Hell Hole

by Chris Grabenstein

  Now we’re upside down.

  Flipping.

  Right side up again.

  For a second.

  Into another flip.

  I slam on the brakes but I don’t think it matters since the tires are currently spinning skyward. I hear the light bar and antennae crunch across whatever kind of jagged rocks line this particular gulley.

  Now we’re the ones who need replacement air bags. There’s a big latex balloon holding me in place. It gave me a nasty chest bruise when it exploded open.

  We swerve sideways. Slow down. Skidding on your roof down a hardscrabble embankment will do that.

  There’s a lot less headroom now than when we climbed into the car back on Kipper Street. When Ford built the Explorer for off-roading, I don’t think this is what they had in mind.

  Finally, we hit something solid, the rear end swings to the right and we shudder to a stop.

  “Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you injured?”

  I look over. Ceepak is pinned in his seat by the passenger-side air bag and has blood trickling up his forehead. It’s going up because, currently, we’re both sort of suspended in our shoulder harnesses like the string-wrapped proscuitto and provolone hanging off the ceiling behind the counter at Pizza My Heart. If we weren’t wearing our seat belts, I think we’d both be smooshed against the ceiling. Either that or tossed out the window and dead.

  “You’re bleeding,” I say to Ceepak.

  “Affirmative. Nothing serious. Minor scrape. You handled that quite well, Danny. Awesome display of driving skills.”

  Okay. I guess, in this particular instance, winding up upside down in a drainage ditch inside the crushed shell of what used to be a cop car qualifies as a job well done. We’re alive and the roller-coaster ride has finally come to a complete stop.

  “We need to extricate ourselves from the vehicle,” says Ceepak.

  “Yeah.” I’m all in favor of extrication.

  “Close your eyes.”

  I do.

  I hear this “oomph” and then glass shattering.

  Ceepak just swiveled right and kicked out the passenger-side window. I’m glad one of us goes to the gym.

  I slowly make my way across the front seat. Well, I’m looking up at it. I’m also wondering about the gas tank. And sparks. And all those movies where the car blows up right after the good guys get out. I hope the Ford has the decency to wait.

  Now I feel a tug on my right leg.

  Ceepak. He’s already out the window and helping me.

  The man certainly knows how to extricate.

  We both rub chunks of safety glass off our shins.

  The car doesn’t explode. Might look better if it did. Currently, it looks like a lunch box somebody left under a school bus tire.

  We move away from the vehicle.

  “Are you okay?” a Good Samaritan yells from up on the shoulder of the Parkway.

  Never better, I want to yell back. Instead I just smile and wave and listen to more safety glass tinkle off my hand. Yes, we’ve actually become a Springsteen song: “Wreck on the Highway.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ceepak calls up to the Good Sam. “We are fine. Could you please call nine-one-one? Summon assistance.”

  I notice that Ceepak’s cell phones, both of them, got crushed in our off-road adventure. Mine too. Explains why we can’t dial the three digits ourselves.

  The guy waves. Runs back to his car to make the call.

  Ceepak carefully moves around to the front of our upside-down cop car. It sort of looks like a smooshed turtle some bully flipped over in a hot driveway.

  “Which tire was it, Danny?”

  “Felt like the front left.”

  He moves over to it. Nods.

  The tire now looks a lot like those truck retreads you see littered all up and down the Interstate every summer, only it’s still somewhat attached.

  Ceepak reaches into his cargo pants for his magnifying glass. It’s not much help. It’s shattered too.

  So he bends down, slowly rotates what’s left of the wobbly wheel. Stops.

  “Sabotage,” he says.

  “What?”

  He reaches into another pocket. Pulls out his forceps. Its pincers are bent but still work.

  Ceepak plucks at something stuck between the grooved tire treads like a hunk of gravel jammed in the sole of your gym shoes.

  He pulls it out. Shows it to me.

  It’s a razor blade.

  23

  “you sure you guys don’t need to go to the hospital?” asks Samantha Starky.

