Midnight Rambler

by James Swain

  Linderman and Theis acted stunned.

  “How do you know this?” Linderman asked.

  I had decided not to tell Linderman about our encounter with Neil Bash. It would only get Cheever in trouble.

  “A little bird told me,” I said.

  We walked back to the street, and Linderman unlocked the rear of his 4Runner. The backseat had been replaced with a metal footlocker, and he removed two Kevlar vests and a pair of Mossberg 500 shotguns. He tossed the vests to Cheever and me.

  “I remembered this time,” he said.

  Cheever and I put on the vests. Then the four of us went into a huddle.

  “Here's the game plan,” Linderman said. “Theis and Cheever will go to the front door of Perez's house posing as deliverymen. At the same time, Jack and I will come through the back door and trap Perez and his buddies. We'll coordinate our steps using our cell phones. Any questions?”

  There were none. We wished each other good luck and broke up. I grabbed Buster and followed Linderman down the alley.

  “What is it with you and that dog?” Linderman asked.

  “We're getting married,” I said.

  We stopped at Perez's place, and I tossed Buster into the yard, then hopped the fence. Linderman handed me his shotgun and climbed the fence as well. His cell rang, and he took the call standing behind the shed.

  “Damn it,” he said, hanging up. “Theis just spotted a school bus. He wants to wait until it's left the neighborhood.”

  Storming a house with children around was never a good idea, and we went inside the shed. Linderman took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. As he smoked he propped his foot on one of the coolers lying beneath the workbench.

  “Perez put the victims' bodies in those,” I said.

  Embarrassed, he removed his foot from the cooler.

  “They're empty now,” I added.

  “Any idea where he disposed of them?” Linderman asked.

  “No,” I said. “But before this is over, I'm going to find out.”

  Linderman ground his cigarette into the dirt floor.

  “What if Perez won't tell you?” he asked.

  “Then I'll make him,” I said.

  Linderman gave me a long, hard stare.

  “Are you ever going to let go of this?” he asked.

  It was a question I'd asked myself a hundred times. I gathered my thoughts before responding.

  “Do you know what Dia de los Muertos is?” I asked.

  “It's a holiday down in Mexico. Day of the Dead.”

  “It's also a religious belief,” I said. “In the village where my wife was born, they believe the spirits of the dead watch over us, and that it's our responsibility to treat their memories with respect. If we don't, those spirits will haunt us for the rest of our lives.”

  “Do you believe that, Jack? Do you believe the victims will haunt you if you don't find out what happened to them?”

  I nodded solemnly. It was my only explanation for how far I'd gone over the past six months.

  “Then I guess we'll have to make Perez tell us,” Linderman said.

  We were beginning to sweat and went outside. I peeked around the corner of the shed at the house. A portable radio sat on the kitchen windowsill, and I heard Neil Bash's abrasive voice. It made me shudder, and I wondered how long it would take Perez to realize Bash's show wasn't being broadcast live.

  “We're running out of time,” I said.

  Linderman didn't ask me to explain. He called Theis.

  “Let's get this show on the road,” he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Any cop will tell you that there is no more frightening sound than a shell being jacked into a shotgun. I knew the sound still sent chills down my spine, and I watched Linderman pump his Mossberg and march out from behind the shed.

  I drew my Colt and followed Linderman across the backyard with sweat pouring down my back. Through the open kitchen window came Neil Bash's voice on the radio. There was something otherworldly about hearing Bash and knowing he was dead. Buster's cold nose pressed against my leg.

  “Time to lose your fiancé,” Linderman said.

  I pointed at a shady spot beside the house.

  “Sit,” I said.

  My dog made me proud and went into a perfect sit in the shade.

  Linderman stopped at the back door and raised his leg. The door was dead bolted and took several hard kicks to bring down. We both rushed inside. The kitchen was L-shaped, with fading linoleum floors and stacks of dirty dishes piled high in the sink. On the radio Bash was talking about a heavy-metal concert that had taken place several months ago.

