Fatal Intuition

by Makenzi Fisk

  “For sure. One of the best out there. Optical zoom, LED flash, and high definition video.” He touches one of the square pictures and I see my dirty shoes on the screen. I hold my hand in front of the little glass dot on the back, and my ragged fingernails appear. I’ll get T to take a picture of me, one they can use for my wanted poster.

  The man looks at my shoes again, and I see judgment crinkle his eyes. “Then there’s this one over here. It’s a little cheaper and—”

  “I like this one.” I pick up the box it came in and turn to T. “I’m getting this.”

  “Great, if you’ll come to the counter,” the man says, “we can start the paperwork to activate it.” He looks sideways at T, who is shoveling candy from the bulk bin directly into his mouth. “Sir, that’s not allowed.”

  T ignores him and pops open the beer he took from the cooler. He drains half in a couple of swallows. “You want one?” he asks me.

  “Grab a case and let’s go.” I walk to the door but the man blocks me with his body.

  “I’ll have to ask you to—”

  I take out my knife and flash it in his face. “I’m leaving, loser.”

  He grabs a three foot length of pipe from behind the counter and holds it like a baseball bat. “I don’t know what you kids are up to,” he growls, “but it ends here.”

  “We’ll take what we want,” T snarls. “Get out of my way.” He snatches the revolver from the small of his back and points it at the man’s chest.

  “That’s probably not even real. You’re only a couple of hoodlums. I’m calling the cops and you’ll learn your lesson.” He reaches for the phone.

  T shoves him backward and the man brings up his pipe, clipping him on the side of the head. Blood streams down his temple. He wipes it and stares at the red on his hand. Anger flashes in his eyes. He points the gun at the man’s face. Seconds tick by, but T doesn’t move. His finger trembles on the trigger.

  “T, you’re such a pussy.” If I had the gun, I’d have shot that shirt-peeping bastard in the face by now. “Do it.”

  “No.” The man’s flabby cheeks flush pink. “Drop it and walk away. They’ll be easier on you if you do.” His voice rises so high he sounds like a woman. It’s funny and I snort through my nose.

  T’s trigger finger tenses. “I’ll do it. I swear to God, I’ll—”

  The man swings his pipe again, and there’s a ping when it bounces off T’s kneecap.

  T squawks and squeezes the trigger. BANG! The man goes down.

  Goddamn it. He finally did it. T shot that guy. I didn’t think he would. Blood gushes through the man’s shirt, already spilling onto the white tile. I squat beside him and watch his eyelids flutter, excitement bubbling in my belly so hard I want to shout, to scream at the top of my lungs, to dance in a circle like a wild savage.

  Instead, I freeze in awe when the blood spreads into a pattern across the floor, like butterfly wings, like spilled juice. I poke him in the ribs with my blade but he doesn’t make a sound. He’s a deader, for sure.

  I tuck my knife back into my pocket and look back up at T. He’s still standing there, gun held out in front of him, frozen like a hulking statue in a gay cowboy shirt. That’s when I spot the glass eye of a security camera mounted on the wall. How did I not see it before? It’s staring straight at me.

  I tear the gun from T’s hands and he unfreezes. He crumples to the ground, holding his knee. My ears are gonna bleed with the way he whimpers like a baby. It’s annoying. I prod him with the toe of my shoe.

  “Ow! That’s cruel.”

  That makes me smile. “Maybe. Get up. We gotta go.” I point to the camera on the wall, but T curls into a ball beside the dead guy, whose blood is still oozing through his shirt.

  What the hell, they’ve already got me, so I might as well enjoy my moment of fame. I raise my new phone and touch the square picture, point it at the pair of losers and do what the man did. I poke the dot and the screen flashes. The picture stays for a moment and then slides right, ready for the next. This is the coolest thing ever. I take a couple more and go to the door.

  “I need a doctor,” T groans like a pussy.

  “I’m leaving. You can lay there with the dead guy, or you can get your ass in the car.” I pick up the case of beer and walk out.

  By the time I get behind the wheel, T is staggering out the door. Blood has matted his hair and he’s putting all his weight on one leg. He collapses into the back seat and stretches out, chest heaving with the effort.

