“Too bad,” Martin replied. “I’ve had a busy, busy day. Tonight I’m leaving for Canada. I’m going to live there. And you, my dear, are my last American adventure.” He smiled knowing the whore would feel honored.
“I’d rather you let me out. Anywhere is fine.” The whore fidgeted in her seat, twisting away from him with one hand on the doorknob.
He used the back of his hand like a hammer and pounded her in the face. It did not knock her out. The whore screamed, throwing open the door. Martin reached across the seat, catching her by the back of the pants. He kept her from jumping out of the van, and increased the speed he drove at, just in case she came loose and fell out.
With as much strength as he could manage, while still steering the van, he pulled her back in. Having never let go of the door handle, the abrupt tugging also caused her to pull the door closed. This time Wringer used his elbow and smashed the side of her head with a crushing blow.
_____________________________
Michael took a quick moment to use his arm like a broom sweeping snow off the front windshield. It was coming down. The wind had picked up. It felt like a hundred below. He jumped into the car and started the engine. He worked the automatic windows. As they lowered for both front doors, snow fell into the car. He put the windows back up—free of snow. He switched on the defrosters as he pulled away from the curb.
The van was nowhere in sight. Michael drove as fast as he could up Lake Avenue. The snowflakes resembled a massive swarm of fat, white bumblebees blanketing the night. Visibility was limited. Michael switched on the car high beams, and switched them off again. The high beams made it more difficult to see. The snow was relentless, panicking Michael. There was little he could do if the van pulled off the main road and went down a side street. He tried to look down each street as he concentrated on the road in front of him. Thankfully, the road looked pretty empty of traffic at this time of night
In a way he wanted a police officer to stop him. None were around.
As he headed toward Ridge Road, he felt overwhelmed. The van could easily have gone east, toward Irondequoit, or west toward the town of Greece. The van could have stayed on Lake heading north. The van could have turned off anywhere at any time.
Not too far in front of Marcus’ car, Michael saw a van swerving back and forth between two lanes. He sped up. The passenger door to the van flew open. He saw someone hanging out and then sucked back in. He quickly closed the distance between them as they raced toward the intersection at Ridge. Michael knew it was the van with Felicia in it. Despite the prevailing weather conditions, he drove faster.
At the intersection, an oncoming car slammed into the side of Marcus’ car sending the sedan spinning. The jarring accident forced the glove compartment to pop open at the same time the air bag exploded in Michael’s face. The sound of brakes resounded off the pavement like werewolves howling in heat at the moon. Michael held onto the steering wheel with both hands. His face, firmly pressed into the air bag was warm with blood. The bag had most certainly broken his nose.
When Michael opened his eyes, he was facing south on Lake. His eyes were watery. His nose throbbed like a son of a bitch and the bag was still inflated. The damned bag was not deflating. He pushed on it with his forearms, hoping to force the air out, though to no avail. In the sun visor Michael found a pen. He raised it above his head and swung it like Norman Bates in the movie Psycho during the shower scene. It took several jabs before the pen penetrated the material. The bag deflated.
Two cars blocked any path forward. People were getting out of their cars. No one looked happy with Michael. He had run the red light.
He slapped the car into reverse and pulled away from the accident. “Get my license plate number,” he yelled out the window. Marcus would be pissed, but he was going to be pissed anyway.
He had lost sight of the van, but could not be more than a few seconds behind. Michael kept his eyes riveted to the road while he waited for the gong-like ringing in his head to subside. His ears throbbed from the deafening noise still going off in his head. Instantly, an ache began to ebb its way down his neck and across his shoulders.
The light from the glove compartment caught his eye. He looked down and was not surprised to see a Glock next to a cell phone.
Michael took the cell phone from the compartment and dialed 9-1-1. He waited impatiently for someone to answer. On the third ring, when the dispatcher greeted him, Michael went off. “Listen, I’m in hot pursuit of Johnny Blade, the serial killer. Right now we’re going—”
“Sir. Sir, please. Where are you calling from?” The dispatcher asked.
“I’m trying to tell you. I’m on a cell phone speeding up—north—up Lake Avenue. I just passed through Ridge Road.”
“We have an accident report that just came in. Ridge and Lake.”
“That was me. I caused that accident,” Michael said. He felt frantic. “Look, this van—”
“Sir, I need you to return to the scene. Police are already arriving at the scene.”
They should be, the precinct could not be more than fifty yards from the accident. “Listen to me! I am chasing Johnny Blade, the serial killer. He’s in a van.”
“Hold on one moment, sir.”
Michael stared at the phone in disbelief.
“What kind of van?”
“White, a white van with dark tinted windows.”
“Hold, sir.” There was a solid minute of silence. Michael used the time to concentrate on relocating the van. Up ahead a vehicle passed under a street light, it was too far ahead to be certain, but Michael thought it might be the van. “Sir? We have Detective Jason Cocuzzi on the line with us.”
Michael heard, “Detective Cocuzzi here?”
Chapter 58
They were on a side street off Lake, by a small residential park. Police officers had the driver of the van face down on the cold pavement. The side of his head was full of blood. Officer Christine Wzros had done a job on him with her nails.
