Okay. Fine. I look closer. I see dust splotches. Rain stains. The roof looks like my windshield does after a thunderstorm, speckled with dirt splats, the residue left behind when the raindrops dry. The top is freckled like a leopard skin of spattered sand-dust.
Except on one side. The passenger side.
Over there, there's a clean patch, a rectangle that covers most of the roof. The front edge is somewhat rounded at the corners.
I lean back. Take in the big picture.
Kids’ crap.
Somebody used to have a cargo carrier lashed down up here to haul all the suitcases and cribs and stuff they couldn't jam into the wayback or hang off the bike rack over the bumper.
“A cargo carrier?” I say.
“Roger that.” Ceepak is beaming. “Nice call, Danny.”
“Any idea what make, Officer Boyle?” McDaniels asks.
“No. I've never, you know, really studied—”
“I suspect a Thule or Yakima,” Ceepak says. “Judging by the rounded nose up front. Perhaps the Thule Cascade model, which is one of the largest on the market: seventeen, eighteen cubic feet. Opens on the side.”
“Could our Russian friend fit inside?” McDaniels asks.
“Easily. The Thule box I'm thinking about is almost six feet long, maybe three feet wide, a foot and a half tall. She'd be cozy inside but quite capable of operating her weapon system in an efficient manner—with plenty of room left over for ammunition and provisions. Water. Food.”
“Which might be why Weese walked up the side of the car on Oak Street,” McDaniels says. “He wanted to make sure his honey wasn't baking inside the plastic casket while they waited for Mr. Mook. Maybe George brought Natalia a cold Coke. The sweet bastard.”
“The sniper was up here?” I say. “Hidden in a cargo holder?”
“Quite clever,” Ceepak says.
McDaniels agrees. “Yep. Young Mr. Weese and his wife built themselves a handy-dandy gun turret on top of the family van.” No admiration in her voice this time, just disgust. “Completely innocuous. Seemingly harmless. Just another minivan with a box strapped on the roof. Only, this minivan turns out to be a minitank.”
“More like an armored personnel carrier,” Ceepak says.
McDaniels shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”
I climb down.
“It also explains why we never found any shell casings,” says Ceepak. “They ejected from the rifle, hit the sides, stayed inside the box.”
McDaniels nods.
I wonder if this is why Natalia, the sniper with the real bullets, missed us on the beach and outside Morgan's. Maybe firing from inside a cargo carrier takes some getting used to. Maybe she was still getting the hang of it on Wednesday and Friday and only got her groove going Saturday morning at Saltwater Tammy's. By Saturday afternoon, she could place one in the center of Mook's forehead.
“I'm certain they've now attached their customized cargo carrier to the top of the rental van. Well done, Danny,” Ceepak says. “Excellent work.” He says that, but he looks worried. So does Dr. McDaniels.
They're both go completely quiet so I speak up again.
“What if Natalia has something up there other than an M-24 sniper rifle? What if she has a machine gun or a grenade launcher or something?”
Ceepak nods grimly.
“Exactly.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
W're working on the money,” Chief Baines says over the radio.
Ceepak and I are driving toward the boardwalk. We don't know exactly where to go, but we know we need to be there now. It's one fifteen. Before we left for the World's Biggest Beach Party, we swung by the house. Ceepak wanted a few things: a recording of our interrogation with Weese, which a tech burned onto a CD so we could listen to it in our car; a pair of small, high-power binoculars; and the paintball gun he ripped off the counter at Paintball Blasters. I have no idea why he grabbed it, but it did come in handy when he nailed Weese up on the Mad Mouse.
“You think the damn kid is bluffing?” Baines says, his voice edgy. Every time he opens the microphone at his end I can hear a rowdy mob and snatches of music.
“No, sir. I think Weese is dead serious.”
“His father thinks the boy's bullshitting us. Says Natalia is long gone and George is too much of a wuss to do anything himself.”
“I don't think Mr. Weese knows his son very well or what sort of man he has become.”
“Okay. Fine. What do we do?”
“Search the parking lots for any minivans with cargo carriers up top.”