  I hand him a beer. “Here put this on it. It’s cold.”

  “Thank you,” he says, like a child.

  “And maybe you’ll stop your whining.” I put the car into gear and hit the gas. They’ll be coming. As soon as the next customer walks through that door, the troopers will be on our tail. We need to switch cars, but there’s no time, and I’m not carrying that jackass anywhere.

  T begs until I give him more of the little white pills, the ones he calls Oxy. They’re his favorite, and the only way to shut him up. When they kick in, he conks out. I keep driving until daylight’s gone and the gas tank is nearly empty. Now I’m getting tired, but there’s no good place to pull off for sleep. Besides, that’s a sure way to get arrested, right?

  Finally, his clothes rustle and his head pops up in my rear view mirror. “I gotta take a whiz.” Even in the dark, his eyes are bloodshot.

  “Can’t you hold it?” I don’t tell him I already stopped twice to pee while he was sleeping and didn’t bother to wake him.

  “Hell, no. I really gotta go. I can’t make it all the way to California without taking a leak.” He snickers and I know he’s not feeling much pain right now. Whatever is in Oxy, he loves it.

  “I told you, I don’t want to go to California.”

  “Sure you do. We’ll live on the beach, and surf, and make babies.”

  “I don’t fucking want to live on a beach!”

  He stops like I slapped him. “But, I thought—”

  “I never wanted to go to California. Fuck California! I told you, I want to go home.”

  “I’m sorry, sugar. I didn’t realize you seriously wanted to go to Minnesota.”

  “Yeah, I’m serious.” I am rip-out-your-throat serious.

  “Okay. We’ll talk about it. Right after you stop and let me take a piss.”

  “Fine. At the next turn— holy shit!” I was so distracted by T’s California delusion that I never saw it coming, until red and blue lights blaze into my eyes from all the mirrors at once. That trooper is right on my ass. I grip the steering wheel with both hands. This is it. Do we run or fight?

  “Should I shoot him?” T yells from the back seat. “Should we take his gun? Hey, let’s steal his car.” He sounds high and I’m not sure I can trust him.

  “Hand me the gun. I wanna do it.” I ease off on the gas pedal and T lurches forward. He’s wasted. He can barely sit up on his own. I steer to the right and the trooper slows too. “Give me the gun, goddammit!

  T drops it over the seat. I fumble for it in the dark and wrap my fingers around the grip. The weight of it feels good in my hand. I’ll shoot that guy in the face and he won’t even know what hit him. What does it feel like to shoot someone? I’m pretty sure I’m gonna like it.

  The cruiser’s lights blind me, his bumper close enough to kiss mine. I slow to a stop, but my mind is miles ahead. The anticipation of the biggest event in my life is more of a rush than any of those pills in my pocket. As soon as that cop walks up, I’ll blow him away.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Newly minted FBI Special Agent Erin Ericsson nodded her head at the images on her training agent’s cell phone. Pictures from the gas station’s security camera were still flooding in, but Erin didn’t need to see any more to be able to identify Lily Schmidt. A year-and-a-half older than the last time she’d seen her, but the girl had stared straight into the camera and there was no doubt.

  She’d never seen the male suspect before, the tall young man wi
th the gun who’d walked out with a bad limp. She handed the cell phone back to Special Agent Shirley Lockwood.

  Erin had met Shirley for the first time yesterday morning at eight o’clock sharp in an FBI Academy conference room. While Lockwood and the Academy Director had discussed the logistics of her being brought in on the task force, she’d fidgeted at the other end of the table.

  It was highly unusual to allow a trainee to exit early, he’d said, even this close to graduation. But she had a connection, and valuable insight to offer on an ongoing investigation, Lockwood had countered. The verbal ping pong went back and forth until Erin’s head throbbed.

  Her instructors had been consulted, and signed off on all training requirements, all but the dreaded law course for which she’d written her last exam an hour ago. She willed her leg to cease its incessant thumping under the table while they waited for the results.

