“Annie,” Jim shouted. “This guy’s crazy. Get him out of here!”
“My word, Jim.” Annie pulled her cuffs. “Get his arms, Jerry.”
Deputy Jerome Dupree did better than that. The bulldog-shaped man grabbed Canaday by one arm and yanked him to his feet. Canaday took a swing at him, too, but Dupree ducked, and in one smooth motion twisted the bruiser’s arms behind his back. A few seconds later the two cops had him in cuffs screaming like a banshee. Jim heard more sirens approaching. He turned and saw blue strobe lights flashing. A gray-and-black Highway Patrol cruiser raced onto the scene. Shortly afterwards, Beaufort Fire 1 pulled in as well. Jim ran back to his patient. “Bobby, fire department’s coming, man. We’re gonna get you out.”
“Where’s Billy?”
“How old are you?”
“Huh?” Bobby stared at Jim, dazed. “Uh, twenty … twenty-two?”
“Okay man, me too.”
“You breathing all right?”
“Yeah, where’s Billy?”
“Take a deep breath,” Jim ordered. Bobby obliged. His chest wall appeared intact. “Do you feel any tingling in your arms or legs?”
“Legs, maybe.”
“Are you hurting anywhere? Your neck? Your back?”
“My arm. I think it’s broke. Do you smell gas?”
Jim did smell gas, so strong it burned his nostrils. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I want you to—”
Suddenly the night turned to day. A spark flashed, followed by an orange explosion that leapt from under the car’s hood. A wall of intense heat slapped Jim in the face. “Push,” he shouted grabbing Bobby’s arms. “Push!” Jim pulled with all his might. He felt a pop and heard a loud crack. Bobby emitted a blood-curdling scream and recoiled in agony, but Jim kept pulling as the heat intensified. He felt the resistance ease and pulled his patient up and through the twisted doorframe and window. With one final yank, he fell backward onto the wet pavement with his patient beside him.
“Run,” Jim shouted grabbing his arm. “Get up and run!”
Bobby stood up on wobbly legs and limped around the van cursing and shouting. “We need to get Adam!”
Jim threw reason to the wind and followed the limping Bobby around the wreck to the other side—a scene in a state of total chaos. Billy Canaday yanked at the damaged steel, blood pouring from his lacerated head. Knave helped. Bobby joined them, broken bones and all, grabbing little Adam by the arms and practically pulling his arms from their sockets. The little boy’s eyes bulged. Thick smoke encircled his head. Jim felt someone grab him from behind and yank him backwards. “You can’t help them,” Bowers shouted. “It’s going to blow!” Jim felt stunned beyond belief. The frantic rescue attempt was pitiful. Men screamed. Fire popped. He smelled burning skin. Every protocol in the EMS manual said stand down—the scene is NOT safe—but every fiber of his being shouted at him to fight.
“Damn you,” Bobby turned and screamed at him. “Help us!”
Jim made his decision. He would die trying, but he couldn’t just stand back and watch them burn to death. He pulled free of Bowers’ grip and rushed the burning vehicle, but before he could take three steps his world erupted in a flash of orange light. Searing flames rolled over his head, flinging him backwards to the ground. He felt a blast of heat. The wind was sucked from his lungs. A huge fireball rolled toward the sky and then dissipated quickly to hard roaring flames. The van became a raging inferno, popping and hissing and cooking all inside.
Jim could only stare in shock. He wanted to cry, to shake his fist and shout at the unleashed horror unfolding before his eyes, but he was a trained professional, and he had work to do.
Three bodies lay on the pavement. Two were on fire.
CHAPTER
2
SIX YEARS LATER
FRIDAY, JULY 31, 2015—19:20—TEACH’S CREEK MARINA (Beaufort, N.C.) “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t matter if you’d just sailed from the Kingdom of Tonga. I just don’t have any room. Now if you’d like, you can tie up to the end of the transient dock. We might have something come available in a few weeks.”