“Which parking lot?”
“All of them.”
“Jesus, John! Have you seen this place?”
“No, sir. We are currently en route.”
“There's cars parked everywhere. Half of them are damn minivans!”
“We'll try to narrow it down for you, sir.”
“There's about a jillion people—men, women, children, dogs. They're crawling all over the boardwalk and the beach.”
“Roger. I understand, sir. Check for open lines of fire. Clear shots from the parking lot to the boardwalk. Openings between buildings. Gaps. Concentrate on the most crowded sectors. The target-rich environments.”
“What's your ETA? What's your twenty?” It sounds like the chief has a head start on a panic attack.
“Northbound on Ocean,” Ceepak says flatly. “Approaching Kipper. Turning now. We should arrive in under a minute.”
We're moving pretty fast. No lights. No sirens. Once again, Ceepak doesn't want the bad guy to know we're coming. Might spook the little Russian lady up in her sweatbox if we come screaming in to nab her.
“Which damn parking lot?” The chief? I think he just lost it. “There's one every block for a mile!”
“Kipper and Beach Lane.”
“Hurry! We have, what? Forty-five minutes? Jesus!”
“Forty-three, sir. Keep in contact with the house. Let George Weese know the money is not an issue.”
“I don't like paying extortionists. Terrorists!”
“Neither do I, sir. If we work this right, we won't have to. Keep this channel open.”
Ceepak tosses the radio mic to me. I get the sense he doesn't want to waste any more time on Baines. Not now.
Public Parking Lot 4. There are eight other lots up and down Beach Lane butting up against the boardwalk. I see several gaps, openings between the brightly painted backs of buildings. In those clear spaces I can also see the mob of seminaked bodies bobbing and weaving, moving and grooving—cool young dudes and bodacious beach babes. I can hear 3 Doors Down two blocks up at the band shell. It sounds like they're doing their biggest hit, “Kryptonite.” After that, they'll probably do “Dangerous Game” or “Ticket To Heaven.” They both kind of fit today.
I have never seen so many vehicles jammed into these parking lots. I look north, I look south, there's not an empty spot anywhere.
“Where?” Ceepak surveys the scene. “Where.”
You never realize how many cargo carriers Thule and Yakima and Sears sell until you're wishing they only ever sold one. Everywhere I look, I see vans with boxes on top.
Ceepak punches the play button on the CD player. I hear Wheezer's cocky voice. Arrogant. So proud of his plan.
“Once the money is taken care of, you, Officer Ceepak, you will escort me to the airport where I will board Aeroflot flight 15 to Moscow.”
Ceepak hits the reverse button. The digits spin backward.
“He probably told us where,” Ceepak says. “He likes dropping clues. Hints.”
“Yeah. Because he likes laughing at us when we don't catch them.”
“Precisely.”
Ceepak punches play.
“Perhaps my subtle allusions were a tad too sophisticated for someone of your limited abilities.”
Weese gloating. Bragging about his big successful plan. What'd he call it? “The triumph of the son.” His father would see how big and important he had become.
“L
ife under the son,” I say out loud.
“Come again?”
“Go to that part. Where he talks about ‘the triumph of the son.’ ”
“Roger.”
Ceepak remembers. Finds it, fast.
“All is in readiness. The multitudes have assembled on the beach and boardwalk. I understand from my father that the Chamber of Commerce is expecting quite a turnout. Thousands and thousands of happy holiday revelers, none of whom, I'll wager, are particularly interested in dying today. But, alas, some may have to. For it is time for the triumph of the son! Time for the world to experience life under the son, as they say!”
“What does it mean, Danny?”
“I'm not one hundred percent sure.”
Ceepak tilts his wrist. Checks his watch.
“Now's a good time to give me your best guess.”
“Okay. There's this booth. About two blocks up the boardwalk. ‘Life Under the Son.’ It's run by these born-again Christians who try to convert sun-worshippers, turn them into, you know, son-worshippers.”
Ceepak's foot is on the gas.
“Two blocks?”
“Yes, sir. Near Halibut Street. The main entrance.”
“Radio.”
