Wounded Prey

by Sean Lynch

  Elizabeth slowly backed up. She knew she needed to think clearly; to find a way to get help or get out. She watched the man. He calmly pointed his revolver at her and smoked. He was smiling.

  CHAPTER 29

  The battered Dodge truck turned around in the cul-de-sac and backed into Elizabeth Slocum’s driveway. It disgorged a passenger; a dirty-looking man dressed in dirtier clothes. The man walked nonchalantly up to the house. Then, as Farrell and Kearns watched, he forced his way in.

  “Here’s how we’ll play it,” Farrell said. “We’ll take Slocum when he gets out of the truck and walks towards the house.”

  “What about the woman? Slocum’s sister? She’s obviously a hostage; you saw that guy shove her into the house. We go for Slocum, that other guy is going to kill her.”

  “Can’t be helped. We may not get another chance at Slocum. For all we know she’s an accomplice. Maybe she’s hiding them out.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “True or not, Slocum’s our objective; don’t forget that.”

  Farrell bit his lip. “I’ve got an idea. Drive past Elizabeth’s house like you’re going to pull into the driveway of that tan house two doors down.”

  “Are you out of your mind? Slocum will see us halfway down the block.”

  “Do it, goddamn it!”

  Cursing under his breath, Kearns complied. He eased the Oldsmobile out of the park and onto the street. Farrell was fiddling with the volume control of the police scanner.

  “This will let us know when somebody calls the police after the fireworks start. You got extra ammo?”

  Kearns nodded, patting the coat pocket where he’d stashed a handful of .38 rounds. Farrell inserted another shell into the shotgun’s tubular magazine to replace the one he’d chambered. Kearns stopped the car in front of the neighbor’s driveway and backed up. The truck was fifty feet away and Kearns could clearly see the face of Vernon Slocum.

  Slocum hadn’t seen them. He was craning his neck, looking out the truck’s back window at the house as if waiting for a signal. Kearns waited for orders from Farrell.

  “Leave the keys in the ignition, and for God’s sake don’t lock the door when you get out.” Kearns barely heard him.

  He was staring at Vernon Slocum, a mixture of repulsion, hate, and fear swirling within him. For a brief instant he was again flooded with images of the schoolyard. He heard the sound of gunfire, and saw the schoolteacher falling dead. He remembered the powerful jolts to his shoulders as he pummeled Slocum’s face with his fists. He felt the crashing blow to his head as Slocum’s pistol came down on him, his last conscious thought that he was a dead man.

  An elbow from Farrell brought him back. “Are you with me?”

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “He hasn’t seen us yet. We’ll creep around the house between this one and Elizabeth’s. We’ll come up behind him from the neighbor’s driveway. If we’re lucky, he won’t spot us until we’re on top of him. Don’t slam the door when you get out.”

  Kearns nodded and opened the car’s door. His heart was racing, and a part of him couldn’t believe what was happening. He and a man he barely knew were going to sneak up behind an unsuspecting man. If luck was with them they were going to kill him.

  As if Farrell could read his mind, he said, “Kevin, this is no time for second thoughts.”

  “I’m OK. You watch your own ass.”

  Ignoring the last comment, Farrell added, “Don’t hesitate. As soon as you get a shot, take it. Even if his back is turned, you got that? Don’t give him any chance at all. If you do, he’ll shove it down your throat. Get going.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I changed my mind. It won’t do any good if we’re both sneaking around the garage and Slocum gets into the house. I’ll stay here and cover with the shotgun in case he moves while you’re around back.”

  Kearns only nodded. As always, the ex-cop’s logic was irrefutable. He looked back at Farrell. The Californian returned a weak smile and gave a thumbs-up gesture with the hand not cradling the shotgun. Kearns moved towards the back of the house, his revolver in hand.

  Farrell cracked his passenger door and nosed the muzzle of the shotgun out to hasten his exit when the time came. He hoped the young deputy wouldn’t balk.

  Slocum stared at the house. Then he turned his neck around and started rubbing it. He was now facing Farrell, seated in the parked Oldsmobile two driveways away.

