by Jim Guhl
As I chewed the chocolate chip cookie, I walked up to a picture on the wall, an old-fashioned painting of people walking in a big city, probably New York. The frame was gold and expensive looking. Why would a murderer have a fancy picture like that? I told myself to get serious and focus on the mission.
The thought of opening drawers gave me the willies at first. I needed to look for the gun, but what else might be in there—knives, brass knuckles, maybe somebody’s cut-off finger? I pulled the first one open slowly. What I found were pens, pencils, and paper. I pulled open another drawer and found napkins and hot pads. A third drawer contained measuring spoons and a telephone book.
Jiminy Christmas! Is this guy a killer or isn’t he?
I moved on to the living room and it was fancier than expected. A grandfather clock ticked loudly with a brass pendulum that swung back and forth behind a glass front. The crest of the clock had lots of intricate carving, topped off with an eagle. Its wings were spread apart, ready to fly, and the head gazed fiercely at the ceiling. The couch and end tables were old and fancy too, with swirly carved wooden legs and everything stained and varnished to a dark, blackish shine. Two more old-fashioned pictures hung on the walls. One was of a sailing ship fighting storm-tossed waves on a green ocean. The other showed a lady in a long blue dress gazing out at a field of flowers. What kind of a snake den was this? It was more like the home of somebody’s rich grandma.
I moved over to the coffee table, where several magazines lay fanned out. Most were different copies of the same thing—Antique Collectors Digest. A single copy of The Sporting News lay at the bottom of the pile. On a small side table I found a TV Guide, just like Mom always read, and a bowl of mixed nuts. I helped myself to a cashew and moved on to the next room.
The bathroom was plain and boring, with a medicine cabinet stocked with the usual junk—cough drops, aspirin, a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. The sink and bathtub were spotless. The toilet had one of those fuzzy seat covers and looked brand new. I looked at the towels hanging by the sink.
Embroidered yellow flowers?
The stairs to the second floor creaked like old bones as I tiptoed from one step to the next. It sent a chill through my scalp. I turned the brass doorknob on my left and had a funny feeling that the fancy house tour was over. I don’t know what I expected—an arsenal of guns, a torture chamber—maybe a skeleton swinging from a noose like the covers of the western comic books. What I found was more of the same, another room right out of Better Homes and Gardens magazine. The bed was made, the dresser uncluttered. A fancy stained-glass lamp sat on the end table.
I stood to the side as I pulled open the closet door just in case it had been booby trapped. The explosion never came. A couple dozen shirts and sweaters hung there in perfect order, like the pages in a book. A few still had the plastic from the dry cleaners wrapped over the top. Two black-and-white striped referee shirts filled the slots along the right side and two pairs of black shoes rested neatly on the floor.
I poked my head behind the shoes and found a white, cardboard box. Beneath the lid, the box was full of papers, neatly separated into sections by cardboard dividers. One section was labeled “Taxes.” I pulled out a 1040 form and looked it over. I said the words out loud.
“Taxpayer’s name. Howard W. Shulepick.”
There it was. The name of the son of a bitch who murdered my dad. I paused and repeated the name, memorizing the spelling. Satisfied, my eyes drifted further down the page. Earned income—$938.
What?! A kid could practically earn that much.
I nosed deeper into the files and found about a million receipts from antique furniture places and auction houses in big cities like Chicago, Philadelphia, and New York.
Holy Kamoly! Shulepick had paid $5,200 for a pair of mirrors. The clock with the eagle was another $26,000, and get this: the painting called Blue Lady was bought for $85,000 all by itself. I took a photograph of the Blue Lady receipt with my Instamatic and continued snooping through the file box.
I waded through some boring junk like homeowners insurance and heating oil receipts. Then guess what I found. News clippings. They were all piled into a plain folder labeled “Jobs,” and at the top of the stack was the front page of the Post-Crescent on the day after the murder of Sheriff Heiselmann. I dug down further and found another front-page article about the murder of my dad.