  The Director leafed through the instructor reports, summarizing the highlights. “Exemplary, outstanding, good, good, excellent driving skills, honors in firearms and fitness.” He looked down the table at Erin. “I see that you completed the Yellow Brick Road more than once. Your instructor noted that you did it ‘for fun’. I’m not sure if I’m impressed, or alarmed that you seemed to enjoy our grueling obstacle course.”

  Erin’s face flushed.

  Lockwood guffawed.

  The Director shook his head. “You’re one to laugh, Shirley, you over-achiever. How many bricks have you earned now? Yellow, blue, green?”

  “Green?” she sputtered. “I can’t smoke that many cigars!” They laughed like high school friends.

  Erin traced the outline of the table edge, back and forth, again and again, until she realized what she was doing and stopped that too. She looked at the clock. It hadn’t moved more than two tick points from the last time she’d checked. When the desk phone finally jangled, her pulse thudded in her ears.

  “Director Simms.” He listened for a moment before plunking it back into its cradle. “Very well.”

  Erin shot to her feet so fast that her chair rocked back, dangerously close to overturning. “Yes, sir?”

  “Congratulations, Special Agent Ericsson. Although I regret that you will have to miss your official graduation ceremony, I wish you every success in your future with the Bureau.” He reached out for Erin’s sweaty hand, and she wiped it on her pants before they shook.

  “That’s good news.” Lockwood rose to her feet. “Pick up your firearm and get your things in order, Ericsson. We’ve got a flight to catch in an hour, and a long trip ahead.” She held the door open for Erin. “The clock’s ticking.”

  Erin sprinted for her room, stopping long enough to hug Davis in the dorm stairwell.

  “Don’t worry, hummingbird, we’ll keep in touch.” He lifted her off the ground and squeezed the breath from her lungs. “Sorry you’ll miss the graduation party, but we’re all jealous that you get to be the first one in the field.” He rubbed a misty eye. “Thanks for helping me pass firearms, and remember to be safe out there.”

  “I have to pack!” She kissed his cheek and wiggled free, sprinting up the six flights of stairs to her room. She threw her belongings into a suitcase without folding them, which irked her immensely, and sat on it to get the zipper closed. After one last check for forgotten toiletries, she raced to pick up her Glock 40 on the way out. Even with her haste, they missed their flight to Salt Lake and were rescheduled to the next one, with a four hour stop in Dallas.

  Erin could still hear Lockwood’s exasperation with the airline booking agent ringing in her ears. ‘Dallas! If I wanted to go to gaul darn Dallas, I would have booked tickets to Dallas. I need to get to Salt Lake, pronto!’

  They’d bided their time at Dallas airport with Erin fidgeting uncontrollably, and Lockwood stonily silent. Erin opened her bag and made sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Toothbrush, check. Toothpaste, check. Underwear, check. Had she remembered the toothbrush? She started again. The third time she checked for her toothbrush, she realized she was being watched.

  Lockwood exhaled loudly. “You’re driving me batty, with your packing and unpacking. Why don’t you go find us some coffee and I’ll babysit your luggage?”

  “Uh, okay.” That’s what Erin needed, a brisk walk. A run would be better but she could imagine the commotion she’d cause if she sprinted through the airport. Maybe she could find something to clean her fingernails.

  She power-walked from one end of the airport to the other. Focus on the present. Don’t worry about the past, nor the future. Focus on the job at hand. Her dad’s words resonated in her mind. He was a smart man, always saying what she’d needed to hear.

  In the restroom, she washed her hands, and then she washed them again. She straightened her hair and made sure the little spikes stuck upright, evenly arranged, but seemingly random.

  She returned to Lockwood in a calmer state, carrying two hot coffees. When they finally arrived in Salt Lake, there was barely time for a short nap before their morning meeting. Erin was bone-tired and starving.

  Special Agent Javier Gonzales, who was joining them on the investigation, smiled when he let them into a conference room. Erin beamed back, her day brightening considerably when she spied a box of pastries and a pot of coffee on the desk. She didn’t even care if it was that watery swill from the grocery store. There was coffee and food. She could have kissed his sun-bronzed face.

  A few hours later, they’d signed out a Bureau car and Gonzales drove them north to the Idaho-Utah border, where the State Troopers were planning a takedown.