  Seconds became hours. Farrell knew Kearns couldn’t have made it around behind Slocum in the short time since he’d left; not in snow this deep.

  Farrell and Slocum locked eyes. It was the same face Farrell met in Saigon; the same evil eyes. The years magically faded, and for a brief moment Farrell found himself in limbo between Saigon in 1967 and Omaha, Nebraska in 1987.

  Slocum’s eyes narrowed and Farrell was jarred back to reality. The game was up. The driver’s door of the Dodge truck flew open. Farrell scrambled to get out of the Oldsmobile.

  Vernon Slocum emerged from the truck, the AR-15 going to his shoulder. Farrell also cleared his car, and was bringing up his own weapon. The distance between the two men was perhaps sixty feet.

  Both men fired. As if by the same bullet, the windshields of both the Oldsmobile and the Dodge exploded in shards of flying glass. Farrell got only one round off before he ducked and took cover behind the engine block of the big sedan.

  Slocum continued to fire in two and three shot strings that tore into the Oldsmobile. Farrell knew the shotgun in his hands was no match for the assault rifle in Slocum’s. He racked another round.

  With bullets whistling over his head Farrell feinted standing up over the hood to draw fire. He then ducked behind the engine and scooted on his knees to the front of the car. He peeked around the headlights and fired all four remaining shotgun rounds at Slocum.

  Slocum went down, his rifle making no sound as it fell in the cushioning snow. Farrell wasn’t sure how badly the big Marine was hurt, if at all; sixty feet was a very long shot for 00 buck. He darted behind the engine block of the Oldsmobile and hastily reloaded the shotgun. Where in the hell was Kearns?

  Kearns heard the shooting start while climbing the shoulder-high fence which separated Elizabeth Slocum’s yard from her neighbor’s. The eruption of gunfire startled him and he nearly fell. He scaled the fence and ran through the snow towards the front of the house; there was no longer any need for stealth. He recognized the report of 5.56 mm gunfire from his military service, as well as the boom of a shotgun, and hoped Farrell could hold out until he arrived.

  Slocum was on his hands and knees behind the Dodge truck. The hail of shotgun pellets Farrell sent his way missed him directly, but one of the 00 buck rounds struck the pavement under the snow. The pellets in that round flattened out and slid under the driver’s door Slocum was using for cover. They peppered Slocum’s left leg below the knee, sending him sprawling to the ground.

  Slocum fought against the pain and rolled under the truck, out of view. The AR-15 lay in the snow beyond his reach. He drew his .45 from his coat pocket and began to crawl to the front of the truck under the chassis.

  Kearns found Slocum on his hands and knees when he came around the corner of the garage. The big man was lowering his head to crawl under the truck on his belly. His back was to Kearns, and his pistol was in his hand.

  Kearns’ breathing stopped. He drew a bead on the center of Slocum’s back, the adrenaline coursing through his body. The red-ramp front-sight of the Smith & Wesson revolver showed clearly on the green background of Slocum’s faded fatigue jacket. He started to squeeze the trigger.

  He choked. He was about to shoot a man in the back. It was against everything he’d been trained to do in the Iowa Law Enforcement Academy, and against all his instincts. He saw the giant hulk of a man on his knees before him, his leg leaving a trail of blood in the snow, and he hesitated, momentarily forgetting who and what Vernon Slocum was.

  A voice screa
med at him from afar. “Shoot! Goddamn it, boy, shoot!”

  The voice was hollow and distant. Kearns looked up to see where it was coming from and saw Farrell. The shotgun was in his hands and he was running from across the street.

  “Shoot!” the older cop yelled again.

  Kearns’ hesitation was over. He looked back to his revolver sights and saw Slocum’s bloody feet disappear beneath the bed of the truck. Cursing at himself, he crouched to peer under the truck. He was now ready to shoot Slocum; all doubt was gone. He never got the chance.

  The front door of the house burst open and the bearded man they’d seen enter Elizabeth Slocum’s house appeared. He was holding Elizabeth by the hair; a woman whose face bore an unmistakable resemblance to Vernon’s. The barrel of a stainless-steel revolver was against her neck. She wore a look of stark terror; a sentiment Kearns identified with.