A tornado swirled inside me, and I didn’t know if I should scream or punch the wall. It was bad enough that he killed Dad, but to call it a Job and save the newspaper like a souvenir? It boiled my blood.
“I’ll kill him,” I whispered to myself. It felt good to say the words, even though I knew it was all just talk, with the Model 12 still sitting back home. The thought of my Eaglewing steel-toed boots passed through my mind, and I wished I hadn’t left them at the basement steps.
Were the papers enough to nail him? I wasn’t sure, and it bugged me. What I really, really needed was that gun. There was one more room to check out and something told me that it held the key to putting Shulepick away for good. I took photos of the remaining forms, receipts, and news clippings with my X-15 and shoved the file box back in the closet.
There was only one other room on the second floor. I tried turning the door knob but found it locked. I eyeballed the gap around the edge of the door and tried peeking through the old-fashioned keyhole. No luck.
Maybe I can jimmy the thing.
Then I remembered that my sack of tools was still outside by the busted basement window. I pulled out my Old-Timer pocket knife with the lifetime guarantee and slipped the two-inch blade into the gap. I wiggled it and heard the bolt click before turning the knob and swinging the door open.
It took a couple seconds for my eyes to focus. Then . . . “Judas Priest!”
It was no bedroom; that was for sure. Granite-topped counters lined one whole side of the room. Tanks of oxygen and propane-fed Bunsen burners larger than anything I had seen at Shattuck High. Glass flasks and beakers of every size lined the shelves. On another shelf, the finished product. Baggies of white powder. Smaller baggies of brown crystals. A quart jar half-full of tiny blue pills, each triangular in shape. Another jar held little red ones, and there were whites in another. That’s when I remembered Larry Buskin’s words about the sheriff being mixed up with a drug supplier.
Drug supplier? Criminy! He’s making the stuff!
I pulled out my X-15, pushed a new flash cube into the top, and started clicking pictures of the drug laboratory. The creep was killing people all right, and it wasn’t just with guns. I opened a few drawers and found them loaded with more chemistry supplies. On the countertop, an ashtray held three cigarette butts burned down to the filters. I leaned in close and, sure enough, the tiny blue letters spelled out the word Winston. I pocketed one, another clue, but still not the keystone that I wanted.
My eyes focused on a bright-colored rectangle on the floor. An oriental rug? In a chemistry lab? Something about it just didn’t add up. On a hunch I lifted a corner to look underneath and my eyes caught the reflection of a brass ring attached to what appeared to be a small trapdoor in the floor. I pulled the ring slowly, again fearing a booby trap. When the thing flopped all the way open I saw only one object—a handgun case. I pulled it out and opened the latches. There it was—shiny black with wooden grips. I read the numbers out loud that were inscribed on the barrel.
“3—5—7”
Sure as heck, it was the .357 Magnum revolver that the Cadillac Man had used to kill my dad. In my shaking hands I held the key. The experts would match it to the bullet. Of that I was certain. Howard W. Shulepick’s days were numbered. I was sure of it. Maybe it would be life in Waupun Prison, or maybe he would fry in the electric chair. Either way—I had him. I would call Agent Culper as soon as I got home. I wouldn’t even wait until Camera & Card developed the pictures.
Just then, I heard it. The sound of car tires crunching through the packed snow. I peeked behind the window curtain.
&nbs
p; Holy crap on a cracker! The Cadillac Man! He was back!
50
My first instinct was to bolt for the front door, but the Cadillac Man hadn’t wasted any time and was already approaching with keys in hand. I dashed toward the basement, tripping over my Eaglewings as I flew down the steps. I nearly tumbled but caught myself on the banister before running toward the shaft of light on the back wall.
Ach! Something stabbed my right foot. I looked down. My stockinged feet stood on shards from the busted window. I reached down and pulled a dagger of glass out of the bottom of my left foot. The blood gushed out, instantly soaking my sock.
It didn’t matter. Get out! Get away! Adrenaline had taken over and my brain had shifted to survival mode. I threw both the revolver and my X-15 out the open window and reached for the top rim of the cement blocks underneath, only to find that they were sloped and my hands couldn’t get a grip.