  Agent Lockwood jotted notes on a yellow legal pad, and turned to a middle-aged state trooper with stripes on his sleeve. “You understand that this is an officer safety issue. It’s not about jurisdiction, or whose pecker is biggest.” She smiled and crow’s feet radiated from the corners of her eyes. Each syllable that followed was carefully enunciated. “Your man is about to get himself into an untenable position with two armed felons. I’m respectfully requesting that you direct him to stand down and allow the suspect vehicle to come to us. We’re better prepared at this location.”

  The trooper’s jacket flapped and he held onto his hat when he tilted his head toward her. The wind tore the words from his mouth as soon as he uttered them.

  Erin turned away, unable to continue her eavesdropping. She picked up the computer tablet from the hood of the State Highway Patrol car, and rotated the map of Utah on the screen. “Where was the car spotted?” she shouted above the gale.

  Beside her, Agent Gonzales followed the network of highway lines and pointed to a spot north of Ogden. “Right here.” That was only a few miles from their current road block. He leaned in and traced the line to a dot further north in Idaho. “This is the gas station they hit. The owner played dead until the suspects left, and then managed to call 911.”

  “Corporal Porter. Stand down! Stand down!” The trooper shouted into his portable radio. The wind swept the hat from his head, but he made no move to chase it when it bounced across the asphalt. “Kyle, do not engage that vehicle.”

  He stomped his boot at the garbled reply, and repeated his message before calling out to a young trooper. “What’s the ETA on our suspects?”

  “Ten minutes!” the trooper shouted above the wind. He dashed across the road and deployed the Stop Stick, a device designed to puncture tires and bring suspect vehicles to a halt.

  “Ten minutes?” Agent Lockwood shouldered her way between Erin and Agent Gonzales. “If that’s how much time we’ve got before the party starts, that’s time enough to fill you two in.” She held her pad of paper close to her ample chest and peered down through a pair of bifocals.

  Erin and Gonzales exchanged a grin. Fighting a losing battle with the gray streaks in her auburn hair, Lockwood was old school. Old, old school. Months from retirement, she hearkened to the days where phones had dials and records were made on paper, not tapped into magical glowing boxes.

  Agent Lockwood peered through the b
ottom half of the lenses at her handwritten notes. “Lily Anne Schmidt, fifteen years old, NCIC says she was serving a youth sentence for assault causing bodily harm up in Cana—”

  “Should have been one count of murder and one of attempted murder. I’m certain she was the one who killed that girl’s father and Allie nearly died too, but they plea bargained—” Erin stopped mid-sentence when she caught her training agent’s frown.

  “Yes, Agent Ericsson. We’ve all heard about what happened to your wife.”

  Erin’s mouth twitched. “She’s not technically my wife.”

  “Uh, huh. I guess that depends on your definition of wife .” She exhaled loudly. “Now, can I carry on before two bad little kids drive right past our road block while we’re standing here arguing semantics?”

  Erin looked at her shoes. “My apologies, ma’am.”

  Lockwood squinted back down at her papers. “The young man’s name is Trenton Leslie Madison, age seventeen.” She twisted her mouth. “Geez, with two girlie-sounding names, it’s no wonder that boy goes by T. Numerous convictions for fraud, false pretenses, and oh lookie here, he’s a sex offender. Likes pre-teen girls. Well, that explains why he’s on the run with your little friend. She looks young enough to be in elementary school.”

  Erin raised her eyebrows.

  “You wanna say something enlightening before we run outta time?”

  “Uh, before she was caught the last time, Lily was with a girl. I sort of assumed…” She cleared her throat. “I was wondering what the power balance is between these two suspects. In my experience, Lily likes to be in charge, to call the shots, so to speak. She’s comfortable in the woods and prefers rural settings. With this older boy and his revolver, I wonder if the power balance has shifted. He’s nearly a man. Perhaps he’s in charge. If so, her actions may be unpredictable and it’s anyone’s guess where they are ultimately headed.”

  “Good point. I guess you won’t be any help on this case after all. Might as well pack your PJs and go home.”

  Erin’s jaw dropped and she shot a sideways look at Gonzales, who was studiously examining his fingernails.