Fatal Demand

by Nigel Blackwell Diane Capri

  He cleaned the front door and the doorknob and then took on the bathroom, wiping the surfaces and the taps. He opened a small bottle of bleach and splashed it liberally in the sink, bathtub, and toilet.

  He ran the water in the sink and the bathtub for a while, and flushed the toilet several times.

  When he was finished the entire room smelled of bleach. His prints were gone and there was little chance of anyone tracing his DNA, should anyone have cause to bother. He shuddered to think what a DNA search would uncover here especially because the room contained so much residual DNA before he checked in.

  He bundled the bleach wipes into the plastic bag, crushing them down on the razor and soap. He wiped the plastic room key card and added it to the bag. When he was miles away, he’d find a good disposal option. Nothing would be linked to him.

  He used the last disinfectant cloth to open the front door and to close it firmly behind him.

  The air outside was milky white. A thick mist swirled around the motel’s neon sign. He couldn’t see the far end of the motel less than thirty yards away. He cursed in Italian. He had twenty-five miles to drive. The poor visibility would slow him down.

  His heartbeat quickened. He felt heat flush from his neck to his hairline. He flexed his fists and then took a couple of deep breaths to temper his anger. He’d built extra time into his plans. He’d make it.

  He pulled off the gloves, unlocked his white compact rental car, and threw his overnight bag on the rear seat. He stuffed the plastic bag in the passenger foot-well, close enough that he could easily reach over and throw it out when the chance arose.

  The little white compact started easily. He reversed and zipped around to pull out onto what constituted the main two-lane road. There were no buildings and no streetlights nearby. The motel was a couple of miles out of town, just as its customers wanted. He turned left, weaving until he found the far side of the road. The rental’s lights barely illuminated ten feet in front of him. He cursed his lack of cat’s eyes that could see in the fog and crawled along the road.

  He passed a sign indicating the little town of Sydney was one mile ahead. He ran through his route in his head. U.S. back road routes were deceptive. Long straight roads invited relaxed driving. They lulled him into near somnolence, particularly when he’d had so little sleep. Yet one missed turn could lead him in the wrong direction and might not be discovered for miles.

  The fog thinned out. Not much, but enough to see the trees on either side of the road. He picked up his speed. The faint glow of life appeared in front of him. Sydney, according to the town limit sign.

  He passed a twenty-four hour greasy spoon, lights on but no cars in the parking lot. He entered the center of the empty town. Streetlights helped illuminate the road, at least. Small shops lined the sidewalks. A few had left lights on for security, but Luigi saw no one inside the buildings.

  He slowed at the red light in the very center of the tiny town. He sneered. This place was the definitive middle of nowhere. He looked at the rental’s clock and back at the red light. What was he slowing for? Not a soul was anywhere around and he was running late thanks to the fog.

  Luigi jammed his foot down on the accelerator. The rental’s little engine groaned, the gearbox changed down, and the sound grew to a thrashing wail.

  The car jerked forward, leaning back on its suspension as it picked up speed. Luigi raced through the light. He needed to hurry. He didn’t know what lay ahead.

  He passed a used car lot and a Starbucks loomed ahead. His mouth salivated. Caffeine. About a gallon of the stuff would be welcome right now. But as he approached, he saw the Starbucks wouldn’t be open for hours. He sped past.

  A light appeared in his rearview mirror. Two lights. Headlights. A car, all the way back at the intersection by the red blinking traffic light.

  He slowed a fraction. The car turned onto the main road and traveled in Luigi’s direction.

  He checked his speed. Forty-five. The car behind was gaining on him.

  The streetlights ran out at the end of the last block. A few ranch-style houses, dark still at this hour, dotted the sides of the road. In a moment, even they ran out.

  Behind him the car was three lengths back. Red and blue lights flicked brightly in the morning darkness. Cops.

  Luigi swore. There was nothing he hated more than the routine traffic stop. Not that a couple of cops worried him. He was fast enough, and armed well enough, to handle them. It was the whole law enforcement machine that would be put in motion afterward that worried him.