“A few weeks?”
“It’s our busiest time of year.”
“How much for the transient dock?”
“Fifty a day.”
“Dollars?”
“Going rate for a thirty-seven footer, ma’am.”
“That’s fifteen hundred a month.”
“How long are you looking to stay?”
“Until next summer.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m writing a novel. I’m setting it in Beaufort. I need to live here for a year … meet people, get a feel for the character of the place, stuff like that. It’s what I do.”
“Well, the only marina I know of that might have a permanent slip right now is Pair-A-Docks.”
“Paradox?”
“Pair-A-Docks. Little marina out on Core Creek, just off the ICW. If you’re looking for character, that’s the place.”
“Where is it?”
“Out there.” The dockhand stepped to the end of the dock. He looked fit and strong, about 25, and handsome in a salty kind of way. Sadie made a few mental notes—his walk, his tanned skin, the local down-east dialect so evident in his voice. Would he work? No, she decided. He was too raw for Abby—he smelled like fish—and maybe just a little too local. He pointed toward the bay. “That little spot way out there is Core Creek Island. At the ICW split … red marker 30A. You can’t miss it.”
“Pair-A-Docks, huh? Is it nice?”
“Nice enough. Docks are splintery, but they got good power hookups, clean showers, and plenty of green grass. Friend of mine runs the marina. I’ll give him a call if you’d like.”
“No need. I’ll motor out.”
“Ask for Sonny Cay. Everybody knows him.”
“Key?”
“That’s right. I’m Rusty, by the way. And you are…”
“Sadie.”
“Say look, Sadie—” Rusty leaned against a pylon and folded his arms. “It’s farther out there than it looks, and the channel can be hard to navigate with the sunset in your eyes. Why not stay here tonight? I can work out one free night. And I’d like to treat you to dinner.”
Sadie felt her face flush. He was a nice enough guy, good looking, and about her age, but she had a plan, and it didn’t include dating anyone she wasn’t prepared to fall in love with. Abby needed the best, and she would know him when she found him. “Thank you, Rusty. Maybe some other time.”
Sadie started the engine. Rusty tossed her the dock lines. She waved goodbye and then headed back out the same channel she had entered thirty minutes earlier. It had been a long two days, with more than two hundred fifty miles between ports. She felt exhausted, but at the same time exhilarated to be so close to her new home. “He’s out there somewhere,” she whispered, aiming for the tiny island in the middle of Newport Sound. “We’ll find him, Abby. We’ll find him.”
CHAPTER
3
SATURDAY—03:02—THE CANNERY (1400 block of Reservoir Street, East Beach, N.C.) Jim felt certain he was seeing things. A masked man holding a shotgun? An eerie white cloud edged in on him from all sides. Then a blinding light. He felt it begin to lift him out of his seat. He shook his head, took a deep breath, and pushed it … forced it … willed it away. The cloud lifted and slowly his eyes cleared. He stared into the trees. The apparition was gone.
“Sharon, did you see that?”
“See what?”
“The guy in the white mask.”
“White mask? Jim, you’re hallucinating.”
“Maybe—” Jim sighed. The doctor had said there would be side effects to his new medication—dry mouth, dizziness, drowsiness … even suicidal feelings were possible in extreme cases—but hallucinations? He stared through the window waiting for another lightning strike. Had he really just seen what he thought he’d seen—a man standing in woods beside the truck wearing a Halloween mask and hol
ding a red-tipped shotgun? He shook his head forcefully. “I must be losing it.”
“Bad timing, partner.”
Jim agreed. The dead end of Reservoir Street was already the scariest place in town—no place to be hallucinating—and with a powerful electric storm and a citywide power outage, it seemed especially bad. The trees jumped and swayed. The rain came in torrents. The lightning flashed again. He glanced at the woods. No masked man. He pushed the door lock button anyway and slid his knife from his pocket—an Al Mar SERE 2000, a wicked tactical folder. He flipped open the blade and checked the sharpness with his thumb. The knife was like a razor, and Jim knew how to use it. He felt better just knowing it was there … until a voice whispered in his ear. Hey, Jim. Premonition here. Time to leave.