  The man said nothing, but his meaning was obvious. Make a move or threat towards him, and he would dispatch the woman. Kearns wheeled to face him and leveled his weapon.

  Buddy Cuszack couldn’t find Vernon. He was searching the area of the truck with no success. He saw blood near the truck, and recognized the two men, one old and one young, as plainclothes cops.

  “Vernon?” Buddy called. “Where the fuck are you?”

  With a shriek Elizabeth Slocum wrenched herself from the grasp of the bone-thin man, leaving shanks of her hair in his fist. She didn’t get two steps before Cuszack fired, the .357 slug striking her in the back.

  Images of the schoolyard returned, as Kearns watched another woman succumb to gunfire before him. His jaw tightened and he emptied his revolver into Buddy Cuszack.

  Cuszack danced with the impact of each .38 slug, as six of them ripped through his chest. He sank slowly to the porch. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Farrell was halfway between the Oldsmobile and Elizabeth’s house, running as fast as his two pack a day cigarette habit would let him. Elizabeth Slocum lay face down in the snow on her front lawn, moaning softly, blood seeping from her nose and mouth. Kearns instinctively moved towards the injured woman.

  In the next instant Slocum rose from beneath the truck, aiming his .45 pistol. Kearns raised his weapon and fired, only to be rewarded by a hollow click. He threw himself to the ground and rolled as two shots rang out, both hitting the garage wall where he’d been a split-second before.

  Slocum whirled to face Farrell. Farrell realized with a plummeting heart he was caught in the open, without cover. He fired a hasty shot from the hip, knowing it would go wild even before he pulled the trigger.

  As expected, the shotgun round went high and blasted a bird feeder at the top of Elizabeth’s porch to splintered fragments of pine and sunflower seed. A second after firing Farrell threw himself flat, and like Kearns began to roll for his life. He dropped the shotgun.

  Six .45 slugs followed Farrell, and he felt the crack and whine of their impact on the asphalt under the snow. The distance between Slocum and Farrell was better than thirty feet; not optimum conditions for accurate handgun shooting, especially at a moving target. Though nicked by numerous chips of flying concrete, Farrell was unhurt.

  With his pistol empty and the slide locked back, Slocum hobbled to the driver’s door of the Dodge. He clambered in, and a moment later the truck was screeching down the snow-slickened road away from his sister’s house.

  Farrell regained his feet and drew his two-inch .38 from his hip in a smooth, practiced motion. As the dilapidated truck sped by he fired all five bullets at the driver with seemingly no effect. In another moment the Dodge was around the corner and out of sight.

  Farrell scanned the vicinity for Kearns. The young deputy was kneeling over Elizabeth Slocum’s inert form. He’d placed both arms around her thick waist and was pulling her to her hands and knees. Her breathing was shallow, and with each breath frothy blood spewed from her mouth.

  “You’ve got a punctured lung,” Kearns said to the woman. “But you’re going to be OK. I’m not going to leave you. I’m holding you like this so the blood doesn’t fill your lungs and drown you. Stay with me; it’s going to be alright.”

  Kearns knew in the sub-zero weather shock was only seconds away. He needed an ambulance, and fast. He looked around to the houses on the block and saw several people standing on their porches, gaping at the carnage their neighborhood had become.

  “Help! I need some help!” Kearns called out. “Somebody call an ambulance! I’ve got a hurt woman here. I’m a police officer! Somebody call an ambulance!”

  Sirens sounded faintly in the distance. Farrell ran up to Kearns and grabbed his shoulder. The deputy placed Elizabeth flat on her stomach and tore open the back of her bathrobe where the bullet entered. Elizabeth lost consciousness.

  “C’mon, Kevin, we’ve got to get the hell out of here!” Farrell barked. “She’ll be OK. There’s cops on the way. Let’s go!”

  Ignoring this, Kearns said, “Give me your cigarettes, Bob.”

  Farrell looked puzzled. They had no time for whatever Kearns had in mind. “Kevin, we’ve got to go. Do you want to get caught?”

  “Give me your cigarettes, now!” He rolled Elizabeth over on her back. Sure enough, the exit wound from the revolver slug was large and gaping. Blood-red air bubbles rose from the hole.