  Traffic stops were called in before the officers approached the stopped vehicle. Dispatchers kept track. They waited to check names and addresses, run license plates or driver’s license numbers.

  When Luigi was stopped, none of those routines would happen. Dispatchers quickly found the officers non-responsive to radio calls.

  Then the machine would kick in.

  Alerts would be issued. GPS trackers would identify the cruiser’s location. Dashboard cameras, and even body-mounted cameras, were expected to identify him.

  Nothing drew police attention faster than “officer down.”

  Luigi didn’t care about confrontation or killing a policeman. He had zero interest in allowing a traffic stop to end his successful run. He was worthy of much better.

  The police cruiser gained on him. Luigi didn’t slow. There was always the chance they had received a distress call and would race past him.

  There were no houses on either side of the road now. Thick trees and vegetation. Nothing else. He had left the city limits of Sydney. Maybe in the strange way of U.S. police departments, the cruiser would be out of its jurisdiction. Which would solve a lot of issues.

  The cruiser slowed, falling in behind him. It wasn’t going to pass. It wasn’t responding to a distress call. The cops were stopping him.

  The cruiser’s red and blue lights washed over his car making it more difficult to see through the heavy fog. He leaned forward and peered into the soup. He needed to see.

  Luigi was a careful man. He needed a good place to pull over. Not on the main road. Not out in the open. He hadn’t seen another vehicle for miles, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t see one at the most inopportune moment.

  The dense trees offered little hope of a side road, but he kept looking.

  The cruiser triggered its siren. One woop-woop. Sufficient to make the point, but not enough to wake the neighborhood, assuming there were homes nearby.

  Luigi looked left and right. He saw no neighborhood.

  A track appeared on the right. Muddy. Grass growing down the center, between the wheel ruts. Ideal.

  He turned in, rolling slowly. His compact bumped over the edge of the tarmac and onto the washboard surface. Behind him, the cruiser’s light bounced in the same spot.

  He kept moving. Easing them deeper into the line of trees and overgrowth.

  The cruiser slowed, staying back, perhaps unwilling to be tempted into the dark woods. Luigi considered where the road might lead. Driving the compact, he’d be stranded if he hit a patch of mud. The cops would catch him quickly. An outcome he couldn’t accept. For one thing, Enzo would be livid.

  The thought made him grin. He’d been making Enzo livid for three decades now and both brothers had the scars to prove it.

  Luigi found a solid place and came to a halt. The cruiser moved a few feet closer. Into the edge of the woods. The very edge.

  Luigi looked back, he couldn’t see into the cruiser. Was there one or two cops in the car? He exhaled. Two. There’d be two. Safer to assume two. No policeman should be out at this time of night on his own.

  He cursed the airline security that required him to travel here without a gun. If he’d been to Orlando before, he’d have a gun stashed here as he always did. But this was his first, and he hoped, last visit. He hated the place.

  His contingency plans required him to obtain a knife after every flight where a gun wasn’t readily available. He was good with a knife.
Knives had several advantages. Perhaps the most significant advantage was that unlike guns, he could kill quietly with a knife.

  The night before, he’d driven several miles to a big box sporting goods store where he’d purchased two hunting knives with cash. One of the knives was strapped above his ankle, the other tucked between his seat and the center console, the merest tip of the handle protruding above the seat cushion for easy access.

  He’d practiced grabbing the handle until he was satisfied he could reach it in a hurry. The police would be armed, and the knife was his last option for dealing with the situation. But if he had to, he wouldn’t hesitate.

  Blinding light bathed Luigi’s rental. He glanced into the rearview mirror. Twin spotlights on either side of the cruiser had been turned on. He squinted. He couldn’t even make out the outline of the cruiser any more.

  He swore. These guys weren’t going to be as easy as he’d thought.

  Two officers stepped out of the cruiser. One was heavy, likely a regular at the doughnut stand. The other was thinner, younger. They unclipped their holsters, and loosened their weapons, breaking the friction. Ready.

  The thin one stood behind Luigi’s rental.

