“L-T,” Ham exclaimed, kneeling beside his boss. “Are you all right?”
“Your neck’s bleeding, Ham.”
“Superficial. Let me see your hand.”
Rico removed his glove. The hand and wrist were badly swollen. Puncture wounds encircled his palm. A wicked gash traversed his wrist. Another ran up his arm. “Where’d that thing come from?”
“Sir, we should get this arm checked.”
“Later.” Rico suddenly stood up and brushed himself off. “Where the hell are the Devils?”
“Right behind you,” a squeaky voice called.
Rico heard a sharp metallic sound—the unmistakable clack-slide-clack of a shotgun action being pumped. Something hard and blunt poked him in the ribs. “Drop the gun.”
If it weren’t for the gun barrel just inches from his left kidney and spleen, Rico might have spun around and gone for the weapon, but he realized the act would be pointless. His assailant would put a load of buckshot through his vital organs before he had a chance to make it halfway around. He decided to play it cool and dropped his prized Colt. “Gun gets scratched, son, you’ll be sorry.”
“That gun’s the least of your problems. Drop the radio.”
Rico removed his 800-megahertz Motorola from his flak jacket and tossed it to the ground. Then the headset.
“Now raise your hands and turn around.”
Rico raised his hands and slowly turned to face the red-tipped barrel of a 12-gauge shotgun pointed at his abs. The man behind the trigger was larger than his voice, with severely scarred, heavily tattooed arms. He wore a red T-shirt and a sleeveless denim jacket that bore the patch of a screaming devil. His hands, veiny and scarred, looked to have been torched. A pair of bright blue eyes peered through the holes of a cracked white hockey mask. Rico shifted his gaze. A paralyzed Andrew Hamilton stood a few feet away with a matching gun at his belly. Six more hooded bikers stood behind him, each with a weapon of his own. Two of the men toted shovels.
“Ham,” Rico said. “You good?”
“Yes, sir. Just a little pissed about this shotgun in my gut.”
“We’ll deal with that in a minute.” Rico chuckled and turned back to face his own problem. “What’s with the stupid mask? Scared to show your ugly face?”
“Oh, you want to see my face?”
Rico felt his chin drop as the man’s gruesomely disfigured face appeared. He looked like something from a horror movie. The bald scalp, uneven and scarred, merged with a pair of pitted cheeks. One ear was missing, one tooth gone. The face looked entirely distorted, but the eyes appeared unblemished. His penetrating blue eyes peered out of deep, well-defined sockets. They were strong, handsome eyes, and in a different life, Rico figured, he could have been a Hollywood star, but the scarred features left no doubt in his mind that he was staring at a killer.
“Hola, Bill.”
“Well? You wanted to see it. What do you think?”
“Life does have its ups and downs.”
“You shouldn’t have meddled.”
“So tell me this, waxman, before you pull that trigger. Who tipped you off we were coming?”
Billy chuckled and turned his head. “Granmaw!”
An old woman in a flowery dress and brown support hose limped from the garage carrying an antique double-barrel shotgun. Her silver hair glistened as she stepped beneath the harsh halogen lights. “Evenin’, Officer Rivetti. Looked taller this mornin’.” Lila Canaday paused and spit a wad of brown tobacco onto the ground. “Billy and I enjoyed your visit.”
“Wrinkly old bag of bones. Knew you were crooked.”
“Jus’ lookin’ after m’own, Lieutenant. Should’ve taken my advice and let my grandsons be. Told ya … they’s ain’t nuthin’ but trouble.”
“So,” Rico said turning to Billy. “You were there after all. That was your motorcycle parked in her shed, wasn’t it? And the Budweiser and cigarette … yours.”
Billy nodded.
“Where were you hiding?”
“We have a cellar under the house.”
“Underground, like a mole. And tonight? We swept this entire building.”
“You missed the trapdoor beneath the stairwell. You see, us cracker redneck people ain’t as dumb as we look. Just ’cause we live in the woods and can’t afford all the niceties you city folks have, you assume we’re imbeciles. The trapdoor leads to an underground armory. Good place to hide when uninvited guests show up.”
Rico heard distant gunfire and glanced toward the woods outside the complex. “What was that?”