No weapons were in the van. The driver, Mark O’Connor, was drunk. He had a record of physical domestic violence. He had a record for soliciting prostitutes. No one was sure or not if O’Connor was Johnny Blade, although it seemed probable.
Wzros seemed okay. She looked a little shaken, but did her best not to let it show. She had her arms crossed in front of her, snuggling herself, and bracing herself from the cold.
When his cell phone rang, Cocuzzi stepped away from the scene to answer it. “Detecive Cocuzzi here.”
“Detective, it’s me. It’s Michael Buzzelli, from the paper?”
“Look, Buzzelli, I’m kind of busy here—”
“No, detective, wait. It’s about the killer, about Johnny Blade,” Buzzelli said, sounding out of breath.
“This is off-the-record, but we may just have him in custody,” Cocuzzi said with a confident tone. He was getting cocky, but felt he deserved the right to do so. The bastard on the ground with Christine’s claw marks through his face had put him through hell. Now that this might be over, he would not have to deal with the FBI and could perhaps look forward to a sound, solid night’s sleep.
“It’s not him, Cocuzzi. You don’t have the right man. I know. I’m following the sick bastard right now. He has a woman in the car—Felicia!”
Now, as he was connected with the reporter from the Rochester City Chronicle, the detective’s mind spun with uncertainty. He imagined Johnny Blade to be an out of reach psycho—one that they might never catch. He did not want to believe what he was hearing. Surely, Buzzelli was off his rocker. They potentially had the serial killer and were cuffing him and reading him his rights. The nightmare was potentially over, potentially done. Potentially. “What the hell are you talking about? Buzzelli, what the hell is going on?”
“I was following the van that Felicia climbed into. About, I don’t know, a mile past the diner, the side door flew open and Felicia was hanging out of it. Then she went back in and the door closed again. I got in an acc
ident on Ridge, but I left the scene.”
Buzzelli was not making any sense. He did not have time for this nonsense. “Why do you think this is Johnny Blade, and not just Felicia working a john?” Detective Cocuzzi asked. Detective Cage had sauntered up next to him with his hands in his back pockets, looking annoyed with the bust at hand. Cocuzzi held up a finger, letting Cage know something might be up.
“When I saw her climb into the van,” Michael explained, “it was like déjà vu. I saw Vanessa, the other victim, climb into that same van the night she disappeared. I’m certain of it. Same exact van!”
Cocuzzi looked at the creepy guy being placed into the back of a squad car. For some reason the arresting officer was being gentle with the hood, making sure O’Connor did not bump his head. They were wrapping things up. The thought of the killer still lose, still out on the streets and perhaps with a potential victim caused a rumbling in the detective’s belly, an ulcer in the making. Buzzelli was wrong, plain and simple. The reporter had a thing for one of the prostitutes. She keeps on working, Buzzelli gets jealous . . .
Cocuzzi looked at the man who had attacked Christine. He sat in the back of the squad car, staring out the window. He had to be Johnny Blade. Potentially. “And where are you now?” Cocuzzi asked Michael Buzzelli.
“Me? I’m . . .” The line went dead.
_____________________________
Michael let out a scream. The cell phone’s battery died. He could not even get the light inside the phone to glow. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!” He threw the phone at the passenger door. The plastic smashed.
He could no longer travel at fifty miles an hour. The roads felt slick. With the way the wind was now blowing, black ice could be under snow spots on the road. Trying desperately not to become discouraged, he followed Lake Avenue for another few miles, heading toward Lake Ontario. When he spotted the van stopped, only yards in front of him, he thought his heart might stop beating. The van was making a left. Michael signaled his turn and hopped onto the Parkway behind the van. The Parkway was like an expressway. It was two lanes of traffic that led all the way to Canada without any traffic lights or stop signs. The fifty-five speed limit made for happy travelers.
Aside from feeling utterly terrified for Felicia, he knew she had to be all right since the maniac was driving the van. That is, as long as she was still alive.
Michael wondered about heroics. He could use Marcus’ gun and shoot out the tires. If the Blade lost control of the van and crashed and Felicia was hurt . . . No, he would not do that. Nor would he attempt to run the van off the road.
The van kept at a steady speed. Michael followed, keeping his distance. He knew the driver had to be Johnny the Blade. If he had been a normal john, he would have pulled over somewhere on Lake Avenue. Maybe he would have gone to one of the nearby motels. The question now, Where is this maniac headed?
_____________________________
Martin Wringer paid little attention to the whore. Though the pig was still unconscious, she would not be that way for long. He had hit her, but not that hard. When she eventually came to, she might attack him while he was concentrating on his driving. He could not have that. His knife, by the bed, left him with no weapon readily accessible. He was not sure how to proceed. The roads were terrible. Rochester weather made him sick. In his mind he had to ask himself if going further north still made sense. What’s more, he suspected the piss ant in the sedan was following him and that was beginning to get on his nerves. Martin had yet to see another car on the parkway and no street lights either, for that matter. Martin let the van slow down some. The sedan began to catch up. Martin slowed slightly more, keeping the van at fifty. Any slower and the driver in the car might become suspicious.