  “Give me your fucking cigarettes! Do it!”

  “Shit!” Farrell said, handing over his smokes. “This is a helluva time to take up the habit.” In a few minutes, Omaha PD officers would be filling the block. He urged the younger man to hurry.

  “Kevin, we’ve got to get out of here!”

  Kearns ignored him. He removed the cellophane wrapper from the pack of Camels and tore it in half. He also tore his handkerchief in half. He placed one-half of the cellophane over the exit wound, and the other over the entrance wound in her back. He put a portion of his handkerchief over each cellophane patch. Using his necktie and the cloth belt from Elizabeth’s bathrobe, he tied the makeshift dressings in place. Her breathing got noticeably better. He took off his coat and began to wrap it around her.

  “Alright, you’ve done your civic duty. Let’s go!” The sirens were much louder now.

  Kearns looked up and his eyes met Farrell’s. “I’m not going to leave her. She’ll die. You go.”

  “Don’t be an asshole. I’m not leaving without you. Lose the heroics and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “I can’t just leave you here.”

  “Sure you can; no point in both of us getting caught. But I can’t leave her here to die. Don’t worry, Bob; I won’t say a word about you to the cops. That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?”

  Farrell glared at the deputy, shaking his head in disgust.

  “I won’t rat you out. Now get lost, before they get both of us.”

  Farrell wordlessly turned and ran for the Oldsmobile. Miraculously it started, despite the many .223 holes dotting its body. The Olds screeched out of sight. Kearns watched in silence as Farrell drove away.

  Deputy Kevin Kearns knelt in a snow-blanketed Omaha suburb and rocked a critically injured woman gently in his arms.

  CHAPTER 30

  Kearns sat in an interrogation room in the Investigations Division of the Omaha Police Department. It was well into the night, and he’d been there since the early afternoon. He was exhausted, but couldn’t sleep. The sparse, concrete-walled room he inhabited was cold, and had only a folding chair and table for furniture.

  Less than a minute after Farrell sped away in his bullet-riddled Oldsmobile, police units from OPD came screeching into the quiet residential neighborhood where Elizabeth Slocum once lived in peace. They handcuffed Kearns and took his revolver, badge, and sheriff’s department identification card. As he was stuffed into the back seat of a patrol car he watched Elizabeth attended by paramedics. The last he saw of the woman was her unconscious body being loaded into an ambulance.

  Kearns was taken directly to the pol
ice station and put into the interrogation room in the Investigations Division. People came and looked at him, but as yet no one had spoken. Hours passed.

  His head throbbed. He had dried blood on both hands and on his shirt. They’d taken all of his property, including his belt and shoelaces. He hadn’t even been allowed a phone call. Not that he had anyone to call.

  He was too tired to be upset, afraid, or angry. If anything, disappointment was his dominant emotion. He’d spent the past week on a bizarre odyssey to find and stop a child-killer. The effort had failed, and he was now in deeper trouble than before. His only ally in the quest, an alcoholic ex-cop, had abandoned him to tend to the wounds of Elizabeth Slocum, an innocent woman who wouldn’t have been hurt if he hadn’t bungled their attempt at bagging her brother.

  Undoubtedly the FBI would soon know Slocum’s identity. And Kearns, for all his well-intentioned efforts, would be out of the picture. A system that failed to deal with a monster once would have a chance to fail again.

  Kearns knew with certainty he’d be prosecuted. He’d given Scanlon all the rope needed to hang him now. But he’d give the federal agent no satisfaction.

  The door to the interrogation room opened. Standing in the doorway were Special Agents Scanlon, Lefferty and Tatters. Kearns looked at them with bored disinterest.

  “Well Deputy Kearns, I see we meet again.”

  Kearns smiled thinly. “How’s the nose?”

  Scanlon’s smirk faded, and he instinctively wiped his nose with the Kleenex in his hand. “My nose is damaged, Deputy. More than enough to see you go to jail. How’s your social calendar for the next few years?”

  Kearns shrugged.

  “I’m not going to play games with you. We know a lot, but not everything. You will supply us with information in consideration for leniency in the numerous felony charges against you.”