I toss him the microphone.
“Chief Baines?”
“Go?”
“Suggest you begin to quietly evacuate the area around the Life Under the Son booth.”
“Where's that?”
“Halibut Street.”
“Jesus. The band shell is up at Halibut!”
“Pull the plug.”
“Come again?”
“Cut off the electricity to the band stand. Have the performer—”
“3 Doors Down,” I say.
“Have the Doors inform the crowd they are experiencing technical difficulties. Let the civilians drift away. Encourage them to hit the beach. Get them down off the boardwalk.”
“What if—?”
“Do it, sir. Now!” Ceepak tosses the mic back to me.
We swing into Public Parking Lot 6. I see lots of cars and vans glistening in the sun. I see a Pepsi truck. I see a tour bus. A couple of Winnebagos. A garbage truck ready to clean up all the empty Pepsi cups. I don't, however, see a minivan with a cargo carrier up top.
“There!”
Ceepak does.
He jams our Ford into park, reaches into his cargo pants, pulls out the binos and presses both lenses against his eyes. I see him slide the magnifying lever. He's zooming in.
“White van. Burgundy interior. Red Avis sticker affixed to rear window.”
More adrenaline races to my heart.
Ceepak tilts his binoculars up an inch.
“Air hole in rear of cargo carrier.”
I check out the line of fire from the minivan to the boardwalk. A good one. Maybe the best. A huge gap where a set of terraced steps, thirty feet wide, swoops down from the wooden walkway. There's a big “Happy Labor Day!” banner flapping in the breeze. It's the main entrance to everything. The whole deal. Beyond the steps, above the crowd, I can just barely see the tip of the pointed spindle on top of the “Life Under the Son” kiosk. It's like a weathervane, only it's a crucifix.
“If we rush the van, she'll start shooting,” Ceepak says.
“Yeah. So what do we do?”
“Give me a minute.”
It's my turn to check my watch. Okay. Fine. We have about twenty-nine minutes left. Ceepak can have one. Maybe two.
A horn blasts.
I look to my right. The garbage truck. My friend Joey Thalken, who usually drives the sand-sweeper on the beach for Sea Haven Sanitation, is behind the wheel. He waves at me, sees Ceepak, waves at him, too. Guess Joey T. is picking up some heavy-duty overtime hauling garbage after the big party. The way he's bouncing up and down? I think he's listening to the concert simulcast on WAVY.
“Can you drive a truck, Danny?”
“No, I—”
“Stay here.”
Ceepak reaches into the back seat. Grabs the paintball rifle, checks to make sure it's charged and loaded.
“I could—”
“Stay here.”
Ceepak is out the door and working his way across the parking lot. Low. Crouching down and hiding behind cars whenever he thinks he might be visible to any rearview mirrors Natalia might've set up in her sniper nest.
He scuttles over to Joey T.'s garbage truck.
I flick on the radio just as the concert dies. I mean, it loses electricity.
“Looks like we're experiencing technical difficulties on the bandstand,” the deejay announces. “Maybe the town fathers forgot to pay the electric bill this month.”
Ceepak's at the garbage truck hunkered down under the driver-side door, talking up to Joey.
Joey nods.
Ceepak does a three-finger point toward the white van.
Joey nods again.
Ceepak and Joey T. worked together back in July. Got along great. Looks like they still do.
Chief Baines must have some of our guys working the crowd in front of the bandstand. It starts to thin out.
“Hey folks, now's the time to hit the beach,” the radio deejay says. “The mayor has just officially declared Pig Out Time!’ Right now, for the next thirty minutes only, all food down on the beach is free! So, while we wait for the juice to come back on, hit the pit!”
I guess some people on the boardwalk brought along radios, Walkmen. People seem to hear what I just heard and drift away in droves. I see some pushing and jostling as bodies bunch up near the staircases leading down to the beach on the far side of the boardwalk.