“Oh yeah,” Billy said. “Forgot to tell you. We set up a little ambush for the rest of your men. They won’t be coming back. And, oh, by the way, that trip-line upstairs?” Billy paused and pulled a small remote device from his pocket. “We were planning on rebuilding that rec-room anyway.”
Billy pushed a red button and a muffled explosion followed. The blast wasn’t as grand as Rico had expected, probably not even loud enough for the deputies to hear down the road, but it was enough to kill anyone in the room. Mullins and Rogers, he knew, had ceased to exist. Rico felt as if a thousand fireworks exploded at once inside his brain. He leapt at Billy and reached for the shotgun, but an unexpected swooshing sound stopped him cold. The back of a large flat shovel met him face-to-face.
Rico hit the ground, stunned. Blood flowed from his nose. A bloody tooth clicked between the remaining teeth. He spit out the tooth and rose to a crouching position. Billy rocked the action of the shotgun and stood over him with the barrel mere inches from his skull. “Don’t even think about it.”
“What do you plan to do?” Rico exclaimed, swearing madly. “Kill the entire world?”
“Actually, your friend Jim Stockbridge will be the last one we bury. Bobby’s on his way to take care of him now.”
Rico heard a grunt and a sudden rush of feet. Ham sprang on the closest biker and jerked the shotgun from his hands, but before he could spin around, another shotgun boomed. Rico watched with horror as Lila Canaday’s barrels blazed and a load of hot pellets impacted his partner’s chest. Ham went down hard, his eyes wide with shock.
What followed next would forever be burned into the darkest recesses of Rico’s mind. He heard a muffled Pummmph and the air around him parted at supersonic speed. The sound alone would have raised little interest, but the spattering of bloody brain matter and bone fragments that sprayed against the sheet metal wall behind Billy Canaday was extremely impressive. His disfigured head exploded. His body slumped and dropped like an empty burlap sack. A second pummmph sounded and another Klansman fell. Two of the remaining bikers dropped to the ground. The others scattered and ran back into the building.
CHAPTER
25
SATURDAY—22:04—THE BIGHT (CAPE Lookout) Running a boat aground and having to call for a tow is for any sailor, even on his best day, embarrassing, but sitting in the dark on a heeling sailboat, with its keel dug into the sand and a constant back and forth listing motion caused by the incoming tide and stiffening breeze, with the knowledge that someone may be trying to kill you? That makes for a bad night. Jim had a growing sense of apprehension as he watched the channel entrance for the sign of an incoming vessel. He glanced at the moon, grateful for clear skies. He realized it could have been raining.
“How long has it been?” Melanie said. “I’m cold.”
“Shouldn’t be much longer. It’s only been a little over an hour.”
“It’s been ninety minutes,” Valerie spat. “I think we should call them again.”
“They’ll be here. Try to relax.”
“Don’t tell me to relax, Jim. I’m cold and hungry, I’m scared, and for all we know we’ll be stuck on this stupid sandbar until morning.”
“Val, do you think maybe just once you could recognize that I’m doing my best?”
“Jim, all I know is this entire day has turned into a nightmare.”
“I think my shoulders are burned,” Melanie said. “I got too much
sun.”
“Come on,” Valerie said. “Let’s go below where it’s warmer.”
“Hey!” Melanie exclaimed. “A boat!”
Jim glanced toward the channel entrance. It was too dark for him to make out much more than the shape of a boat moving through the water, but the sound of outboard motors was unmistakable. He thought it odd that their tow would be cruising without running lights, but he figured they must have a good reason. He grabbed his binoculars. “Yep, red hull—” He felt his shoulders relax. “That’s our tow.”
“Finally,” Valerie said with a sigh.
Jim set down the binoculars. He saw relief on the girls’ tired faces. He tried not to show it, but he shared the feeling. He didn’t like being stuck on a sandbar any more than they did, but with the excessive progesterone-induced fear, anxiety, and anger that had taken over his yacht and, even worse, his own serious concern about what could happen to them, relief came like a precious reward. A thousand scenarios had passed through his mind since they’d first gotten stuck. He glanced at the Winchester leaning against the bulkhead in the cabin below. Thank God they wouldn’t be needing it.