What? Two months of pull-ups wasted because I couldn’t grip the stupid window sill? I looked around for something to stand on. The kitchen door clunked shut.
No noise. No noise.
I spotted an old dresser and gave it a shove toward the window. The scraping sound echoed off the concrete walls.
Crud! I glanced back at the door. A shadow passed over the crack of light but just as quickly moved away.
In silent panic I lifted the dresser off the ground and monkey walked it beneath the window. Another knife blade of pain shot through me—the left foot this time, and a sort of warm stickiness now saturated both feet.
Will I escape only to bleed to death?
The sounds of footsteps seemed to move back and forth upstairs. The floor let out a rusty hinge sound. I glanced again at the crack of light underneath the door to the kitchen. Another shadow came and went, then came back. Was he listening?
I stood perfectly still, sensing the hammering of my heart inside of my sliced-up feet. Placing one knee on top of the dresser, I hoisted myself up. My bloody feet and socks nearly slipped on the varnished top as I tried to push my head and arms through the small rectangle of sunlight.
Jeez! Climbing in had been so easy. My arms and elbows were wedged and useless on both sides of my body. In desperation, I tried launching myself up and out by jumping off the top of the dresser.
It worked. My body shot through the opening up to my waist. At the same time, the dresser tipped back and crashed to the floor with a BAM!
It was panic time. I wiggled and squirmed like a rabbit trying to squeeze through a knothole. I heard the loud thud of the basement door flying open followed by the thunder of feet charging down the wooden steps. The top half of me was through the window, but my belt buckle had hung up on the sill. I swept my arms wildly. I was swimming in soggy snow, clawing like crazy with nothing to grip.
God . . . Help me!
At last, my arms found the dead grass underneath the snow. I yelled and tensed with an enormous tug that pulled the rest of me up and out the window.
For a microsecond I thought I had made it, but before I could stand and run, something clamped onto my foot like the grip of the devil himself trying to pull me back down into that dark hole. I snapped my head around. The hand gripped my ankle like a noose. Tendons strained through the skin and the knuckles were volcanoes. Attached to the hand was a muscular arm and above the elbow were those black-and-white stripes. It was me against that powerful arm, yanking, tugging to get me back into that hellhole. I kicked the hand with my free foot but couldn’t shake it.
Then, without even thinking, my body replicated something I had seen on the Wild Kingdom TV show. It was the crocodile roll. I spun once, completely over and back to my belly. It loosened the grip so I spun again—another full 360—and broke free, leaping forward and looking backward at the same time. In the second that I paused, I got my second look at a hate-filled face right out of a horror movie.
I jumped to my feet and ran away like a leg-shot deer leaving a trail of blood. My instincts steered me toward the brush by the Soo Line tracks where Eisenhower lay waiting. But then I heard the house door crash open and looked back. The Cadillac Man was on my tail, arms and legs churning like Bob Hayes.
“Dammit!”
There was no time to retrieve Ike. I needed a plan B and I needed it fast. Emerald Gardens was just two blocks. Jeez! If I could make it there.
My stocking-footed sprint was no match for the Cadillac Man. Glancing back, all I saw were black-and-white stripes, a bright-red face, and two layers of teeth.
He’ll twist my head off!
I reached into my gut and found another gear. My strides became explosions of pain. My face was on fire.
The killer was just twenty yards back when I yanked open the side door of Emerald Gardens, slammed it shut, and turned the latch. I ran through the dark hallway and seconds later heard him banging and clawing against the locked door. A brief silence followed. Then BOOM! The Cadillac Man slammed the full force of his body, like a battering ram, at the door. BOOM! CRACK! He hit it again and something in the door frame gave way at the same time. SMASH! He stormed into the hallway, and at almost the same moment I flew out the other side and into the parking lot.
I charged to Asa’s truck and reached under the fender to the top of the front tire. There they were—the keys, right where I had left them. I jumped in, slammed the door, and hammer-fisted the lock button as the Cadillac Man flew out of Emerald Gardens, looking left and right. He hadn’t seen me. I cranked the engine. It groaned twice, then roared to life. I looked up again and locked eyes with Howard W. Shulepick. His whole face was one enormous snarl the moment before he charged.