I look right and see Ceepak scramble towards the Pepsi truck. He carries the ray-gun-looking paintball rifle at his side like he's some kind of extraterrestrial deer hunter. There's no driver in the Pepsi truck. Ceepak yanks open the big door, crawls into the cab, pulls the door shut behind him. His head disappears under the dashboard. Seconds later, I hear the engine roar, see a chug of diesel fumes puff out its exhaust pipe. I guess hot-wiring is one of those valuable job skills you can learn in Today's Army.
I hear another engine start up.
Joey's garbage truck.
I look toward the boardwalk. The crowd is pushing against itself, heading down to the beach for the free food. Natalia will have a lot fewer targets to choose from come two P.M.
Then I see him.
In his wheelchair. Jimmy. Saltwater Tammy's son. He looks to be alone and, as the crowd thins out, he also looks like a sitting duck. The bull's-eye, smack dab in the middle of Natalia's line of fire.
I open my door and remember I left my bulletproof vest at home this morning. It was soaked with sweat so I hung it over the shower curtain rod to dry. Forgot to put it back on.
Jimmy is just sitting there.
I guess Tammy brought him to the concert, left him alone to enjoy the loud, noisy parts while she went down to the beach and fixed him a plate of pulled pork.
Jimmy is in serious trouble. Target number one.
Ceepak's busy. I'm not.
I hop out of the Explorer.
If Natalia sees me, she might start shooting. She'll definitely recognize me because she's already taken a couple of shots at my face. She might want to mow me down for old-times sake.
She might mow down Jimmy, too.
I make my way forward, try to stay wide of the sniper's eyeline, try to run and crouch and hide behind cars like Ceepak did.
I need to move faster.
Ceepak drives the lumbering Pepsi truck away from the service entrance where it was parked. He turns left and heads down the parking lot lane that will put him directly in front of the minivan.
Joey T. is on the move, too. He rumbles down the row that will put him behind the van.
I see what they're up to.
Ceepak will block any shots with his Pepsi truck; the paneled sides are about three feet taller than the minivan's cargo carrier. Joey T. will box in Natalia's rear. No one will have to storm the snipe
r nest.
I pick up my pace.
If Natalia gets a hint of what's up, she'll start shooting, whether it's two P.M. or not. I know it. She'll nail Jimmy.
I look up to the boardwalk, see him waiting patiently in his chair, watching everybody leave, head for the beach.
No time to crouch.
Need to run.
I glance over my shoulder. Ceepak is almost in front of the van. He drives slow, tries to look like an everyday, ordinary Pepsi truck just pulling on in to make a delivery. Joey T. keeps pace, parallels Ceepak's moves.
I need to get to Jimmy before Natalia is totally blocked. If she figures out what's going on, she'll definitely go ballistic.
I dart up the tiered stairs, take them two at a time.
Jimmy scans the thinning mob, looks for his mother.
I'm twenty yards away.
“Move!” I yell at these big muscle-bound guys blocking my path.
“Make me,” one of them yells.
So I barrel through them.
“Asshole!”
I stumble, scramble across the boards off balance, just waiting for a bullet to find my back.
Ten yards.
Five.
I'm huffing. My heart pounds. I leap the last three feet and grab on to the wheelchair handles.
My momentum pushes us forward.
Behind me, I hear what sounds like a string of firecrackers going off. Explosions. Fast.
Jimmy recognizes me.
I hear another quick burst of dull thuds. Something smacks me in the ribs. No. I just strained a muscle or something. I push the chair.
“Stop!” Jimmy freaks. I don't blame him.
I run and roll him up the boardwalk until we're safely in front of a store.
T. J. Lapczynski is standing there, licking barbecue sauce off his fingertips.
“Dude! Who's got the firecrackers?”
“Watch him!” I shove the wheelchair toward T. J.
“You got it.”
Jimmy's still freaking. I need to split.
“Easy,” I hear T. J. say. “Easy.”
I run back across the boards. Need to help Ceepak.
I race down the steps, tear across the asphalt.
I don't hear any more firecrackers. No more shots.
I make it to the stalled Pepsi truck, slip around to the side, duck down, almost crawl. I slide along the side, move past the rear tires. The blacktop is sticky. Wet. Something drippy hits me from up above.
Mad Mouse: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries) Page 24