  The heavy one walked around to the driver’s door. “Wollard” was clearly visible on his metal nameplate pinned to the front of his shirt. He stood a few feet away from the window pointing a long flashlight into Luigi’s face.

  Luigi took a deep breath, and let it out, relaxing his muscles and installing a calm expression on his face.

  Wollard’s gun was clearly visible to a casual observer. Several items hung from his belt and the strap that ran diagonally across his chest. Luigi gazed at them all. In the mist, it was hard to tell if any of the accessories held a body camera.

  Luigi pressed a button, and lowered his window. He smiled, and thickened his Italian accent. “Buongiorno.”

  “Where you from?” Wollard said.

  Luigi took a breath. He had his story planned. He always did. He’d gone over it, time and time again, until it sounded natural. Practice was the only way to be convincing. He knew. He’d listened to many liars making up stories on the fly. He could always tell.

  “Italiano.” He poked at his chest with his thumb. “Italiano.”

  The officer nodded. “You speak English?”

  Luigi gestured with his finger and thumb, squeezing them together to indicate he understood a little.

  Wollard nodded. “Well, whether you understand me or not, you were speeding through our town. Ran a red light. I’m going to need to see your license.”

  Luigi raised his eyebrows, and shrugged.

  “License,” Wollard said.

  Luigi nodded. “Ah, Si, si.”

  He made a performance of rummaging through his pockets before producing an Italian driver’s license. It was the one he had used at the rental car counter. It matched his passport. The license and the passport were both genuine, but neither were his.

  He wasn’t concerned. No authorities would be tracking either because the original owner hadn’t declared them lost. Nor would he ever do so. Luigi had made certain of that before he stole the identification.

  Luigi held out the dead man’s license.

  Wollard studied the writing. He used a flashlight and turned the credit-card-sized license over several times. Luigi felt sure the man couldn’t read Italian.

  Wollard pointed the flashlight in Luigi’s face. “What are you doing here?”

  Luigi tapped his chest. “Disney. I come…the Orlando…for your Disney.”

  Wollard stared. “You’re alone?”

  Luigi raised his eyebrows. “Er…”

  The officer sniffed. “Kids. Do you have kids?”

  “Er…”

  “Bam-bee-nee?”

  Luigi nodded. He wanted to reach for the knife and skewer the man, but instead he smiled and shook his head. “No, no. In Italia.” He held up four fingers. “Quattro.”

  The thin officer had walked up to the window now and he took the license. Luigi caught the name on his shirt, “Coogan.”

  He wandered back to his spot behind Luigi, probably using his radio to give Luigi’s details to his dispatcher. Good. The search would take a while and keep the dispatcher occupied.

  The heavy cop cast his flashlight beam onto the rear seat and shined on the overnight bag. “Where are you staying?”

  Luigi shook his head, and shrugged.

  “Hotel?” Wollard said.

  “Si, si. Day-tone-er. Surfside Motel.”

  Wollard moved his flashlight onto the passenger side of the car. Luigi immediately cursed himself. The plastic bag he’d brought from the motel full of bleach wipes lay in the foot-well, brilliant white in the flashlight’s glare.

  “What’s that?” Wollard said, holding the beam steadily.

  “It’s…” Luigi struggled for a plausible reason to be carrying the bag’s contents in his car.

  Wollard opened Luigi’s door. “I’m going to have to ask you to step out, sir.”

  Luigi looked up at the man. Up close, he was even bigger and heavier than he’d seemed when he’d walked in the cruiser’s headlights. His belt had pockets and clips that rattled as he moved. His gun protruded from its holster.

  Luigi stepped out.

  The officer pointed to the front of the car. “Hands on the hood, sir.”

  Luigi turned, and placed his hands on the car’s damp metalwork.

  Coogan moved up to the side of the rental, putting Wollard between himself and Luigi. Luigi resisted the temptation to grin. The man was an idiot.

  Wollard leaned into the car, reaching for the plastic bag.

  Luigi reached over the driver’s door, across Wollard’s back, and whipped his gun from its holster.

  Coogan went for his gun. An awkward twist of his arm. His elbow poking out. His wrist canted backwards. Fractions of a second wasted.