  “Damn,” I said under my breath.

  Linderman was moving fast. I followed him down a short unlit hallway into a living room with mismatched furniture and a weight bench in the corner. Jonny Perez, his brother Paco, and a dark-skinned guy whom I assumed was Alberto stood in the room's center, pointing automatic handguns at Theis and Cheever, who stood inside the front doorway with their arms stretched to the ceiling. A pair of binoculars lay on the couch by the window.

  “FBI,” Linderman announced. “Drop your weapons.”

  Jonny Perez glanced suspiciously over his shoulder at us.

  “No. You drop your weapons,” he said in perfect English.

  “That's not an option,” Linderman said.

  Perez whispered in Spanish to his brother. Paco turned and pointed his automatic at the far wall of the living room.

  “If you don't drop your weapons,” Perez said, “my brother will shoot through the wall and kill the girl in the bedroom.”

  “Do that, and we'll kill you,” Linderman said.

  “I ain't afraid of dying,” Perez said.

  “Me neither,” Paco said.

  The third guy, Alberto, simply grunted.

  Linderman hesitated. He didn't want to lose Theis and his hostage. Sensing weakness, Perez let out a sickening laugh.

  “Jack,” Cheever called out.

  I focused on my friend while continuing to train my Colt on the others. Cheever was sweating as badly as I was. But his face was defiant.

  “Don't you dare trade with them, Jack,” Cheever said.

  “Shut up, Claude,” I said.

  “Don't do it.”

  “I said shut up.”

  “No, you shut up,” he said, his voice rising. “You'll only end up dead, and so will both of us. I'm telling you not to do it. Hear me?”

  I looked into Cheever's eyes and realized he meant every word of what he'd just said. Then I looked at Theis. The FBI agent dipped his chin, making it unanimous. They were both wearing bulletproof vests, while Perez, Paco, and Alberto were not. It was the last thought to go through my mind as I squeezed the Colt's trigger.

  Paco was the closest to me, so I shot him in the chest. The bullet penetrated his heart—what cops call a kill shot. The gun dropped from his hand, and he fell onto the couch as if he'd decided to take a nap.

  At the same time Linderman's shotgun let out a deafening roar. The blast hit Alberto in the waist, doubling him over like he'd been sliced in half. Alberto fell backwards and joined Paco on the couch.

  Perez was not touched, and he fired several rounds into Cheever and Theis, causing both men to groan and crumple to the floor. Perez glanced over his shoulder at me, then took off running. Within moments he was out the door. I ran after him.

  “Take him out,” Linderman shouted.

  I stopped at the open doorway. The school bus had dropped a slew of happy kids onto the sidewalk. They were playing tag, oblivious to what was going on. I blocked them out as best I could, aimed at Perez, and fired.

  The bullet popped Perez in the ass, and he flew through the air like someone doing the triple jump, then landed on the front lawn, holding his buttocks and screaming in pain. Half the kids ran away, while the rest simply ran around him.

  I went down the path and frisked Perez. He was clean, and I retrieved his gun off the lawn. Cheever came down
the path covered in blood.

  “Lie down before you bleed to death,” I told him.

  “I'm okay,” Cheever said.

  “You don't look okay.”

  “They're flesh wounds. Go find Melinda. I'll watch this little shit.”

  I tossed him Perez's gun and went inside the house. Theis lay on the floor inside the doorway with his eyes shut. He had taken a bullet in the side of the neck. Linderman was pressing a towel to the wound while talking Theis through it.

  “Did you call 911?” I asked.

  “Yes. Is Perez dead?”

  “Shot him in the ass.”

  Linderman glared at me. I wanted to tell him not to worry; I was never trying out for the FBI. Instead, I went looking for Melinda.

  The back of the house felt like a crash pad, not a place anyone had spent much time in. There were two cramped bedrooms, each with a mattress on the floor and a small electric fan beside it. Walking down a hallway, I came to a closed door.