I slowly engaged the clutch and revved the engine at the same time.
Don’t stall! Don’t stall! Don’t stall!
The tires gripped the pavement, and I lifted my left foot completely off the clutch pedal while gradually upping the throttle. He grabbed my driver’s side door handle at the same time that my tires screeched and produced a cloud of white smoke.
The Cadillac Man yanked and pounded at the door handle as he ran alongside the truck. He tried to punch out the glass but hit the metal edge instead. For a second I thought I had lost him. Then I looked at the side mirror and it was filled with black-and-white stripes. Good grief! I was dragging the creep.
I steered toward a snowbank and sideswiped it with an impact that shook the whole truck. It worked. The next thing I saw in my mirror was the Cadillac Man skidding to a stop on his belly.
Yes! I shook a clenched fist like a gladiator. Then—Uh-oh. What was that in his hands?
The explosion of the bullet through the truck’s windows sent a million, gravel-sized bits of glass into the cab. The rear glass was gone. The front windshield had shattered into a spider web. BOOM! Another shot rang out, only louder this time. The second bullet hit the windshield just a few inches to the right of my head and shattered it even more. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! More glass shattered. The truck kept going and I was still breathing, apparently not hit.
In my side mirror I watched him turn and run. Was he heading back toward his house? It was my chance to get away. Suddenly I remembered the .357 Magnum as a way to fight back. The sickening realization struck that I had left it laying on the ground as well as my X-15 instamatic camera.
My brain shifted to survival mode. About a million thoughts ran through me like a cloud of bugs under a street light. Run for home? No . . . he’ll kill Mom and Sally. Run for Mark’s house? Nope . . . same problem.
Wait a minute. Drive to the police station!
I zoomed up to the stop sign, and turned right on Main with ideas of racing through downtown. I was met by the flashing lights and dropping crossarm of the railroad crossing barrier.
“No!” I shouted, as a single, red-and-white locomotive engine blasted its whistle and rolled slowly across Main Street. “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” I yelled. The engine had barely passed when it came to a dead stop.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
I had to get out of there, s
o I threw the shift lever into reverse and looked over my shoulder only to see a little old lady in a blue sedan right on my bumper. Holy mackerel! I was wedged!
I checked out the window. No sign yet of the Cadillac Man.
“Come on! Come on! Come on!”
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The locomotive finally rumbled back and out of the intersection. I ground my teeth and bit my lip.
“Come on! Come on! Come on!”
The crossarm started rising, and like a maestro, I working the shift lever, clutch pedal, and throttle. The truck inched forward. CLUNK! Killed it! A fresh flood of panic poured through me as I pushed in the clutch pedal and fired up the engine again.
“Come on! Come on!”
The truck lurched forward a few feet and CLUNK!—Dead again. I checked through the shattered window and there it was, the black Cadillac, charging toward me like a dragster. I fired up the engine and put all my attention on those two foot pedals.
“One Mississippi—Two Mississippi—Three Mississippi.” It caught. I hammered the throttle and screamed over the tracks.
As I roared east on Main with my stomach halfway up my throat, I whipped past a couple cars and decided to take my chances right down the center of the yellow line. Cars veered left and right to get out of my way. I screeched the tires, making the big sweeping turn around the curved, red-brick wall of the Bergstrom mill. My eyes darted to the side mirror.
Nuts!
The maniac was right on me. The truck tires screeched through a sharp right and then a sharp left as I ignored every stop sign. With the spire of the clock tower in front of me, I pushed down the accelerator determined to make the green light. Just as it turned yellow I barreled through safely, then checked the mirror again. The black Cadillac never slowed down, flying through on the red light, barely missing the stream of cross traffic.
Suddenly I realized that I couldn’t stop no matter what or the Cadillac Man would put a bullet in my head. The idea of going to the police station was out. I had no weapons to fight back. My only hope was to ditch him.