“Shoal Survivor … Shoal Survivor,” the radio squawked. “Do you copy?”
Jim picked up the radio mic and keyed it. “This is Shoal Survivor. Go ahead, Henry.”
“Seven-one.”
Jim switched the radio frequency to channel 71 and re-keyed the mic. “Shoal Survivor to the towboat. Thanks for coming. Do you have us?”
Jim watched the boat round the channel marker and turn in his direction. There was a brief pause before the caller came back, but the answer was not what he had expected. “Rescue-one to Shoal Survivor … this is Corporal Little with the East Beach Police Department. Are you and your crew all right? Go ahead.”
“My mistake, Rescue-one. We thought you were East Beach Tow. What are you doing out here?”
“Shoal Survivor? Come back?”
“I’m surprised to see you way out here. My crew is fine, just a little cold and tired. Look, we’re stuck over here on Shackelford. Since you’re here, do you think you could throw us a line and tow us to deeper water ’til our tow gets here?”
“Which sandbar? Shoal Survivor, they told me you were at Lookout. What’s your exact location?”
“Right in front of you … you’re headed right for us.”
“Ah, negative on that, Shoal Survivor. No other vessels close by.”
“Really?” Jim glanced at Valerie and saw her frown. “We’re the thirty-three foot sailboat hard aground less than fifty yards off your bow. Surely you see our lights.”
“Shoal Survivor, I think you have me confused with someone else. Give me your exact location.”
Jim chuckled. “Shackelford Banks just above Barden Inlet.”
“Roger that, Shoal Survivor, stay put. I’m ocean-side running parallel to Shackelford right now, heading for the bight. I’ll be at your location in five minutes.”
“Jim,” Melanie shouted. “That boat’s speeding right at us.”
“It is,” Valerie exclaimed picking up the spotlight. “And they’re not slowing down!”
“Let me have that,” Jim shouted grabbing the spotlight. He focused the beam on the incoming vessel. A red-hulled powerboat raced toward them with no sign of slowing. “That maniac is going to hit us!”
“Can’t he see us?” Melanie exclaimed. “Do something!”
“Everybody get down!” Jim picked up the mic and keyed it. “Shoal Survivor to Rescue-one. We are under attack. I say again, we are under attack! Expedite! Expedite!”
Melanie ran down the companionway. Jim heard her slip and fall to the cabin floor. Valerie screamed and dropped to the deck. The boat ran in fast on the stern and made a hard turn at the last second, missing the transom by mere inches and throwing a huge wake over the stern. Shoal Survivor rocked sideways as if hit by a tsunami. Jim fell to the deck, hitting his head on the cockpit table and nearly losing consciousness. He was aware of female screaming, of a wild pitching deck, but only in the periphery of his mind. In the center, he saw stars. His vision came and went. He lay still for a moment completely stunned, fighting for consciousness and trying to understand. He looked up through blurry eyes and saw Valerie standing above him with the beam of a bright light hitting her in the face. She looked to be frozen, with her hands to her mouth.
“Val?”
“Jim,” she whispered. “Get up! It’s him!”
“Who?” Jim stood up on wobbly knees and tried to focus on the strange apparition floating in the water beside them. “Val, what the—” The light shifted and hit him in the eyes, so close he could feel the heat of the beam as it coursed into his face. “What is this?” he exclaimed. “What do you want?”
“Why, Jim Stockbridge, I bloody want you.”
The spotlight switched off and over the span of about five seconds the heat dissipated and his vision went black, but as his eyes slowly adjusted, he almost wished they had not. A red powerboat floated beside Shoal Survival. Backlit by the rising moon, a shady character wearing a stark white death mask appeared. His round eyes were empty black holes. In his hands he held a shotgun.
Jim stepped in front of Valerie. “When will you be satisfied, Canaday?”
“Score’s almost even, Stockbridge.”
The radio crackled. “Shoal Survivor, do you copy?” Jim glanced toward the channel entrance. No powerboat in sight. He glanced down at the cabin. He could feel Valerie trembling. Melanie knelt on the salon floor, trembling, Winchester by her side.
“I saved your life. I was trying to save them.”
“Sorry, Stockbridge. Eye-for-an-eye.”