  She’d finished breakfast and was hanging out at the station house when the distress call came in: Officers down. Yeah. We were down all right—down in a ditch. My buddy George Hansen from Undertow Towing brought his rig to mile marker 55 (that’s the one I bent when I went off the road), hooked the crushed cruiser up to his winch, and asked, “So, how’d you do that, man?”

  I gave George the abridged version of Mr. Danny’s Wild Ride (which, by the way, he considered “totally awesome”) then Ceepak and I climbed into Starky’s car because we needed to be three miles down the road at the rest stop.

  I’m sitting up front. Ceepak is in the back, using gauze from the first aid kit Starky keeps stowed in her way back to blot at that head scratch. We’re sort of cramped inside Starky’s personal vehicle. It’s a Honda Civic. I think it’s one of those hybrids and gets like fifty miles per gallon. Our Ford Explorer used to do fourteen. Now? Well, let’s just say its actual mileage days are behind it.

  “You guys should know: Chief Baines is totally ticked off,” Starky reports. She looks into the rearview mirror so she can address Ceepak. “Did he reach you on your cell phone, sir? He tried like twenty times.”

  “My cell phones were both incapacitated in the accident,” says Ceepak.

  Mine too. No more playing that “Mine Sweeper” game on its tiny screen.

  “You might want to give the chief a call,” suggests Starky.

  “Will do,” says Ceepak. “As soon as it becomes feasible.”

  “You want to borrow my cell? All my weekend minutes are free.”

  “Thank you,” says Ceepak. “However, I prefer to wait until after we meet with Shareef Smith’s sisters at the rest stop. We’re already running late.”

  “Understood, sir.” Now she glances over at me. “You’re certain you’re uninjured, sir?”

  “Yeah.” I kind of groan it. Who knew your ribs could hurt every time you tried to breathe?

  “I have Advil in the glove box, sir. And I brought along bottled water.”

  Starky’s sort of like Ceepak, a Boy Scout without the Boy part. She’s always prepared. I open the glove box. Find the Advil. Starky indicates a cool bottle of Dasani propped in the center island cup holder.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “No problem, sir. So they put the razor blade between the treads?” she asks Ceepak. “Why didn’t they just slash your tires if they wanted to punk you?”

  “I don’t believe this was intended to be practical joke,” says Ceepak. “Whoever sabotaged our tires was attempting to engineer a high-speed blowout that, I presume, they intended to be fatal. It appears that they cut a long and somewhat deep gash between tread ridges, then lodged the razor blade into that groove.”

  Sort of like you do with a penny to see if you need new tires. If you can see above Abe’s head, you do.

  “They knew that the blade would work its way into the rubber as the tire compressed under increased acceleration. As we picked up speed, the razor blade pushed itself deeper into the tire until it sliced through. The faster we went, the more severe the cut.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Clever.”

  “I believe devious would be a more appropriate descriptor, Danny. However, their efforts failed. Thanks in no small measure to your excellent driving skills.”

  Now Starky beams over at me. “Way to go, sir. Awesome. Is that why you like to drive when we wo
rk together?”

  “Yeah.” That and the driver gets to pick the radio station. It’s an unwritten rule.

  “So who do you think did it?” asks Starky.

  I shrug. I don’t have a clue. I’m still wondering how come Ceepak knows how to engineer a high-speed blowout. I guess they teach you that kind of commando stuff in the Army.

  She looks up into the mirror.

  “Sir? Any suspects?”

  “Uncertain at this juncture.”

  “Well,” says Starky, who, again like Ceepak, is always attempting to hone her investigative and deductive skills (while I, on the other hand, spend my free time wondering how they paint the tiny word Advil on the side of all the gel caps), “I’ll bet whoever it was did it while you two were away from the vehicle! Was the car parked in any one place for a long time today?”

  “This morning,” says Ceepak. “Outside the Pig’s Commitment.”

  “The senator’s bodyguards were there!” I say. “Remember? They came in with Senator Worthington. And Nichols and Shrimp! The Feenyville Pirates were on the sidewalk with that janitor when we came out! And what about Slominsky? We were still parked at the Pig when we went over to play putt-putt.”