  I twisted the knob and entered. The room had no furniture, save for a video camera and tripod in the room's center and a boom box on the floor. The camera was pointed at a closed closet door. I opened it expecting to find Melinda. Instead, I let out a startled cry.

  Hanging from a metal pole was a naked young woman I'd never seen before. A purple rag was stuck in her mouth to keep her from screaming. Everything about her looked dead, except for her face. There was a trace of pink in both cheeks, and I pulled the rag free and untied her wrists. She fell limply into my arms, and I gently laid her down on the floor.

  “Wake up. Come on, you can do it,” I said.

  At first she did not respond. Then a cough escaped her throat.

  It was a tiny sound, like a dead car battery with a spark of life.

  Her eyelids fluttered, and she started to breath normally. She stared at me without lifting her head off the floor.

  “You're not Skell, are you?” she asked.

  I shook my head, and she started to cry.

  “I was a present for Skell,” she said.

  “Did they tell you that?”

  “Yes. Over and over.”

  “There's an ambulance coming,” I said. “Everything is going to be all right.”

  She was eighteen if she was a day, and conscious that she was lying naked in front of a stranger. I went to the bathroom, grabbed two bath towels, and used them to cover her. If one thing defined the gang's victims, it was their beauty. Every one of them was a feast for the eyes. Even in her distressed state, she was no exception, and I watched her hand slip out from beneath a towel and encircle my wrist.

  “What's your name?” she asked.

  “Jack Carpenter.”

  “One of my kidnappers talked about you,” she said. “He showed your picture to the others. He said if you showed up, they should kill you because you'd kill them. It wasn't a very good picture, though.”

  I did everything I could not to laugh.

  “You're a brave young woman,” I said. “I need to ask you a question.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “There was another young woman the gang was holding. Her name is Melinda. Do you know where she is?”

  “She was in one of the other bedrooms. I heard her cry a couple of times. I think they took her away.”

  “When?”

  “Early this morning, while it was still dark.”

  “Did they say where they were taking her?”

  She thought about it.

  “If they did, I didn't hear them.”

  “Did they take her in a car?”

  She shook her head. Her fingers tightened around my wrist.

  “Would you do me a favor, Mr. Carpenter?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Would you lend me your cell phone, so I can call my mother?”

  I took out my cell phone and slipped it into her hand. Then I rose from the floor. I needed to go stick my gun in Jonny Perez's face and find out where he'd taken Melinda. Based upon what the girl had told me, I didn't think it was very far.

  “I'll be right back,” I said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  “Jack, Jack, get in here! Hurry!”

  I ran through the house. Linderman was still tending to Theis, who lay on his back by the open front door. Linderman pointed outside.

  “Perez is making a run for it,” the FBI agent said.

  I drew my Colt and stuck my head through the door. Cheever lay on the grass with a pocketknife stuck in his leg, while Jonny Perez hobbled down the sidewalk clutching the handgun I'd taken from him. Linderman slapped my leg.

  “Finish the job, Jack.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  I hurried down the front path. Elementary school kids filled the street, riding bikes and skateboards, kicking and throwing balls. The neighborhood had a lot of crime, and I guessed the kids had seen their share of bloodshed. As I passed Cheever he spoke.

  “God, am I fucking stupid,” he said.

  I chased Perez down the sidewalk. The bullet in his ass was making it impossible for him to run, and he glanced fearfully over his shoulder. Seeing me, his eyes went wide. I yelled for him to stop, and Perez grabbed a chubby little kid pushing a scooter and threw him to the pavement. The little guy started bawling for his mommy, and I ran into the street to avoid stepping on him. As I did, Perez staggered up the path of a run-down house and banged frantically on the front door. The door sprung open, and a skinny Rastafarian with shoulder-length dreadlocks and bloodshot eyes poked his head out.

  “What's up, Jonny?” the Rasta asked.

  “The police are onto us,” Perez said.