Jim spun around, grabbed Valerie by the shoulders, and dropped to the deck.
Boom! Boom!
Two almost simultaneous explosions thundered. Something hot grazed Jim’s side and smashed into the cockpit seat behind him. He heard a scream. Melanie fell backwards down the steps and crashed into the floor.
“Stay down!” Jim bolted down the companionway and picked up the Winchester. The barrel was hot, the tip still smoking. He chambered a fresh round, bounded back up the stairway, and fired at the boat without aiming. The killer’s boat jolted forward and started to move, lifting its bow high into the air like a thundering stallion and blocking most of the pellets. Jim fired again. The powerful prop dug deep into the water and thrust the vessel forward like a rocket. He fired again as the boat raced into the darkness.
“Mel!” Jim bounded down the companionway. “Where’s she hit?” he shouted. “Where’s she hit?”
“I’m not,” Melanie said sitting up rubbing her shoulder. “That thing knocked me off my feet. I think it broke my shoulder.”
The unmistakable sound of a churning propeller buzzed through the hull. “Oh no, he’s back. Ya’ll stay here.” Jim ran back up the stairway and raised the shotgun, but instead of the blood red hull he had expected, he saw a dark blue hull with Rescue-1 painted in large letters across the bow. Jimmy Little stood behind the wheel in a black tactical uniform.
“Got here as fast as I could,” Little announced. “What happened? Is everyone all right?”
“He’s in a red powerboat, Jimmy. He took off toward Harker’s Island, running dark.”
“Okay, I passed East Beach Tow on the way. They should be here shortly. Where are the girls?”
“Down below.”
“Okay, I’m going after this guy. Get them back to your place. There’s a nice man named Eric Strong waiting for you there.” Little grinned and pushed the throttle to the stops. The rescue boat jumped up and accelerated like a dragster into the channel
“Let me see that shoulder,” Jim said returning below decks.
“No,” Melanie said. “It’s okay, but Jim, I think you’re bleeding.”
“My word,” Valerie said. “Come over here.” Jim followed her into the salon and waited patiently as she examined the wound. “Thankfully, it’s just a graze. Where’s the first aid kit? I’d l
ike to dress this.”
“Wait…” Jim heard a distant whine, and for what felt like the hundredth time that night he ascended the companionway stairs and glanced toward the entrance to the bight. He grabbed his binoculars and focused on the entrance to the bight. Another red hull approached, but this one bearing red and green running lights and the undeniable white logo of East Beach Tow.
“Is that the towboat?” Melanie said. “We’re going home this time?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jim breathed a sigh of relief. “I believe this nightmare is almost over.”
CHAPTER
26
SATURDAY—22:12—SCREAMING DEVILS CLUBHOUSE (Cedar Creek) Lila Canaday shrieked like a witch scalded by her own boiling brew. Brown foam spat from between her crooked teeth as she swung the gun around. She lifted the heavy barrels on Rico and reached for the second trigger. “Yoouuu,” she screamed. “You killed my Billy!” A third and final pummmph split the air. The lead tip of .300 Winchester Magnum travelling 3,500 feet per second hit dead center, blowing away a chunk of her neck along with some trachea and internal carotids. Old lady Canaday dropped to her knees clutching her throat as the bright red substance of life sprayed from her punctured neck. In an unnatural backbreaking twist, she fell backwards, and then with a final raspy groan her eyes rolled into their sockets and she went limp, antique gun by her side.
Rico dropped and ripped open the pellet-riddled vest covering his partner’s chest. To his amazement, he saw no sign of blood or tissue injury. His breathing was steady and his wrist held a strong steady pulse. “Ham? Wake up, buddy. Come on.”
Ham issued a deep moan. His eyes slowly opened and life returned to his face. He sat up slowly and drew a deep breath. “Whoa … feel like I was kicked by a blasted horse.”
“You were. Jeez, boy. Thought you were gone.”
“I’m all right. But what happened?”
“The old hag blasted you with bird shot.”
“Rico!” Jose Lopez crawled through a hole in the southeast corner of the fence and sprinted over. Vernon Hicks followed close behind. “We heard an explosion.”
Paramedic Killer Page 14