  “Sir?” Starky is, of course, confused.

  “We discussed evidence related to Corporal Smith’s death with Crime Scene Investigator Saul Slominsky this morning,” explains Ceepak. “He asked that we meet him at the miniature golf course.”

  “So,” I say, “I’m thinking he suggested we meet him there so one of his other CSI guys would have plenty of time to booby-trap our tires! Those guys know all about tire treads. I’ve seen it on CSI: Miami.”

  “You’re right!” At least Starky’s with me. “Maybe it was his partner! The other guy in the bathroom Friday night. The one with all the Chex Mix in his mouth!”

  “Yeah!”

  Ceepak squirms around in the backseat. I think his chest hurts too—from the air bag impact. Either that or our wild leaps of logic in the front seats are starting to irritate his brain.

  “All the individuals you mention are, indeed, potential suspects. However, I would put Senator Worthington’s bodyguards at the top of my list.”

  “How come?” asks Starky.

  I know this one: “Because that’s who we were chasing when the tire blew!”

  Smith’s two sisters are standing alongside the Ford Focus when we pull into the rest area parking lot. It’s the same car their brother drove to this same parking lot Friday night. I point them out to Starky.

  They’re parked in a bright-blue-lined handicapped space right near the entrance to the main building. I guess they figured we’d be coming in a cop car so no one would hassle them about parking there without a wheelchair on their license plate. I also figure they wanted to park as close as possible to the front door and all those people streaming in and out. They wanted a public space; they took it.

  “Can we park there, sir?” Starky asks. “In the other open slot?”

  “Those are reserved for the use of handicapped individuals only,” says Ceepak.

  “Why don’t you drop us off,” I suggest. “Hunt down a parking spot. Come back and join us.”

  “Ten-four, sir.”

  She stops. Ceepak and I step out. The Civic is lower to the ground than what we’re used to so it’s a bit of a strain to get up and out. Especially if you recently “extricated” yourself from an upside-down SUV.

  “Are you hurt?” Tonya Smith asks. I guess I’m limping a little. Ceepak too.

  “Minor mishap this morning,” says Ceepak. In his world, that’s not a lie. A major mishap is riding in a military convoy outside Baghdad and having the Humvee behind you get blown to bits by a roadside bomb. “We’re good to go.”

  Tonya looks at Ceepak warily.

  “Show it to him,” says Jacquie.

  Tonya takes out a folded piece of paper. Hands it to Ceepak.

  “I printed it off my computer.”

  Ceepak works it open.

  “Shareef e-mailed it to me a couple years back. When he first went over there.”

  Ceepak studies the picture. His eyebrows pinch down, like he’s trying to figure out how he’s seeing what he’s seeing.

  “The one in the bed? That’s Shareef.”

  Ceepak nods. “I recognize him.” He doesn’t add: from the crime scene photographs.

  “Good,” says Tonya bravely. “You recognize that other individual? The soldier there, standing beside the bed, shaking Shareef’s hand?”

  Another nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s you. Right? You’re John Ceepak? Says so on that business card you handed me yesterday.”

  “Yes.” He still looks puzzled.

  “Like I said, it was taken three or four years back. Got the date stamp in the corner there.”

  “This looks like the American military hospital in Balad.”

  “That in Iraq? Near Baghdad?” This from Jacquie.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s where they took him after.”

  Ceepak still looks confused. “After?”

  “After you dragged him out of that alley. Place called Sadr City. You remember Sadr City?”

  Oh, man.

  That’s where Ceepak won his Bronze Star, where he dragged an unknown soldier to safety under heavy enemy fire.

  “That was your brother?”

  Tonya nods. I see tears in her eyes. “Yes, sir. You saved Shareef’s life. You even came to the hospital to see how he was doing. Remember?”

  “I’m sorry—I had forgotten his name. I’d forgotten … so much …”

  “I gave Shareef that digital camera when he first shipped out,” Tonya says proudly. “Wanted him to stay in touch. He did. For a little while. For the first year or so, he was always sending me e-mails and snapshots. Last couple of years, he didn’t send me anything. Anyway, this was the picture that scared me the most. Seein’ him that way.”

