by Marc Cameron
One of the other boys, a sensitive eight year old named Denny, bent over the pavement by the van door with a bloody nose. Camille turned her attention to him and left Shawn alone to show off his “guns.”
Quinn was sure all the Thibodaux boys were just as grouchy as Mattie at having their day at the amusement park postponed while their daddy met with a bunch of men in suits. Jacques sauntered around the corner of the van and gave Quinn a high five with a hand that looked like it could palm a bowling ball. He was a mountain of a man with an iron jaw and a regulation high and tight haircut that made him look even more severe than the black eye patch, courtesy of a gunfight in Bolivia while on a mission with Quinn.
“Well, we made it, Chair Force,” he said, never missing the chance to take a jab at Quinn’s branch of the service. “And that ain’t no small feat. Getting all my boys here without someone throwin’ up or bitin’ a hunk out of one another is a minor miracle. Know what I’m sayin’?”
The two older boys ran to Mattie so they could stare in awe at the distant waterslide together. All three had carefully measured themselves several times over the last week to make certain they would meet the criteria to step on the trapdoor of the big slide. Now, even Shawn looked a little shaken by the sheer height of the monstrosity.
Camille stooped to blot Denny’s bloody nose with a tissue she dug out of the pocket of the sheer cover-up.
“You sure you don’t want to put on more clothes, Cornmeal?” Jacques said, throwing a diaper bag over his shoulder. “It’s liable to get chilly after the sun goes down.
Camille shot him an impatient look. “I spent the last month in the gym and shaved my legs anticipatin’ this trip,” she said. “And I’m not waistin’ a wax by covering everything up.” Leaving Denny with the tissue, she dragged the baby out of the car seat and nodded to the diaper bag in Thibodaux’s hand. Quinn had seen the big man in so many firefights it was odd to see him acting like the father that he was.
“Don’t forget to put a half dozen more diapers in there,” Camille said, strapping the baby to a folding stroller. “I put a new bag behind the seats.”
Quinn walked with his friend to the twin ambulance doors on the back of the van. He shook his head when he saw how many diapers Jacques stuffed into the pack. “The park closes in less than four hours. How many do you think he’ll go through?”
Thibodaux gave a long, low whistle and shook his head. “I swear my Henry’s like some baby alchemist. He can manufacture a half gallon of poop from two tablespoons of mashed peas.”
“What do you think about all this?” Quinn asked, nodding toward the park gates.
“I’m with you, l’ami,” Thibodaux said. He looked sideways at the high walls and constant flow of people coming in and out of the park. “There’s risk in everything. But there’s risk in makin’ the little ones grow up locked inside a fortress.” A wide grin spread across the Marine’s face as he wife walked up. “And besides,” he said, “I get to spend the next few hours looking at the best pirate booty around.”
Camille punched him in the arm, but her smile said she never got tired of the attention he heaped on her.
Ronnie sidled up next to Quinn, holding one of the younger Thibodaux boys by the hand. Mothering suited her, but Quinn didn’t dare bring it up. Apparently able to read Quinn’s mind from the look on his face, she fell right in to the conversation. “I have to admit I don’t like being unarmed either,” she said. “There’s just no way to carry in a water park.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jacques said as they began to walk as a group toward the gates. Mattie and the three eldest boys were in the lead, Camille pushing the stroller and Jacques with one boy on his wide shoulders and another by the hand. Quinn was the only one not watching out for a Thibodaux boy which was all right with him. It allowed him to keep an eye on Mattie.
“Wait a minute,” Quinn said. “You’re armed?”
“Damned right I’m armed,” Thibodaux said. “Got a little Ruger .380 under my board shorts.” He shrugged. “I know it ain’t much, but I call it my gun-gettin’ gun. I figure if it hits the proverbial fan, there’s liable to be guns aplenty.” He gave the crotch of his shorts a tap. “Crossways, right here.”
“Looks like a way to shoot yourself in the femoral artery,” Garcia chuckled.
“Well,” Thibodaux raised the brow over his good eye and wagged his head. “I ain’t pointin’ it at anything important.”
Mattie drifted back, falling in beside Quinn as they neared the gate. “I’m so excited I have to go to the bathroom.”
“We’ll find one as soon as we get inside,” Quinn said.
That’s okay,” Mattie said. “I memorized the map. We turn left and walk through the food court. Restrooms are right on the way to the Dead Drop.”
“Good job on the map,” Quinn said. “But are you sure you want to start with the biggest slide in the park?”
“Daddy!” she said, lowering her voice so Shawn Thibodaux couldn’t hear. “Don’t act like I’m a baby. I’m almost nine, you know. We have been waiting all week to do this.” She blushed. “Shawn said he’d go before me.”
Quinn sighed. Maybe the nagging feeling in his gut had to do with Mattie discovering boys. If Shawn hadn’t been Thibodaux’s son, they might have taken the Dead Drop together and had a little man-to-man talk—even if he was only twelve.