  Luigi fired. Two shots. Loud in the night quiet. Coogan jerked backward, arms flailing.

  Wollard came up, wrapping his arm around Luigi’s and twisting it back.

  Luigi rotated, but Wollard held on. The big man raced around the driver’s door, his greater weight dragging Luigi in an arc.

  Luigi stumbled. Wollard slammed Luigi into the hood. Face down. Arms outstretched.

  Luigi’s balance swam. Wollard pounded a heavy blow into Luigi’s side.

  Luigi levered himself upright, and ripped his arm from Wollard’s grasp. He clenched his fists, but to his horror the gun was gone.

  Wollard sidestepped, keeping Luigi close to the car. Luigi faked right.

  Wollard wasn’t fooled. He threw a heavy jab, forward and down, using his advantage in height and weight.

  The blow hit Luigi on the neck. His head jerked sideways. Pain traveled down his back like an electric bolt. The muscles in his neck spasmed. The side of his head felt like it was on fire.

  His knees gave out. He dropped like a stone, leaning backward, his spine scraping down the front of the rental.

  Wollard grabbed Luigi’s shirt, and drew his right arm back.

  Luigi reached for the knife strapped to his ankle. He shoved his knife upward. He gripped hard. Its six-inch blade prone. He barely had to move it.

  Wollard lunged. His fist clenched. A giant barreling blow. All of his venom, all of his anger. Sweeping round and down. All his weight bearing down. His feet practically leaving the ground with the effort. Fist, arm, shoulder.

  Onto Luigi’s knife. It pierced under Wollard’s arm. Away from the belts and any protections. Soft flesh. The whole blade. All the way in.

  Wollard’s arm fell. Tumbling flesh and bone, not the tensed muscles of the instant before. Luigi twisted and rolled, pushing Wollard sideways before his weight fell on him. Wollard collapsed. Luigi forced himself up on his knees.

  Wollard cried in pain.

  Luigi swept his blade across the man’s neck, and the woods fell silent.

  His heart pounded. He used the front of the rental car
to help himself stand up. He breathed hard, and rubbed the side of his head and neck. Without the knife, the cop could have killed him.

  He breathed out hard. The cop didn’t kill him. He’d gotten the better of the older, heavier man.

  Coogan lay still on the far side of the car, his arms outstretched, and one leg twisted under him. Luigi walked around the car and picked up his gun. He fired three shots into the man’s head. Better safe than sorry.

  He searched Coogan’s pockets and found a set of car keys. In the cruiser, he found the off switch for the spotlights. He went back to his car and turned off his engine and lights. Darkness descended. He checked his watch by the moonlight. He still had time, but he’d have to work fast.

  He dragged Coogan into the bushes by the feet, his limp body bumping over rocks. He found Coogan’s radio and switched it off.

  He patted Coogan down. No body camera, which was the first lucky break Luigi had had since the cruiser’s lights flashed in his rearview mirror.

  Wollard was far heavier. And bloodier. Pulling him by the feet didn’t work. Luigi gripped Wollard’s belt, carefully avoiding his blood. He pulled Wollard to the opposite side of the road and rolled his body into the ditch. The heavy cop landed in the stagnant water at the bottom of the ditch with a splash.

  The cruiser was parked behind the rental. Luigi couldn’t risk backing it out onto the road, even though no one had passed by. He moved his compact forward and half-off one side of the muddy lane. He found his packet of bleach wipes, then drove the cruiser around the compact on the other side of the lane.

  Fifty feet down, he turned off. He gunned the engine and embedded the car into the tangled undergrowth. When the tires did nothing but spin, he switched off the engine.

  He used the wipes to clean the steering wheel and gearshift. He wiped around the doors. He couldn’t open the front two doors because of the undergrowth, so he climbed into the back and out.

  He walked to his rental, satisfied the cruiser wasn’t visible.

  Wollard’s flashlight lay on the ground by the compact. Luigi used it to scour the ground for evidence. Dark patches might in time be identified as blood, but Luigi had left nothing behind.