“Oh great. Now I’m hearing voices.”
“Jim, I believe you’re losing it.”
“It’s this stupid med—” Jim put the knife away and glanced at his partner. Sharon Duncan looked like he felt—tired, sleepy, and damp from hours of rain and sweat. The blue light from the console cast an eerie glow under her chubby, cream-colored face. Her chin looked like a tulip bulb with a depression in the middle made by a thumb. At the beginning of the shift she had seemed so eager, freshly ironed and ready to go, smelling like a piece of peppermint candy, her curly blond hair covered by an EMS cap. Now she just looked scared. “Makes me loopy as a kite.”
“Loopy is good.”
“Sharon, this is no joke. Sometimes it’s like I’m not sure if what just happened really happened. I mean, check it out … yesterday when I was riding my mountain bike the weirdest thing happened. I got really short of breath and collapsed. Got off the bike first, of course, I mean I didn’t wreck, but my pulse was really racing. I felt lightheaded, then I got this tremendous rush and saw this really bright light. It was like someone injected me with dilaudid, cocaine, and propofol all at once. Then I felt myself being lifted off the ground. Sharon, it was hands down the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced.”
“Sounds like they gave you the wrong meds. Has Valerie noticed?”
“Valerie thinks I’m nuts.” Jim clenched his fist. Since his best friend’s death just six months before, anger and depression had climbed so far up his back he had his doubts he would ever shake them. The new medication helped in some ways—he felt happier most of the time, more at peace, and able to focus—but he could still feel the darkness. Suicide? No, he didn’t think about it as much, but he got the feeling it was down there somewhere, just waiting to resurface. He stared through the rain-streaked windshield at the abandoned old building. “Maybe she’s right.”
“Jim, it’s not your meds,” Sharon grunted. “It’s this place. The Cannery’s enough to make anyone hallucinate. I mean, we’ve been in there so many times and seen so many things. Drug overdoses, sex crimes, spiders, rats, a partially decayed corpse. I hate this place,” she muttered. “Let’s leave.”
“Good idea.” Jim picked up the truck’s radio microphone and keyed it. “Seven to East Beach.”
“Medic-seven,” the dispatcher responded. “Go ahead.”
“Any word on P-D?”
“Stand by.”
“Stand by? No, now East Beach, look—” Jim leaned forward in his seat. “We’re all alone down here. It’s pitch black, and this is supposed to be a crime scene. We’ve been here for twenty minutes already and no cops. We’re clearing up.” He rolled his eyes and released the mic. “If someone’s really been shot, they’re dead by now anyway.”
“Medic-seven, stand by, please.”
Another lightning bolt flashed.
“That’s it!” Sharon shifted the truck into drive. “I’m getting out of here.”
Jim felt a glimmer of light tickle the corner of his eye. He glanced in the side mirror. A pair of flashing red and blue strobes turned the corner. A black-and-white police cruiser raced up Reservoir Street behind the ambulance. The guttural roar of the big-block engine shook the truck as it zoomed past. Another car appeared a few seconds later and raced past to join the first, and then together the two cars circled the apartment complex and disappeared behind the building. “Never mind,” Jim said re-keying the mic. “Cavalry’s here. Put us out.”
“Ten-four. Medic-seven on scene. Baker-134 is requesting that you switch to Ops-channel three. Ops-three.”
Jim switched the radio to the assigned frequency and keyed up. “Medic- seven to P-D.”
“Baker-134. Scene’s secure, medic-seven. Come on in.”