* * *
Mukhtar paced back and forth in the outer waiting area of the offfice of the park manager, Mr. Cunningham. The sun was below the trees now, sinking rapidly. His father would be joining his friends at the mosque down the street from their apartment for maghrib, or sunset prayer. The stone in the boy’s chest grew heavier at each passing moment. Mr. Cunningham made it a point to tell all of his employees when they hired on that while he did not want to interfere with their religious practices, park rules forbade them from praying in public and frightening the guests. Fadila had grown angry at the news but she had said nothing. If she and her friend were going to do something tonight, it would happen during maghrib.
“He is coming back soon?” Mukhtar asked the heavyset lady at the front desk. The tag on her black and white striped sailor shirt said her name was Tiffany.
“I told you, hon,” she said, “I don’t know. Why don’t you just tell me what it is you need and I’ll pass it on to Mr. Cunningham?”
“Listen to me, Miss Tiffany,” Mukhtar said. He leaned across the desk, talking through clenched teeth. “This is a matter of life and death.”
“I see.” The woman turned white. “Are you threatening me? Because I will not hesitate to call the police.”
“By all means,” Mukhtar said, staring out the window as the sun dipped below the tree line to the west. “Call the police.” He looked back at the woman who sat frozen at her desk.
Mukhtar slammed his fist down in front of her, knocking a pile of papers to the floor.
“This is definitely a threat,” he screamed, spittle flying from his teeth. This woman obviously had never seen what a suicide vest could do to a crowd of children. “Call the police!”
He picked up the phone and shoved it in her face, dialing 911 himself before turning to look out the window again. The last rays of golden light flickered out in the tops of the oak trees.
It did not matter now. They would never arrive in time.
* * *
The late evening did nothing to thin the huge crowds. Strings of electric lights illuminated the concrete pathways between stands selling corndogs, shaved ice, and pork chops on a stick. The smell of fried grease and chlorine filled the evening air and Quinn could not help but think there wasn’t enough oxygen to go around.
Thick oaks that gave welcome shade during the day provided far too many dark places for bad things to hide for Quinn’s way of thinking. Mattie ran ahead as soon as she saw the long stockadelike building where the restrooms were located.
Garcia stood next to Quinn, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” she
said, starting for the restrooms.
He’d been right about the yellow swimsuit. Theoretically a modest one piece, there was little modest about it. Ever so slightly on the zaftig side of an athletic build, Quinn was not sure any piece of clothing beyond a loose flour sack would be considered modest on Veronica Garcia. She wore a black swimming wrap tied around her waist and a light cover-up much like Camille’s over her shoulders. Neither did much to cover anything up. There was certainly no place to hide a weapon, even one as small as Jacques’s gun-gettin’ gun.
“I’ll go with them,” Camille said. “After seven kids, I know better than to pass up a chance to go to the bathroom.” She took the baby out of the stroller. “It’s been fifteen minutes. I know this one will need a change anyhow.”
“I hate to see her leave.” Thibodaux grinned. “But I sure like watchin’ her walk away.”
One of the little boys said he needed to go too. Jacques told Shawn to take him, but Dan, the second oldest at ten, volunteered. He was quiet, more reserved than any of his brothers, and reminded Quinn a little of himself as a kid—which is probably why Mattie was drawn to the older brother.
“Go now or forever hold your pee,” Thibodaux said, rounding up the remaining sons. “The rest of you stick with me.”
Streetlights blinked on in the gathering darkness up and down the park pathways. The last rays of the setting sun finally disappeared below the trees as Quinn looked at his watch.
One of the logs on the log ride splashed into the pool at the end of the flume fifty meters away, sending up chorus of giddy screams along with the spray of water.
A moment later and the entire park shook with the sound of an explosion.
Quinn and Thibodaux exchanged looks. Both had been downrange enough to know the sound of a bomb when they heard it.
The Cajun scooped his boys closer in big arms, nodding back toward the way they’d come in. “It came from that way,” he said to Quinn, his face set in a grim line.
Terrified screams punctuated by sporadic gunfire filled the night air. People ran in every direction, disoriented from the panic and the blast. A woman ran past holding the limp body of a toddler that looked as if it had been dipped in blood. A man with what was left of a shredded leg, dragged a woman much older than himself to a nearby patch of grass.
Camille ran from the restrooms with baby Henry held tight against her chest.
Jacques gave an audible sigh at the sight of his wife. “Thank the Lord,” he said.
“Where’s Mattie?” Quinn shouted above the panicked crowd.
“I thought they were behind me,” Camille said. She did a headcount and shot a terrified look at Jacques. “Two missing?”
Quinn nodded toward a large pirate ship at the end of the kiddie pool. Rifle fire popped in front and behind them. It appeared to be the only safe direction.
Thibodaux put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Take the boys and hide in the ship.”
“Wait for us there.” Quinn nodded in agreement. “We’ll bring the others to you.”
The smell of smoke and charred flesh carried in on a hot wind from the initial blast. Thibodaux was already moving. Quinn ran beside him against the flow of a fleeing crowd, toward the sound of gunfire—and his little girl.
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Photo by V. Otte
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of Texas, MARC CAMERON has spent over twenty-nine years in law enforcement. His assignments have taken him from rural Alaska to Manhattan, from Canada to Mexico and points in between. A second-degree black belt in jujitsu, he often teaches defensive tactics to law-enforcement agencies and civilian groups. Cameron presently lives in Alaska with his wife and his BMW motorcycle.
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