  “That's bullshit,” the Rasta said.

  They disappeared inside the house. I ran up the path and stuck my head through the open doorway. The living room was filled with towering marijuana plants and burning fluorescent lights, and reggae music was blaring over a pair of old-fashioned speakers. I stepped inside and was greeted by a screaming motion detector.

  Perez appeared on the other side of the living room, cradling a machine pistol. It was the weapon of choice among drug dealers and could fire a hundred rounds a minute. I beat a path out the front door with bullets flying all around me. On the street, kids screamed and ran for cover.

  I hid behind a thick hibiscus hedge at the side of the house. Finally the torrent of bullets stopped. I counted to five, then poked my head out. Perez wasn't standing in the doorway, and the house was quiet. Still, I had no intention of going back inside. The walls looked like plasterboard, and Perez could easily kill me from another room.

  I heard a door slam, then voices coming from the backyard. Staying low, I sneaked around the side of the house. The backyard was a jungle of tall Bermuda grass and dying citrus trees, with a detached garage facing the alley. I saw Perez carrying Melinda over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. The Rasta walked beside him, cradling the machine pistol. I didn't have a clear shot, and watched them disappear into the garage.

  Moments later I heard a car being started. Then I heard the Rasta exhorting Perez to take his foot off the gas and stop flooding the engine. I ran into the alley and aimed my Colt at the garage door.

  The garage door automatically lifted, and a black Mustang convertible pulled out. The vehicle had been backed into the garage and came straight toward me. Melinda was sandwiched between Perez and the Rasta in the front seat. She wore a man's white T-shirt and baseball cap. She was alive, and our eyes met.

  Then she screamed.

  “Jack! Help me!”

  I had a shot at Perez. But I was just as likely to hit Melinda. I didn't take it, and Perez hit the gas and attempted to run me over. I leaped out of the car's path and rolled onto the grass. Before the Mustang had reached the street, I was on my feet and got off several rounds. There was a loud Bam! as the right rear tire exploded. The car drove away, sagging to one side like a wounded animal.

  I stood with my gun hanging by my side and Melinda's voice ringing in my ears. I reached for my c
ell to call Linderman, then remembered I'd given it to the girl. I began to tremble. This wasn't how it was supposed to end.

  The sound of a car horn brought me back to reality. Linder-man was burning down the alley in his 4Runner with Buster occupying the passenger seat. He braked in front of me, and I hopped in, sharing the seat with my dog.

  “Perez and his buddy got away with Melinda,” I said.

  “For the love of Christ, Jack,” he said.

  He drove to the alley's end and hit the brakes. “Which way did they go?”

  “To the right,” I said. “How's Theis?”

  “The medics arrived a couple of minutes ago. He'll live.”

  “How about Cheever?”

  “He'll live, too.”

  We drove around the neighborhood in silence. The gunfire had sent everyone inside, and the streets were clear. There was no sign of the Mustang save for several pieces of shredded tire lying in the middle of the road.

  “I got one of his tires,” I explained.

  “Describe the car,” Linderman said.

  I described the getaway car. Linderman called the Broward County Police Helicopter Unit on his cell phone and passed along the information to a dispatcher. Hanging up, he jabbed me in the arm with his forefinger.

  “You need to start going to the firing range.”

  “I didn't want to hit Melinda,” I explained.

  He shot me an exasperated look. “Jonny Perez is a cold-blooded killer. Our responsibility is to get him off the streets before he kills again. You had two cracks at him, and he got away.”

  “You think I could have taken him out, but didn't?”

  “You said you wanted to talk to Perez about the victims. I'd like to question him as much as you would, but this isn't a perfect world.”

  “Question him about what?” I asked.

  At the next intersection Linderman hit the brakes. He took a stack of photographs from the backseat and dropped them in my lap. I leafed through a dozen black-and-white glossies of an apartment complex taken from the outside. In one shot, a sign was visible. It read University of Miami, Coral Gables Campus.