When the car slowly caught up to him, Martin checked all around him to make sure no cars were around, and then slowed even more. He wanted the sedan to try and pass, then he would steer into the car and force the driver off the road.
_____________________________
Michael did not know what to do. The van kept slowing down. If he did not pass, the driver would know something was up. If he passed, then the van could exit anywhere and he would be stuck. He could not pass the van and drive at fifty without adding to suspicion.
“Dammit,” Michael said, looking at the shattered cell phone in pieces on the car mats. He took the gun out of the glove compartment and set it in his lap. He had fired a gun before, during college he hung out with many criminal justice majors. A lot of them did co-op for the local police station. On the weekends they would go as a group to the firing range in town. This was no firing range. He was not sure he could even use a gun. This was not like a movie where the star kills everyone and makes one-liner jokes about it. The thought of shooting another human being was furthest from his mind.
He pulled into the left lane and sped up.
As he came along side the van, he found he could not see the driver. The van door filled the passenger side window in the sedan. Michael would need to lean across the front seat and look up and out the window to catch a glimpse of the driver. Instead, as he started to pass the van, he lost control of the vehicle.
It was not until a split second later that he realized what had happened. The son of a bitch was trying to force him off the road. The contact sent the sedan to the shoulder. Michael slammed on the brakes just as the van veered toward him a second time. The van wobbled back and forth as the driver corrected his actions after missing the car.
Michael sped up and slammed the nose of the sedan into the van’s rear. This jolted him and he slammed his forehead into the steering wheel with such force he was sorry he had punctured the air bag. Every part of his body seemed to be aching. The steady buzz in his ears had done nothing but increase. Michael ignored everything and floored the gas pedal, sending the sedan into the van, again. This time Michael thought he might be prepared for the crash, but was not. He was so tense the pain in his arms, shoulders and neck only intensified. The seatbelt felt like it had burned and cut through the flesh around his neck.
When the van slammed on its brakes, Michael was completely caught off guard. He felt the tail end of the sedan rise in the air, and watched in horror as the hood of the sedan crumpled into a pointed triangle. Michael thought the entire dashboard had lunged at him, and feared the engine block might wind up on his lap.
Freeing himself from the seatbelt, Michael threw open the door and jumped out of the car.
The van tried to pull away, but the fenders were hooked together.
Michael found it near impossible to move. The snow covered ground felt wonderful on his painfully aching bones and muscles. His head was spinning and he could not think, or see clearly. The blizzard around him gave the illusion of being lost in a dream sequence. Michael knew his arm was broken. Pain was coursing its way from the elbow directly to his head. Finding words to describe the kind of excruciating pain would be difficult. Take a big tree branch, lean it standing up against a wall and then kick the branch in two. That was how his arm felt, kicked in two.
He heard the van’s engine whining and racing. The tires spun uselessly on the pavement, unable to gain enough traction and force to separate the van from the collision. Slowly, Michael rolled over onto his side. He saw the van’s driver side door open. He felt like everything around him was moving in slow motion.
Trapped. He felt as if he were lying on a ground covered with molasses. His head hurt badly. His nose ached. For some reason, lying down and going to sleep was a comforting thought.
The sedan’s one working headlight hung by wires sending enough light around to produce odd shaped shadows. The car’s directional blinked on and off, signaling a turn the car would never make.
Michael saw Johnny Blade had Felicia by the hair. Johnny Blade dragged her out of the vehicle. She was alive, screaming and kicking. Michael watched as Johnny Blade punched Felicia in the face. The punch sent her reeling and into a snow bank, not too far away.
Johnny Blade got ba
ck into the van, but did not shut his door.
The gun, Michael thought. The gun.
It could still be in the car—on the seat. It could be lost somewhere in the snow. He did not know where to look. The damned thing could be anywhere.
When he saw Johnny Blade come out of the van, he saw the glimmering reflection of a knife’s blade. They were going to die, out in the open. Out on a main highway and there was nothing he could do about it.
Where was the gun? Michael kept asking himself. He tried to pull himself up to his knees. He thought his right arm might be broken. The pounding in his head was like thunder claps with each heartbeat. He knew he might pass out. He knew if he closed his eyes, the pain would go away.
Felicia screamed.
The charge of her scream triggered Michael into motion. He reached out with his left arm. His fingers dug into the snow. He pulled himself a little closer to where Johnny Blade stood over Felicia.
A horn honked, and he turned his head to look at the car headed east on the Parkway. He wanted to see the car stop; he quickly said a prayer that the car would stop. When it drove on by, he swore under his breath.
Would he have stopped? Not likely.
Johnny Blade dropped to his knees.
Michael got up to his knees. An impression was in the snow. He fell forward, reaching with his good arm. His hand went elbow deep into the snow. The cold seemed to burn his exposed flesh. He found the gun.
_____________________________
Martin Wringer dropped to his knees with a smile. He would kill the girl, kill the jerk from the sedan and flag down some road assistance for help. When the car stopped, he would kill the driver and get the hell out of Dodge.
It was a shame to kill this whore without having had her first, but he saw no other choice. And really, it did not matter. Canadian whores, US whores—all North American, right?
Johnny Blade Page 26