  Since I’m almost up on tippy-toe trying to look over Ceepak’s shoulder, he hands me the picture.

  I see Shareef Smith lying under blue covers in an Army hospital bed. I can tell it’s an Army hospital because a lot of the equipment mounted to the walls is painted olive drab. Shareef is smiling. Laughing. Tubes snake their way into the back of his right hand, anchored in place with surgical tape. He’s propped up on pillows in the bed and wears a light-blue hospital gown. The blanket is blue too. Darker. There’s a sign hung behind the headboard, near all the IV bags and bottles: Critical Bed 5. It’s written in red.

  And there, standing next to him, shaking Shareef’s hand, using his other hand to give the camera his biggest “it’s all good” thumbs-up is a grinning John Ceepak. Of course he looks younger and he’s wearing his MP uniform. He also has less hair, even more muscles, but you can tell it’s him.

  “I asked Shareef about you,” says Tonya. “When he first e-mailed me this picture. I said, ‘Who is that handsome white man visiting you, Shareef?’ He said, ‘Why, that’s Mr. John Ceepak. The bravest soldier I ever met.’”

  Ceepak’s not saying anything. I see he’s working his jaw. The joint is popping out near his ears. His eyes are crimping down tight too— trying to stay dry. He’s back inside that photograph and all that happened beforehand to bring it into existence.

  “Shareef followed up on you,” says Jacquie. “He asked around at the Army hospital. ‘You know this John Ceepak? How come this John Ceepak risked his life to save mine?’”

  Tonya smiles softly. “Everybody told him the same thing: You were a brave and honorable man.”

  “Some of those men told Shareef you were the most honest man to ever wear the uniform,” adds Jacquie. “Is that true? You as good as all that?”

  “I—” Ceepak stammers. “I—”

  “Doesn’t really matter,” says Tonya. “It’s what Shareef thought. What he believed. It’s why he drove all the way up here on Friday night.”

  Ceepak’s stunned. Me too.

  �
�Ma’am?”

  “He was coming up here to see you, Mr. John Ceepak. Said he had something he needed to show you because you were the only man in the whole world he could trust showing it to.”

  24

  “Hi! I’m Samantha Starky. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “I’m Tonya Smith.”

  “Jacquie.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you both. Sorry for your loss.”

  So Starky found a parking spot. About a half-mile away. Down near the gas station.

  “Did I miss much, sir?” she asks me.

  “Well …”

  “Officer Starky?” This from Ceepak. He’s squinting. Sees something off in the distance.

  Okay. I see it too.

  Two Sea Haven PD cop cars cruising down the exit lane off the Garden State Parkway. The one in front is our standard white Crown Vic police interceptor with the pink-and-turquoise stripes and lettering. Bringing up the rear is our one and only Ford Expedition.

  The chief’s car.

  “Could you kindly escort these two ladies inside?” Ceepak says to Starky.

  “Ten-four, sir. Would you ladies like some coffee? Maybe a Coke or a yogurt shake? They’re awesome at TCBY … .”

  The cop cars pull into the parking lot.

  “Perhaps you ladies could discuss your beverage selection once inside the building?” Ceepak suggests.

  “Roger,” says Starky. “Ladies?”

  She leads Tonya and Jacquie Smith past the outdoor sunglasses carts and into the main building. They disappear into the sea of T-shirts and shorts. Hundreds of weary travelers, stretching their limbs, dislodging their undershorts, heading in to hit the johns and reload on fatty foods.

  Since we don’t have a police car anymore, Chief Baines has trouble spotting us. He and the other SHPD vehicle cruise up and down the rows of shimmering sheet metal like last-minute shoppers hunting for a parking space at the mall on Christmas eve.

  Ceepak waves both arms over his head.

  The chief whoops his siren one bleep. The two cop cars crawl over toward the curb. We hold our positions on the concrete sidewalk.

  The chief climbs down out of his SUV.