail. She wasn’t able to come up with the bail and will probably be there until her trial begins—assuming she’s held to answer at her preliminary hearing, which is scheduled for the day after tomorrow.”

  “That’s a good place for her, locked up with the other rabid animals that plague society. So what happened to Buffoon—uh, sorry—I mean Boone?” Ryan asked.

  “He’s in a psychiatric ward at an undisclosed hospital. He went into a deep depression when the antique show canceled his contract because of the bad publicity.”

  “How’d he wind up in the psych ward?”

  “A few days ago, he was at home smoking marijuana in his study when he suddenly smashed the bong he was using and slashed his wrists with the broken glass. When Boone fell to the floor, his butler heard the thud and rushed into the room just as he started to bleed out. After calling 911, the butler administered pressure to the wounds and stopped the bleeding until the paramedics arrived and took over.”

  “Karma’s a bitch,” Ryan said.

  “What?”

  “Karma, you know—like what goes around comes around? Ciara’s been screwing over people her whole life and her behavior has finally come back to bite her in the ass,” Ryan answered. “But she’s no longer my concern. The state can worry about providing for her food and lodging for a while. But hey, we’ve talked enough about this. I want to talk about you and me. That’s why I called.”

  Carol agreed and they spent another hour talking about what their lives might be like once Ryan finally retired from the Special Forces and came home. Before hanging up, they reaffirmed their love for one another and promised to call each other at least twice a week.

  It was already eleven-fifteen and much later than he’d planned on staying up. Lying down, he was in a deep sleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow.

  CHAPTER

  39

  “Right on time,” Ryan thought as he watched Judd exit his home and drive away at seven a.m. the next morning. When he was satisfied that Judd was gone for the day, Ryan exited his car, proceeded down a narrow pathway, and walked along the beach and up the small hill to the back of Judd’s house

  Looking around to make sure no one was in the vicinity, he checked the exterior and located a flimsy basement door that wasn’t equipped with a deadbolt lock. After putting on a pair of gloves, he removed a credit-card-size piece of plastic from his pocket and inserted it between the doorframe and latch. After jiggling the plastic around for a few seconds, he was able to push the latch away from the jamb and gain entry.

  Using a small penlight, he ascended a darkened staircase and opened an unlocked door leading to the kitchen.

  Wasting no time, he moved out into the rest of the house. The ground floor consisted of a dining room, living room, wet bar, guest bedroom, and bathroom. He checked each room for weapons and surveillance cameras. Finding none, he moved upstairs.

  The second story featured a study, two more bedrooms, a bathroom, and a recreation room equipped with card and billiard tables. In a middle desk drawer in the study, he located a small five-shot .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special revolver. Using a kit, he quickly removed the firing pin and put the gun back where he found it. He located a second gun, a .42 caliber semiautomatic Beretta, in the closet of the master bedroom. He ejected a chambered round, emptied the clip, and reinserted it into the weapon.

  Confident that he’d located all the firearms in the house, he retraced his steps, checking for hidden cameras. He worked his way back to the study, satisfied that the rooms were devoid of surveillance devices, and turned to leave.

  As he headed for the hallway, he caught a glimpse of a note beneath a paperweight on the desk. Curious, he picked it up and read it. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he thought. “This son of a bitch has figured out he’s in danger. Shit, he’s even worried he might get a visit from a White House hit team.” Ryan was pleased. “Hell yeah,” he thought. “The more suspects attached to this little caper of mine, the better. This note’s liable to send the cops off in a whole new direction.”

  CHAPTER

  40

  Judd picked up the intercom. “Yes, what is it, Florence?”

  “There are a couple of gentlemen here to see you, sir,” answered his secretary, Florence Watson.

  “I don’t have any appointments lined up for today. Who are they?” Judd asked, irritated that people felt they could just drop in without an appointment.

  “I’ll ask,” Florence replied.

  Anticipating the pending intrusion, Judd turned on the tape recorder in his desk drawer. He jumped as the door flew open to the sound of Florence protesting from the outer office. “You can’t go in there! What are you doing?”

  A large, athletically built man with a blond crew cut, flat nose, and square jaw entered the room. He had to be all of six foot six and two hundred and fifty pounds. The black suit he was wearing complemented his threatening demeanor.

  Judd got up from his chair and started around the desk as if intending to confront the man, but halted when he spoke.

  “Stop right there, Mr. Judd. Taking aggressive action against me could prove to be detrimental to your health and could pose a problem for the nice lady in the other room. So why don’t you just sit down and be pleasant while we have a quiet little talk.”

  Judd immediately recognized the voice as belonging to the man he’d spoken to the night before when he called the office of the White House chief of staff. “Who are you and what do you want? You can’t just come barging into my office without being invited,” Judd challenged, mustering all the willpower at his disposal in order to appear in control.

  “Now, that’s kind of a silly thing to say, Mr. Judd, especially in light of the fact that I did precisely that,” the man said, grinning menacingly through clenched teeth.

  “My secretary said there are two of you. Where’s the other one?” Judd demanded.

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about him or your secretary, Mr. Judd. Miss Watson is going to have some coffee with my assistant while you and I chat. They’ll get along just fine once she calms down. Don’t you fret.”

  “I know you’re the one I spoke to the other night on the phone. I still don’t know who you are and I can’t understand why you found it necessary to come to my office and make this type of a commotion,” Judd said.

  “First of all, Mr. Judd, you are correct. It was me you spoke with on the phone after your little tantrum with the answering machine. My name is Charles Bizek. Secondly, I didn’t come to your office to make a commotion because you no longer h
ave an office,” Bizek snarled. “The chief of staff has sent me to inform you that the president is no longer in need of your services and has instructed that you be escorted from the building forthwith.”

  “Now, wait a minute, you can’t just…” Judd began.

  “Be quiet, Mr. Judd. Just be quiet and listen to me. I’ve had about enough out of you. I don’t like you and it wouldn’t take much for me to physically express that dislike. You are a venomous and traitorous little communist peace of fungus.” Bizek continued, “I disdain you and all people like you, including the president and most of his cabinet. They are nothing more than an assortment of slimy leftwing Marxists intent on destroying my beloved country. Nevertheless, I’ve been tasked with seeing that you leave the premises and I intend to do my duty.”

  Judd’s anger superseded his fear as he replied, “I told you the other night that I have information that could prove embarrassing to the president and I’ll sure as hell use it if he throws me under the bus, goddamn it.”

  “You really have a bad habit of putting your mouth in gear before engaging your brain, Mr. Judd. Your inability to keep your trap shut is what has caused your dismissal. If you continue to issue threats, you’re liable to find that your termination as a presidential advisor will be the least of your worries,” Bizek warned.

  “Is that a threat?” demanded Judd.

  “It is what it is. Take it any way you wish, but be ready to face the consequences,” Bizek replied.

  Judd ignored the admonishment. “Yeah, well, I’m not going to be treated like so much garbage at a local landfill. I’m not that reverend the president used to call his uncle.”

  “Are you referring to the good Reverend Nehemiah Cartwright, the pastor of that militant African American church in Chicago?” Bizek asked. He already knew the answer and was as aware as anyone that the president had listened to the pastor’s sermons for the better part of two decades. The theme of those sermons, which most noncongregants referred to as tirades, frequently revolved around the idea that all black suffering was caused by the United States of America and its white citizens.