Sharon grunted, turned the wheel, and drove the ambulance across the parking lot and around the driveway to the back of the building. The patrol cars sat on the far end, parked at opposing angles with their headlights focused on a playground at the rear corner of the lot. Jim spotted two cops standing about twenty-five yards in front of the cars, the beams of their flashlights focused on a male victim in bright red shorts. Sharon pulled in beside the cruisers and switched on the high beams. Jim hit the scene lights and flipped a toggle switch on the dash to activate the truck’s forward video camera. He climbed out, retrieved the trauma bag and oxygen cylinder, and walked to the front of the truck to meet his partner. Sharon came around from the driver’s side and joined him, gripping her flashlight nervously. He saw genuine fear in her eyes. It concerned him. “We’ll be all right, Sharon. Come on,” he said. “Maybe this will be our last call.”
The ground squished beneath Jim’s boots as he stepped over the curb onto the saturated ground. The stench from a nearby garbage dumpster was awful. The thing looked as if it hadn’t been emptied in years. Its top lay wide-open making it an efficient trap for rain. Copper-colored streaks coursed down the green paint to the ground. He turned his head and took a deep breath. Sharon followed close behind. He could hear her cursing.
“Hello,” Jim said approaching the two police officers. He glanced at the closest cop, a young man of twenty-two or so, with blond, crew cut hair and a tight, handsome face. “Little, right? You work with Rico on the Knight Squad.”
Corporal Little nodded. “Sorry it took us so long. It’s been a busy night.” Jim glanced at the other cop—Baker 134. A shiny gold badge glistened on his chest. A slick black duty-belt hugged his waist. He looked jumpy. Inexperienced. But it would only be a matter of time—months really—before he, too, became a hardened veteran. You grew up fast on the streets of East Beach, or you didn’t grow up at all. Jim glanced at his nametag—B. Peters. “So what you guys got?”
Little pointed toward the woods. “They shot him over at The Terrace. He claims he ran over here.”
“Really?” Jim knelt by his patient. He spotted a small hole barely larger than the shaft of an ice pick on the right side of his neck. He set down the trauma bag and keyed his mic. “Medic-seven to East Beach … patient contact. What’s the status of our backup? Please tell them we’ve got one shot.” Jim reached for a dressing. “My name’s Jim, man. Where else are you hit?”
The victim raised his head. Jim almost fell over.
“Devon!”
“You know him?” Little exclaimed.
“He’s one of us. Devon, what happened, man? Who did this to you?” Sharon nudged Jim with her elbow. “I’ll get the stretcher. Be right back.” Sharon took off running. Jim keyed his radio. “Medic-seven to East Beach. What’s the status of Engine-three? We’ve got an off-duty paramedic down. I repeat, paramedic down.”
“Medic-seven, did you say paramedic down?”
“Yes, paramedic down. Send first responders, please.”
The dispatcher’s voice came back with a sharper edge. “Seven, be advised, Engine-three has been involved in an accident and will be unable to respond. All other units are busy dealing with this power outage. I’ve dispatched an engine company from Morehead.”
“Morehead? We can’t wait that … look! Send another ambulance Code- three. An East Beach medic has been shot!”
“Stand by.”
“Stand by?” Jim dropped his portable. “Jimmy, can you guys he
lp Sharon with the stretcher?”
“Got it.”
Jim ignored the sudden buzz of activity over the radio. He placed a sterile dressing over the neck wound, covered it with occlusive dressing, and then proceeded to remove the victim’s shirt with his trauma shears.
“Devon, man, what happened? Who did this to you?”
“Michael Myers. It was a Michael Myers from the movie, Jim.”
“Movie?” The image of a masked man with a shotgun flashed into Jim’s mind. He felt a sudden chill. “All right, you know the routine, pal. Try to relax. We’ll take care of you.”
Jim yanked away the rest of the T-shirt and grabbed his Mag-Lite. He shone the beam on Devon’s chest and spotted another small wound beneath the clavicle and another just beneath that.
Boooom!
A percussion wave hit him, pounding his eardrums and forcing him to the ground.
“That was a shotgun,” the rookie shouted. “And close!”
Paramedic Killer Page 2
